by Erica James
Putting Edmund out of her mind, she asked Florence if she had enjoyed the fete yesterday, and in particular, the dance. ‘I saw you dancing with Billy Minton,’ she said. ‘He’s grown into a quite a handsome young man. I remember him when he was just a boy. I hope he was a gentleman and walked you home safely afterwards.’
Florence’s face turned scarlet. ‘He was the perfect gentleman all evening,’ she said, suddenly busying herself with a dishcloth.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Hope, amused.
Later, when Florence was alone in the kitchen with Mrs Partridge, preparing breakfast for the family, she wondered at the change in Mrs Meyer – Hope. She had been so chatty and friendly. Apologetic, too. And almost light-hearted. All the same, she’d talked a lot of nonsense. All that stuff about a classless society. As if that would ever happen! As if somebody like Hope Meyer would ever want to get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floors!
But there was no doubt, it was like a different woman had been sitting here in the kitchen with her. Maybe it had something to do with that man Florence had seen her dancing with last night. Billy had pointed him out, had said what a decent sort he was, and that he was Evelyn Flowerday’s brother. Hope had been dancing with him for a fair bit of the evening; it had seemed to Florence that they were getting on like a house on fire.
The same had been true of Allegra and Elijah Hartley. Who’d have thought she would have lowered herself to dance with a gardener? Not that there was anything wrong with being a gardener, it was just that was not what posh folk did, like they didn’t scrub floors! It would be like Arthur Devereux dancing with Florence. A thought that made her shudder and decide that if that was what Hope meant by an eager-whatsit society, she wanted none of it. But there was no getting away from the fact that Elijah was a good-looking man. He was a quiet sort, though, kept himself to himself. ‘More to him than meets the eye,’ so Mrs Partridge often said. ‘Still waters run deep, make no mistake.’
In contrast, Billy Minton was an open book and never stopped talking. He was as honest and straight as the day was long, and good company. The only awkward moment yesterday between them had been when Billy had been walking her home and had kissed her. He’d fumbled it at first, clashed his teeth against hers, but then they’d both got the hang of it and had kissed and kissed and gone on kissing. His soft mouth against hers had made her feel as if a fire had been lit deep inside her.
She blushed at the memory. Did kissing Billy make her a scarlet woman? She would have to be careful when she saw him next. It wouldn’t do to let things get out of hand. She wasn’t going to let him get her in the family way. She would have to make that very clear; she didn’t want him thinking she was cheap. Even so, he would be easy to fall in love with. Quick as a flash the words of the old gypsy woman echoed inside her head: You’ll find love and you’ll lose love. What if it was true and she fell in love with Billy only then to lose him?
‘I don’t know, Flo, falling asleep on the job. That’ll learn you to stay out dancing till all hours.’
‘I wasn’t sleeping, Mrs Partridge,’ said Florence, banishing Billy from her thoughts and getting on with the eggs she was supposed to be cracking into a large mixing bowl. ‘I was thinking. Do you believe there’s any truth in what fortune-tellers—’
‘Thinking indeed,’ interrupted Mrs Partridge, banging a large pan down on the stove. ‘As if we’ve got time for that! When you’ve whisked those eggs for me, you’d better lay the table in the dining room, and put a tray together for Mr Arthur Devereux. I expect he’ll want to eat in his room this morning, like he did with his supper last night. From all that Mrs Bunch has told us about him, it strikes me it was about time somebody gave him a good hiding. A man of his standing getting drunk in the beer tent, of all places! He should be ashamed of himself. God rest his soul, whatever would his father have said? As if poor Miss Romily hasn’t enough to think about!’
Romily was upstairs in her bedroom, working at her desk overlooking the long avenue of colourful herbaceous borders that led down to the pond.
She had slept badly, her sleep disturbed by dreams of Jack. Several times she had woken absolutely convinced he was in the bed next to her, only to realise he wasn’t. When she’d heard Annelise chuntering to herself in her sing-song fashion, followed shortly by Hope going to her, Romily had given up on trying to sleep. Slipping on her dressing gown, she’d made a start on replying to the letters from her readers, which she had abandoned since Jack’s death. Jack had often said that she should employ the services of a secretary to deal with her correspondence, but Romily believed her readers deserved more than that.
In need of some tea, she rang the bell to summon Florence, and within a couple of minutes the girl was knocking on her door. ‘Would you like anything with your tea?’ asked Florence, when Romily had made her request.
‘No, I’ll be down for breakfast just as soon as I’ve finished the last of these letters.’
When Florence returned with the tea tray and had poured a cup for her, Romily sensed her hovering, as though she had something to say. She was fussing over her apron, straightening it despite it being perfectly straight already. Worried that the girl might be feeling put upon with the extra duty of minding Annelise, Romily said, ‘Is there something you want to say to me, Florence?’
The girl hesitated.
‘Is it about Annelise?’ asked Romily.
‘Oh no, nothing like that, Miss Romily.’
‘What then?’
‘Do you know much about fortune-tellers?’
‘A little. What do you want to know?’
‘Can they look at your hand and really know things about you? Or do they just make wild guesses and hope something rings true?’
‘What an interesting question. Why don’t you sit down and tell me why you want to know?’
Florence did as she said, perching herself on the edge of the ottoman at the end of the bed. ‘I went to the gypsy woman at the fete yesterday and she told me something she couldn’t really know. About my mother. She also said that I’d find love and I’d lose love.’
Romily sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘I think we can safely dispense with the last part. Everybody is going to know love and lose it at some stage in their life, stands to reason, so I really wouldn’t let that worry you.’
Florence nodded. ‘But what about my mother?’
Romily knew all about Florence’s mother running off; the girl had told her about it herself. ‘What exactly did this so-called fortune-teller say about her?’
After she’d listened to what Florence told her, she said, ‘I must say, it sounds intriguing. Have you told anyone in the village about your family? Is there some way this woman could have known your background?’
Florence shook her head. ‘You and Mrs Partridge are the only ones here in Melstead St Mary who know.’
‘Well, I can assure you I’ve never mentioned it to anyone, and Mrs Partridge might enjoy listening to Mrs Bunch’s gossip, but she would never spread it herself.’
‘So do you think it was true what the gypsy told me?’
‘Undoubtedly there are some who have the gift of seeing things the rest of us are unable to, but equally there are plenty who would seek to take advantage of what they perceive as a person’s vulnerability. However, in this instance, the fortune-teller appeared not to know anything about you other than what she could guess from your dress, your voice and your manner.’
‘You mean she would know I wasn’t top-drawer like you?’
Romily smiled. ‘Not how I would put it, but yes, in short she would know how to categorise you. That’s hardly a talent; most people can do it. But by referring to some nameless woman you hadn’t seen in a long time, a woman who had the same colour hair as you … well, frankly, that could be a grandmother, an aunt, a sister, anyone related to you. Odds on there has to be somebody else in your fa
mily with your colouring. And, as is so often the way with how the brain works, you filled in the blanks of what you heard and leapt to your own understandable conclusion.’
Florence put a finger to her lower lip and pressed it pensively. ‘Before I went into the tent, I’d remembered something about my mother that I hadn’t thought of in a while. The memory of it was as clear as you and me sitting here.’
‘Even more reason to conclude that what you heard from the gypsy was no more than a case of autosuggestion,’ said Romily.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Basically you heard what you wanted to hear. Even if it was only on a subconscious level.’
‘That’s the second new word I’ve learned today,’ Florence said with a smile.
‘Oh, what was the first?’
‘Mrs Meyer taught me the word eaglet … egalitarian.’
‘Did she indeed? Well good for her.’
Florence rose from the ottoman. ‘I knew you’d help settle it all in my mind. Thank you so much. I’d better get back down to the kitchen before Mrs Partridge blows a gasket.’
When the girl was at the door, Romily said, ‘Florence, any time you have anything on your mind, you know you can come to me. By the way, Annelise isn’t proving too much of a burden, is she?’
‘We can cope. And it’s only for a few days more, isn’t it? Although how we’ll manage if we’re landed with a couple of evacuated children as well is anybody’s guess.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we need to.’
Once Florence had closed the door after her, Romily poured herself another cup of tea, and pondered on what the girl had said about their house guests only remaining for a few more days. She wasn’t altogether convinced that was what would happen. If Hope hadn’t managed to finish the sketches for her publisher by then, she might want to stay on for a few more days to make use of the help available here with Annelise. And where would Allegra go if she left? Surely not back to Italy, not when the situation in Europe was so precarious. To London, then? Did she have friends or professional contacts there?
One thing was certain in Romily’s mind: she would not turn either of them away if they needed help. She found them both oddly likeable, in very different ways. She admired Hope for her stoicism, while in Allegra she saw a passionate and fiercely stubborn and proud young woman who imagined offence at every turn. Her stormy paranoia was understandable; Romily could see how the girl had fought tooth and nail all her young life to gain the respect she felt she’d been denied as a child.
Before Roddy had left for London, he had confided in Romily that recently life in Italy had not gone too well for Allegra. ‘I don’t want to break a confidence,’ he’d said, ‘but I’m concerned about her. There’s something troubling her, and I believe it’s more than what she shared with me.’
Romily was inclined to agree. Allegra did seem troubled. She had seen the girl looking thoughtfully out of the window many times, chewing her lip or wringing her hands, as if trying desperately to resolve something in her mind. Was it to do with her career? Had she hit a difficult time and the singing engagements just weren’t coming her way? Life on the stage was notoriously fickle, with its many ups and downs.
Something that had struck Romily as strange was that she had not heard Allegra singing since arriving here; not a single note, or even a casual little hum. It was possible, of course, that she was under doctor’s orders to rest her voice; singers had to do that sometimes. Perhaps that was what was troubling her, a perfectly understandable case of anxiety that her voice might fail her.
Her tea finished, Romily picked up her pen and returned her attention to answering the remaining letters from her readers. She had just signed the last one when something down in the garden caught her eye. It was Allegra, appearing at the furthest end of the garden through a small gateway. The gate led to a private path that curled round the other side of the pond, hidden from sight by dense undergrowth and rhododendron bushes. Leaving the boundary of Island House, it eventually looped its way round to the church, and then on down to Clover Woods. So where had Allegra been so early in the morning? To church perhaps?
Or … but surely Romily was mistaken. Yet it looked very much as though the girl was wearing the same pretty floral dress she had worn last night to the village dance.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Arthur had slept badly. Not surprising, given the pain he was in. But he’d sooner rip out his tongue than admit that to anyone else. His plan for the day was to brazen it out, to shake off yesterday’s incident as nothing more than a tiresome village fracas with a tiresome village nobody.
Brazening things out was his stock in trade. That and biding his time to plot his revenge. In his experience there was nothing quite like getting even. But unusually for him, he wasn’t much in the mood for revenge this morning. He ached in too many places to summon the necessary energy to devise a way to get his own back. What energy he possessed currently he would need to put on a convincingly indifferent front.
Dr Garland had declared nothing actually broken, something Arthur could have told him himself, and had recommended he call in at the surgery tomorrow for a check-up. Arthur had no intention of doing that. What was the point?
Right now, his immediate concern was rousing himself from his bed and dressing to go down for breakfast. He had eaten supper in his room last night, but he wasn’t going to repeat that and allow anyone to think he was hiding, too embarrassed to show his face. No, let them all wince at the sight of him across the table.
Wince was precisely what he did himself when he ventured into the bathroom across the landing from his room and looked into the mirror. Not since his days on the school rugby pitch had he looked such a mess. Back then, each cut and bruise had been a badge of honour. Less so on one particular occasion, however. He’d injured his arm in a scrum, and a zealous matron had ordered him out of her sickroom on the grounds that he was a malingerer. Two days later, when he’d still been in abject pain, one of the masters had had the sense to realise that the arm was broken and he needed immediate treatment. To get his own back on the matron for her total disregard for his well-being, Arthur had lured the woman’s tortoiseshell cat away from her quarters and taken it down into the woods. He’d locked it inside an abandoned groundkeeper’s hut, strung up by one of its legs. It was found a week later, dead.
After he’d gingerly washed himself, forgoing a shave, he left the bathroom to go back to his room to dress. At the other end of the landing, presumably coming out of her own room, he saw Romily with a stack of envelopes in her hand. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘Never better,’ he replied.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Will you be joining us for breakfast?’
‘Of course. And then I thought I’d go to church.’
‘Really?’ she asked, an eyebrow raised.
‘Really,’ he repeated, and shot inside his room. He hadn’t had the slightest intention of going to church, but for some reason the words had slipped out, as if in an instinctive gesture of defiance – he would not be cowed! As he dressed carefully, he wondered how the devil he could extricate himself from sitting through the tedium of another service conducted by the Reverend Septimus Tate.
During breakfast, and after Kit, Hope and Allegra had had their fill of gawping at him, making much of his blackened eyes and saying he had only himself to blame, Romily asked if there was anyone else who was thinking of attending church that morning. To Arthur’s disbelief, Kit announced that he planned to go. ‘Why don’t you come?’ he added to Hope while spreading marmalade onto his toast. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘I was going to try and do some work,’ she said. ‘I was rather hoping somebody might look after Annelise for a few hours.’ She looked first at the child squirming in the high chair next to her, then around the table, as though seeking an offer of help. Her gaze f
inally settled on Allegra. Arthur let out a sarcastic laugh as his cousin refused point-blank to meet Hope’s eyes.
‘Oh Hope,’ he said, ‘do you really mean to say you’d trust a child into Allegra’s keeping? More fool you! And while we’re on the subject of Annelise, do we have to put up with this wholly unorthodox habit of yours of including her with us while we eat? The sight of her cramming food into her mouth quite puts me off.’
‘What would you suggest I did with her?’ demanded Hope. ‘Lock her in her room until we’ve finished?’
‘Sounds like a reasonable solution to me,’ he said. ‘Better still, confine her to the kitchen and leave the maid to see to her.’
‘My maid’s name is Florence, Arthur,’ said Romily from her end of the table, ‘as well you know, and while she is more than happy to help out, I don’t want her taken advantage of.’
‘I thought that was the role of a servant, to do our bidding.’
‘In your world maybe,’ said Hope, ‘but I for one agree with Romily.’ She looked across the table to Allegra again. ‘Are you busy this morning, Allegra? Or are you joining Kit and Arthur at church?’
‘I rather fancy Cousin Allegra may well now put her popish tendencies aside and rush to fill the pews of St Mary rather than be landed with the job of babysitting.’
‘Arthur,’ said Kit, ‘could you possibly be any more insufferable?’