by Erica James
Feeling something touching him, he started violently.
‘What is it, Stanley?’ Annelise asked, her hand on his arm where it had been before, her beautiful face wreathed in concern. The sheer loveliness of her made him recoil.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he said roughly.
How could she bear to look at him? How could she even contemplate being in his presence when she was so pure and perfect, and he was so disgusting?
He fought hard to stop the nausea in his stomach from rising up, to quell the shaking that was building. He swallowed hard and stepped away from Annelise.
He needed to get away. Out of this marquee. He needed fresh air.
‘Stanley,’ she said, her eyes wide with alarm, ‘whatever is it? Are you unwell?’
Unable to speak, his palms sweaty, his heart thundering in his chest, he fled.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Annelise
Annelise chased after Stanley, convinced she had said something wrong, but not knowing what. She was appalled that she could have inadvertently upset him. She had just been on the verge of telling him about Harry, when she realised he wasn’t listening to her.
She went in the direction she thought he’d gone, adjusting her eyes to the darkness of the garden which was prettily illuminated with fairy lights. But there was no sign of him.
Reluctant to go back inside the marquee, she decided to go for a stroll. She had just rounded the far side of the marquee and was moving in the direction of the orchard, the music fading into the background, when she heard voices.
Peering in the darkness to see who was there, she realised it was Evelyn standing on the verandah of the summerhouse. With her was the guest who had arrived well after the party had started. An arrestingly handsome man with a smattering of grey at the temples and a cream silk scarf tired artfully around his neck, he had stuck out for Annelise because he had the same polished manner as Harry. He had carried himself with an easy assurance, as though he knew everybody would be observing him. Another showman, she had thought as she’d watched him greet Evelyn, kissing her flamboyantly on both cheeks.
‘I had no idea that Kit had invited you,’ Annelise heard Evelyn say now. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’
‘Your husband said it was meant to be a surprise. You know the kind of thing, a gang of your old chums crawling out of the woodwork to help celebrate your many years of wedded bliss.’
‘Surprise doesn’t cover the half of it; I had the shock of my life when I saw you.’
‘You make it sound like it’s an unwelcome surprise.’
‘It is, Max. You shouldn’t have come.’
‘But why, Evelyn? After all this time I thought you’d be pleased. Certainly Kit thought so. I say hats off to him turning detective and finding me.’
‘You’re being deliberately obtuse; something I recall you found contemptible in others. And in the circumstances—’ her voice broke off.
‘What circumstances?’ the man called Max demanded.
There was a pause. Then Evelyn said: ‘I don’t like coincidences.’
‘Back at the Park, that’s what we counted on.’
‘That was different; that was our job, to look for patterns.’
‘So what are you getting at? What coincidence has my presence here tonight created?’
‘I’ve received a letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘A vile poison pen letter insinuating that Kit isn’t Pip and Em’s father.’
‘Good God! Do you know who wrote it?’
‘No I don’t. It wasn’t you, was it, Max, wanting to stir up trouble? Because I’d happily kill you if that’s the case.’ Evelyn’s voice was fierce. Annelise had never heard her sound so severe.
‘Evelyn darling, how could you say such a thing after what we meant to each other?’
‘Don’t say that. Not ever. And don’t call me darling! Swear to me, Max, that you didn’t send that letter. Swear on whatever you hold sacred.’
‘Evelyn, I swear I wouldn’t do anything of the kind. For what purpose would I behave so dishonourably?’
Annelise didn’t want to hear any more. She should have walked away the moment she heard the voices, knowing that it was a private conversation, but shameful curiosity had rooted her to the spot. Now she forced herself to move, to retrace her steps back to the marquee. But such was her shock at what she’d heard, she blundered into the low branch of a tree and let out a small cry.
‘Who’s there?’ Evelyn called out.
Annelise didn’t know what to do. Whether to show herself and pretend she hadn’t known anyone else was nearby, or slip away into the darkness.
She chose the latter, but instead of going the way she had come, she went in the opposite direction, hoping that she wouldn’t miss her footing in the dark.
No good ever came of eavesdropping, everyone knew that, and she wished with all her heart she could erase the conversation she’d overheard from her memory. Kit not Pip and Em’s father? It couldn’t be true. And just who was this Max character? A wartime lover?
Annelise knew that Evelyn’s war work had been what was commonly referred to as ‘hush-hush’. In Oxford she frequently came across dons and fellows who had been similarly employed in the fight against Germany. They never spoke directly to her of what they had done, but there were always hints and rumours. College life was like that, an endless cycle of gossip, some of it quite malicious. Annelise’s biggest fear was that there might be rumours circulating about her and Harry. Harry maintained that if he caught anyone gossiping about him, he’d fight back. ‘I’d make it known,’ he once said, ‘that, just as there was in Cambridge, a KGB spy ring is at work in Oxford recruiting ideological students with Communist inclinations. That would really put the cat amongst the pigeons!’
Here in Melstead St Mary, the Cold War could not feel less of a threat, even with the Cuban missile crisis hanging over them. But in Oxford, where debates raged constantly, it seemed much more of a reality.
In April of this year Annelise had gone with Rebecca to Hyde Park with thousands of ban-the-bomb protesters. She had never done anything like that before. She had wanted Harry to go with her, to march together arm in arm, but of course something like that was out of the question. They couldn’t be seen in public together. Not until he was a single man.
Not really knowing where she was going, just that she had been intent on putting as much distance between herself and the summerhouse, Annelise realised she was now on the path that lead to the vegetable garden. And just as the bank of clouds that had been hiding the moon parted, she saw Stanley sitting on a bench.
‘Stanley, are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Please don’t come any nearer,’ he murmured.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m not fit to be in decent company.’
Ignoring his answer, she went and sat on the bench with him. He immediately made as if to get to his feet. She put her hand out to stop him. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I stink,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ve been sick.’
She could smell that he had. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘No.’
‘Shall I fetch Edmund?’
‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘Then what do you need?’
‘To be left alone.’
‘That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me. Have I done something wrong? Or said something to offend you?’
He shook his head.
‘Then what happened back there in the marquee? One minute we were chatting, and the next you rushed off as though you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.’
He turned to look at her and in the s
hadowy gloom his face looked eerily gaunt and contorted with something she couldn’t name. ‘Stanley,’ she said softly, ‘you look terrible; I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re not ill?’
‘I told you I’m not. And please don’t worry about me, I’m not worth worrying over.’
‘Why would you think that?’
He sighed and hung his head. ‘Just ignore me. Go back and enjoy the party.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘not now. Something’s troubling you, won’t you share it with me?’ She sensed him hesitate. ‘Please, Stanley,’ she pressed. ‘There’s never been any awkwardness between us before. Don’t let that change.’
He didn’t respond. She let the silence continue, waited patiently for him to talk.
‘I can’t explain it,’ he said finally.
‘Try.’
He slowly raised his head. ‘It comes over me when I’m least expecting it. This . . . sickening horror that I’m back where I was as a child, before I arrived at Island House.’
‘With your mother?’
He nodded.
‘The past can’t keep you hostage for ever,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t let it. You deserve so much more.’
‘Do I?’
‘Of course you do! Whatever that despicable woman made you believe as a child, it wasn’t true. Just look at the success you’ve made of your life.’
‘Most of the time that’s what I believe. But then from nowhere it’s as if she’s here with me, filling my head with her poison, convincing me I’m worthless.’
Annelise frowned. ‘When did this start happening?’
He shrugged. ‘Earlier this year, after I’d been to her funeral.’
‘Her funeral?’ Annelise was stunned. ‘You never said that you went to her funeral, or that you even knew she had died?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone to think that she meant something to me. I thought everyone here who had helped me might feel I was being disloyal.’
‘That’s madness, Stanley. Why would anyone think that?’
He sighed again. ‘Like I said before, I can’t really explain it. None of it makes sense. All I know is that the fear, once it gets a hold of me, is so real it makes me believe what she used to say. It churns me up so much that I’m physically sick.’
‘I hate to state the obvious, but you should see somebody about this.’
‘A trick cyclist?’
She gave him a tentative smile. ‘A doctor who can get inside your head and sort it all out for you.’
‘But it won’t change who I am, will it?’
‘It’s not about change, Stanley; it’s about acceptance.’
‘I still wouldn’t be good enough for you, would I, not compared to your clever friends in Oxford?’
She stared at her dearest friend in horror. ‘Oh, Stanley, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve loved you like a brother all my life. You’re as dear to me as anyone ever could be. Truly you are.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it. I’m not myself.’
No, you’re not, she thought. But then perhaps that was the point. Who were any of them beneath the outer layers with which they equipped themselves?
Chapter Thirty
Casa Santa Rosa, Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
Just who the devil did he think he was?
Her arms slicing through the water, her legs kicking with concentrated intent, Romily had been asking herself this question since returning from the aborted lunch with Red St Clair.
What really infuriated her was that he had made no attempt to stop her from leaving. She had been calling his bluff by suggesting she leave, and he’d let her do just that. He had plainly known what she was doing and had called her bluff in return. Seldom did she meet anyone who got under her skin, but in this case Red St Clair had done exactly that.
Deftly turning at the end of the pool, she commenced another length. The only conclusion she could reach about what had happened with Red, was that she must have been too direct with him when asking about the real Red St Clair. It was funny how people went on about wanting others to be straight with them, but when they were confronted with even a mild dose of it themselves, rarely was it to their liking.
Obviously Red didn’t feel comfortable with anyone being direct with him. He wanted to dictate the terms of any conversation and in the process ensure he revealed nothing of himself. Question was, why? What did he have to hide?
Well, one thing was for certain, she had put the kibosh on their working together. She would telephone Gabe and Melvyn to explain, as well as apologise, and then book her flight home.
Home. Where she should have gone in the first place. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at Meadow Lodge celebrating Kit and Evelyn’s wedding anniversary. She hoped the party was the success Kit had so badly wanted it to be.
‘I’d like to do something special for Evelyn,’ he’d confided to Romily. ‘It’s the least I can do after everything she’s done for me.’
Kit had always seen his marriage to Evelyn in those terms, as though he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Often the consequence of that was the belief that good fortune was transitory, that any day it would come to an end.
Out of the swimming pool now, Romily dried herself vigorously, then lay back on one of the comfortable poolside loungers. She would miss this when she left. The sensation of hot rays of sunshine caressing her body felt good on what she ruefully called her ‘old bones’. The leg she broke when she crash-landed the Walrus occasionally played up with a stiffness on a cold damp morning. Not surprisingly it hadn’t bothered her while she had been here.
Looking at her leg now, she ran a finger the length of the six-inch scar. Despite the fashion for shorter hemlines, she always wore her skirts and dresses well below the knee to hide the imperfection. It was a poignant reminder of the crash which she had been lucky to survive, and of the man who had pulled her from the burning wreckage: Matteo Fontana.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tilbrook Hall, Norfolk
April 1944
Romily
Matteo visited me every day. With nothing to do but stay in bed with my leg in traction, his visits were all I had to look forward to.
He told me that he had learned English from an excellent teacher at school, and that he had been an officer in the Italian army and had been captured in North Africa. As a POW here at Tilbrook Hall, he helped in the infirmary as well as worked on the nearby farm with the land girls. He was considered to be a ‘white prisoner’, which meant he was a low risk POW with no political motivation. As a consequence, he was given a certain amount of freedom, such as joining in with local events in the village.
I was perfectly capable of doing it myself, but he read to me, borrowing books from the library. The owners of Tilbrook Hall, who had decamped to their Belgravia house, had given permission for their library to be at the disposal of the medical staff, as well as the patients.
He was reading to me now and it amused and charmed me to hear Great Expectations read with a gorgeously seductive Italian accent. Never had Dickens sounded so good! It may have been the effect of the strong medication I was given, but I could have listened to Matteo reading the telephone book and it would still have had my mind wandering into dangerous waters.
He was the first man I had encountered since my husband’s death with whom I had experienced an attraction. Until now I had been unable to imagine another man’s touch, never mind the kind of passionate intimacy I had enjoyed with Jack. Everyone had told me that I would one day fall in love again, that it would just take time. Had sufficient time now passed?
‘Would you prefer I stopped reading to you?’
I opened my eyes to see Matteo regarding me intently. ‘Yes,’ I said
, ‘why don’t you put the book down and tell me some more about yourself and your life back in Italy?’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘What did you do before you became a soldier?’
‘It is hard sometimes to remember that I had a life before the world went mad.’
‘Please tell me about it. Unless,’ I added tactfully, ‘it will make you too homesick?’
He closed the book and placed it carefully on the cabinet beside my bed. ‘I grew up on the Island of Ischia and it was expected that I would become a doctor just like my father. “People”, my father would say, “will always need a doctor, so you will always be in work.” I did what he wanted and studied medicine and became a doctor.’
‘So that is the reason you help out here in the infirmary?’
‘Yes. And for some years I enjoyed what I did, but all I had ever dreamt of doing was paint. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted that more than anything in the world.’
I nodded. ‘But to defy your father would have been out of the question?’ I said, taking in his sensitive face with its fine features and enviably long lashes, and the gentle cadence to his voice.
‘Everyone thought I was crazy, but yes, I disappointed my family by giving up medicine to go and study at the Accademia di Brera in Milan, then I went to Florence. I never felt so alive as I did during that time. It was as if I had been born again.’
‘To be the person you were meant to be?’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ he said, his dark eyes opening wide, his expression brightening, ‘that was just how I felt.’
‘Were you then able to make a living from painting?’
‘I did, I am happy to say. If that does not sound too . . . too arrogant of me.’
‘I would love to see something you’ve painted.’
‘Do you mean that?’