‘It’s nothing. I’m fine now,’ she assured Vanessa as she sat down.
‘Oh, I hope you’re not going to go down with this ‘flu, not with the wedding only a month away.’
Sara smile wanly; she was pretty sure she wasn’t starting with ‘flu. For the past four mornings in succession she had been quite sick on waking, and she was well enough acquainted with her own system to suspect she had met that fate at one time supposed to be the worst possible one that could befall an unmarried woman. If she was pregnant there was no way she could have the baby. How could she? She had no home, no job… The complications arising if she continued with the pregnancy were so potentially convoluted and damaging. Jonas was going to be Sam’s brother-in-law; how on earth could she have his illegitimate child?
These were the logical and reasoned arguments she kept well to the forefront of her mind the next day as she drove into Dorchester. In her handbag was a piece of paper bearing the name and address of a charitable organisation that counselled girls in her position and, if necessary, helped them to arrange a termination. Termination? She shivered tensely, knowing that not even in her own thoughts did she want to admit what she was doing. She was going to arrange for her baby to be aborted, its short life ended almost before it had begun.
Nausea clawed at the pit of her stomach as she tried to stem the flood-tide of her thoughts. Her heart revolted against the idea, but she was trying not to listen to her heart. She had spent all last night, all the last few nights, in fact, telling herself that she mustn’t be emotional and illogical, that she must bear in mind that her decision wouldn’t just affect herself, that she could hardly go away and have her baby in complete secrecy like a heroine in a novelette. Sam would have to know, and being Sam he would want to hear the name of the father. And, knowing her, he would also know that she had not taken him as a lover light-heartedly. No… No, termination was the only way.
But when she had parked the car, she found her footsteps dragging as she made her way to the small, cluttered office belonging to the organisation. Oh God, she thought, I can’t…
The counsellor who saw her was brisk but understanding, not attempting to put pressure on her in any way, but competently outlining the alternatives to her. There were questions Sara had to answer, notes that had to be made, and even when she managed to anounce her decision without wavering, the counsellor suggested firmly, ‘We normally advise people to take two or three days to think over their decison; after all, at this stage it is still reversible… You wouldn’t believe the number of
girls who find that once the immediate anxiety of doing something about their pregnancy has gone, they have second thoughts. I can’t tell you the number of girls we get coming in here to show off their babies—girls who originally were most adamant that they wanted an abortion.’
Forcing her mouth to curl into a polite smile, Sara left.
The street in which the office was housed was a long, busy one cluttered with shoppers on a Thursday afternoon, but Sara reached the end of it without realising how she had done so. Somehow she found her way back to her car and drove home to the cottage.
Mercifully it was empty. Vanessa, she learned later, had taken Sam and Carly to Essex to introduce them to her mother and Jonas’s father.
They came back late, so full of high spirits and chatter that none of them noticed how withdrawn she was.
The discovery of her pregnancy caused a delay in her plans to find herself a flat and a job in London just as soon as she could, and just over a week after her initial interview with her counsellor, as she stood shakily in her bathroom, still slightly weak from the effect of her morning sickness, Sara reflected that it was just as well that Sam’s bedroom was downstairs. If it hadn’t been for that, there was no way she could have kept her condition a secret from her brother. As it was, he had started worrying about her pallor and lack of appetite, and she had also noticed that he had taken to watching her covertly. She had practically made up her mind what she was going to do. Two days ago she had had another meeting with her counsellor who, after talking with her, had quietly made an appointment for her at a small private clinic. She was to attend there this morning, and because her pregnancy was still at a relatively non-advanced stage there would be no necessity for her to stay overnight. Deliberately Sara had forced herself to ignore what was happening. She told herself she must pretend it was all part of some horrible nightmare; that was the only way she could endure what she had to do. Even now, her hand hovered protectively over her stomach, her heart revolting against her decision. But what real alternative did she have?
She had told Sam she was going into Dorchester to do some shopping. Now, when she went downstairs to tell him she was about to leave, he frowned at her, catching hold of her wrist and tugging her towards him when she would have turned away.
‘You don’t look well, Sara,’ he said gently. ‘Something’s wrong. What is it? Surely you can tell me? Is it because Vanessa and I are getting married? Because you think I’m betraying Holly’s memory?’
He saw the answer in her eyes even before she shook her head vigorously. Admitting her love for Jonas had forced her to admit other things she had been reluctant to see. Sam had been right when he said that Holly would not have wanted him and Carly to mourn her for the rest of their lives.
‘It’s Jonas, isn’t it?’ he said quietly. ‘No, don’t deny it, Sara.’
‘You haven’t said…’
‘I haven’t said a word to anyone,’ he reassured her firmly. ‘And nor will I do so. Is it because of him that you want to leave and go back to London? Why? He seemed attracted to you.’
‘Attraction isn’t love,’ she broke in hastily. It was too painful to talk to Sam like this. Listening to him brought home to her how impossible it was for her to continue with her pregnancy. If she did, there was no way Sam would not immediately guess the identity of the baby’s father. If the situation wasn’t so tragic it might almost be farcical; put them in period costumes and they could all be actors in one of Congreve’s witty plays on morals and manners.
‘Strange how things work out,’ Sam mused. ‘You came down here determined to believe Jonas the villain of the piece, the cruel landowner intent on hounding Miss Betts; you were convinced that you’d never love anyone but Rick, and…’
‘And I’ve been proved wrong on both counts. Far from hounding Miss Betts, Jonas was actually very kind to her. I know that, Sam, and I also know I was wrong about Rick. My love for him was a young girl’s love, while Jonas… I can’t talk about it,’ she told him painfully. ‘I have to go out; I…’
‘Don’t run away from your feelings, Sara,’ Sam cautioned her gently. ‘You know, you could be wrong. Jonas…’
‘Jonas doesn’t love me,’ she interrupted, trying to stop her mouth from trembling as, with a sense of well and truly having burnt her boats behind her, she added huskily, ‘physically he might want me, Sam, but that’s all there is to it. I know because he told me so himself.’
She couldn’t bear to see the pity she knew would be in her brother’s eyes, and, tugging her wrist free of his grip, she hurried out to her car.
She was in no state to drive, but luckily she had the country road almost entirely to herself until she got nearer to Dorchester. The clinic was housed in a new building, recently constructed but designed to fit in with the architecture of the rest of the town. She had to park five minutes’ walk away from it, but as she drew closer to the building she found her footsteps dragging. Outside she delayed even longer, fumbling in her handbag for her appointment card and holding it in her hand while she took a deep steadying breath. What on earth was she delaying for? Her decision had already been made; there was, after all, no other choice. Surely her talk with Sam only this morning had confirmed that? And yet still she hesitated, drawing a curious stare from a couple of nurses who emerged from the building. A cold sweat gripped her body; beads of perspiration lined her forehead, and her palms were clammy and chilled. She wanted to walk up the steps, but somehow her legs wouldn’t obey her, and then suddenly, as she stared at the closed door, Sara knew that she couldn’t go through with it.
The relief that followed the admission made her feel as giddy as though she had drunk a full glass of wine. She felt like laughing and crying at the same time, and so shaky that it was several seconds before she could turn away from the clinic and walk down the street.
The appointment card still clutched tightly in her hand, she wasn’t even aware that she was crying until her surroundings became so blurred that she realised something was wrong.
She put a shaking hand up to her face, unaware of the curious stares of passers-by as she looked unseeingly at her damp fingers. Someone jostled her as they hurried past, and she collided abruptly with a lamp-post.
‘Sara!’