by Erica James
A moment of quiet passed between them.
‘This isn’t you, darling,’ said Sarah finally. ‘Not the Romily Temple I know of old. The girl I know would have enlisted for war work at the first opportunity.’
‘And just what would people think if I hightailed off the way you want me to?’
Sarah turned sharply. The look of shock on her face was writ large. ‘Since when did you care what people thought of you?’ she said. ‘Oh my poor Romily, that I’ve lived to see this day! It really is time you left here, before it’s too late and you’re unrecognisable to me.’
Romily tutted. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, and if you’re trying to rile me, you’re doing an excellent job of it.’
‘But I know you, Romily. Okay, marriage, widowhood and domesticity might have changed you superficially, but none of that can change the essential nature of a person. I know you need more than this mundane existence is giving you.’ She extended a hand, the one holding her glass of whisky, to encompass the lily pond and the garden beyond, all of which was enchantingly bathed in silvery moonlight ‘Isn’t this worth fighting for?’ she demanded. ‘Or would you prefer to stay here and do nothing, and wait for some bloody Nazi in jackboots to wrench it from you? Do you think that’s what Jack would want you to do?’
After they’d gone inside to get ready for bed, Romily gave Isabella her midnight bottle of milk and wondered at what Sarah had said. She knew her friend’s comments were not designed to upset her but to make her think. Really think.
Was there a chance she had lost an essential part of her character in carrying out Jack’s wishes to unite his family? Was she no longer the same woman who had smuggled the Friedberg heirlooms back from Europe to keep them safe? Was that the last act of true courage she had accomplished? Had she allowed her grief for Jack to diminish her, letting it rob her of her innate self?
No! That wasn’t true. Not entirely. Admittedly, it had taken courage of a different sort to carry out Jack’s last wishes here at Island House, but that had not been without its challenges, and was continuing to throw up more almost on a daily basis.
But was this really how she saw the months and years ahead, simply taking each day as it came, dealing with the mundane? Had she become complacent with her lot, happy to let others shoulder the responsibility of keeping the country safe? Just a few hours ago, she had referred to her part in today’s act of atonement by Lady Fogg as being a good day’s work. The thought appalled her now. When there were those dying to safeguard Britain, could she really claim that saving Lady Fogg’s honour was some kind of achievement?
And what would Jack think of her settling for so little?
The baby’s bottle now empty, Romily placed it on the table beside her. After rubbing Isabella’s back to be sure there was no danger of her waking with wind, she put the contented and sleepy child back in her cot, her eyes already closed, then kissed her forehead and quietly left the room, closing the door after her.
Too restless to sleep, she went downstairs to make herself a hot drink. To her surprise, she found Sarah quite at home in the kitchen, dressed in the nightclothes Romily had loaned her, and standing at the stove heating a pan of milk.
‘There’s enough here for two small mugs of cocoa if you want,’ her friend said, as though she had been expecting Romily.
‘I hope it’s a guilty conscience that’s keeping you awake,’ remarked Romily, reaching into the cupboard for another mug.
‘Certainly not. I’ve never suffered with one of those before and I’m not about to start now.’
Romily watched Sarah pour the milk and took the proffered mug. They sat at the kitchen table. ‘Actually,’ said Sarah, ‘and since I have you on your own again, there’s another matter I want to discuss with you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘It’s your handsome wing commander.’
‘I wish people would stop referring to him in that way,’ Romily muttered irritably. ‘It quite gets on my nerves.’
‘In that case,’ said Sarah, ‘perhaps I can help you out on that score. I rather like the fellow, so what do you say to me tossing my cap into the ring, so to speak? Be honest. Would you be offended if I were to make a play for him?’
Romily laughed. ‘Sarah, of all the things you could have asked me, that would be the least offensive thing ever. Especially after everything else you’ve thrown at me today.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t mind? Not in the slightest? Not even the teeniest-weeniest bit?’
‘Not in the slightest. He’s a lovely chap, but not for me.’ She blinked and blew on her cocoa. ‘Not after Jack. So go right ahead and make your move.’
Her lively eyes dancing, Sarah smiled. ‘I will, rest assured. Although heaven only knows when we’d be able to meet up.’
Romily smiled back at her friend. ‘Knowing you, you’ll find a way.’
‘I have one more thing to say, something I want you to promise. I want you to think very hard about what I’ve said. The war needs women like you, Romily, women who can rise to the challenge and who aren’t afraid to leap into the unknown. Do you promise?’
‘I do. If only to keep you quiet.’
‘Good. Now then, how about a tot of something in this cocoa to help us sleep well?’
Chapter Sixty-Nine
June 1940
Florence had not heard from Billy in weeks. Nor had anyone heard from Elijah or Tommy.
The news on the wireless about the evacuation of Dunkirk frightened her half to death. There were reports of boats of all sizes, some just small fishing boats, rescuing soldiers, and worse still, there was talk of returning soldiers being in a dreadful state. Eric Mallow, a reservist from the village and one of the first to be rescued and sent home on leave, had arrived back two days ago. Mrs Bunch had spoken to him and said he barely opened his mouth to her and flinched at the slightest noise. ‘I’ve known him since he was a cocky boy in shorts, and I swear I’ve never known him so quiet,’ she’d said.
Yesterday, on her day off, Florence had taken the bus to Sudbury to treat herself to some new shoes, and had got chatting to a couple of soldiers who’d made it back from Dunkirk. They’d told her it had been hell on earth, with nowhere to hide while the Luftwaffe dropped bomb after bomb on them. They said they’d seen dozens of soldiers blown up before their eyes. It had been a terrible sight when one of the lads had begun to cry, and once he’d started, he just didn’t seem able to stop. Florence’s heart had gone out to him, and had she been braver, she would have given him a hug, but as it was, the other lad, whose head was swathed in a bandage, put his arm around his pal like he would a brother.
The lad with the bandaged head didn’t have a good word to say about the Belgians, who’d surrendered without warning and left the BEF soldiers stranded. ‘Bloody King Leopold,’ he’d said furiously, ‘declaring the Allied cause lost – well, it’s not bleeding surprising when you’ve got cowards like that in charge. And where was the RAF in all this?’ he’d gone on. ‘Where were they when the Germans were slaughtering us and we were trapped like bleeding rats in a barrel?’
A po-faced woman in the seat behind Florence had tutted and said there was no need to use such coarse language, and at that the soldier had turned away to look out of the window, his lips moving with some inaudible response. Florence had plucked up the courage to ask if either of the soldiers knew anything about Billy Minton and Elijah Hartley, seeing as they were from the Suffolk Regiment, but neither of them could help her.
Florence didn’t think she would ever forget the bitter anger and bleak despair of those two young lads. She could picture them now, as she opened the windows at Winter Cottage to let in the fresh morning air, their grim, tired faces staring blankly out of the bus at a world that probably didn’t seem real to them any more.
Ever since the evacuation of Dunkirk had begun, just over a week ago at the end of May, and the s
mall seed of hope had grown within her that Billy might be brought home to safety and given a few days’ leave, Florence had been coming here to ensure the cottage was ready for them to stay in as man and wife. She hoped Elijah wouldn’t mind; that he would be happy for the little house to be kept clean and tidy rather than left to its own devices. She had also made a daily trip to Clover End Cottage to air it ready for Elijah’s return, using the key he’d left behind for Allegra so that she could come and go as she pleased.
Going up the narrow winding staircase to the floor above, the wooden boards creaking beneath her feet, the words of the gypsy woman from last summer played in her head – You’ll find love and you’ll lose love. From the moment they had learned of the news about the evacuation, the words had taunted Florence cruelly. It was the last thing she thought of before going to sleep at night, and the first that she woke to.
The rosebud-patterned curtains swaying in the warm breeze, she stood at the open window in the bedroom that had been Allegra’s and looked down on to the overgrown garden. Brambles and weeds and grass as high as her knees had quickly taken hold since the cottage had been left empty. If Florence had more free time, she would do something about it, but she had her hands full with looking after Annelise and Isabella. Bob Manners, their gardener at Island House, had said he might have the odd hour going spare, but since the Local Defence Volunteers had been formed, he’d been too busy.
To everybody’s surprise, Lady Fogg had offered the volunteers one of her barns to use on a permanent basis so that the platoon of men didn’t have to share facilities at the village hall. Billy’s dad, George, had signed up with the LDV and had told Florence that Lady Fogg made them all a hot drink at the end of their meetings, even inviting them into her house, although she did make them take off their boots before crossing the threshold. The new Lady Fogg was a definite improvement on the stuffy old one!
Without a doubt, the war felt so much more real now. Hope had told them that Dr Flowerday was working round the clock in London treating hundreds of returning soldiers who were badly wounded. Some, she said, were in a shocking state, with limbs blown off, or their insides hanging out; it was a miracle they’d made it back at all.
In complete contrast to the horror of what those poor soldiers had gone through, Florence rested her elbows on the windowsill and watched a pair of swallows merrily darting through the air, swooping up and down as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Which they probably didn’t.
She hadn’t really wanted to visit here today, not again, not when it would bring another day of disappointment that Billy wasn’t one of the thousands of soldiers evacuated to safety. But Miss Romily had insisted that she come every morning to air the cottage, then return in the evening to close it up. Perhaps it was a way to keep her mind busy; to stop it dwelling on Billy.
While the pain of hoping against hope that Billy was alive wore her down, Florence knew that it was nothing compared to what those two soldiers on the bus yesterday had gone through. It worried her how altered Billy might be if he did make it back. Would his mind be so badly affected he’d no longer be the same man? It had happened to countless men returning from the Great War – some never recovered from the horrors they’d witnessed; they went clean off their heads.
Yet so long as Billy came back to her, Florence would take care of him no matter what. She loved him and would help him to mend. She had meant it that bitterly cold January day in church when she’d said the words, for better or for worse, and that was what she would do.
But what of Elijah? What if he returned badly injured; who would take care of him? And what about Isabella if he didn’t survive the carnage the Germans were inflicting on the Allies as they pushed relentlessly forward?
At Miss Romily’s instruction, all Allegra’s personal things, such as they were, had been carefully stored at Island House for when Elijah wanted to go through them; he would be the one to decide what to keep, in particular what to keep for Isabella when she was old enough to want to know about her mother.
When Florence had helped with the sad task of packing up Allegra’s belongings, she had wondered about Isabella’s real father in Italy, a man they knew nothing about other than that his name was Luigi. Some might say he had a right to know about his daughter. Some might even say he had the right to claim the child as his own and take her back to Italy with him.
Florence hoped that the man would never get to hear of Isabella’s presence in the world; she couldn’t imagine not having the baby around. The same was true of Annelise and Stanley. Three children who had unexpectedly come to them, and, like a blessing from God, brought joy into their lives at Island House. But each, she saw now, could be taken from them in the blink of an eye by their rightful parents.
There she went again, as Mrs Partridge would say, fearing the worst. And hadn’t Mrs Partridge been proved right when she’d said that providence would provide when it came to finding a new maid? Lotte couldn’t be a better addition to the household; everything she did, she did quietly and efficiently, without a single word of complaint. Not that she was ever asked to do anything Florence had never done herself.
Much to Florence’s amusement, Stanley had taken a real shine to the girl with her pale porcelain skin, striking blue eyes and dark hair that fell in a cascade of corkscrew curls when it wasn’t pinned up beneath her maid’s cap. Bless him, he could often be found following her around, offering to help her beat the rugs, or put the washing out.
But there was a sadness to Lotte; a burden of sadness she kept very much to herself. She slept in the small room next to Florence’s, and more than once Florence had heard her crying herself to sleep at night. It wasn’t surprising really when you thought about the family she had left behind in Austria, who had probably been interned in one of those awful camps Hope had told Florence about, where Jews and just about anyone else Hitler didn’t like were put to work like slaves. That was if they were lucky.
Luck, thought Florence as she walked back to Island House – or providence, as Mrs Partridge liked to call it – had brought Lotte to them; would it also bring Billy and Elijah safely home? Please God it did.
Chapter Seventy
Later that evening, long after the children had gone to bed and Miss Romily had taken herself off to work in the drawing room, Florence and Lotte were listening to the news on the wireless while washing up together. They had just heard that the operation to evacuate Dunkirk was over, which filled Florence with sick misery. What if Billy wasn’t among the last of the soldiers to be brought back? What if she never knew exactly what had happened to him, just as Hope would never really know how her brother had died?
Behind her, Bobby suddenly gave a low growl and raised himself from beside Mrs Partridge, who was snoring gently by the range. Within seconds there was a knock at the back door.
‘That’s odd,’ said Hope, who was sitting at the kitchen table darning one of Stanley’s socks. ‘We don’t normally have callers at the back door at this time of night.’ With Bobby following closely behind, she went to see who it was.
At the sink, Florence carefully lifted a corner of the blackout curtain and craned her neck to try and catch a glimpse of who it might be. It was probably Bert Cox, the ARP warden, here to tick them off for some blackout misdemeanour. She knew it was his job, but really, he was such an old woman about it; the slightest bit of light from any house and he relished the opportunity to take people to task.
At the sound of barking and men’s voices – voices she recognised – Florence turned away from the window and watched in stunned amazement as, through the open kitchen door, in walked not Bert Cox, but Elijah, and there was Billy right behind him. She let out a cry and flew across the kitchen.
He held her so tightly in his arms she could barely breathe. But she didn’t care; all that mattered was that he was safely home. Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks and she clung on to him, never wanting to let
him go ever again.
‘Gawd bless us,’ said Mrs Partridge, awake now and rubbing at her eyes. ‘Am I dreaming, or are you both really back!’
‘We’re back,’ said Billy, releasing his hold on Florence.
‘How long for?’ asked Florence, wiping the tears from her face. ‘And where will you be sent next? Not back to France, I hope. Was it very awful? We’ve heard such dreadful things! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re actually here!’
‘One question at a time, Flo,’ he said, exchanging a look with Elijah. ‘We have to report to barracks tomorrow afternoon, then we’ll have a better idea what happens next.’
‘Well in my opinion,’ said Mrs Partridge, ‘there’s just one question that needs asking. How hungry are you?’
It was Elijah who answered. ‘Starving, Mrs Partridge, and that’s God’s own truth.’
‘Just as I thought. Now sit yourselves down while Florence and I rustle up something for you. There’s some leftover shepherd’s pie in the pantry; it’s not much, with all this wretched rationing, but it’ll have to do. Lotte, perhaps you’d like to fetch that for me. I dare say Miss Romily won’t object to you two boys having it.’
‘Talking of Romily,’ said Hope, ‘I’ll go and fetch her. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you both.’
Billy frowned and rubbed at his grubby unshaven chin. ‘We’re not really in any fit state to be—’
‘Billy Minton, don’t talk nonsense,’ interrupted Mrs Partridge, tying on her apron. ‘Nobody here cares a fig if you’re filthy dirty and look like a couple of tramps. Florence, are you going to just stand there gawping at your husband, or are you going to help feed him?’
Florence laughed. ‘You see, Billy, some things never change. Mrs Partridge is still just as much of a dragon as she ever was.’
But some things had changed. Billy was not the same happy-go-lucky lad Florence had waved goodbye to in January.