it.’
‘I have to think about it,’ said Sylvia earnestly. ‘And then if a child is born early and it’s alive, and then it dies, you don’t get no insurance at all. So it means a pauper’s grave. We couldn’t do that. We’d have to find the money somehow.’ Her face was very drawn, her eyes heavy.
‘Sylvia please! You mustn’t distress yourself so much. Of course your baby won’t die. It – she, I’m sure it’s a she – will be lovely and strong. Just like Barty. There, shall I hang this up for you?’
‘We’ll leave it for now,’ said Sylvia, ‘till the children have had their tea. Nicer that way for them.’
The washing line hung in the kitchen, sagging over the small table; it was indeed much nicer without it.
‘Anyway, Lady Celia, I shouldn’t be talking like this, worrying you. You being in the family way as well.’
‘Oh, well mine’s a long way off,’ said Celia, ‘not till May. Only unlike you, I’m absolutely enormous. My doctor’s coming to see me tomorrow actually. What does – what does your doctor say? About you being small?’
Sylvia looked at her, and her heavy eyes were almost amused. ‘We don’t see the doctor, Lady Celia. Not for a baby. It costs a lot of money, seeing a doctor does.’
Celia felt sick suddenly; she was always making these mistakes, saying stupid, thoughtless things. Here she was, over-cared for, over-indulged, her every ache and pain fussed over, her tiredness treated as an illness in itself, and Sylvia couldn’t consult a doctor over a very real worry. It was terribly wrong.
‘Sylvia, if you want to see a doctor,’ she said quickly, knowing she was yet again overstepping the strictly drawn up boundaries, ‘you could see mine. I would gladly arrange that. If you’re really worried.’
Sylvia flushed, looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, ‘it’s very kind of you, Lady Celia, but I really couldn’t. It’s only a baby. Not an illness. I’ll be all right. Oh, now, here are the children. I’d best be getting on.’
Celia wondered miserably, as she was driven home, if she was actually making matters worse rather than better for the Millers.
‘Good Lord,’ said Oliver. He was reading a letter intently; he had been sorting through the post at the breakfast table, adding to the ever-growing crowd of Christmas cards on the sideboard.
‘What?’ asked Celia. She was buttering her third piece of toast; her appetite was enormous.
‘My brother. He’s getting married.’
‘Well don’t sound so surprised. He’s twelve years older than you, I can’t think why he hasn’t been snapped up before. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Hardly a girl. She’s older than Robert. She’s – heavens. She’s forty-two. A very elderly bride. How extraordinary.’
‘Oliver, forty-two is hardly elderly. LM is nearly thirty-six. I shall tell her you said that, if you’re not careful.’
‘Oh, darling please don’t. It was a slip of the tongue. But I am surprised. Robert so likes pretty girls.’
‘Well maybe she’s a pretty woman. Or a rich one,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Celia, really! Anyway, Robert doesn’t need to marry money. He’s got more than enough already.’
‘You don’t know that, Oliver. Darling, don’t look at me like that, I’m only joking. You know how much I adore him. I do hope they come to London to visit.’
‘That’s exactly what they are doing. As part of their honeymoon.’
‘How lovely. When? I hope I’ll still be able to move out of my chair.’
‘You should be able to. Quite soon after Christmas. They’re getting married just before, on Christmas Eve. Then sailing out of New York on January the first.’
‘Of course we must ask them to stay,’ said Celia. She looked at Oliver thoughtfully. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a shotgun wedding.’
‘Celia, don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, this was sent a while ago, it takes two weeks at least for a letter to come from New
‘I have to think about it,’ said Sylvia earnestly. ‘And then if a child is born early and it’s alive, and then it dies, you don’t get no insurance at all. So it means a pauper’s grave. We couldn’t do that. We’d have to find the money somehow.’ Her face was very drawn, her eyes heavy.
‘Sylvia please! You mustn’t distress yourself so much. Of course your baby won’t die. It – she, I’m sure it’s a she – will be lovely and strong. Just like Barty. There, shall I hang this up for you?’
‘We’ll leave it for now,’ said Sylvia, ‘till the children have had their tea. Nicer that way for them.’
The washing line hung in the kitchen, sagging over the small table; it was indeed much nicer without it.
‘Anyway, Lady Celia, I shouldn’t be talking like this, worrying you. You being in the family way as well.’
‘Oh, well mine’s a long way off,’ said Celia, ‘not till May. Only unlike you, I’m absolutely enormous. My doctor’s coming to see me tomorrow actually. What does – what does your doctor say? About you being small?’
Sylvia looked at her, and her heavy eyes were almost amused. ‘We don’t see the doctor, Lady Celia. Not for a baby. It costs a lot of money, seeing a doctor does.’
Celia felt sick suddenly; she was always making these mistakes, saying stupid, thoughtless things. Here she was, over-cared for, over-indulged, her every ache and pain fussed over, her tiredness treated as an illness in itself, and Sylvia couldn’t consult a doctor over a very real worry. It was terribly wrong.
‘Sylvia, if you want to see a doctor,’ she said quickly, knowing she was yet again overstepping the strictly drawn up boundaries, ‘you could see mine. I would gladly arrange that. If you’re really worried.’
Sylvia flushed, looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, ‘it’s very kind of you, Lady Celia, but I really couldn’t. It’s only a baby. Not an illness. I’ll be all right. Oh, now, here are the children. I’d best be getting on.’
Celia wondered miserably, as she was driven home, if she was actually making matters worse rather than better for the Millers.
‘Good Lord,’ said Oliver. He was reading a letter intently; he had been sorting through the post at the breakfast table, adding to the ever-growing crowd of Christmas cards on the sideboard.
‘What?’ asked Celia. She was buttering her third piece of toast; her appetite was enormous.
‘My brother. He’s getting married.’
‘Well don’t sound so surprised. He’s twelve years older than you, I can’t think why he hasn’t been snapped up before. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Hardly a girl. She’s older than Robert. She’s – heavens. She’s forty-two. A very elderly bride. How extraordinary.’
‘Oliver, forty-two is hardly elderly. LM is nearly thirty-six. I shall tell her you said that, if you’re not careful.’
‘Oh, darling please don’t. It was a slip of the tongue. But I am surprised. Robert so likes pretty girls.’
‘Well maybe she’s a pretty woman. Or a rich one,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘Celia, really! Anyway, Robert doesn’t need to marry money. He’s got more than enough already.’
‘You don’t know that, Oliver. Darling, don’t look at me like that, I’m only joking. You know how much I adore him. I do hope they come to London to visit.’
‘That’s exactly what they are doing. As part of their honeymoon.’
‘How lovely. When? I hope I’ll still be able to move out of my chair.’
‘You should be able to. Quite soon after Christmas. They’re getting married just before, on Christmas Eve. Then sailing out of New York on January the first.’
‘Of course we must ask them to stay,’ said Celia. She looked at Oliver thoughtfully. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a shotgun wedding.’
‘Celia, don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, this was sent a while ago, it takes two weeks at least for a letter to come from New
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