Chapter Twenty-three
Infinitely reassured that she was no longer alone, Imogen remembered little about the short trip back to the Hall. Taking
the back drive to avoid the worst of the floodwater meant a diversion of over a mile. At one point, the water breached even
the high body of the Land Rover to pour in over their feet, and Gabriel swore repeatedly under his breath as he gunned the
engine to keep the water from getting into the exhaust.
Carrying her again up the narrow stairs to his apartment, he laid her tenderly on the sofa where he had placed her weeks before
with her twisted ankle.
The contractions had miraculously receded on the short journey, but after she sank with huge relief into a deep bubble bath
drawn by Gabriel while Simon fetched Morag, they returned. No longer panicking, Imogen found them less painful but increasingly
powerful and purposeful. By the time Gabriel had helped her out, dried her, and dressed her in one of his shirts, she could
hear herself moaning loudly with each one, as she rocked to and fro on the bed.
“Well, well, this one looks like it’s ready to make its mummy’s acquaintance,” announced Morag, bustling into the room and pushing Gabriel out of the way with casual disdain.
Imogen started to cry again with relief at the sight of the formidable old woman.
“There, there,” soothed Morag, “I’m here now, and all’s going well, by the look of it. Let’s just see what’s going on with
the little one,” she crooned. “You. Out,” she barked over her shoulder at the two men. Simon, who was hovering in the doorway,
looking like a whipped dog, gave a mock salute and winked at Imogen behind Morag’s back.
In the end, though, while Simon paced the sitting room like the anxious father, Gabriel stayed in the bedroom, barely tolerated
by Morag and clung to by Imogen as he gave sips of iced water, mopped her brow, and let her crush his hand when she needed
to. Here was the man who seemed to wish her more harm than anyone else on the earth, but the comfort of having him there was
overwhelming.
“She’s so beautiful,” Genny gasped reverently, stroking the tiny baby’s mouse-soft hair. Just three hours old, she gazed solemnly
into Genny’s face, content in the crook of Imogen’s arm. Genny, panicked at waking up and discovering Simon had not returned
home, had called him and insisted he come and collect her immediately.
“What are you going to call her?”
“Should be Holly, really, being born on Christmas Day,” said Simon.
“Ruth,” said Imogen quietly. “She’s called Ruth.” Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
After that, the days flowed one into another without form. There was a memory of Christmas dinner, brought over by Genny but abandoned untouched by the bed. Morag came in twice a day to fuss over Imogen and to bathe the baby. Simon checked in on her frequently as the flu kept her in its grip. More than once, while he was examining her chest with a stethoscope, Imogen nearly deafened him with a sudden coughing fit, and he continued to mutter about secondary infections and pneumonia.
Gabriel was a continuous and calming presence, popping up regularly with food and cups of tea, changing nappies, and bringing
the baby to be fed when she cried, which she hardly ever did. Sometimes they just sat together on the bed, quietly companionable,
each wrapped in their own thoughts.
Finding Imogen tearful and lonely one afternoon, Gabriel took them both down to his workshop and installed her on an oak settle
padded with cushions and blankets. He put Ruth in a cradle alongside her—the cradle he had used as a baby himself, he told
her. Mother and baby spent hours mesmerized by the flames of the forge, watching his sweat-slicked forearms as he combined
strength and delicacy, teasing elegance out of the glowing iron rods. Imogen would doze and then wake again to see him still
working, utterly absorbed.
One afternoon, Genny came over to babysit them both so Gabriel could go out, which he did, having shaved and showered. He
returned late, looking tired. A couple of days later, he disappeared again, and Imogen heard Louise’s name mentioned in a
muttered conversation between him and Genny on his return.
Imogen was grateful he was visiting his fiancée away from the house. She said nothing about it, nor did Gabriel. Instead, by mutual unspoken consent, neither of them mentioned either Louise or the repair bill but existed instead in a strangely timeless and intimate world where Gabriel seemed happy to protect her from the intrusion of real life.
She knew quietly and absolutely that she loved him. She couldn’t say, of course.
It was hopeless. She knew that. She could only savor her time with him while it lasted. And then? Well, she had Ruth now.
The tiny girl was the center of a universe that would soon no longer have Gabriel in it. Imogen thought she might have given
up without her baby to live for. So much loss in a single year... her husband, her house, and now the love of her life?
But she had Ruth. And that was everything.
“What about Storybook Cottage?” she finally asked, one morning. It was a red-letter day because Simon had finally let her
get up and get dressed. She sat at Gabriel’s dining table eating delicious flaky croissants and—joy of joy—drinking freshly
filtered coffee.
“I’ve been down to take a look,” Gabriel said slowly, watching to see how much to tell. Tears were still infuriatingly close
to the surface, and she was aware of being handled with care.
“The floodwater’s gone,” he said. “It was gone by the end of Christmas Day, actually, but I’m afraid it’s all a bit of a mess.
A major insurance job.”
“I’d better see for myself,” said Imogen briskly. “I don’t suppose you could take us down today?” Gabriel hesitated. “I mean, I appreciate you’re really busy, but it would be brilliant. Maybe Simon—”
“No, no—it’s fine. I’ll take you. But you need to seriously wrap up warm, and we’re not taking Ruth with us. No way.”
“Okay.” She could see his point. “Well, Genny mentioned dropping in this morning, and I don’t delude myself that she’s interested
in me. She only wants to see Ruth, so I’m sure she’ll babysit for a bit.”
Genny was delighted at being in sole charge of Ruth. She came by daily to gaze in wonder at her and was dreading the beginning
of term because she would have less time.
“We’ll get on just fine, won’t we, my darling?” she cooed. “Take as long as you like,” she added, dismissing them with an
airy wave.
Imogen’s heart thumped as they approached the house. The flower beds and gravel at the front of the house were merged into
one revolting mud slick but—other than that—the house looked normal. The broken glass by the front door reminded her of Christmas
Eve with a jolt.
“Sorry about that,” said Gabriel following her gaze. “I was in such a rush to get to you, I forgot to bring my key. I know
a guy who does stained glass. I’ll get him to restore it. It’ll be good as new, I promise.”
“I’m not sure I want it invisibly repaired. It sort of reminds me of you being a hero and steaming in to rescue me,” she said,
smiling shyly at him.
“Mm. Not for the first time, either,” he said forbiddingly, but grinned. “Mind you, I feel pretty guilty, actually.”
“Why on earth would you?”
“Well, if the culvert had been cleared properly in the autumn, it might have been able to carry away the floodwater a little
better. I knew it needed doing, just one of the many jobs on the list.”
“You don’t have to look after me, you know.”
“Ah, but clearly I do, don’t I?” said Gabriel. “Now, look, you don’t have to do this. I can just kick the insurance company
up the arse and get it sorted.”
“No. You’ve done so much already. Let me see.”
He pushed open the front door slowly. It caught and dragged a piece of debris with it as it swept across the floor, clearing
a fan-shaped sweep through the thick reddish-gray silt that covered the floor. Imogen stepped inside gingerly. The smell was
the next thing that hit her. It was the musty, damp odor of the tomb, a clammy cold that touched her face with icy fingers.
She shuddered. Inside, the house was gloomy and silent. A tidemark nearly three feet up the wall showed the worst extent of
the flood. It was already turning green with algae at the margins, and the wallpaper was peeling in big, flabby blisters.
Gabriel held her elbow, steadying her as she took the few steps to the main drawing room, a room she had hardly gone into
before the flood. Nigel’s precious Eames chair was on its side against the fireplace, its black calf leather cracked and dull.
The green algae had begun to stake its claim here too, and the parquet floor was silted thickly. In places, she could see
the oak blocks had lifted with the damp. She reached down to prise one up.
“Don’t!” barked Gabriel.
Imogen froze.
“You really don’t want to touch anything. As it is, we need to change our clothes and shower when we get back to the Hall.
It’s not just rainwater. It’s tainted with sewage where the drains backed up. The whole place needs decontaminating.”
Imogen swallowed. “It’s quite a job, then?”
“Afraid so. The electrics need redoing. All the plaster below the line of the floodwater needs to be chipped off and replaced
and then the whole place will need redecorating. You’ve got no central heating at the moment either. The kitchen is completely
out of action, and all the base units need ripping out...” He tailed off. “You can’t live here, Imogen. Not with Ruth,
and not anyway, frankly. Not for months, anyhow.”
“Oh my God, what happened to Tango?” gasped Imogen, going pale. “He loathes water. And what has he been eating? I feel so
terrible... I kept forgetting to ask you,” she said, stricken.
“You’ve had your mind on a couple of other things,” commented Gabriel dryly. “Still—lucky I didn’t forget him too. I came
down on Christmas Day to fetch him. It was nice to have him pleased to see me for a change. He’s been bunked up with the stable
cats at the Hall for the past week having a wonderful time. We’ll turn him into a decent ratter yet.”
“Tango doesn’t do hunting. He doesn’t agree with it,” she said repressively.
“He does now. I had to stop him bringing you a dead mole as a present just this morning.”
“Really?” She was astonished.
“Really,” said Gabriel. “He’s gone full-on country life at last. I always had him down as a bit of a wussy town cat, but he’s coming on really well. We’ll have him chewing straw and entering welly wanging competitions in no time.”
The rest of Imogen’s exploration was no more uplifting than the start. The little study where she had spent so much time was
littered with ruined books, and the furniture was all past redemption. She riffled through the low drawer in the bureau where
she had kept the old photographs of Nigel’s family. It was a shame the original house deeds were not still there in the drawer.
If they had been ruined in the flood, she might have been able to wangle a way out of her predicament. As it was, she had
heard nothing from the law firm since the week before Christmas and she still hadn’t taken Richard’s advice—which was simply
to beg Gabriel for mercy.
She found a dry cardboard folder and stored the few photographs that had escaped ruin. She needed something to help her tell
Ruth about her father, she rationalized, and it just seemed too heartless to have them chucked on the skip with all the other
rubbish. Thank goodness she had been using one of the attic rooms as her art studio. Losing her latest drawings would have
been a disaster. She would need to collect them too, not knowing when she would be back.
Looking around upstairs was a bit more cheerful, although she had to agree with Gabriel about the impossibility of living there for now. Even in the rooms where the floodwaters hadn’t reached, the damp and the smell had pervaded. Gabriel helped her gather some clothes and bits and pieces in a suitcase. She packed the pile of baby clothes her mother had sent in preparation. “White, not yellow, darling. Yellow just looks grim on newborns,” she had said. “Matches their little faces too well if they’re a bit jaundiced, which they often are.” She had, of course, offered to come down; Imogen had wearily put her off, at least for now. The poor woman was dying to see her first grandchild and had been wondering loudly and repeatedly when she would get the chance.
The memory reminded Imogen, cocooned in her little world since Ruth was born, she had a lot of news to break to people who
would be miffed at not being tipped off earlier.
“Tired?” said Gabriel, looking anxiously at Imogen’s face. “Of course, you are. We should go back. I can always come and do
this later,” he added, shutting the case and plonking it on the floor. “Simon’ll go nuts if I let you overdo it on your first
day up.”
It was true, she was suddenly exhausted—she admitted—and a tiny bit tearful. Gratefully, she let him lead her back to the
car.