Loren's Baby

His features changed as he looked at his daughter. Watching him, Caryn felt a curious pang at the gentleness of his expression. Why couldn’t he have looked at Loren like that? she thought resentfully. Why should this girl feel herself so secure when he owed just as much allegiance to the woman who had borne his child, and to his son …

‘We’re almost through,’ he told Angela now. ‘Miss—er—Stevens is leaving.’

Caryn squared her shoulders. ‘If you’ll give me a sheet of paper, I’ll give you my address.’

She was aware of his daughter’s raised eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Angela would have to know sooner or later, and why should she protect her? It was up to her father to explain, if he could.

Angela hung around as Caryn wrote her address on the pad he handed to her, adding her telephone number in case it was needed. Tristan barely glanced at it as he tossed it on to his desk, and she was aware that he was waiting for her to go.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured her politely, his eyes glinting, with suppressed anger. She guessed he had not cared for her referring to some future association in front of his daughter, but that was just too bad, she thought half defensively.

Outside, the air had never smelt so sweet, and she walked up to where she had left the car on legs that threatened to give out on her. Well, she had done it, she thought defiantly, and wondered why she was suddenly so doubtful …

Caryn spent the night at the hotel in Carmarthen and travelled back to London the next morning. The journey seemed so much shorter going back, but perhaps that was because she had more enthusiasm towards her destination.

Her flat was on the second floor of a house in Bloomsbury. It was not the most fashionable area of London, but it was civilised, and the tall Victorian houses had an atmosphere that was missing from the stark concrete and glass sky-scrapers that had sprung up all around them. Mrs Theobald, who lived on the ground floor, had window boxes, and at this time of the year they were bright with geraniums, and gave a distinct individuality to Number II Faulkner Terrace. Caryn had rung her friends from the hotel that morning, and when she reached the second floor the door of the Westons’ flat opened and Laura appeared with the baby in her arms.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, her freckled face showing sympathy for Caryn’s aching legs. ‘Come in and have a cuppa. Bob’s already gone to the studio.’

Bob Weston was a commercial photographer, working for a small agency in Notting Hill. He photographed weddings and christenings, and occasionally did spreads for small magazines, but his ambition was to move into the more lucrative world of television.

‘Thanks.’ Caryn barely glanced at her nephew as she followed Laura into the flat, a facsimile of her own except that it was much tidier. She tried never to let herself feel any attachment for the child, knowing as she did that the authorities would not let her keep him much longer.

‘He’s been so good,’ Laura exclaimed, closing the door before walking to a folding pram standing in the comer. ‘He didn’t even wake during the night.’

‘No. He’s very good.’ Caryn sounded weary and indifferent, and Laura looked at her anxiously.

‘Well?’ she ventured. ‘What happened? You were very vague on the phone this morning.’

Caryn flung herself into an armchair. ‘I told you I saw—him.’

‘Yes.’ Laura padded through to the tiny kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘But you didn’t say what was going to happen.’

‘He wants to see him.’

‘Who?’ Laura came to the door of the kitchen. ‘Tristan Ross wants to see the baby?’

‘Yes.’

Laura grimaced. ‘So when are you taking him?’

‘I’m not. He wants to come here.’

Laura ran a hand over the swelling mound of her stomach and subsided into a chair with evident relief. ‘Heavens!’

Caryn forced a rueful smile. ‘Yes. I’d better see about tidying my place up.’

‘I didn’t mean that. And besides, it isn’t so bad.’

Caryn sighed. ‘It isn’t so good. But since Loren died … and having him …’ She tipped her head towards the pram from which direction a low gurgling sound could be heard.

Laura shook her head uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t know how you can consider giving him away,’ she burst out unwillingly. ‘He’s adorable. And so sweet …’

‘Oh, Laura!’ Caryn shifted restlessly. ‘How can I keep him? I don’t earn enough to support him, for one thing. And who would look after him while I was at work? You can’t much longer, and then …’

‘But don’t you love him?’

‘There’s not much point, is there?’ murmured Caryn bitterly, getting up and walking across the room, coming to a halt reluctantly beside the folding pram. Of course he was sweet, she thought impatiently, as she saw the quiff of feathery fair hair, the plump little hands curling and uncurling, the softly pursed lips oozing dribbles down his chin. Laura was right—he was a good baby. But she had no time for babies.

The kettle whistled and Laura got up to make the tea, and returning to her seat Caryn reflected what good friends the Westons had been to her. Without their assistance, she could never have kept the baby this long, but she had been determined not to let the social services people take him. Not after what Loren had begged her to do.

And yet it hadn’t been easy, making up her mind to go and see Tristan Ross. For one thing, she had had to find out where he lived and whether he was there at the moment. He spent quite a lot of his time travelling, but fortunately Bob had had connections in the television industry, and he had supplied the information that when Ross returned from his present trip to Canada he was scheduled to do a series of programmes for a London television company.

Laura carried the tray of tea into the living room and set it down on a table near at hand. Caryn came to join her, and they each enjoyed the reviving flavour of the beverage.

Munching a biscuit, which she confessed she should not be eating, Laura asked when Tristan Ross intended to come to the flat.

‘I don’t know,’ Caryn admitted with a sigh. ‘But I gave him the phone number. I guess he’ll ring first and make an appointment. He’s used to doing that sort of thing.’

‘What was he like?’

Laura was intrigued, but Caryn just poured herself more tea and gave an offhand shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know what he’s like,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen him on television plenty of times.’

‘I know.’ Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘But it’s different meeting someone, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not a fan,’ declared Caryn flatly, and her friend’s freckled face coloured unbecomingly.

‘I know that,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Laura.’ Caryn felt contrite. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m an ungrateful creature. And after all you’ve done for me …’ She made an effort to be objective. ‘He—well, he’s taller than you might imagine, and he’s certainly—well, sexy, I suppose.’

‘You could understand why Loren was so infatuated with him, then?’ asked Laura quietly.

‘Oh, yes.’ Caryn had to be honest, although it went against the grain to find excuses for him. ‘I should think she found him fascinating. Any—any impressionable woman would.’

‘But not you?’ suggested Laura dryly.

‘Me!’ Caryn looked affronted. ‘You must be joking!’

‘Why? That’s quite a solution to your problems, have you thought of that?’

‘What do you mean?’

Laura looked uncomfortable now. ‘Well, I—I just meant—him being the baby’s father, and you its aunt—perhaps you might—’

‘Get together, you mean?’ Caryn was horrified.

Laura’s colour came and went, but she stuck to her guns. ‘Well, why not? I mean, we all know—that is, you know Loren was prone to—exaggeration—’

‘Laura, what are you saying?’ Caryn stared at her. ‘Don’t you believe Tristan Ross is his—’ she indicated the pram, ‘——his father?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Laura was quick to protest. ‘I do, I do. Only—well, maybe it wasn’t as—maybe she—wanted it, too.’

Caryn heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I see.’ She moved her shoulders wearily. ‘Okay, I’ll accept that perhaps Loren did—encourage him.’ She lifted her head. ‘What girl wouldn’t, for heaven’s sake?’

‘You said you wouldn’t,’ Laura reminded her, and Caryn looked down into her teacup.

‘I know I did. And I meant it. But anyway, that still doesn’t change things. I think he sacked her when he suspected she was pregnant. Nothing can alter that. And when she wrote and told him, he ignored her letters.’

Laura nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Then she looked at her friend. ‘I just can’t help thinking that you’re going to regret this.’

‘What?’

‘Giving—him away. Caryn, he is your nephew!’

‘He’s Tristan Ross’s son. He can do a lot more for him than I can.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Laura straightened her spine, wincing at her aching back. ‘I just wish that was our baby lying in the pram there. Without all the effort of having him.’

Caryn grinned, relaxing a little. ‘You don’t mean that. You’re loving every minute of it. I’ve never seen Bob so attentive.’

Laura smiled too. ‘No,’ she agreed happily. ‘He has been marvellous, hasn’t he? Do you know he went out the other night at half past eleven to get me some fish and chips?’

‘Fish and chips! At half past eleven!’ Caryn grimaced. ‘Oh, Laura, how could you?’

Laura giggled. ‘I don’t know. I was ravenous, that’s all. I had to eat fruit and crackers all the following day before I dared go to the clinic. I have to watch my blood pressure, you see.’

‘And having junior over there isn’t helping things, is it?’ remarked Caryn dryly. ‘Let’s hope his—daddy comes for him soon.’

Laura looked at her anxiously. ‘Let’s hope so,’ she sighed, but she didn’t sound convincing.

CHAPTER THREE

CARYN worked in Cricklewood, and every morning she delivered her nephew into Laura’s capable hands, collecting him again when she came home at five o’clock. It was an arrangement that had worked very well, except that Caryn felt guilty about taking advantage of Laura’s good nature. Still, she did pay for the service, and Laura insisted they could do with the extra money with the baby on the way.

However, the arrangement did not do a lot for Caryn’s social life. She worked as secretary to the Dean of Lansworth College, and during the course of her duties she was brought into contact with a lot of young men. But perhaps fortunately none of them had appealed to her seriously, and her most lasting admirer was the Dean himself.

Laurence Mellor was a man in his early fifties, still virile and attractive, with a broad muscular frame and iron grey hair. His wife had run off with a fellow colleague in his first years as assistant at Lansworth, but he had weathered the storm of gossip which had followed and had eventually been made head of the art college. His intense interest in his work had probably been responsible for the break-up of his marriage, Caryn had surmised, but since he had become Dean the pressure was off, and he had more time to think about his personal life.

Caryn had been his secretary for four years. She had come to Lansworth from a position in a typing pool with a firm of solicitors, but like Mellor himself, she had been ambitious, and he had recognised her determination as soon as he saw her. They got along well together, and on those occasions when he needed a hostess he always called on Caryn.

He knew of the affair with Loren, of course, although not all the personal details. He knew she had been Tristan Ross’s secretary for a while, but he had not connected that with her subsequent pregnancy. When she died, he was sympathetic, and he always prided himself on being open-minded about things like that. Consequently he had not connected her sister with Caryn’s request for two days’ leave of absence to visit a sick relative in South Wales.

Caryn returned to the college on Thursday, and to her relief Laurence was out of the office all morning attending a governor’s meeting. By the time he returned she was immersed in her duties and able to answer his enquiries without obvious embarrassment. Even so, she was taken aback when he came to perch his ample frame on the corner of her desk and said without warning: ‘Have you decided yet what you’re going to do about Loren’s baby? I don’t think I approve of you working all day and all night as well.’ Caryn finished fitting the wedge of typing paper into the machine to give herself time to recover, and then said casually: ‘I don’t work all night, Laurence.’

‘No.’ He fingered his tie thoughtfully. ‘But you do look after him in the evenings, don’t you? And there must be—nappies to wash. That sort of thing.’

He sounded as though such an occupation offended the fastidiousness of his nature, and she had to smile. ‘There are nappies,’ she agreed, ‘but only wet ones. There are disposable pads on the market now, you know.’

‘Nevertheless, you have very little free time these days,’ he insisted. ‘You can’t go on like this, Caryn. It’s not right. It’s not as if the baby were yours.’

Caryn looked up into his broad expressive face. He was obviously concerned for her, but she couldn’t help wondering if he had some occasion coming up when he would need her assistance, and was sounding her out about babysitters.

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t plan to keep him much longer,’ she admitted slowly, and his face brightened considerably.

‘No?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s someone—someone I know, who might—give him a home.’

‘A relative?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I see.’ Laurence looked much relieved. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not delighted, because I am.’ He slid off the desk to stand before her, taking his watch out of his fob pocket and examining it absently. ‘As a matter of fact, something’s come up, something I wanted to discuss with you. I was hoping you might be able to have dinner with me.’

Caryn hid the wry acknowledgement of her suspicions, and frowned consideringly. ‘I don’t think I could make it tonight, Laurence,’ she said apologetically. ‘I’ve been away a couple of days, as you know, and I don’t think I ought to ask Laura to babysit again tonight. Maybe tomorrow …’

‘It can wait another day,’ Laurence agreed at once. ‘Tomorrow evening it shall be. Where shall we eat? In town—or out?’

‘Wherever you like,’ Caryn replied, quite looking forward to the break from routine, and Laurence went away saying he would think about it.

In fact they ate in town, at Beluccis in Soho, where Laurence was a valued customer. The restaurant was small, but not inexpensive, and a corner table was always found for him. The lighting was subdued and intimate, and Caryn had accompanied him there twice before.

He ordered Martinis, and then got straight to the point. ‘I’ve been invited to the United States during the summer vacation,’ he explained, and Caryn felt a twinge of interest. ‘It’s a tour of several university campuses, some lecturing, some studying. A kind of sabbatical, I suppose.’ He paused as the waiter brought their drinks. ‘But I don’t want to go alone,’ he went on, when they were alone again. ‘I want you to come with me.’

‘To the United States!’ Caryn gasped. ‘Laurence!’

‘Well, why not? You’re my secretary, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Ah, I see. You’re worried about what people will say. I don’t blame you. Colleges are notorious places for gossip.’

‘It’s not just that, Laurence. I mean—the expense …’

He put his drink aside and reached across the table to take one of her hands in his. This was something he had done before, too. When he wanted something, he could be as persuasive as the next man. But this time Caryn was disturbed by the light in his eyes.

‘Caryn,’ he said softly, ‘have you ever thought of getting married?’

‘Married?’ She shook her head. ‘Not seriously, no.’

‘Never?’

‘No.’ She tried to make a joke of it, not liking the serious turn the conversation had taken. ‘No one’s asked me.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Well, no one I would want to marry,’ she conceded lightly.

‘Marry me, Caryn. Marry me!’

She withdrew her hand at once, pressing it close into the other in her lap. ‘Laurence!’ she exclaimed, realising she had been afraid of this happening. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I am. I am.’ He sighed. ‘Is it my age? Is that the barrier?’

‘I don’t love you, Laurence …’

‘Love!’ He scoffed at the word. ‘What is love? I loved Cecily and look where it got me!’ He shook his head. ‘You think I’m too old, don’t you?’

‘Laurence, if I loved someone, I wouldn’t care how old they were. Honestly.’

He refused to give up. ‘You could learn to love me. I would teach you.’

‘Why?’ Caryn’s brows ascended. ‘Do you love me?’

He shifted restively. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t believe in that sort of emotional foolishness.’ He pressed on: ‘Caryn, we have so much in common. Our work, our liking for books and music …’

‘It wouldn’t work, Laurence. They’re not good enough reasons for getting married!’

The waiter was hovering, waiting for their order, and somewhat impatiently Laurence suggested they chose what they planned to eat. But Caryn’s appetite had been drastically reduced, and she insisted that an omelette with salad was all she wanted.

The waiter departed and Laurence returned to the attack. ‘Very well,’ he said levelly, ‘if you won’t marry me, at least come with me. I need you.’

‘You need someone,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘And that’s why I won’t marry you, Laurence. Because I’m not just someone, I’m me! I don’t want to spend my life as a cipher!’

He looked hurt. ‘I think you’re being unnecessarily harsh. If I’ve ever treated you that way, I’m sorry—’

‘I’m not saying you have—yet. But if we were married … Oh, it’s no use, Laurence. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

‘And the tour?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

He chewed at his lower lip. ‘We could pretend to be engaged. For the duration of the trip, I mean.’

Caryn laughed. ‘You make it sound like the plot for a romantic novel! Honestly, I never believed people actually went in for that sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’ he asked shortly.

‘Pretending to be engaged!’ She laughed again, feeling more lighthearted than she had done for days. ‘Really, Laurence! If I wanted to come with you, do you think a little thing like gossip would stop me?’

He assumed an offended air. ‘It’s different for you,’ he maintained. ‘You’re young—and very attractive. And you don’t hold any position of authority in the college. I’m its principal. I can’t afford to behave in a way that might prove detrimental to my office.’

Caryn relented. ‘Oh, Laurence! All right. Don’t look so mortified. I know what you mean, but—well, I’ll think about it.’

‘About what?’ He was eager. ‘Marrying me?’

‘No.’ She quickly disabused him. ‘Going with you. As your “fiancée”, if necessary.’

He leant towards her appealingly. ‘Do give it careful thought, won’t you?’ he implored, but Caryn had the uneasy feeling that her association with Dean Mellor was being stretched to the limits.

It wasn’t late when he took her home; no more than ten o’clock. Laurence seldom indulged in late nights. He always said he liked to go to bed and read for an hour before attempting to go to sleep, and consequently he retired earlier to compensate.

Caryn climbed the stairs to her flat rather thoughtfully. She wasn’t sure what she ought to do about the trip to America. It was true, the idea of visiting that country was exciting, but as Laurence’s fiancée? Real or imagined? She shook her head. Somehow she was loath to commit herself to something that might prove more difficult to get out of later than she could imagine.

There was a light showing under her door, she saw as she reached the top of the stairs, and she frowned. Generally, Laura kept the baby in their flat, finding it easier that way. She did occasionally babysit in Caryn’s rooms, but that was usually when Bob was inviting some friends round to play cards, and she had not said anything about that tonight before Caryn went out. Still …

Caryn found her key and inserted it in the lock, and entered her living room. Then she stopped in astonishment. Laura was there, sitting nervously on the couch, but opposite her, his long length draped casually over one of Caryn’s armchairs, was Tristan Ross.

He came to his feet as she entered, and she noticed half with impatience how incongruous his dark green velvet evening suit looked in the apartment. Before going out she had washed some of the baby’s clothes and some nappies, and spread them over a clothes airer to dry. There were some blankets folded over the arm of one chair, and a half empty feeding bottle standing on the table, as well as a pair of her shoes and the tights she had worn for work that day strewn carelessly in one corner.

Laura stood up, too, and looked at her apologetically, making a helpless movement with her shoulders. ‘Er—Mr Ross came just after you left, Caryn,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘He insisted on waiting.’

Caryn pressed her lips together for a moment, and then met Ross’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ She paused. ‘You should have phoned.’

He acknowledged this silently, and then looked at Laura. Taking her cue, she moved clumsily towards the door. But Caryn stopped her: ‘Don’t go, Laura …’

‘I think what we have to say needs to be said privately, don’t you?’ Tristan Ross suggested dryly, almost matching the words she had used at his house, and Laura nodded her head and made for the door.

‘He—he’s in the bedroom,’ she murmured for Caryn’s benefit, and Caryn smiled her thanks.

But when the door had closed behind her, Caryn had never felt more humiliated in her life. She despised herself for the slummy state of the room, for the obvious lack of organisation. And she despised him too for coming here and making her feel so small. Was he comparing this place to his beautiful home? How could he not do so? Still, she reflected cynically, perhaps it would persuade him that his child did not deserve to be brought up here.

Now she said curtly: ‘Have you seen—him?’

‘The boy?’ He inclined his head. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’

Caryn dropped her handbag on the floor. ‘And?’

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