Seasons of Love by Anna Jacobs Read Free Book Online Page A

buy the flowers with. I've only got enough for my stake.’
    ‘I thought you were on a winning streak?’
    ‘I am. It’s just starting.’
    ‘I never met a gambler yet who came out a winner in the end.’ She slapped a coin into his hand.
    ‘I’m a fool, but here you are. A bunch of flowers.’
    He pocketed the money. ‘Oh, I don't do so badly with the old dice. It's just finding the stake sometimes - especially with a wife to support.’
    ‘Support! She's supporting herself, and well you know it.’ But he had gone.
    Robert went immediately to visit his wife. Best get it over with. Pulling a face at the sour smell of the room, he bent over the crumpled red face of his son and studied it dutifully. ‘People always say they look like someone, but I'm damned if I can see any resemblance. Can you?’
    ‘He looked a bit like you when he was first born, but now he just looks like himself. Aren't you pleased with him? Isn't he lovely?’
    Robert summoned up his acting powers. ‘Yes, of course. A man likes to have a son, I suppose, but I don't know much about babies, my pet.’ He wasn’t going to risk anyone involving him in the damned brat’s care. ‘He's got all his fingers and toes, I suppose?’
    ‘Of course he has! He's a beautiful baby!’ She tried to blink away the tears that this ungracious speech had brought to her eyes.
    Robert saw that he’d upset her and apologised. He didn’t want Roxanne withdrawing her help.
    ‘Sorry if I'm not saying the right sort of thing. Bit hard to get used to, being a father. What was it you wanted to call him? Damned if I can ever remember.’
    ‘Henry Robert - but we'll call him Harry.’
    ‘Why not call him Harry straight out, then? Why bother with Henry at all?’
    Head on one side, she considered this. ‘Yes. Why not?’
    ‘Why Harry anyway?’
    ‘After Henry the Eighth.’
    He roared with laughter. ‘Henry the Eighth! What's so special about him? He's dead!’
    ‘Because he had such a gusto for life. He enjoyed it. And because - because no one in my family is called Henry.’
    ‘Well, that makes a bit more sense than calling him after Henry the Eighth. Wouldn't want a son of mine named for that mincy-mouthed brute of a father of yours. You've still got a couple of scars on your back, you know. Lovely back you've got.’ He ran his finger up her cheek, looking forward to having the use of her body again, and she nestled against him trustingly.
    Before he left, he coaxed a few coins out of her to swell his stake, disarming her by a frank admission of his guilt in playing so deeply, but assuring her that he couldn't lose, that it was a game of skill they were playing tonight, not a game of chance.
    He had brought no flowers, had even forgotten he was supposed to.
    It wouldn’t have made a difference if he had. Helen had seen how little he cared for their son - or for her. And she wept once he’d gone.

Chapter 4
    By the time the Marlborough Players were ready to move on, Helen had recovered her strength and Robert had discovered just how much he disliked living with a baby. Its crying set his teeth on edge, there were always cloths and little garments drying around the room, filling it with a steamy smell, and, worst of all, the baby regularly disturbed his sleep.
    Moreover, Helen was no longer solely at his service, which he had rather enjoyed. She was now more often at the service of the red-faced, howling stranger, who had to be fed at the most inconvenient times. In fact, Robert decided indignantly, that damned baby always came first with her. Not that she didn't see to her husband's laundry as efficiently as ever, and feed him well enough, but dammit, a man liked his wife to sit with him and look pretty and listen to him! Nowadays, Helen always seemed to have one ear cocked, in case Harry cried.
    And Robert detested, absolutely and utterly detested , going out for walks with a woman carrying a baby, which looked more like a bundle of dirty washing to him