He took a bath and then fell asleep, waking to find his pot-bellied woman watching over him. He’d stolen a red rose he’d seen blossoming in a cottage garden, and although it was only half open and hardly more than a bud, it was in a small crystal vase on Esmé’s dressing table. He smiled at her. ‘I’ve missed you, my sweet. Come here and lay down beside me.’ When she joined him, he gently palpated her stomach, and then he placed his ear against it. There was a fast, steady tick of the baby’s heart among the gurgles of the fluid sac. The infant . . . their infant was of a fair size. He kissed her swollen midriff then looked up at her. ‘The head’s engaged.’ ‘You don’t have to worry, Leo. Everything’s proceeding as it should.’ ‘BP?’ ‘Blood pressure is perfectly all right. I’ve kept a diary. If you want to read it then it’s on the dressing table. But may I remind you that you’re not my doctor, even if you are my doctor . . . Doctor.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re looking a bit pale.
