Seasons of Love by Anna Jacobs

passed, Helen admitted to herself that in spite of all the difficulties of her new life, she was far happier than she had been living with her parents. She’d written to inform them of the birth of her son, but received no reply. This didn’t surprise her, but it made her very thoughtful, and after a while she asked Robert's permission to write to Lord Northby and inform him also, since he was a sort of cousin.
    ‘Why d’you want to do that? He hasn’t done anything much for us, has he?’ Except poke his damned nose into Robert’s affairs and saddle him with a wife and child he couldn’t afford.
    ‘Oh, just in case - well, just in case it's useful for Harry one day to prove who he is.’
    Robert nodded slowly. Perhaps there was some more money to be had from the family later.
    ‘Can't hurt, I suppose. Do as you please, my dear.’
    Lord Northby sent her an impersonal little note in return, thanking her for the information and enclosing a silver christening spoon for the infant.
    Robert was unimpressed by the spoon. ‘That won’t fetch much. I call it paltry.’
    ‘We shall never know how much it will fetch. It's Harry's and shall be kept safe for him.’ She looked so fiercely at her husband as she spoke that Robert put the idea of selling it out of his head.
    He was beginning to find her intractable on some points, and had learned that she did have a temper, slow to rouse, but which could turn her into a raging fury if he did anything that might upset the boy.
    Once or twice, when Robert's luck was right out, they became very short indeed of money. Only Helen's tiny quarterly income saved her and the baby from going without the necessities of life and she had to fight to get a share of that, even. Roxanne did not now need to remind her to keep some of her money secret. She had a reserve of coins hidden in the lining of her sewing-basket and the thought of them was a great comfort to her.
    She began to dread a certain look on Robert's face and to wish he wouldn’t gamble quite so often or stay out so late drinking with his cronies. She also wished he was a more loving father and that she had a proper home of her own with a little garden, nothing grand, she would have been content with a cottage.
    But she didn’t voice these wishes. She’d married an actor and must take the consequences. Just as long as no harm came to Harry. That she wouldn’t stand for. And give Robert his due, he wasn’t actively cruel to the child.
    In Bath, Robert fell ill, so ill that he couldn’t go on stage. For an actor, this was a rare thing, because as the members of this company said to encourage one another, ‘Go on, even if it kills you.’ They always laughed and added, ‘If you’re a good actor, the audience will never notice.’
    The understudy was hurriedly coached for the part and Robert lay fretting and coughing in bed, delirious half the time, with a raging fever. He made a poor patient, complaining about everything Helen did for him, complaining most of all about the noise little Harry made.
    And for all Helen's devoted nursing, Robert got worse, not better. The company was to move at the end of the week, but there could be no question of him going with them. Another handsome young actor was engaged and everyone packed their boxes.
    Roxanne came to their lodgings to say goodbye in a whirl of silks and furs (she had a new admirer who was showering presents on her). She hugged Helen to her and said huskily, ‘I shall miss you, love, miss you a lot. And this little fellow too.’ She tickled Harry, who had crawled over to tug at her bright-coloured skirts, and he crowed and gurgled up at her.
    ‘Can't you - keep that brat - quiet?’ gasped the invalid.
    Helen picked up her son and cuddled him, grimacing at Roxanne.
    ‘I don't envy you,’ whispered Roxanne, seeing that Robert had dozed off again. ‘Is he always so bad-tempered?’
    Helen's eyes filled with tears at this expression of sympathy, and she could only