Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  But there was something else – or rather someone else – that she might have to face back at Island House, and she really didn’t think she was brave enough to do that. She had been so heartless in her treatment of him, but she had known no other way to pursue her dream. Surely he had understood that? But had he forgiven her?

  Elijah Hartley. Allegra hadn’t thought of him in a very long time; she had deliberately consigned him to the past, to her childhood. But he had been her one true friend in England. Would he still be there in Melstead St Mary, or had he also left?

  She read the telegram again.

  Your uncle is dangerously ill. Please come home to Island House.

  If Uncle Jack was about to die, and given the dramatic downturn in her own fortunes, might it be prudent to swallow her pride and do exactly as the telegram instructed? Was that such a bad thing to think, that Jack’s death might be an answer to a prayer?

  Far away in the sultry sky, she heard the first ominous rumble of thunder. The storm was about to break.

  Chapter Seven

  Now that the other passengers who had been with him since Liverpool Street station had left the train, Kit had the carriage to himself. He stretched out his legs in front of him and settled in for the remainder of his journey to Melstead St Mary.

  With London far behind him, the sight of the softly undulating Suffolk countryside stirred in him a mixture of emotions: pleasure at seeing again the familiar landscape he’d always loved, but also a feeling of trepidation for what lay ahead at Island House.

  He had been away on a walking holiday in the Brecon Beacons and hadn’t received the telegram until he’d returned home to his flat late last night – two days after it had been originally sent. He’d telephoned Island House straight away, despite the lateness of the hour, and had spoken briefly to Roddy, who’d urged him to waste no time in travelling up to see his father.

  No matter how hard he tried to imagine a world in which his father no longer existed, Kit simply could not picture it. Men like Jack Devereux did not die; they were the toughest of old warhorses that lived forever. They were a breed apart from pathetic mortals like Kit which was how his father had always made him feel: hopelessly inadequate and incapable of doing anything right.

  As a young boy, he’d suffered the ignominy of being a sickly child, rarely getting through a winter without succumbing to a debilitating chest infection, or coming down with some other ailment that kept him bedridden. When he was older, it was plain to all that he hadn’t inherited an ounce of his father’s hard-nosed business acumen, and not really knowing what he wanted to do, he’d drifted into reading modern history at Oxford. After graduating, he’d gone to work at a bank in London, thinking naively that it might please his father. He’d been at the bank for what seemed like the longest and most tedious two years of his life, and the thought of spending the rest of it doing something so meaningless made him feel sick at heart.

  But change was in the air. It was a menacing change, but one that would give Kit the chance to do something of value, even if it meant he lost his life in the process, which the defeatist in him believed would be the inevitable outcome. Only a fool would think that war with Germany was now avoidable. It wasn’t. Everybody with whom he came in contact believed the same, and perversely, he wished the prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, would just get on with it and declare war. It would be preferable to the stultifying boredom of what Kit was currently doing.

  He wondered how Hope would cope with being at war with Germany. Would her loyalties be torn? Kit had always looked up to his sister, who was three years his senior. He had been fascinated as a child by her ability to draw with such skill and imagination, and he admired her hugely for having gone to art school and subsequently making a career for herself as a book illustrator. He wished he had half her talent and her clear sense of purpose.

  According to old photographs, Hope was very like their mother, Maud, with wide cheekbones, and a smooth, straight jaw that ended with the narrow curve of her chin. She had been a serious child, quiet and withdrawn, losing herself in her world of make-believe, creating stories of fairies, elves, pixies and woodland creatures. Some of Kit’s happiest boyhood memories, particularly when he’d been confined to bed, were of Hope telling him stories of her own devising, accompanied by exquisite little drawings.

  He missed the closeness he and his sister had once shared – they’d been allies against their bully of an older brother, as well as the voice of reason when it came to their volatile cousin, Allegra. But since her husband’s death, Hope had isolated herself from the family, even Kit, and the sting of it still pained him. He had thought himself exempt from her condemnation, but Hope had lumped him in with the rest of the family and rebuffed all his attempts to contact her. He wished he knew why. What had he ever done to upset her?

  He held out no hope of seeing his sister at Island House. Why would she come when their father had been so vehemently opposed to her marrying the man she loved? A man he had never even met. As a consequence of that opposition, Hope, invariably the peacemaker of the family, had changed overnight and refused to speak to their father ever again. She also defied him by marrying Dieter less than a week later, inviting no one from the family to the wedding, not even Kit. Again, and despite her subsequent apology, he still felt the sting of having been excluded.

  Her expression when he’d last seen her – he’d run into her by chance in London – had been one of bleak misery and reflected what he worried had become a blighted heart. He suspected that her mourning for Dieter was as devout as her sworn vow never to forgive their father for declining to give his blessing on her marriage.

  She wasn’t alone in harbouring a grudge, for Kit too had his reasons for keeping his distance from his family. For him, it was his brother, Arthur, whom he couldn’t abide. The man’s arrogance knew no bounds, nor his sense of entitlement, which explained why, three years ago, he had had no compunction in stealing from under Kit’s nose his then girlfriend, Irene, the sister of one of his college friends.

  Stupidly Kit had taken Irene home to meet his family, a mistake on his part because he’d only done it to show her off to his father, hoping absurdly to impress him – she was the daughter of Sir John Collingwood, a bigwig at the War Office. At the time, Kit had naively imagined himself in love with Irene, but then Arthur had made his move and that had put paid to anything further between them.

  Irene and Arthur became engaged five months later and were married a short while afterwards. On principle, Kit had not attended the wedding and had not exchanged more than a few words with his brother since that fateful day he’d brought Irene home to Island House. It was petty of him, he knew, but the hole had been dug and he had no desire to climb out of it. Perfunctory civility was the best he could manage when it came to Arthur.

  At Melstead St Mary, he alighted from the train amidst clouds of steam and the slamming of doors. As the stationmaster blew his whistle, Kit spotted Arthur striding on ahead along the platform. He must have been in one of the carriages at the front of the train.

  Roddy had informed Kit last night on the telephone that a car would be waiting for him, and sure enough, there was a smart-looking Bentley parked outside the station. Still ahead of him, and presumably oblivious to his presence, Arthur came to an abrupt stop when the driver’s door of the Bentley opened and out stepped an exceptionally attractive woman in a large-brimmed hat. She was elegantly dressed in a pair of cream tailored trousers with a navy-blue short-sleeved top nipped in at the waist, and a pair of stylish sunglasses covered her eyes.

  Whoever she was, she had the satisfying effect of stopping Arthur in his tracks.

  Chapter Eight

  When Romily had said she would drive Jack’s Bentley to the station to meet Kit and Arthur, Roddy had asked if she really wanted to put herself in the firing line in that way. ‘A taxi would suffice,’ he’d said.

  �
�And have them consider me a coward?’ she’d responded. ‘No, no, much better I go and meet them myself and break the ice.’

  ‘How about I come with you, just in case there’s any awkwardness?’

  ‘I’d feel happier with you keeping Jack company,’ Romily had said firmly.

  She had also reasoned that she didn’t want to give the impression that she was playing the part of lady of the house awaiting the arrival of her guests. Greeting them at the door implied a level of prerogative that she didn’t feel was her right. Putting herself in the role of chauffeur suited her far better, and might make Jack’s sons more favourably disposed towards her.

  But judging by the expression on the arrogantly handsome face of the dark-haired man whom she recognised from photos as Arthur, she had not achieved that objective. Some yards behind him was a far more appealing-looking young man whom she took to be Kit. Tall and slim, he was dressed in a rumpled jacket and equally rumpled flannels with an open-necked tennis shirt. His hair was fair, with flecks of gold shot through it, and he had an interestingly aesthetic face. In contrast, Arthur, in a sombre dark suit, as if dressed for the office – or a funeral – had a stockier build that hinted at middle age well before its time.

  If the situation weren’t so grave, Romily might have felt anxious about this encounter, but Jack’s state of health had worsened dramatically overnight and she didn’t need Dr Garland to tell her that things were bad, very bad indeed. Her job today, and in the days to come, was to try and help bring about the rapprochement Jack desired for his family, to smooth the waters. If he were able to do it himself, Romily knew that Jack would apologise for all the mistakes he now acknowledged he’d made, but speech was beyond him. Would his family put aside their differences when they saw their father; would their hearts soften that he had been reduced to such a sorry state?

  At the thought of how ill her darling Jack was, tears welled up in Romily’s eyes and she had to fight hard to keep them from spilling over. She loved him so much, and the thought that she was about to lose him filled her with a sadness she had never known before. But then she had never loved any man the way she loved Jack.

  Glad of the sunglasses she was wearing, she steeled herself. There would be time for tears later; now was not the time to succumb to the pain of what she knew lay ahead for her. Instead she had to rally her courage and ensure that Jack’s last wishes were upheld. She pushed her shoulders back and moved away from the car to greet his sons.

  ‘You must be Arthur,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m here to take you to Island House. And this,’ she said, looking over his shoulder, ‘must be Kit.’

  Ignoring Romily, and her hand, Arthur spun round. ‘I didn’t know you were on the train, brother mine,’ he said. He sounded as though he were accusing Kit of some unpardonable offence.

  ‘Likewise,’ said Kit. ‘But then I wasn’t in first class. How do you do?’ he said to Romily, shaking her hand and smiling with an engaging frankness. ‘It’s very kind of you to meet us. We’d have made do with a taxi.’

  ‘That’s what Roddy said, but I vetoed the suggestion.’

  Arthur turned his hostile eyes back on her. ‘Having established who we are, perhaps you’d care to do us the courtesy of telling us who you are?’ he said.

  ‘I’m Romily,’ she replied evasively, deciding to put off a full explanation. ‘Shall we get going? I’m sure you’re anxious to see your father. You can throw your luggage in the boot.’

  ‘I must apologise for my brother’s rudeness,’ Kit said from the back of the car once they were on their way. Just as she’d guessed he would, Arthur had opted to sit in the front with Romily.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ she said, ‘I appreciate that it’s a difficult time for you.’

  ‘How is our father?’ asked Kit.

  She met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘Extremely ill, I’m afraid.’

  Arthur twisted his head to look at her. ‘And just how do you know so much about our father’s state of health? You don’t look like a nurse; you’re much too expensively dressed. Are you the latest in his long line of mistresses?’

  Romily changed gear and pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator, causing Arthur’s head to bounce back with some force. She decided to dispense with her plan to break the news gently. ‘I’m neither,’ she said. ‘I’m Romily Temple-Devereux, your stepmother.’

  In the silence that followed, she drove at speed, her eyes firmly on the road. So much for wanting to smooth the waters!

  Until this moment, she had kept an open mind about Jack’s family, but if Arthur’s rudeness was anything to go by, she had an uphill struggle ahead of her. Having had a close relationship with her own mother and father, it was difficult for her to comprehend how anybody else’s family could drift apart. Jack had explained to her that he knew he was mostly to blame for pushing his children away. ‘I should never have abandoned them into the care of nannies to the extent I did,’ he had said when she first asked him why they never visited him, ‘but I thought I was doing the right thing. I was alone, and with my business interests taking up so much of my time, I thought a professional nanny would make a far better job of looking after the children than I could. But I fear now that I got it wrong.’

  Romily could understand the dilemma in which Jack had found himself; it couldn’t have been easy. Of course the simplest thing, and what a lot of men in his position did, would have been to marry again, if merely for the sake of the children. But as Jack had said, until Romily came into his life, marriage could not have been further from his mind.

  ‘I fell in love with you that second evening we spent together,’ he told her, ‘and I knew then that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.’

  ‘Only the second evening?’ she’d replied. ‘I’m disappointed.’

  ‘Go on then,’ he’d said. ‘When did you think you loved me?’

  ‘It was when you took me home after our first dinner,’ she’d confessed. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. I wanted to telephone you and just listen to your voice. You could have recited pages and pages of the dullest balance sheets and I’d have been utterly entranced.’

  He’d laughed and admitted he’d felt exactly the same way.

  Romily steeled herself once more not to cry at the painfully poignant memory, and in the continuing silence, she slowed her speed and swung the car sharply through the brick posts that marked the entrance to Island House.

  It was Kit who spoke first. ‘I’ve just realised who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re Romily Temple the crime author, aren’t you? I knew I recognised the name.’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ said Romily, glancing at her stepson in the rear-view mirror once more.

  ‘When did the two of you marry?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. In secret. We didn’t want to make a big splash of it.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ drawled Arthur, ‘how very convenient for you that our father should fall ill so soon afterwards.’

  Resisting the urge to respond to his vile remark, Romily brought the car to a halt alongside Dr Garland’s Austin Seven. Even before she’d switched off the engine, Arthur was pushing open the passenger door to get out. His loathing for her could not have been more palpable.

  ‘I know this must be awkward for you,’ she said, out of the car and opening the boot so they could help themselves to their luggage, ‘but I do hope you can put aside your surprise, and any animosity you might feel towards me, and remember why you’re here.’

  ‘That’s what I’m beginning to wonder about,’ sneered Arthur. ‘Just why are we here? Other than to give our father one last opportunity to rub our noses in his contempt for us before he does us all a favour and dies.’

  It was all Romily could do not to raise her hand and slap his arrogant face. How could the Jack she knew and loved have possibly produced such an odious son?r />
  ‘That’s a low shot, even by your standards,’ muttered Kit.

  At the sound of the front door opening, the group turned as one towards the house.

  ‘Ah, the faithful lapdog is in residence, I see.’ Arthur’s voice took on a mocking superiority at the sight of Roddy standing on the doorstep. ‘On hand, no doubt, to inform us that we’re to be disinherited in favour of our new stepmother.’

  ‘Oh do shut up, Arthur,’ said Kit. ‘You’re not making this any easier for us.’

  ‘I’m merely saying what we’re both thinking. And if you wanted things to be easier, you should have stayed away. Take it from me, it can only get a lot worse from here on.’

  Chapter Nine

  Jack could hear distant voices. Men’s voices. Was that Arthur he could hear talking to Roddy? And Kit? Were they here at last? What about the girls? Or was he dreaming?

  Distinguishing between what was real and what his subconscious conjured while he slept was becoming more and more difficult. He felt trapped between continuously sliding parallel worlds, perpetually disorientated, with no idea what day or time it was. Right now, though, he knew it was daytime; the sun was streaming in through the window, causing motes of dust to dance in the shafts of light. As a child, he’d been fascinated by the sight. His mother had spun him a yarn when he’d been very young that it was magic dust sprinkled by the fairies. He’d told his own children the same story, but perhaps he hadn’t been very convincing, for only Hope had believed him. Or maybe she was the only one who had felt inclined to humour him.

  He wished Hope were here now. He so badly wanted to beg her forgiveness. He’d been wrong to want to deny her happiness with the man she loved. Romily had made him see that; had made him understand that there was nothing more important or powerful than love and forgiveness.