Christmas At Pemberley: And the Bride Wore Prada. Katie Oliver
drama? Having a baby doesn’t only affect you, you know. It affects me as well. And please don’t try to tell me how I feel. I don’t know how I feel right now.’
As he turned away and slammed out of the room, Natalie’s face crumpled, and she flung herself across the bed, and thought she might never stop crying.
Helen returned to her room when lunch ended and shut the door. And just for good measure, she turned the lock.
Her thoughts whirled. She had plenty of questions, and she wanted answers...but she didn’t want Colm MacKenzie turning up in the midst of her research.
After unearthing her laptop bag from the closet, she took out her computer, flipped it open, and switched it on. A few taps of the keyboard brought up the search engine. She typed in ‘Andrew Campbell, drowning, Sierra Leone’ and waited impatiently until half a dozen URLs and several photographs popped up on the screen.
Curious, Helen clicked on the first photo. Andrew Campbell stood next to an upended surfboard. His wetsuit glistened with seawater, and he was laughing.
What a shame, she thought with a wash of real regret as she studied him. He was a handsome specimen of Scots manhood ‒ tall and well built, muscular, but not overly so. His smile was wide and engaging.
And it struck her quite suddenly that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Colm MacKenzie.
She clicked on a link to The Times article on his death and skimmed through it. Andrew was sailing from Freetown to the Banana Islands along with Michael McFarland, an Australian traveller he’d met in Freetown.
According to McFarland, the sea roughened when an unexpected late-afternoon squall kicked in, and the sloop capsized. Both men clung to the hull as the boat was carried further and further out from shore. When the worst of the storm passed, Andrew, a strong swimmer, decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore. He never made it. Michael was rescued early the next morning.
Andrew was presumed drowned, his body carried out to sea. There was also speculation that perhaps he’d been attacked by a shark, a not uncommon occurrence along the Sierra Leone coast.
At any rate, his body was never recovered.
Helen gazed into the distance with a frown etched on her face. Some suggested that Campbell, who was well travelled and fascinated with West African tribal culture, had disappeared deliberately, unwilling to take on the responsibility of running his family’s Scotch distillery in his father Archibald’s stead.
Could it be true, she wondered? Had Andrew faked his own death in order to start a new life elsewhere? Her frown deepened. Could Colm actually be Andrew, the missing heir? He was thirty-eight, the same age Andrew would’ve been, had he lived; and they were the same height and build.
But she discarded the idea as soon as it occurred. It made no sense. Why would Andrew Lachlan Campbell suddenly come home to his family after turning his back on them for eighteen years? And if he did return, why keep his identity a secret? Surely his parents – his own mother – would recognize heir son the moment they laid eyes on him.
Still, Helen mused, eighteen years was nearly two decades. People could change a lot in that amount of time, physically and emotionally.
Her frown deepened. Perhaps Colm ‒ Andrew ‒ was back because he was in danger of some kind. Had he returned to Draemar to hide?
On impulse, she grabbed her mobile and tapped in a number. After two rings the call was picked up. ‘News desk, London Probe.’
‘Tom Bennett, please.’
Helen waited impatiently as the call was put through. When he answered she came straight to the point. ‘Tom, it’s Helen. I need a favour. Get me the police report for Andrew Campbell. Yes, Campbell. He drowned off the coast of Sierra Leone. Let me know what you find.’
‘All right,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but why? That was years ago ‒ I remember it. His sailboat capsized, his body was never found, and they thought he might’ve been finished off by a shark. Poor bugger.’ He paused. ‘Why the sudden interest in a rich toff who drowned nearly twenty years ago?’
‘I’ll explain later. Just get me that report, okay? I’ll owe you. Big time.’
‘You bet your arse you will,’ he grumbled, and rang off.
The knock on Caitlin’s door was quiet, but determined.
She sat up on her bed, where she’d thrown herself earlier in a torrent of angry tears, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, even though she already knew.
‘It’s Mum. Let me in, please.’
With an exaggerated sigh, Caitlin pushed herself to her feet and went to the door and cracked it open. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want answers, madam, and I want them now. You can either open this door,’ her mother said again, more firmly, ‘or you can explain yourself to your father. And I don’t think either of us wants that.’
Reluctantly Caitlin swung the door open and waited as her mother came inside and swung around to face her.
‘Why were asked to leave university?’ Penelope demanded. ‘What on earth did you do?’
‘It’s all a silly misunderstanding,’ Caitlin said, and closed the door. She crossed her arms against her chest. ‘It’s stupid, really.’
‘I hardly think you’d be dismissed on the basis of a “silly misunderstanding”. Tell me what happened.’
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t keeping up with my studies, Mum, that’s all. My grades were poor.’
‘And?’ her mother prodded. ‘You wouldn’t be kicked out of school merely for poor grades, Cait.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and levelled a shrewd gaze at her daughter. ‘There’s something more, isn’t there?’
She said nothing.
‘I’m waiting. I can wait all night, if necessary. And this time, my darling girl, I want the truth.’
Caitlin glared at her mother, and defiance darkened her grey eyes. ‘I missed some classes,’ she said, her expression still sullen. ‘I wasn’t turning in assignments. I just...couldn’t keep up any more, so I gave up trying.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘You graduated top of your class,’ Mrs Campbell said finally. ‘You’ve never once struggled with schoolwork, Caitlin, never! You expect me to believe this load of bollocks? Because I don’t – I’m not buying it for a minute.’
‘Believe what you want. It’s true. I’m just not cut out for university, Mum. I’m completely h-hopeless.’ Her lower lip began to wobble, and she tried – and failed – to blink back incipient tears.
‘Who is he?’ Penelope’s voice was soft in the stillness of the room.
Caitlin’s head shot up at the unexpectedness of the question. ‘Who is who? What are you talking about?’
‘Who is this man you’re so willing to throw your future away for? Is it Jeremy?’
‘Jeremy?’ She stared at her mother, nonplussed. ‘Lord, no! We’re friends. I only asked him to bring me here because he’s got the Land Rover and I was desperate to get home.’
‘And how did you manage to persuade him to do that? Doesn’t Jeremy have exams, finals to take? Unless he was expelled, too?’
‘No, of course he wasn’t!’ Caitlin snapped. ‘I told you, we’re friends. He agreed to bring me here after I told him I’d been expelled. He spoke with his professors and got permission to take his finals a week early.’
‘How