The Good Provider (60 page)

‘Then you’re ordained?’ Kirsty said.

‘I’m licensed to preach the Gospel but I won’t be inducted and ordained until I have a parish of my own.’

‘A parish in China?’ Kirsty said.

‘I’ve decided not to go back to China.’

‘But, I thought – your father an’ mother—?’

‘They’ll have to contain themselves until Jack gets there.’

‘You’re not leaving after all?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘After all that hard work, all that training?’

‘Don’t tell me you disapprove, Kirsty,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want me to stay in Scotland?’

‘Yes, oh dear, yes.’

‘Good,’ David said.

She felt, however, a strange panic in her. She had reconciled herself to being apart from him, not separate but safely distanced. She felt that she could best love him in her thoughts and in her memory. Now he had told her that it was not to be, that she must learn a deeper truth, find out by practice what loyalty and fidelity meant. He was not, and never would be, the sort of man who would force a choice upon her, who would challenge her and destroy what there was between them. She did not need him to explain it to her.

She did not know David Lockhart well, though never again, she felt, would any man know her so well. She wanted to ask him outright why he had changed the direction of his vocation, what reason he had found to stay here. But she was afraid that he would tell her the truth.

‘In the meantime I’ve been taken on as an assistant at St Anne’s,’ David said. ‘And I’ll lodge with Aunt Nessie in Walbrook Street for a while.’

‘That’s – that’s convenient.’

‘It’s what I want, Kirsty, what I really want,’ David said, without gravity. ‘Besides, I’d like to be in the vicinity, shall we say, while this little chap’s growing up.’

‘Will you christen him? Can you?’ she heard herself say.

‘Now, now, don’t rush me.’ David laughed. ‘No, alas, I can’t administer the Sacraments until I’m inducted.’

‘Will you be there, though?’

‘Of course, if you want me to.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure that your husband won’t object.’

‘How can he? After what you did,’ Kirsty said and then, sensing that she was touching on a dangerous subject, asked, ‘What else can you do, as well as preach the Word?’

‘Funerals and weddings. The really serious stuff, that will have to wait.’

‘Are funerals and weddings not serious?’

‘Kirsty, are you teasing me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought so,’ he said. ‘Very well, to make up for it you’ll have to let me have a shot of the pram.’

‘Are you licensed for prams?’

‘Oh, I see. Taking charge of Master Nicholson is very serious stuff indeed. How is he? Is he thriving?’

‘You’re the doctor. See for yourself.’

Gently David lifted the fringe of the canopy. He held his hand aslant to prevent the sun’s rays falling directly on to the baby’s face. He leaned to inspect the child that he had brought into the world.

Kirsty watched. As she watched she saw tenderness and love in David’s expression. Her hesitations waned away. She could not deny what she felt for him, though she understood even then how the emotion must be expressed. There was too much honour in him for there ever to be more between them than friendship. But love without loving had a quality all its own and would perhaps survive long after passion and desire had burned away. She put her head under the canopy and the tip of her ear touched his shiny collar, her hair brushed softly against his neck.

‘Well?’ she whispered. ‘What do you think, David?’

‘He’s filling out nicely. Look, I think he realises that we’re talking about him.’

She gave her attention to her child, to the dark, alert eyes that would soon find focus and survey the world that she would make for him. It was so warm, so still under the canopy and the sounds from the park were filtered and soft-edged, the motion of air in the trees like a murmur, faint and far off.

‘David?’ she said.

‘Hush, Kirsty,’ he told her.

Together they emerged from the stillness under the brown holland, close together but not quite touching.

‘Walk with me, David, if you have the time.’

‘How far, Kirsty?’

‘Twice around the park.’

‘What then?’ he said.

‘Then I must go home.’

‘You’ll always go home to him, won’t you?’

‘Yes, always,’ Kirsty said. ‘But I wish—’

‘Hush,’ he told her again, then stooped and picked up the picnic basket, unclipped the brake, grasped the handle and pushed the perambulator forward. ‘We’ll walk together, though.’

‘Why not?’ said Kirsty and fell into step by his side.