by Erica James
‘Perhaps he was actually being brave,’ Hope said after a moment’s thought. ‘It couldn’t have been an easy decision to make. One thing I’ve come to realise is that we really don’t know how we’ll react when we’re faced with our worst nightmare. Or confronted with a challenge we think is beyond us.’
‘You’re thinking of Dieter, aren’t you?’
‘And Annelise.’
‘This may be an indelicate question, but have you thought what you’ll do if her parents don’t make it through the war?’
‘Some days it’s all I ever think of. And then I think, what if they do make it and I have to give Annelise back? She’s become such an important part of my life now. I’d miss her terribly.’
‘You’d get back to drawing again, though, wouldn’t you?’
Hope smiled shyly. ‘And that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been drawing since Christmas Eve.’
‘You dark horse, you!’
Her smile broadened. ‘It’s down to Romily; she asked me to produce a sketch of Stanley’s dog for him as a Christmas present, and the funny thing was, although I started it reluctantly, once I got going, I couldn’t stop. I’ve drawn so many pictures of Bobby now, Stanley has practically wallpapered his room with them!’
Edmund smiled. ‘That’s wonderful. I hated the thought of you casting aside your talent. Are you going to let your publisher know that you’re back in the saddle?’
‘There’s not much point. Once I return to London, I’ll be solely responsible for Annelise again and won’t have time.’
Edmund stared at her, his blue eyes serious. ‘It needn’t be that way,’ he said. ‘After all, you trust Florence, Romily and Mrs Partridge to look after her here; why not find somebody you really like and trust in London?’
‘I told you, I tried it and it didn’t work. I just couldn’t settle. I kept worrying about Annelise.’
‘Then there’s only one solution as far as I can see: you have to stay here at Island House.’
Hope rolled her eyes. ‘Oh don’t you start. I’ve had Romily slyly suggesting that ever since I arrived. She seems to think London doesn’t suit me.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with her,’ Edmund said with a small smile.
‘So that’s what the two of you were discussing earlier when I was trapped in the hall with the wretched Reverend Tate! Did she put you up to this? I might have known.’
‘Not at all,’ he said with a laugh. ‘It was Kit we were discussing. I was saying how envious I was that he was learning to fly, and Romily surprised me by saying she holds a pilot’s licence herself. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did, and surely by now you must have realised that there’s nothing about Romily that should surprise you.’
‘That’s true. She was also saying that a friend of hers is hoping to join the Air Transport Auxiliary. Apparently after much persuasion, the ATA have accepted that they’re going to have a shortage of pilots, and so women with the right amount of flying time under their belts will be allowed to ferry military aircraft around the country.’
‘Do you think Romily might leap at the chance to join her friend?’ Hope could well imagine her stepmother doing exactly that. She could also imagine how different Island House would feel without her presence. It was strange how easily the house had become hers, and odder still, how right that felt. It was as if Romily had somehow made it into the home it had never before been.
‘You know her better than I do,’ answered Edmund, ‘but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. But never mind Romily. I have to say this to you, Hope. Whenever I saw you in London, you didn’t look well or happy to me. Whereas here, you look infinitely better, much more your old self, like the girl I remember when we were children and running amok in the meadows!’
Hope smiled. ‘Is that your professional diagnosis, Dr Flowerday?’
‘It’s my opinion as an old friend. Why not consider staying at Island House until the war is over? Would it be so very bad?’
‘This is Romily’s house and I’m a guest here,’ she said, thinking that Edmund wasn’t only an old friend; he was one of her very few friends. As a child, she had always preferred the solitude of her own company, or that of Kit, a habit she had maintained into adulthood. Dear Kit, she thought with a sudden rush of affection, wishing he was here to see the new year in with them all.
Since her brother had left for Canada, Hope had regretted not doing what she should have done a long time ago, and that was apologize to Kit. She should never have treated him the way she did, it had been cruel and unnecessary. Kit had never done anything other than be a good brother to her, and yet when she had perhaps needed him most, she had cut him out of her life. Even knowing that it would upset him, she hadn’t been able to relinquish the need to isolate herself, to bury herself yet deeper in her grief.
Several times in the weeks since he’d left, she had planned exactly what she wanted to say in a letter to him, but somehow each attempt failed to express just how sorry she was for cutting him out of her life. It left her wanting to say the words to his face, for him to know that she meant them. His forgiveness would be automatic, she knew, he was that sort of person, but she wanted him to know that while she had been in that horribly dark place, she had never stopped loving him. It was only now that she sensed a glimmer of light at the end of the long tunnel through which she had been travelling that she understood that herself.
Aware of Edmund’s gaze on her, she realised he was giving her another searching look. ‘London might feel safe now,’ he said, shifting her thoughts back to what he’d been saying before, ‘but I’m convinced we’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. If the Luftwaffe do start filling the skies over our cities, you’ll be in great danger. Wouldn’t you want Annelise to be somewhere safer than a bombing target?’
‘Are you trying to scare me?’ she said.
He put a hand on her forearm. ‘I’m trying to tell you that I care about you and want you to be safe. Promise me you’ll think about it.’
She looked down at his hand, then back up into the intensity of his beseeching eyes. ‘I will,’ she said. Then, more cheerfully, ‘And that’s my New Year’s resolution!’
Chapter Forty-Three
It was gone eleven o’clock and Romily thought she would never get away from Sir Archibald Fogg. Many a time Lady Fogg had looked across the room, her face resembling a thundercloud, as though Romily had deliberately cornered her husband and was playing the femme fatale.
For what seemed an eternity the man had stood so close to her that his bushy whiskers all but brushed against her face while he shared his opinions – Stalin: a thoroughly disgusting man; the neutrality of America: a detestable country; conscientious objectors: he’d have the damned cowards publicly horsewhipped, would happily do it himself; the war would be over in six months: a tap to the side of his nose indicated he knew people in high places who knew such things.
But his particular grievance, which he was keen to share with Romily, and on which he had much to say, was his view that the country was going to the dogs: people no longer knew their place, the old order was in danger of being lost forever, and that was the real battle they were facing. He had questioned Romily’s prudence in the way she had arranged this party. ‘Capital idea of yours to throw a bash like this,’ he’d said. ‘Just what was needed to raise morale. But take it from me, it’s never a good idea to invite every Tom, Dick and Harry into your home.’ He’d looked pointedly at George and Ruby Minton and their son, Billy, who were chatting to Evelyn.
Romily had now reached the stage when, if forced to listen to another word, she would gladly shoot herself, and so to bring matters to an immediate halt, she applied her most charming smile. ‘I really can’t help but wonder whether one morning we’ll all wake up and decide we deserve a Bolshevik regime to put right the wrongs history has laid upon us and redress the bala
nce,’ she said.
Sir Archibald goggled at her, his face brick red, his bearded jaw momentarily slack. Seizing her chance, she touched his arm. ‘Do excuse me, I really ought to attend to my other guests. They must think me a very poor hostess monopolising you for so long.’
She turned on her heel and left him to deal with his shock, not caring that he would now regard her as an untrustworthy viper in the nest. A commie, right here in Melstead St Mary! she imagined him telling Lady Fogg later. By lunchtime tomorrow she would once again be the talk of the village, perhaps elevated to the status of a Nazi propaganda agent!
The prospect pleased her no end. Because lord knew she had grown tired of the status quo. Yes, she had been pleased to return to Island House after a brief stay in London, but as soon as the excitement of Christmas was over, she had grown restless, unable to settle and resume the novel she was working on. With talk of paper being rationed, she wondered why she should bother; it also seemed in poor taste to write a murder mystery when so many lives were genuinely at risk. Melvyn, her agent, was of the opinion that books would be needed even more as a distraction. ‘Whatever is going on in the world,’ he had said, ‘people still want to be entertained. More so if there are further restrictions on petrol, and opening hours for theatres and cinemas come into play. Reading will be one of the few pleasures left to us.’
In many ways that was why Romily had decided to throw a party, an open house for anyone who wanted to come. Hope had been unsure about the idea. ‘What if everyone comes?’ she had said, concerned. ‘Where will we put them?’
‘The more the merrier!’ had been Romily’s response, which would have been exactly what Jack would have said. In fact, this party was her private way of honouring Jack, for she knew it was exactly the kind of thing he would have done to lift everybody’s spirits. She just wished with all her heart he was here to join in with the fun.
After going upstairs to check that the noise from the guests wasn’t disturbing Annelise and Stanley, she went through to the kitchen to see if there was anything she could do to help Mrs Partridge who had done such a sterling job creating delicious party food. Reassured that everything was under control, she rejoined the party, taking with her a tray of mushroom vol-au-vents to pass around. It was something to do, especially if it meant she could avoid getting stuck again with Sir Archibald.
It wasn’t so much that she was bored at her own party; far from it, it pleased her enormously to see her guests enjoying themselves – the old boys from the village who had brought the piano up from the church hall and were gathered around it with their glasses of beer, and the younger guests dancing in the dining room, the rugs rolled back, music playing on the wireless – but there was no getting away from it: she was filled with a restless energy, a sure sign that she needed something new with which to occupy herself.
She’d been like it as a child, had driven her parents mad with her constant antics of daredevilry, climbing trees that no sane person would attempt, or swimming underwater for longer than anybody else. It was what drove her to take up challenges like learning to fly, or getting behind the wheel of a car at Brooklands. She had always enjoyed the thrill of pushing herself to the limit. Only trouble was, each new thrill had to out-thrill the last.
Earlier in the evening, she had been chatting to Edmund about Sarah’s determination to join the Air Transport Auxiliary. ‘Once the silly old duffers realise women can fly aircraft just as well as any man,’ her friend had told her, ‘I’ll apply to join. You should too, Romily. You need to be active; you can’t sit at home dwelling on Jack while waiting for the war to end. I don’t need to tell you we’ve all got to do our bit.’
Romily had taken offence at hearing her friend describe her in this way, and had defended her position, listing all that she did – running Island House, trying to keep to her writing schedule, looking after Stanley, keeping an eye on Allegra, and joining the WI so she could learn to knit socks and balaclavas for the troops, a skill she had yet to grasp with any real aplomb.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sarah had said dismissively, ‘all of which you could do standing on your head while juggling a couple of eggs! You could be doing so much more, Romily.’
‘But I can’t just abandon my post,’ Romily had countered. ‘I have commitments, namely an evacuee. I’m responsible for him. Why should you expect me to be doing more?’
‘Because you’re Romily Temple!’ cried Sarah.
‘I’m Romily Devereux-Temple,’ she’d replied staunchly. ‘I’m not the same woman now.’
But Sarah was having none of it and continued to insist that Romily should be out in the field rather than resting on her laurels at Island House. ‘You could at least volunteer to drive an ambulance, like Rosalind Chapel has signed up for. You remember her from school – beaky nose, large hands? Or better still, join the ATA with me. Lord knows it will be fun putting all those men in their place!’
Maybe it would, thought Romily as she caught sight of Sir Archibald staring across the drawing room at her with a look of undisguised mistrust on his face. Amused, she gave him a false smile of acknowledgement and continued offering around the tray of vol-au-vents. When the last one had been taken, she returned the tray to the kitchen and suggested it was high time Mrs Partridge joined the party. ‘It’s almost midnight; come and sing “Auld Lang Syne” with everyone else,’ she said.
‘But I’ve got all this washing-up to do,’ the older woman replied.
‘I’ll give you a hand later when everybody’s gone.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Florence and I will see to it.’
‘I shall help you both, and that’s an end to it, Mrs Partridge. Another word of remonstration and I’ll insist on doing it all myself.’
With a magnificent display of reluctance, Mrs Partridge finally took off her apron and hung it on the back of the door, where she and Florence kept their gas masks, now contained in the Christmas presents Romily had given them – smart new cases, one a shade of magenta, the other navy blue. ‘Very well, Miss Romily, I’ll do as you say, and with as much good grace as I can muster.’
Romily smiled, catching the twinkle in the other woman’s eye. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. By the way, have you seen Florence?’
‘If you can find Billy,’ Mrs Partridge said with a chuckle, ‘you’ll find Florence. They’ve been joined at the hip for most of the evening.’ She gave Romily a half-smile. ‘I don’t know what they find to talk about, I really don’t.’
Out in the bitterly cold garden, hidden from sight behind the big old cedar tree, with raucous voices giving vent to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ from inside the house, Billy and Florence weren’t talking; they were kissing as though their lives depended upon it. Florence often felt that way, that she needed to absorb as much of Billy as she could while she had the chance. It wouldn’t be long before he would be returning to barracks, and when he did, she didn’t have a clue when she would see him again. With a heavy sigh, Billy released her from his grasp. He shuddered and closed his eyes. ‘What is it?’ Florence asked, alarmed. ‘Are you unwell?’
He opened his eyes. ‘I’m not unwell,’ he said with a rasp in his voice.
‘What then?’
He grinned, revealing his uneven white teeth in the silvery moonlight that was shining down on them from a cloudless starlit sky. ‘Can’t you guess?’
She hesitated. And then she thought of what had been pressing hard against her while they’d been kissing. The very first time she had been aware of it, she’d been horribly embarrassed, scared too that Billy might insist on putting it where she didn’t want it to go. She might be naive compared to some, but she knew that was how she’d end up pregnant, and not for anything, not even Billy, who she loved with all her heart, would she let that happen.
‘If you’re talking about what I think you are,’ she said, ‘then my answer is still no.’
He shook his
head with a smile and put a hand to her cheek, cupping it gently in his palm. ‘I’m not asking that particular question,’ he said softly. ‘All I’m saying is that that’s how you make feel. I love you, Flo. In fact, I love you so very much, I think it would be only right and proper that we should marry.’
She stared at him, shocked. ‘Marry?’ she repeated. ‘You mean us get married?’
He laughed. ‘Who else would I mean?’ And then dropping to one knee, he looked up at her. ‘Florence Massie, will you make me the happiest man alive and agree to marry me?’
In the boathouse, Allegra sat in the crook of Elijah’s right arm, while his left hand rested gently on her stomach beneath the blanket that covered them both. ‘I can feel it moving,’ he said.
‘She,’ Allegra corrected him. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s a girl.’
‘And I’ve told you before, you have no way of knowing. It could be a boy; a handsome boy just like me.’
‘And presumably just as modest as you, caro,’ she with a smile.
He moved his hand lightly over the baby as it continued to wriggle around. ‘Will you promise me something?’ he said finally.
‘Depends what it is you want me to promise.’
‘Promise me that if you’re wrong and it’s a boy, you’ll still love him.’
She sat up straight, dislodging his arm from around her shoulder. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because I’d hate to think of this poor child not being loved just for being a boy.’
‘It’s a girl,’ she said adamantly, ‘so it’s an unnecessary promise to make.’
‘Allegra, don’t be stubborn. Just say the words, “I’ll love this child whatever.”’
‘And since when have you become the one who tells me what to do?’
‘Since I decided that we should get married.’
She stared at him, stunned, not quite believing what she’d heard him say. But then quickly recovering, she said: ‘And you think marriage would give you that right over me?’