signet ring on the little finger of his left hand.
Sensing the direction of her gaze, he smiled wryly, lifted his hand and waggled his bare fourth finger. ‘No, I’m not married. I only dated my daughter’s mother for a while. And…her mother is dead.’
‘Oh, how sad.’ This changed everything. All at once Jo was adrift on a sea of sympathy. She said quickly, ‘Why don’t we sit down for a bit?’
He pulled out a wooden chair on the other side of the kitchen table. ‘If I’m asking you to help with Ivy I should be perfectly honest with you,’ he said. ‘I only learned of her existence a short time ago.’
Jo watched the barely perceptible squaring of his shoulders and she sensed that he was working very hard to keep his emotions under control. ‘That must have been a terrible shock.’ Her kind-hearted urges were going into overdrive now. ‘How come you only learned about Ivy recently?’
Hugh stiffened and she guessed she was delving deeper than he wanted to go. But he met her gaze. ‘Her mother wrote a letter but it never reached me and she died shortly after Ivy’s birth.’
Jo thought of the dear little bright-eyed Ivy who’d danced about their shop like a winsome fairy while her guardian had selected groceries. How sad that her mother never knew her.
How sad that Hugh still hadn’t met her. Jo blinked away the threat of tears.
‘It gets worse.’ Hugh spoke very quietly. ‘Apparently Linley suffered from severe postnatal depression and—and she committed suicide.’
‘No!’ A horrified exclamation burst from Jo. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she added quickly. Then she asked gently, ‘And you never knew?’
‘I thought she had died in a car accident,’ he said. ‘There was never any mention of a baby.’
Jo wondered if he was being so forthright to draw her into the task of helping him. Well, it was working. It would be hard to turn him down now, especially when his eyes held hers with such compelling intensity.
‘Ivy’s grandmother died recently and she left instructions in her will, demanding that I claim my daughter,’ he said. ‘Of course I wanted to do the right thing by the child, so I came dashing over here. But I’ve realised now that my timing is off. On Christmas Eve children are expecting Santa Claus, not strange men claiming to be their father.’
‘Ivy might like you better than Santa Claus,’ Jo suggested gently.
He sent her a sharp, searching look. ‘So you think I’ve done the wrong thing?’
Jo gulped. This gorgeous, confident man was acting as if he really needed her advice. She sent him an encouraging grin. ‘No, I’m sure you’ve made the right decision. I always believe it’s best to follow your instincts.’
‘So will you come with me when I collect Ivy?’
Her instincts screamed yes and Jo didn’t hesitate to take her own advice.
‘Of course I will. I’ve got a real soft spot for Ivy and, as you said, with six younger brothers and sisters I’ve got to be something of an expert with kids.’
‘Absolutely.’ Hugh glanced at the clock on the wall near the stove and jumped to his feet. ‘It’s getting late and I’ve taken up far too much of your time.’
Jo wondered if she should warn him about Ivy’s scars, but perhaps that would only make him more anxious about meeting her. Or maybe he already knew. It might be best not to make a big deal about them.
Standing, she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shrugged in an effort to look unconcerned. ‘So we have a date for Boxing Day?’
He nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. I’d really appreciate your help.’
Then he turned and walked to the kitchen door. Jo followed.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable at the pub,’ she said as they stepped into the hallway. ‘It’s not very flash.’
‘It looks perfectly adequate.’
‘A bit lonely for Christmas.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Suddenly he looked very English, sort of stiff upper lipped and uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t stand sentimental females who made fusses about Christmas.
Her mother appeared in the hall. ‘Did I hear you say you’re staying at the pub, Mr Strickland?’
Jo wanted to cringe at her mother’s intrusion, but Hugh didn’t seem to mind.
‘Yes. It’s basic but quite adequate.’
‘You’re not having Christmas dinner there, are you?’
‘They’ve booked me in. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, not the pub for Christmas.’ Margie sounded shocked and she thumped her hands on her hips in a gesture of indignation. ‘We can’t let you do that.’
‘I’m sure the food will be fine.’ Hugh was beginning to sound defensive now. ‘I’m told they do a fine roast turkey.’
‘But you’ll be all on your own. At Christmas.’
Jo could tell where this was heading, but it would look a bit weird if she suddenly leapt to Hugh’s rescue by insisting that he would be fine at the pub.
‘And you’re so far from home,’ her mother said. ‘No, Mr Strickland, I won’t hear of it. You must join us tomorrow. I know we’re not flash, but at least there’s a crowd of us. You won’t feel lonely here and we’re going to have plenty of food. I hate to think of anyone being alone at Christmas.’
Hugh’s expression was circumspect—a polite mask—and Jo waited for him to excuse himself with his characteristic, well-mannered graciousness.
But to her amazement, he said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Berry. Thank you, I’d love to come.’
Hugh arrived punctually at noon the next day, bearing two beautifully chilled bottles of champagne.
Jo’s dad, who drank beer, eyed them dubiously, but her mum was effusive.
‘Nothing like a glass of bubbles to make the day special,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘But don’t let me have any till I’ve got all the food on the table or I’ll forget to serve something. Nick,’ she called to her eldest son, ‘can you find a bucket and fill it with ice? We don’t want to let these bottles warm up and there’s not a speck of room in the fridge.’
Jo had given herself several stern lectures while getting ready that morning. She’d chosen a cool summery dress of fine white cotton edged with dainty lace, and she’d applied her make-up with excruciating care. But, in spite of her efforts to look her best, she was determined to stay calm and unaffected by Hugh’s visit.
She was so busy helping her mother to get all the food out of the kitchen and on to the table that she had to leave Hugh to the tender mercies of her father and brothers, but she heard snatches of their conversation as she went back and forth.
‘Hugh Strickland,’ said her dad. ‘Your name rings a bell. Should I have heard of you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘What line of work are you in?’
‘I’m in business—er—transport.’
‘In the UK?’
‘That’s right.’
Her dad mumbled knowingly. ‘I almost got a job in transport once—driving buses—but I wasn’t fit for it. My chest was crushed, you see. Mining accident. Lungs punctured, so they pensioned me off.’
Hugh made sympathetic noises.
Jo chewed her lip and wondered if she should try to butt in and change the conversation. Her dad tended