Lady of Hay (22 page)

Jo did not move. She was lying on her side, her hair loose across her face, her arms around the pillow.

It was just beginning to grow light when she woke suddenly. For a moment she did not know what had awakened her, as she stared around the shadowy room. The lamp was still on by her bed, but outside, between the curtains, she could see the pale light of dawn above the rooftops. Then she heard it again. The hungry cry of her baby. Sitting up, yawning, she flung back her hair and reached slowly toward the cradle on the far side of the bed.

15

It wasn’t there. The room was silent. And empty. For a moment she sat quite still, completely bewildered, then, slowly, she remembered and with a sigh she flung herself back on the pillows. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Her arms felt empty, desolate; she ached with loneliness. It was as if part of her had been removed. The baby, with his downy hair, his tiny fringed eyelids, the fragments of caul still clinging behind his ears, the pale-blue swaddling bands that had imprisoned his little fists as he lay in her arms, staring up at her with so much love and trust. “Oh, God!” She turned over and buried her face in the pillows. “It was a dream. A stupid, bloody dream!” She groped on the bedside table for a box of tissues, then she pulled her clock to face her. It was half-past four.

She had begun to shiver violently. For a moment she lay back, huddled beneath the covers, trying to get warm, then, miserable, she sat up again. It was no good. She would not sleep again and she was getting colder by the minute. She wished fervently she had allowed Nick to stay now. She wanted someone to talk to. Her head was splitting and her breasts ached. She crossed her arms, trying to ease the discomfort, and suddenly felt a cold wetness on the front of her nightgown. She stared down at herself in horror, then she shot out of bed. After running into the bathroom, she turned on the light and slipped down the ribbon straps, letting the thin cotton slip to the floor, leaving her standing naked in front of the mirror. Her breasts were full and tight, laced with blue veins, and even as she stared in fascinated horror at her reflection she saw a drop of watery blue liquid forming on her left nipple.

Her heart was pounding violently. Desperately she tried to control her tears as she reached for her bathrobe from the back of the door and folded it around her. Knotting the belt, she groped her way into the living room and reached for the phone.

Her hand was shaking so much she could scarcely dial, but at last she could hear the tone. It was several seconds before the receiver was lifted.

“Nick. Oh, Nick, please come. Please.” She struggled to keep her voice steady.

“Jo? Is that you?” The voice at the other end was so quiet it was almost a whisper. It was Sam. “What’s wrong?”

Jo took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I’m sorry to wake you, Sam. Can I speak to Nick, please?”

There was a slight pause, then his voice, very gentle, came again. “He’s not here, Jo. Is something wrong?”

“Not there?” she echoed bleakly.

“I’m afraid not. What is it? You sound frightened. Has something happened? Tell me, Jo.”

Jo swallowed hard. For a moment she could not speak, then she managed to whisper, “Sam, can you come over?”

He asked no more questions. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said at once, then he hung up.

After she had rung off, Jo didn’t move. Slowly the milk was soaking into her robe. Her teeth were chattering in spite of the warmth of the room and she huddled on the edge of her chair, rocking herself gently back and forth, only dragging herself upright at last when she heard the sound of a taxi in the quiet street outside. She reached the intercom at the same moment that it buzzed.

Sam came up the stairs two at a time.

“What is it, Jo? Are you ill?” He closed the door behind him and stood staring at her. She saw with a quick pang of misery that he was wearing one of Nick’s jackets over his dark turtleneck shirt.

She was looking, he thought irrelevantly, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, her long disheveled hair dark against the stark white of her robe, her face pale, her huge eyes accentuated by the shadows beneath them.

“Nick said he’d go back to the apartment,” she stammered. “He said I could phone.”

“I’m glad you did.” Sam steered her into the living room and toward a chair. “Now, tell me about it slowly.”

Hesitatingly she told him about her latest visit to Bennet. She glanced at his face, expecting an outburst of anger, but he said nothing and she forced herself to go on. “Perhaps he knew what would happen. He prescribed sleeping pills for me before I came home, but I never take them. Nick wanted to stay, but I wouldn’t let him, so I suppose he went back to Judy after all.” She glanced down at her hands.

Sam said nothing. He was watching her face closely.

“I woke up,” she went on with a heavy sigh. “The baby woke me with his crying—William, he was to be called, like his father and his father’s father—but he wasn’t there.” Her voice shook. “And then I found—” She stopped. “I found that I’m…” She hesitated again, suddenly embarrassed. Mutely her hands went to her breasts.

Sam had seated himself near her on the arm of another chair. “I am a doctor, Jo,” he said softly. “You’re producing a bit of milk, right?”

She nodded, blushing. He smiled. He got up to kneel before her. “May I see?” Softly he pulled her robe open and looked at her breasts. He touched one lightly. Then he closed the robe again. He smiled. “It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. Spontaneous lactation is unusual but not unheard of. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable for a day or two but it will ease off. Stick some tissues in your bra.” He crossed over to the table and picked up the whisky bottle. “I’ll get some glasses, shall I?”

She followed him into the kitchen, pulling the knot of her belt tighter. “But how is it possible?” she asked huskily. “Is this another of your physiological reactions, like my hands?” She took the glass from him and sipped the neat whisky.

“I suppose so, in a way. You obviously went through all the emotional trauma of childbirth yesterday and in some women that would be enough to stimulate the glands. The breast is far more of a machine than people realize. It doesn’t necessarily always need a pregnancy and a birth to start it working. Adoptive mothers have been known to produce milk for their babies, you know. Anyway, you mustn’t worry about it. It’s perfectly natural. Just leave things well alone and it will calm down on its own in a day or two.” He leaned forward and tipped some more whisky into her glass. His hand was shaking slightly.

“Our dog had a phantom pregnancy once, when I was a child. Is that what I’ve had?” She managed a grin.

He laughed. “Something like that. But I don’t expect you to produce any puppies.”

“You are sure Nick wasn’t there?” Her smile had vanished already as she turned away from him. “You checked in his room?” She paced up the small kitchen and then back, her arms wrapped around herself to stop herself shaking, the glass still clutched in one hand. “I still love him, Sam. That’s the stupid thing. I love the bastard.” She stopped in front of the sink, staring at the pink geranium in its pot on the draining board. Absently she leaned forward to pick off a dead leaf and so she did not see Sam’s face. The cords in his neck stood out violently as he stared at Jo’s back.

With a little laugh she went on without turning. “You won’t tell him I said that, will you?”

“No, Jo.” Shaking his head, he recovered himself with an effort. “I won’t tell him. That I promise you.”

***

Sam was whistling softly to himself as he nodded to the janitor at Lynwood House, where Nick had his apartment, and let himself into the elevator. It was still not quite eight o’clock. He pushed open the apartment door and stood for a moment, listening.

“You’ve been out early.” Nick appeared at the bathroom door, razor in hand. “Pour out some juice will you? I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sam smiled. “Whatever you say, little brother. I trust you slept well?” He pulled Nick’s jacket off and hung it up.

Nick was looking at his watch. “I’m going to give Jo a ring to see if she is okay. I half expected her to phone last night, the state she was in—”

“No!” Sam said sharply. He withdrew the copy of the
Daily Telegraph
he had under his arm and held it up to scan the headlines. “Leave her in peace, Nicholas, for God’s sake. If everything you told me last night about her session with Bennet is true the last thing she will want is to be wakened at this hour of the morning by the telephone.”

Nick had turned back to the bathroom. He unplugged the razor. “I suppose you’re right…”

“I know I’m right.” Sam raised his eyes for a moment from the paper to give his brother a penetrating look. “I suggest you go down to see our mother this morning as arranged and let Jo alone for a couple of days. In fact, leave her alone until you get back from your wanderings across Europe. She does know you are going away?”

Nick shrugged. He was buttoning his shirt. “Scotland I can’t cancel, but the trip to France I could postpone.”

“Don’t.” Sam walked into the kitchen and rummaged on the shelf for the jar of coffee. “It isn’t worth it. Jo has made it clear enough it is over between you. Don’t let a temporary wave of sentiment because you saw her unhappy and emotional undo all the good you achieved by walking out on her. You’ll just make the poor girl more neurotic than she already is.”

“Why did she ask me to go with her yesterday then, if she doesn’t want to see me anymore?” Nick followed him into the kitchen, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers.

“Did she, though?” Sam glanced at him.

He fished a loaf out of the bin and began to cut meticulously thin slices, which he tossed into the toaster. “Have you any marmalade? I haven’t been able to find it.”

Nick sat down at the kitchen table. He reached for the paper and stared at it unseeing. “She shouldn’t be alone, though, Sam,” he said at last.

“She won’t be,” Sam replied. “I’ll call her later. Remember, I am a doctor as well as a friend. I’ll give her a quick check over, if necessary, and make sure she’s in good spirits and while I’m at it read her the riot act about ignoring our warnings.”

“And you’ll phone me if she wants me?”

“She won’t want you, Nicholas.” Sam looked at him solicitously. “Get that into your thick head before you are really hurt.”

***

Judy stared morosely beyond the reflection of the dimly lit bar, through the indigo windows, at the rain-washed Pimlico Road. “I never thanked you for giving me such a good write-up,” she said at last to Pete Leveson, who was sitting opposite her. She turned her back on the window. “I’m sure it was thanks to you that the exhibition went so well.”

“Rubbish. You deserved success.”

Pete was watching her closely, noting the taut lines between her nose and mouth, the dullness of her eyes. “It is a bit of an anticlimax, now that it’s over, I suppose,” he said tentatively.

Judy sighed. She picked up her glass, staring around the wine bar with apparent distaste. “That’s probably it.”

“And how is Nick?” His voice was deliberately casual.

She colored. “He’s in Scotland, on business.”

“And Jo? Is she still dabbling in the paranormal?”

Judy drank her Buck’s Fizz, then with a grimace she asked, “Does the name Carl Bennet mean anything to you?”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “Possibly. Why?”

“Jo went to see him on Friday afternoon, and the thought that she was going there was enough to scare Nick to death. He shot off after her as if she had left a message that she was having tea with the devil himself. Can I have another of these?”

Pete raised his hand to beckon the waitress without taking his eyes off Judy’s face. He gave the order and tossed a five-pound note on the table. “Bennet is a hypnotherapist,” he said. “One of the best, I believe. And among other things he takes people back into their previous incarnations to treat them for otherwise incurable phobias.”

Judy’s mouth dropped open. “You mean that is what Jo is doing? Jesus! She doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, does she?”

“You are not a believer, I take it?” Pete was looking amused.

“No, I am not! No wonder Nick is worried for her sanity. Anyone who believes that kind of thing is certifiable. No wonder she freaked out when I told her Sam thought she was schizoid.”

Pete was sitting back, still watching her closely. “She is doing it for a story, Judy,” he said tolerantly. “I think you should watch what you say, you know.”

Judy laughed again. Her third Buck’s Fizz on an empty stomach was going to her head. “I don’t have to in front of you, do I?” she said archly. “Or do you think there is a gossip columnist under the table? But seriously, who needs one of those when I’m having a drink with one of the most prestigious reporters in Fleet Street.” She glanced at him provocatively under her eyelashes. “You had a thing going with Jo once, didn’t you?”

Pete leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe it was a secret.”

“And you still like her. Everyone who has had an affair with Jo seems to still like her. What a likable person she must be!” she added sarcastically. “Well, why don’t
you
find out exactly what it is she is doing? It would make a good story, surely?”

“Jo is researching her own story, Judy.” His voice was carefully neutral.

“It sure as hell wouldn’t be the same story if you told it, though, would it?” She ran her finger round the inside of her glass and sucked it pointedly. “Yours would be much more…sensational!”

She had huge eyes—light gray, with radiating streaks in the irises, fringed with dark-red lashes. Pete contemplated them for a moment as he thought over what she had said. Jo was a friend and yes, he was still fond of her, but the story, if there was a story, would not hurt her. On the contrary, it would counteract that bit in the
Mail.
In fact, why not sell this one to the
Mail
? Give the real version of what was going on. Sensational, Judy had said. It was a word Peter could not resist.