She could hear downstairs the party still going on, music, laughter and lights danced across the lawn as she watched from her perch on the balcony that led from their bedroom. As she stood by the open window drinking in the cooling night air she felt no desire to go there; to go downstairs and mingle. Sometimes life was better in observation rather than participation. There were too many things spinning in her mind to talk of old times, weddings or the endless small talk that she was expected to make but still struggled so desperately with.
"Will said you were just up here until Fred fell asleep" came a familiar voice from behind her, so lost she had not heard the door squeak open or the feet on the wooden floor. "That was hours ago", Peter said, sliding his arms underneath hers to hold her close.
"I know" she replied, voice low as she turned her head towards him. "One just needed to think and….Did anyone notice?" She would be surprised if people did.
"I did and yes people noticed" he pressed, still altogether shocked that she would think their fellow guests would overlook her presence or lack thereof. "Ruth sent me up to find you as they were worried that you were alright. Emmie said she saw you talking to her".
"I'm fine" she said, kissing his cheek. "Margaret and I talked, and think she will be good for him. She isn't afraid of speaking her mind". That was the one thing that her family – her birth family - were seemingly incapable of doing. An inability to voice their innermost thoughts and perhaps it would take her to enrapture her father to the extent that he would begin to open up. It had taken Peter for her and still there were time when he did not did succeed.
Peter smiled, pleased at the concession. "Do you think you can talk to him now?"
"I'd like to", she replied, resolved at least for this moment that a talk with him would be a good thing.
"I'm glad" Peter replied, leaning across her kissing her deeply, left hand drifting in circles over her protruding stomach.
"No!" she cursed quietly. "People can see!"
She pushed him back into the room out of sight and he almost lost his balance, champagne still swilling around his blood; the swift shove not doing his spinning head any favours. He knew he had had too much to drink, needed to brush his teeth and have a wash. Peter smiled sleepily at her.
"Are you up here for good?" she asked, seeing he looked tired; perhaps more drunk, but definitely tired.
"No" he replied, taking a step back towards her, sliding his hand around her neck. "Up here for the bad!" He kissed her again.
"Get rid of the taste of Whiskey and one'll consider it", she said taking hold of his chin and affectionately pushing him away again.
She smiled as he walked away to the bathroom. How weak willed she was around him but it was the most wonderful thing.
"Don't fall asleep on me!"
"I won't " Chummy replied pulling back the bedcovers and setting about getting changed.
They did not converse over the rush of water as he washed and brushed his teeth but by the time he had finished, she was lying diagonally on top of the covers, far too warm to creep underneath. He too had lost his suit somewhere between the bathroom and the point where he fell face down on the bed. Peter noticed that she had pulled across the muslin curtains but left the doors open as otherwise they would simply not be able to breathe.
"What do you think?" she asked as he raised his head.
"I think" he said propping his chin up with his hand. "I love you".
"Behave" she scolded, entirely unable to prevent the smile that followed. "No" she continued. "Do I talk to him? Can I talk to him after everything that's been said and done?" She was starting to doubt herself again; such a flip flop of emotions playing through her mind when it came to her family. It was half a rhetorical question.
"Do you want to?" he asked as she felt his lips touch her shoulder.
"Yes" she nodded.
"Come here then!" he joked, knowing full well she was talking about conversing with her father rather than falling into his arms.
"One's trying to have a serious conversation Peter!"
"I know", he smiled. "Talk to him then. What harm can it do? Really? I know you well enough that underneath it all, you will regret it if you don't".
She nodded. "If he mentions it again do you want me to accept the Trust fund being handed over to you?"
Peter swallowed. "I never married you for money".
"I know you didn't. I didn't have any the moment we were engaged!" she smiled, but was troubled. "Tell me what to do Peter...I will do what you tell me to". For the first time in well, ever, she was entirely prepared to capitulate to whatever a man wanted with no terms attached.
"If he does, tell him to remove the clause that I have control over it and it goes in your name alone. It's your money, you were left it and I don't see why I should be telling you what to do with it…or not as the case may be".
"Mater was furious" she noted. "She called Grandpa a demented old goat for leaving the money to me, but he was the sanest man I knew". Chummy remembered that day well – her 18th birthday – when her grandfather had announced to all and sundry that he had changed his Will, leaving every penny in the rather overstuffed bank account to his grand-daughter. She had a vague idea of how much was in there and it was all too ridiculous to contemplate.
"Those reckless boys have had enough money thrown at them over the years and now it's the girl's turn!"
Her beloved Grandpa had as good as told his son and daughter in law precisely where they could place themselves and all the guests could see the veins in Lady Browne's neck bulge as the pronouncement sunk in. One thing that Chummy always remembered about her Grandpa was his incessant, sometimes and only occasionally jovial, irritation that her brothers were held in such high esteem and the only daughter seemed to be an afterthought. That was when, between them she presumed, her parents cooked up the preposterous clause that would perhaps never allow their daughter free access to her inheritance.
"One does suppose if he agrees, it will show if he thinks I have any mettle about me at all" she pondered, crossing her hands over her belly.
"You have plenty of mettle believe me Camilla. You put the fear of God into me sometimes!" Peter replied, eyes wide.
"Do I?" she asked, turning to him, actually quite appalled that he of all people may think that.
"Yes" he replied, straight-faced. "I still have this recurring dream of you hurtling towards me on that bicycle!"
Chummy tutted. "Are you going to be difficult all night?"
"You know me Camilla" he replied.
"We had nothing Peter. We were poor. Are poor. Money opened doors for us; that's all it did." She sighed, audibly, again.
"If he thinks that money will buy your affection, you do know what you ought to be doing" Peter noted, but wondering whether she would be brave enough to do so. It was much easier to look from the outside in.
"I do" she replied sadly. "Except one is not sure he is capable of just saying how he feels and one wonders, if we do speak.." she paused. "No, we must speak if it will bridge some of the gap".
"You know I'll make it better Camilla if I can" he said, running the pad of a finger down her arm. "Me, Fred, this little one. I can't see the scars you have, but we'll try to make them better".
"Don't make me cry!" she said, voice wobbling, resting her hand on her stomach, baby now typically waking up.
"Fred used to do that" she mused. "Wake up the moment I want some peace. Here".
She took his hand and placed it just to the left of her navel. Peter smiled as he felt the tap tap underneath his palm.
"Some days I wonder if Pa might have done that. Just rested his hand and felt one of us moving". Peter had in reality no answer to that; a thought far too intimate and frankly the thought of her mother giving birth sent his skin prickling.
Those times in Sierra Leone, when it was too hot to sleep too and they would just lie there and indulge in Fred moving around wondering boy or girl. Those times when she would try to sleep and find her husband lying beside her prodding her stomach, a hand or a foot pushing back at him.
"Are you two going to do that all blasted night?"
She thought perhaps, he might not be interested unless he was presented with a son and then, in time, he would become vague and elusive like her father. It was foolish, she should have known that, but something nestled in the back of her mind. That snippet of conversation she had heard year upon year ago; her mother and somebody discussing yet another match.
"No doubt though that if it came to children she will produce girls!"
She had felt strong enough to tell him of that comment when with some surprise, washing dishes in the run-down kitchen of their Sierra Leonean house, she had felt – not the usual flickering butterflies - but that first, swift, strong kick of her son. The exclamation he thought was pain it took her that much by surprise and with relief, he had been fascinated by the ripples under her skin and had expressed no preference.
She could never imagine it; never for one minute think of her parents lying like they were. Perhaps they did; perhaps one day long ago her parents were in love like this – they must have been – and been excited about new life to come. Perhaps by the time she was born, birth was a chore to her mother and child after child had come along in search of that little girl who never, after all, did conform to expectation after all the effort.
"Camilla?" he asked quietly
"Hmmm?" she replied, distracted by her whirring mind.
"Talk to your Dad before the wedding. I heard Bob say he was planning an excursion for the family tomorrow – just up into the hills again but it might be your only chance before we go back".
Chummy took a deep breath, filling her lungs to the brim. "I will. I must" she underlined, seeing him shift slightly up the bed towards her. As she closed her eyes, indulging in the feel of breath on her skin one thought swam in her mind.
Maybe it was all worth it after all to get to here. Just maybe.
