As much as he wanted to cross the room and ease her, this was something she had to do for herself, by herself. Besides, he was already responsible for taking so much from her that he couldn’t bear to be a part of this, too.
Tears filled her eyes as she slid free of the jacket, folding it carefully before placing it on the dresser. Next came the tie, then the shirt, and finally she stepped out of the skirt. Her hands were steady as she placed it on the pile, standing in nothing but the civilian underwear she’d always insisted on.
She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “And that’s…that.”
“I’m so sorry.” His words came out like they’d been scraped over broken bottles.
She walked to him, all lush curves and sad eyes, but when their gazes met, hers was steady. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?” He palmed her cheek, needing to touch her.
“I’m not sorry about anything that’s led me to you.”
He carried her to their bed and showed her with his body exactly how lucky he felt to have found her.
…
One month later, Scarlett marveled at the freedom the simple wrap dress afforded her as she and Jameson shopped in a small London store that specialized in children’s clothes.
There were some parts of civilian life—such as not melting in her uniform in the August heat—that more than agreed with her.
“I wish we’d done this two months ago,” Jameson muttered as they took in the scant racks of infant garments.
“It will be okay,” she assured him. “He won’t need much to start out with.”
“She.” Jameson grinned, then bent to kiss her temple.
As of June, clothing was now rationed, which meant she was going to need to get creative in a few months—and do a lot more wash. Blankets, gowns, and nappies—they had a lot to acquire before November.
“He,” she argued with a shake of her head. “Let’s get these to start with.” She handed Jameson two gowns that would work for both a girl or a boy.
“Okay.”
Her face puckered slightly as she stared at the small selection of nappies.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’ve never put on a nappy before—a diaper,” she clarified for him. “I know I need pins, but I don’t have anyone I can ask.” She still hadn’t spoken to her parents, and it wasn’t like her mother had done the child-rearing herself, anyway.
“You can always hire a nappy service,” a young clerk with a quick smile suggested from the end of the aisle. “They’re becoming quite popular.”
Jameson nodded in consideration. “It would leave us with less laundry, and probably ease a little of your we’re-never-going-to-be-able-to-buy-enough stress.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “We can talk about it after dinner. I’m starving.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a smile and took their items to the counter.
Of all the things to talk about while he had a precious forty-eight hours of leave, nappies were not on her list.
A few moments later, they were out on the bustling street, walking hand in hand. The bombings had ceased…for now, but the evidence was everywhere she looked.
“Anywhere you want to eat?” Jameson asked, adjusting his hat with one hand.
Scarlett swore she saw at least three women swoon from the sight, not that she blamed them. Her husband was incredible from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Not particularly. Though I wouldn’t mind going back to the hotel and having you for dinner.” She kept her face as straight as she could manage.
He stopped in the middle of the pavement, forcing the crowd to flow around them. “I’ll get a taxi right now.” His smile was pure hedonism.
“Scarlett?”
Scarlett froze at the sound of her mother’s voice, her grip tightening on Jameson’s hand as she turned slowly to face her.
She wasn’t alone. Scarlett’s father stood at her side, looking as shocked as Scarlett felt for all of a heartbeat before he managed to school his features into the stone she knew so well.
“Jameson, these are my parents, Nigel and Margaret, but I’m sure they’d rather you call them Baron and Lady Wright.” Finally, she had a real use for all the comportment lessons she’d been forced into.
…
“Sir.” Jameson stepped forward, offering his hand to Nigel but losing Scarlett’s in the process. So this was the infamous father his wife and her sister had such mixed feelings about. He was dressed in a neatly pressed suit, his pepper and silver hair slicked back with minimal fuss.
Her father looked at Jameson’s hand, then brought his gaze back up. “You’re the Yank.”
“I’m American, yes.” Jameson bristled but managed a smile as he lowered his hand, taking Scarlett’s again. He couldn’t imagine having this kind of rift with his own parents, and if he could ease the tension, he would. It’s the least his mother would expect from him. “Ma’am, your daughters speak very highly of you.”
Scarlett squeezed his fingers at his lie.
Margaret had the same dark hair and piercing blue eyes as her daughters. In fact, the resemblance was so close that he couldn’t shake the feeling he was getting a glimpse at what Scarlett would look like in thirty years. Scarlett wouldn’t have that cold, firm set to her mouth, though. His wife was far too warm for that.
“You’re…going to have a child,” her mother said quietly, her eyes round as they locked on Scarlett’s stomach.
The irrational impulse to stand in front of his wife was instant.
“We are,” Scarlett said, her voice firm and chin high. He’d always been in awe of her self-control, but this was an all-time high. “I understand you convinced Constance to throw her life away?” She asked the question with the same tone she’d used to request he pass the milk this morning.
Jameson blinked, realizing he’d entered an entirely different arena of warfare where he wasn’t the expert—his wife was.
“Constance’s choices are her own,” Margaret said just as politely.
“Is it a boy?” Nigel asked, staring at Scarlett with a spark of something in his eyes that looked a little too close to desperation for Jameson’s comfort.
“I could hardly know, as I am still pregnant.” Scarlett tilted her head. “And if he is, that is none of your business.”
This was the strangest family he’d ever encountered…and somehow he was a part of it.