no longer matters that he’s neither rich nor handsome. He’s Peter, and that’s enough.
When they had sorted out their relationship into that of two people who enjoyed both each other’s company and each other’s love-making, they had laughed at their early, ingenuous efforts to take control of the situation. Marianne, who had not always found it possible to laugh at herself, knew that she had Peter to thank for a new-found gift which gave her a lot of pleasure. He had told her, gently, that she must try not to take herself so seriously, and she had studied her past and realised that most of her unhappiness could have been avoided had she done just that – laughed, shrugged, moved on – instead of turning everything into a tragedy.
Yet now . . . how could she laugh if he truly meant to cast her off? But the ice which had seemed to turn Peter into a figure of stone was melting, she could see it. He stood there, staring down at her, and suddenly he took her hands and held them up, just beneath his chin.
‘A baby? You’re sure, Mari?’
‘I’m sure,’ Marianne said tremulously. She did not have to act a part now, she was truly terrified that he might continue to insist that marriage was out of the question, that a baby made no difference. ‘The baby will be born in the spring, all being well.’
Peter nodded, then carried her hands to his mouth, uncurled her fingers, and kissed both her palms. Then he folded her fingers round his kisses and tilted her chin until they were looking straight into each other’s faces.
‘Would you like us to marry, then, Marianne? You know I can’t offer you much, but what I have I’ll share with you. And you must love Tess, because she’s been my life now for eight years. But she needs a mother, even though she’s not aware of it yet. Could you be that mother, sweetheart?’
He meant it. He would marry her, share his life with her, but if she didn’t play fair, if she was a wicked stepmother rather than a loving mother to his small daughter, then he would contrive to get rid of her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain she was right. He wouldn’t threaten, he was telling her plainly the terms on which he would marry her, and she would tell him, equally plainly, that she would do her best by the child.
‘I’ll try. I’ll really try, Peter,’ she said earnestly. ‘When can I meet her?’
‘When she comes back from the seaside,’ Peter said unhesitatingly. ‘As soon as possible, in other words. Look, Marianne, are you sure marriage is what you want?’
She could have sung for joy but she assured him, sedately, that in the circumstances marriage had to be what she wanted. He shook his head at her, pulling a rueful face.
‘I know that, but is it truly what you want? If circumstances had been different . . .’
She hesitated, thinking about it. Should she tell him that the sum of all her desires was marriage to him? It might be unwise to put all her cards so plainly on the table, to give herself no possibility of an orderly and dignified retreat. Yet if she was not honest with him he might not think her commitment sufficient.
‘Oh, Peter, doesn’t every girl want to marry the man in her life?’
Compromise of a sort; would it be sufficient, or would he demand total capitulation, would he expect her to plead for marriage, for respectability?
They were still standing in the kitchen, with the kettle steaming on the range behind Peter and the back door slightly ajar behind Marianne. Peter sighed and carefully took off his spectacles. He produced a small leather case and pushed the glasses down into it, then slid them into his pocket. Then he smoothed back his hair, including the lock that had dangled over his forehead. Then he took her hand and led her across the kitchen and into the small, square hallway.
‘I shouldn’t have asked you that, should I? After all, circumstances aren’t different. You’re having a baby, that’s not something
When they had sorted out their relationship into that of two people who enjoyed both each other’s company and each other’s love-making, they had laughed at their early, ingenuous efforts to take control of the situation. Marianne, who had not always found it possible to laugh at herself, knew that she had Peter to thank for a new-found gift which gave her a lot of pleasure. He had told her, gently, that she must try not to take herself so seriously, and she had studied her past and realised that most of her unhappiness could have been avoided had she done just that – laughed, shrugged, moved on – instead of turning everything into a tragedy.
Yet now . . . how could she laugh if he truly meant to cast her off? But the ice which had seemed to turn Peter into a figure of stone was melting, she could see it. He stood there, staring down at her, and suddenly he took her hands and held them up, just beneath his chin.
‘A baby? You’re sure, Mari?’
‘I’m sure,’ Marianne said tremulously. She did not have to act a part now, she was truly terrified that he might continue to insist that marriage was out of the question, that a baby made no difference. ‘The baby will be born in the spring, all being well.’
Peter nodded, then carried her hands to his mouth, uncurled her fingers, and kissed both her palms. Then he folded her fingers round his kisses and tilted her chin until they were looking straight into each other’s faces.
‘Would you like us to marry, then, Marianne? You know I can’t offer you much, but what I have I’ll share with you. And you must love Tess, because she’s been my life now for eight years. But she needs a mother, even though she’s not aware of it yet. Could you be that mother, sweetheart?’
He meant it. He would marry her, share his life with her, but if she didn’t play fair, if she was a wicked stepmother rather than a loving mother to his small daughter, then he would contrive to get rid of her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain she was right. He wouldn’t threaten, he was telling her plainly the terms on which he would marry her, and she would tell him, equally plainly, that she would do her best by the child.
‘I’ll try. I’ll really try, Peter,’ she said earnestly. ‘When can I meet her?’
‘When she comes back from the seaside,’ Peter said unhesitatingly. ‘As soon as possible, in other words. Look, Marianne, are you sure marriage is what you want?’
She could have sung for joy but she assured him, sedately, that in the circumstances marriage had to be what she wanted. He shook his head at her, pulling a rueful face.
‘I know that, but is it truly what you want? If circumstances had been different . . .’
She hesitated, thinking about it. Should she tell him that the sum of all her desires was marriage to him? It might be unwise to put all her cards so plainly on the table, to give herself no possibility of an orderly and dignified retreat. Yet if she was not honest with him he might not think her commitment sufficient.
‘Oh, Peter, doesn’t every girl want to marry the man in her life?’
Compromise of a sort; would it be sufficient, or would he demand total capitulation, would he expect her to plead for marriage, for respectability?
They were still standing in the kitchen, with the kettle steaming on the range behind Peter and the back door slightly ajar behind Marianne. Peter sighed and carefully took off his spectacles. He produced a small leather case and pushed the glasses down into it, then slid them into his pocket. Then he smoothed back his hair, including the lock that had dangled over his forehead. Then he took her hand and led her across the kitchen and into the small, square hallway.
‘I shouldn’t have asked you that, should I? After all, circumstances aren’t different. You’re having a baby, that’s not something
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