Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  ‘I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble,’ she said, realising that everyone was waiting for her to go on. She looked directly at the woman who was now her stepmother – a woman with whom she had exchanged no more than a few words since arriving yesterday. ‘Thank you for amusing Annelise, that was kind of you.’

  ‘No need to thank me. I took advantage of her unhappiness to distract myself. I think being in the garden distracted her too, until she decided she was hungry. The ever-wonderful Mrs Partridge stepped into the breach. Would you like to sit down and join us for a cup of tea?’

  How strange it was to be invited to sit down in what had been her family home. Hope glanced around the kitchen, at the familiarity of it, but also so much that was unfamiliar – new pieces of crockery on the dresser, the two chairs either side of the range, the colourful hearthrug, the cream walls, and the yellow and white gingham curtains at the window. The starkness she remembered of old had gone, the new brought in presumably by the new broom – her stepmother.

  With some effort, Hope fought off another wave of irritation, noting the look of uncertainty passing between Mrs Partridge and the maid. But having been cooped up in the dining room for what felt like forever, she had experienced quite enough exasperation and annoyance for one day, and she refused to give in to further vexation. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to her stepmother, ‘but I really don’t know how to address you. Calling you Mother seems vaguely absurd.’

  The woman before her nodded. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Why don’t you call me Romily?’

  Sensing they had each offered up an olive branch and taken a tentative step in what would be viewed as the right direction, Hope gave a small smile. ‘Thank you. And likewise, so that we’re perfectly clear, please call me Hope.’ She turned to the older woman, who was now at the deep Belfast sink holding a pan under the running tap. ‘Thank you for giving Annelise her tea, Mrs Partridge. That’s why I stopped by – I knew it was time to prepare her something, but didn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It was no trouble at all; she’s a regular little darling and perfectly welcome here in the kitchen any time you need a break. Just say the word. Are you sure you don’t want a cuppa? Florence here will happily oblige, won’t you, Flo?’

  ‘Of course,’ the young girl said. ‘There are some rock cakes as well if you’d like?’

  Touched by the warmth of their friendliness – something that had always been absent from the staff here when she’d been a child – Hope was tempted to sit down and pretend that tea and cake and a cosy chat would solve all her problems. ‘Another time perhaps,’ she said politely, not wanting to appear stand-offish.

  Since she had been widowed, Hope knew that she had become much too brusque with people. Until her visit to Cologne, she had convinced herself that being alone suited her better, that she had her work and her routine, and that was enough. But now she had Annelise, and everything had changed. Which meant she had to change. If she were to do a good job of taking care of Sabine and Otto’s precious child, she could not do it alone; she would need help. And accepting help, or asking for it, was something she was going to have to get used to. It meant also that she would have to learn to invite people back into her life. To be more approachable. For Annelise’s sake, she would have to find a way to do that.

  ‘How are things going in the dining room?’ asked Romily. ‘Have you managed to find a satisfactory conclusion to … to matters?’

  Before she had a chance to reply, Hope heard footsteps and then Kit appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, there you are, I was wondering where you’d got to. Mind if I join you all? I say, those cakes look nice; are there any going spare? All that blasted tussling with Arthur has left me quite ravenous.’

  ‘He’s not still arguing the terms of the will, is he?’ said Hope, while Florence fetched a plate.

  Kit let out a short laugh. ‘With his customary bad grace, our dearest brother has finally caved in and accepted there’s no point in challenging its legality. Which is bad news for you, Stepma, as it means you’re stuck with us for the next seven days.’

  Hope winced. ‘Kit, I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to speak in that overly familiar way to Romily. Especially not in the circumstances.’

  Her brother looked at their hostess, who appeared not to mind; in fact she seemed mildly amused. ‘No offence intended,’ he said. ‘Just trying to lighten the mood; it’s been one hell of a day.’ He pushed a hand through his hair, a rueful gesture Hope had seen him make a million times before and which he probably didn’t realise he did. ‘I’m afraid it must feel like an awful imposition, the four of us landing on you, given the situation,’ he continued, ‘but for once we can’t be held entirely responsible.’ He took a bite of one of the rock cakes Florence had given him. ‘Mmm … just the ticket.’ He clumsily plonked himself down at the table, rattling the china. ‘First-rate baking,’ he said. ‘My compliments, Mrs Partridge.’

  ‘I must apologise for my brother and his somewhat blithe fashion,’ Hope said tiredly as Annelise twisted round in her arms to look at something on the dresser. ‘He seems to have misplaced his manners.’

  Kit frowned. ‘I say, Hope, that’s a bit unfair, don’t you think? After all, we’re not strangers here.’

  ‘Things have changed, Kit,’ she said. ‘Like it or not, this is Romily’s house now and we’re guests in it, and therefore we should behave accordingly.’

  Once again her brother cast his glance in Romily’s direction. ‘It seems I’m destined to keep apologising to you if my sister has her way. Could I just bank a week’s worth of apologies right now and you cash them as and when I put my foot in it?’

  ‘Please don’t worry on my account,’ said Romily with an easy smile. ‘We all have a period of adjustment to get through. I’d sooner we were comfortable around each other, and more importantly, honest.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Mrs Partridge with an air of taking charge, ‘if you wouldn’t mind finding a more comfortable place to congregate, I have dinner to prepare. Florence, you’d best see to the dining room if Mr Fitzwilliam has finished with it.’

  ‘I expect what is required right now for everyone is a strong drink,’ said Romily, getting to her feet. ‘I know I could do with one. Roddy must be simply gasping.’

  Following Romily and Kit out of the kitchen, Hope wished that she had the same informal and composed manner her stepmother possessed. She knew that she herself came across as awkward and surly, not to say prim. She had been the same as a child – shy and somewhat inarticulate, preferring to lose herself in her intricate world of make-believe, a world over which she had complete control. That was how she had been until Dieter’s love for her had given her a new sense of who she was, imbuing her with a confidence she had never owned before. But now widowhood had robbed her of it.

  In contrast, Romily’s grief did not seem so apparent. Yes, she had quietly cried during the funeral service, particularly when Roddy had given the eulogy, but had those tears been an act? For her part, Hope had not cried. She had felt nothing in the church, nothing in the graveyard when the coffin was lowered into the deep hole, and nothing when she had tossed a handful of earth onto the wooden box. If that made her sound heartless, then her father was to blame.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I know that you’ve never truly believed that Jack cared for you, but I assure you he did.’

  Allegra said nothing, her gaze taking in the sheen of liquid silvery light cast across the lily pond. It was a clear starry night and she had come out here to be alone, and to think. Just as she used to. Something about the stillness of water had always had a calming influence on her. She used to feel the same in Venice late at night. Often when she was on edge, or anxious after a performance, she would go for a solitary midnight stroll, her footsteps echoing in the deserted calle, her erratic heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of the gently lapping water. She had com
e in search of that same comfort tonight, to think about the consequences of today’s events, and perhaps more importantly, her future.

  But within minutes of stepping inside the shadowy darkness of the boathouse, she had been startled by the appearance of Roddy, asking for permission to join her. He must have followed her out here. Had it been any of the others, she would have walked away and let them have the place to themselves. But Roddy had always been kind to her.

  The unhappiness she had experienced when she’d first arrived here as a child had never left her, nor the memory of her determination to escape. In those early weeks she had silently cried herself to sleep every night, dreading the morning, when yet again she would have to face Nanny Finch. An elderly woman, stiff with bitterness and rheumatism, she had harboured a sadistic hatred for Allegra, seeing her as an additional burden thrust upon her. ‘You filthy bastard child,’ she would curse when no one else was about. ‘You’re destined straight for the fires of hell, you are.’ They were almost the first words in English that Allegra learned.

  It had been Roddy who had realised that Nanny Finch was making her life a misery and advised Jack to send her packing. Allegra had never forgotten that act of compassion. And now once again Roddy was being kind to her, trying to make her believe that Jack had felt something for her.

  For years she had believed her uncle had regarded her as some sort of trophy charitable cause, a way for him to garner accolades for good work, for giving a home to his brother’s bastard child. Surely this will of his was no more than a last attempt to salve his conscience? Or was she misjudging him? Could a person change that much? Roddy had once said that her uncle had gone in search of her in Naples because he’d known it was something his wife – his first wife – would have done; apparently Maud would never have turned her back on a child in need. Was Allegra supposed to feel grateful that she’d been plucked from the orphanage by a stranger and dropped into the bosom of a family that had resented her presence so keenly? She didn’t, and never had.

  ‘I tried to dissuade him from putting that clause in his will, you know,’ Roddy said, his voice as soft as the velvety dark sky. ‘But you know Jack; once he had an idea in his head, he wouldn’t be swayed.’

  ‘You sound tired, caro,’ Allegra said, but still not turning to look at him, or responding directly to his comments.

  ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘I’m dog tired. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘You should go to bed.’

  ‘I will. Before I do, I want to talk to you on your own.’

  Now Allegra did turn to regard him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you don’t look well.’

  She faltered at his perceptiveness. ‘I’m in mourning,’ she said. ‘One isn’t supposed to look well. Although Romily makes for a fine widow, don’t you think? She’s an attractive woman. I can quite understand how she caught Uncle Jack’s eye with her bella figura. But then he was never short of beautiful women in his life. It was quite a hobby for him.’

  ‘That’s unfair, Allegra. Romily is the first woman Jack truly loved since Maud. That’s what makes his death so hard to bear for me, knowing just how much he loved her. For almost as long as I knew him, he was looking for that elusive special person with whom to share his life, and finally he found her. He was the happiest I’d ever seen him. I’ll … I’ll always be grateful to Romily that she did that.’

  Hearing the catch in his voice, Allegra put a hand out to Roddy and rested it on his forearm. ‘You sound like you care for her.’

  ‘I do. I have the greatest respect and admiration for Romily. That’s why I readily promised Jack I would help her if required, just as I promised him I’d always be of assistance to you if you needed it, and to Hope and Kit, and even Arthur.’

  ‘Was ever a man so lucky as to have a friend such as you?’ she murmured. And then: ‘It’s odd, but Romily strikes me as being too young to be a widow. Whereas Hope seems more than old enough.’

  ‘What a strange thing to say.’

  ‘Not strange at all. Naming her Hope was in vain as far as I can see. She was born to be hopelessly miserable, to be a widow in a perpetual state of bereavement. From what I’ve seen of her since yesterday, she virtually revels in the role. In contrast, I predict la bellissima Romily Devereux-Temple will shake off her widow weeds in no time at all.’

  ‘It’s unworthy of you to speak of them in that way.’

  Allegra shrugged. ‘But you know it’s true. You English are so afraid of the truth, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re half English yourself, may I remind you.’

  ‘Sì,’ she said with a sigh, ‘that is the cross I have to bear in this life.’

  Roddy tutted and moved his arm so that the stump within his jacket sleeve was resting on his lap. When she had been a child and met him for the first time, Allegra had been petrified of his stump, or more particularly the ugly artificial hand he had worn at the time. Arthur had made it worse for her by saying that if she didn’t always do as he said, he would cut off her hand and make her wear a false one just like Roddy. She had been so relieved when Roddy had given up wearing the cumbersome mechanical device.

  ‘What about you, Allegra?’ he said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Were you born to be unhappy like Hope? And bitter?’

  ‘Maybe so. Maybe the nuns at Casa della Speranza should have called me Mara, the Hebrew word for bitter.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Allegra listened to the rustle of something moving in the nearby undergrowth, and an owl hooting in the trees on the other side of the pond.

  Roddy was the first to speak. ‘May I give you a piece of advice, Allegra, as someone who has known you for a very long time?’

  ‘Only on the understanding that you don’t make me promise to heed it.’

  ‘Did you ever?’

  She smiled into the darkness. ‘Not often. But go on, try me with your advice.’

  ‘It’s a very simple piece of philosophy by which I’ve tried to live my own life. It’s this – happiness is a choice; you either decide to be happy with what you have, or you don’t.’

  ‘And has that worked for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I decided that I was happy with the life I had. With my work, with my friends, especially with my best friend, Jack, and his family.’

  ‘What about love and marriage? Did you never want that?’

  ‘If the right woman had come along, then maybe yes, but it was never a priority for me.’

  ‘So what are you trying to say, in your ever so subtly English way, caro?’

  ‘I suppose I’m asking you if your career as a singer is bringing you the happiness you thought it would. Is life everything you want it to be? And what about love? Have you met a man who makes you happy?’

  ‘Carissimo Roddy, what makes you ask all these questions?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Because I suspect you are not happy, and that something is very wrong with you right now. Have you been overworking, is that the problem?’

  But before she had a chance to reply, he went on, ‘Last year, in one of those inexplicable coincidences that sometimes happen, I was in Lucca and came across you singing the role of Mimi in La Bohème. You sang beautifully; in fact I was moved to tears, remembering with sadness the fiercely angry child you had once been. I’ve never forgotten how striking you could look and how your eyes could change colour depending on your mood – dark and flashing when in a temper, soft and as sweet as molasses when quiet and lost in thought. Poor Hope, your beauty made her feel so very ordinary in comparison.’

  Again Allegra tried to speak, but Roddy was clearly in the mood to say his piece. ‘After the performance that evening in Lucca, I tried to find you backstage at the theatre, but I was denied access by a foppish upstart of an Italian who pompously informed me that Miss Salvato never spoke to anyone after a performance, least of all an ageing stag
e-door Johnny. I left you a note; I doubt for a minute you ever received it.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘That I was so very proud of you that night, because you had achieved your dream, and that is something very few people do in life. But dreams often come at a cost, and I’m wondering what price you’ve had to pay.’

  His words filled Allegra with an enormous sadness and she suddenly felt the irresistible urge to rest her head against his shoulder. ‘Dear wise old Roddy,’ she said, ‘how perceptive you are this evening.’ She sighed. ‘I am wretched, but not for the reason you think. Overwork is not the problem, far from it.’

  ‘Will you tell me what is?’

  Why not? she thought. ‘The man who turned you away that night in Lucca had not only been managing my career; he had promised to marry me. Instead, though, he ran off with all my earnings. He owes money to theatres all over Italy and has blackened my name in the process.’

  ‘Good God, Allegra, what a scoundrel!’

  She smiled at his outrage. ‘That certainly is one way of describing him.’

  ‘But surely, in terms of work, the right people will quickly realise that what he’s done is not your fault. That you’re not to blame?’

  ‘I shall be tainted by association and will be lucky even to get a role in the chorus. And …’ She stopped herself short. No, there was no need to admit her real fear: that she was terrified she had lost her voice and would never sing again. Say the words aloud and it might become reality.

  ‘And what?’ pressed Roddy.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure? If I can help in any way, please say.’

  Snatching at something to satisfy his curiosity and his need to help, she said, ‘I’m ashamed to confess this, but Luigi stole from my trust fund. I put my faith in him to manage all my financial affairs. I was such a fool. Please don’t tell the others. I couldn’t bear for them to know that I’ve been so stupid.’