Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  ‘You betcha. I’m so shallow I’ve barely advanced from the amoeba stage.’

  ‘And that’s precisely the role you like to portray of yourself, isn’t it? Which couldn’t be further from the truth.’

  He smiled. ‘If you say so.’

  For the next few minutes he busied himself with keeping an eye on the steaks. When he was satisfied they were ready, he arranged everything on their plates and sat down with her. He watched her take her first bite of her steak. ‘Is it okay?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s more than okay; it’s delicious. You said you were a dab hand and you weren’t exaggerating.’

  ‘Oh, shucks, now you’re embarrassing me.’

  ‘As if!’

  ‘You can never take anything I say at face value, can you?’

  ‘When you say something I can take at face value, I’ll let you know.’

  Like he said, she could see right through him. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘in return for me cooking lunch, how about you continue with the story of your bell’ Italiano who so touchingly brought you flowers?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not before you’ve talked some more about yourself. I want to know more about you.’

  He tensed, his mouth suddenly dry. To moisten it, he reached for his glass and drained it in one long swallow. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked as casually as he could.

  ‘Has there ever been a Mrs St Clair?’

  ‘Now why would you want to know a thing like that? Are you volunteering for the job?’

  ‘You view the role of a wife as doing a job, do you?’

  ‘It would be for any woman stupid enough to apply for the post of wife to me. It would be a pretty tough job at that.’

  She tutted and gave him one of her dubious stares. ‘Come on, Red, you can do better than that. What makes you so different from other men that you can’t be husband material, even a poor husband?’

  ‘Gee, you know how to make me feel special, don’t you?’

  ‘I suspect far too many women have thought you exceedingly special.’

  ‘But you don’t?’

  She raised her chin and stared directly at him. ‘I might do so if I could get to know the real you. The man behind the smart one-liners and self-effacing humour. Show me the genuine Red St Clair.’ She leaned across the table and tapped his forehead with an elegant finger. ‘Who’s hiding in there.’

  ‘But kiddo, take it from me,’ he said, forcing himself not to rear back from the table so he was beyond her reach, ‘that fella’s not worth a dime.’

  ‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘Why not drop the subject?’ he said, slamming the brakes on the conversation. He felt she had a whip in one hand and a chair in the other and was backing him into a corner from which there was no escape.

  She must have heard the terse warning in his voice and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I’ve been insulted by better people than you.’

  ‘I really didn’t mean anything I said as an insult.’

  ‘Accusing me of not being authentic, sounds pretty much like a put-down from where I’m sitting. You might go in for a lot of hokum self-analysis, but you can count me out. Just accept that I fall well short of your expectations.’

  She sat perfectly still just staring at him until, and with great precision, she placed her knife and fork on the plate in front of her. ‘Seeing as I’ve offended you so greatly, perhaps it would be better if I went.’

  ‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Ralph

  On arriving at Meadow Lodge for the party, the last thing Ralph wanted was to get stuck with his father and stepmother for the evening. He’d had enough of their company, in particular his father who had spent most of the day lecturing him about taking responsibility for himself.

  ‘Good God, Ralph!’ Arthur had spluttered into his kedgeree at breakfast that morning when Ralph had broached the subject of his father increasing his allowance. ‘Can you never come home without asking for money?’

  Ralph had done his best to assure the old man that he’d soon be gainfully employed.

  ‘What evidence do you have to support such an outlandish claim?’ his father had demanded.

  ‘Have you so little faith in me, Dad?’

  ‘What else do you expect when you spend most of your time fecklessly enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Didn’t you when you were young?’

  ‘When I was not much older than you there was a ruddy war on and nobody was enjoying themselves!’

  God, the way the bloody old fool went on you’d think he’d taken on the Jerries singlehandedly. Whereas the nearest Arthur

  Devereux had come to danger was giving himself a paper-cut at the War Office.

  And it wasn’t as if his father had actually worked for the vast wealth he now hugged tighter to himself than a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of its victim. Marriage had secured his fortune, not hard graft.

  The trouble was the old man enjoyed making Ralph, and others, grovel. It gave him a pathetic sense of superiority knowing that he had the power to make others do what he wanted. He was a bully at heart. And no doubt he bullied Julia. Really the woman should get a backbone and stand up to her husband. When the time came for Ralph to marry, he’d be sure to choose a woman who had some spirit to her.

  A woman more like Isabella, he thought as he looked across the dance floor to where she was dancing with that puppy-dog, George Minton. On impulse, and stubbing out his cigarette, then dumping his now empty wineglass, he decided it was time to start enjoying himself. He went over and tapped George on the shoulder. ‘Mind if I cut in here?’ he said.

  George looked disappointed, but sensibly he didn’t contest the challenge. There was a pecking order to these things after all.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Isabella said, once Ralph had taken her in his arms and was expertly leading her round the dance floor, and performing a nifty foxtrot.

  ‘And you, sweetheart, should know better than to dance with the local baker’s son. What will people think?’

  ‘What a dreadful snob you are!’

  ‘And what a tease you are leading that poor boy on.’

  ‘I was doing no such thing.’

  He tightened his hold on her and leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘Of course you weren’t.’

  Isabella tutted. ‘You don’t change, do you?’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  Holding her close, Ralph thought how much he’d always liked Isabella. She was very different to the girls he knew in London, mostly they were the well-finished sort who were on the hunt for an obscenely rich husband. Isabella had more ambition than that; she wanted to make something of herself and though he lacked ambition himself, he admired her for being so determined and independent. She wasn’t one of those clingy girls who sucked the air out of him.

  He had known her all his life, but always at a distance. He knew all about Isabella’s mother, Allegra, being the illegitimate child of Harry Devereux, his father’s uncle who had been the notorious black sheep of the family. He knew too that Arthur was considered something of a black sheep also, that few people, if any, in the family actually liked him.

  ‘So what have you been doing since our paths last crossed?’ he asked Isabella.

  ‘I’ve been busy working.’

  ‘You call acting work?’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you, Ralph. When are you going to put in an honest day’s work?’

  He groaned. ‘You sound as bad as my father.’

  ‘Don’t you get bored with being an idle gentleman about town?’

  �
��But I do it with such aplomb.’

  She laughed. ‘Nobody could argue with that.’

  He spun her round and laughed too. ‘Now why is it we never meet up in London when we both live there?’

  ‘What on earth makes you think I’d want to spend any of my precious free time with you?’

  He grinned. ‘Because I’m irresistible, and astonishingly handsome. So come on, agree to have dinner with me when you’re back in town. We could go to a lively little club I know in Soho and go dancing.’

  ‘And how would your father feel about you seeing me for dinner when he hated my mother so much? And let’s not forget my illegitimacy. I’m not the sort of friend he’d like for you.’

  He shook his head. ‘Who cares what he thinks? And besides, your surname might be Hartley, but you’re a Devereux through and through.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you just are. You’re one of the clan. Romily has seen to that. You know, I’ve often envied you.’ He saw the surprise flicker on her face.

  ‘Envied me?’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve had so many looking out for you. The same is true of Annelise. Romily took you both under her wing; there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t have done for you.’

  ‘Are you saying you feel you’ve missed out?’

  He shrugged. ‘Let’s face it, my father does not excel when it comes to having a loving instinct. But then sociopaths don’t, do they?’

  ‘That’s pretty harsh, calling your father a sociopath. Especially as he could not have spoiled you more as a young child. I remember one Christmas when you had more toys than Santa’s grotto.’

  ‘That was only to make up for the lack of love.’

  ‘Is this when I’m supposed to start feeling sorry for you and agree to have dinner with you out of pity?’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll try any trick I can. But seriously, the way I see it, the Devereux family is like a club, you’re either in, or you’re not, and even though I carry the name Devereux, I’m not a member like you.’

  ‘What a strange thing to say.’

  ‘Not at all. I carry the stigma of being Arthur Devereux’s son, ergo I’m regarded as suspect.’

  ‘He doesn’t exactly go out of his way to endear himself to others, does he?’

  ‘As I said before, he’s a sociopath; he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him.’

  ‘Do you feel nothing for him? Not even a scrap of affection?’

  ‘If you want my honest opinion, I despise him. Sometimes I look at him and wish he’d just do us all a favour and die. Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m sure there are plenty of people here this evening who would wish the same thing.’

  ‘Julia and your stepbrother might think differently.’

  Ralph scoffed. ‘Julia is nothing but a slave to him. Do you know, I found her this afternoon taking an inventory of all the food in the kitchen and pantry. Apparently, Dad makes her do that on a weekly basis to make sure nobody is stealing from him. What’s more, she has to mend his clothes and iron his shirts. Have you ever heard of anything more demeaning?’

  ‘The poor woman.’

  They both looked across the crowded dance floor to where Julia was standing alone and glum-faced.

  ‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Isabella. ‘So much so, I’m going over to talk to her, seeing as nobody else is.’

  Ralph held onto Isabella. ‘Not before you’ve promised to let me take you for dinner next week when we’re back in London.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘if you agree to dance with Julia and put a smile on her face, you can.’

  He frowned and was about to say Julia was the last woman he wanted to be seen dancing with when he thought of his Plan B. ‘You’re on,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary

  October 1962

  Julia

  ‘Stop, Ralph, you’re making me dizzy!’

  ‘Stop when we’re having so much fun, stepmother dearest? Nonsense!’

  The band was playing a lively jive number and as Ralph spun Julia round again and again, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud. How different to the way she had been feeling before, standing on the edge of the dance floor in the marquee with nobody to talk to. She had always been a wallflower when it came to these social occasions, and so she had been grateful to Ralph when he had asked her to dance. Even if it had been an offer made out of pity.

  ‘See,’ he said with a charming smile as they continued dancing, ‘you didn’t mean it when you told me to stop.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I’ll fall over and make a spectacle of myself,’ she said with another giggle.

  He winked. ‘Then you’d better hold on tight so that doesn’t happen!’

  When the music did come to a stop, and with her head spinning, Ralph suggested he fetch them both another cooling drink. He led her off the dance floor and went in search of a waitress, leaving her to worry that the punch she had already drunk had gone to her head a little. While she waited for him to return, she caught her breath and tried to locate Arthur amongst the crowd.

  She felt guilty that she was having such a good time without him, and he’d gone to so much trouble to buy her this new dress for the evening. It wasn’t really to her liking – the colour was wrong for her pale complexion, and the style made her feel matronly compared to all the other women here. They must think her dreadfully plain and dowdy. She longed to wear something dazzling, or even daring like some of the young girls here, but then she never had before, so why did she think she could now? She had been brought up to dress and act modestly, never to draw attention to herself.

  It was one of the things that Arthur said he liked about her, her natural propensity for humility. He said she was very different to his previous wives who he described as vain show-offs who cared for nothing but their appearance, an attitude he couldn’t abide. It explained why he had such definite ideas on how she should dress.

  ‘You’re mistress of Melstead Hall,’ he would say, ‘so you need to dress appropriately, not like those young tarts in the village.’

  This was why she knew there was no truth in that malicious rumour she’d once heard in the village, that Arthur had forced himself on one of their maids. He simply wasn’t the type of man to chase after young girls. Probably it was the other way round, the maid had thrown herself at him and he’d firmly rebuffed her. Maybe it was the same girl who had sent Julia that anonymous letter.

  ‘There you go,’ Ralph said, back with her now and passing her a glass that was full to the brim. ‘Bottoms up!’

  ‘I mustn’t monopolise you,’ she said, after she’d taken a sip of the sweet liquid, taking care not to spill it down her new dress. ‘Not when you should be dancing with girls your own age.’

  ‘Time for that later,’ he said. ‘For now I want to make you laugh some more. You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this jolly. You always give the impression of being so serious.’

  She blushed at his words, not knowing how to respond.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘apart from dancing with your stepson, what else makes you laugh?’

  ‘All sorts of things,’ she replied.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Charles; he always—’ she broke off, realising she was about to betray herself by saying he always cheered her up. To say that would make her sound as though she weren’t happy. And she was happy. It was just that now Charles was away at school she was lonely at times.

  ‘What does Charles always do?’ Ralph prompted.

  ‘Smile,’ she said. ‘He makes me smile.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’ he asked.

  Surprised by the question, Julia said, ‘What sort of a mother would I be if I didn’t?’

  ‘He’s luc
ky to have you as his mother in that case. I doubt mine gave me a second thought once she left my father. She was glad to be shot of us both.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth. Drink up, I’m going to claim another dance with you, so brace yourself!’

  ‘Oh, I’d better not,’ she said.

  ‘What, better not drink up, or better not dance some more?’

  ‘Both. I ought to find Arthur. He’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘Come on, Julia, let your hair down. You’re not shackled to the old man. You’re not afraid of him, are you?’

  With a slight recoil, she frowned at the taunting tone in Ralph’s voice. ‘What makes you say that?’ she said.

  ‘You’re like a timid little mouse when he’s around.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, of course I’m not. I just don’t like to antagonise him like you . . . ’ her voice trailed off as she lost her nerve.

  ‘As I do, you were going to say?’

  ‘Well, you do seem to fall out with him such a lot. Can’t you be nicer to your father?’

  ‘I would if he were nicer to me.’ He drained his glass and looked at her with his charming smile. ‘I say, I don’t suppose you could do me a huge favour, could you?’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  ‘Put in a good word for me and see if you can get the old man to change his mind about increasing my allowance?’

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll listen to me,’ she said, startled at his suggestion. Money was not something Arthur discussed apart from how to save it. He gave her housekeeping money and it was her job to make it cover all the bills. She took pride in doing that, because she knew it pleased him.

  ‘Or perhaps you could—’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, when Ralph fell silent.

  ‘No. I can’t ask you what I was about to. It wouldn’t be right.’

  Ever since she had married Arthur, Julia had wanted to have a better relationship with Ralph. Until now she had believed he didn’t much care for her, that he resented her for marrying his father. In fact, until this evening they had never had a proper conversation. Perhaps this was a turning point for them. She hoped so because then he might also want to be closer to Charles, his stepbrother.