by Erica James
In a state of bewildered shock, Julia stared at him. ‘When will you be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
Chapter Forty-Six
St Gertrude’s College, Oxford
November 1962
Annelise
‘I wish you could come with me.’
‘I wish I could too,’ Harry said.
‘I’ve never asked you for anything before, can you not do this one thing for me?’
‘Annelise, I’d do anything to be with you. You know I would.’
‘Not quite anything.’
The words were out before she could stop them. They were words she had never wanted to utter; they were too loaded with need, the desperate need she had never wanted to reveal. But now she had, and with an unavoidable edge of scolding sarcasm that made her squirm.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘You know I can’t suddenly drop everything and leave Oxford. I’m not a free agent like you.’
Sitting at her desk, Annelise gripped the telephone hard, and held her tongue, not trusting herself to continue. A free agent, was that what she was?
‘Darling?’
‘Will you ever leave your wife?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Now is not the time to discuss my marriage.’
‘It never is,’ she muttered. Then: ‘I must go.’
‘Not like this.’
‘I have a train to catch.’
‘I know you do. But I don’t want you so far away feeling badly towards me.’
‘I’m going to Suffolk, not the ends of the earth.’
‘It might just as well be.’
‘Then do as I ask and drop everything and come with me.’
‘This is family time for you,’ he said, ‘I’d be in the way.’
‘You’d be there to support me.’ She cringed. There she went again, showing her shameful need.
‘Hope will be fine. And so will you. You’re one of the strongest people I know.’
‘How do you know she’ll be fine?’ Annelise snapped. ‘You have no idea how badly hurt she is. And for God’s sake, stop treating me as if I were a child!’
‘Then stop acting like one!’
There. Finally she had provoked him into saying something that wasn’t a worthless platitude.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘I think you did. I think that’s the first thing you’ve said in a long time that you’ve truly meant.’
‘Annelise, you’re upset. It’s understandable. You’ve had a terrible shock. Let’s not argue. Catch your train and we’ll talk when you’re back in Oxford.’
‘What would be the point?’ she said. Before he had a chance to reply, she hung up.
The train journey felt interminable.
Every mile covered of clackety-clack track made her throbbing head ache all the more. It had started in the taxi ride from St Gertrude’s to the station and worsened tenfold once she was on the train out of the city. Since changing trains on the last leg of the journey, a large man who had taken the seat next to her kept falling asleep and leaning into her. Several times she’d had to shove him back into his seat, inciting a loud snore from his gaping mouth.
The heating was turned up too high – the source of it was coming from the metal heating grille beneath her seat – and she longed to open the window, but daren’t. It had started to rain earlier and a ruddy-cheeked woman in a thick tweed coat had slammed it shut, and with a defiance that challenged anyone to open it again.
After stopping at yet another train station, an elderly man now joined them in the carriage, and tipping his hat with a smile, stowing his umbrella and loosening his scarf and coat, he revealed himself to be a man of the cloth. He then proceeded to light up a pipe, drawing on it with zeal.
Within minutes the fug of smoke was making Annelise nauseous. Oh, how she bitterly regretted that she had not received the news about Mums earlier so she could have travelled home last night. But she had been at a formal dinner at St Hilda’s and hadn’t returned to her rooms in college until nearly midnight. Had she not gone out, she would have received Stanley’s message in time to travel home at once. All she could do at that time of night was ring the hospital and speak to Edmund. The grave concern in his voice had meant she hadn’t slept a wink all night. At two in the morning, and unable to speak to the one person she wanted to – Harry – she had rung Stanley. ‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ he had said when she apologised for disturbing him. It had felt good to hear his voice and comforted by it, she had thanked him for finding Hope. ‘It’s Tucker who deserves the credit,’ he’d said.
‘But had you and Romily not braved the storm to look for her, Mums may well have died in that ditch.’ Annelise was determined he should accept her gratitude.
As soon as she was up and dressed, and too sick with worry to eat breakfast, she had gone in search of the Dean to request compassionate leave. Dr Spriggs was kindness itself and told her it was almost the end of term anyway, so she was to take as much leave as she required.
The fug of smoke in the confined space was now causing Annelise’s head to throb all the more. And with bile rising in her throat and desperate for some fresh air, she stood up, took down her suitcase from the overhead rack and slid open the compartment door and escaped.
Moving along the corridor, and finding most of the other carriages full, she gave up looking for a seat. With only twenty minutes of the journey left, she set her case down on the floor and stood next to a grimy window. The glass was so filthy she could only just see out of it at the passing scenery, the rain blurring the fields and houses. But at least she could open it and breathe in the damp cold air.
She closed her eyes and as the nausea and bile receded, she tried to focus on Hope, on willing her to regain consciousness, and for her injuries not to be life-threatening. But every time she attempted to corral her thoughts, Harry’s voice intruded, his words echoing the rhythm of the train tracks.
I’d do anything to be with you . . . I’d do anything to be with you . . . I’d do anything to be with you . . .
He had said a variation on the theme of this many times since their relationship had begun. Since their affair had begun, Annelise corrected herself.
He was never going to leave his wife, was he? She’d been a fool to think he would. A blind fool. Why had it taken so long for her to wake up and realise that? Why had she wanted so badly to believe in his lies?
For God’s sake, she was an intelligent woman, so she thought, but she had behaved as naïvely and as stupidly as the child he had accused her of being.
What had made her think she was so special that Harry would divorce his wife for her? Arrogance, that’s what it was! She had imagined herself to be infinitely better than that poor woman to whom he was married. She wasn’t better. She was so much worse. She had cheapened herself by allowing herself to become his mistress.
His bit on the side.
The other woman.
The homewrecker.
Seeing her actions for what they really were, for the first time ever she felt guilty. Moreover she felt sorry for the woman she had never met, but whom she had turned into an inferior being. In her love for Harry, Annelise had convinced herself that his wife didn’t deserve him, that she wasn’t capable of making Harry truly happy. Only Annelise could do that, she had believed.
It was a pity she had not followed the advice she gave her students, that there was always more than one way of looking at something, that it was a mistake to limit one’s potential by narrowing one’s perspective. If she had heeded her own counsel, she might have seen through Harry’s tissue of lies and seen him for what he was – a selfish man intent on having his cake and eating it.
Find what will make you happy. That’s what Romily always used to say to her. She had con
vinced herself that Harry was what made her happy, but the reality was, he had drained the joy out of her with her constant battle to disguise just how much she loved him.
Love. Was that what she’d felt for him?
If it was, it had been the wrong sort of love, she now acknowledged; it was a destructive love.
Romily had not warned her off when Annelise had confided in her, that was not her style. Instead, she had said that love was an adventure, and nobody ever knew how or where it would end up, no matter the strength of the emotions involved.
With a deep sigh, Annelise accepted that Romily had probably known exactly how this particular adventure would end.
Staring at the passing scenery, and realising that she was nearly home, she felt cross that she had allowed herself to be consumed with thoughts of Harry when it was Hope who should be uppermost in her mind. And Edmund.
When the train finally pulled into the station at Melstead St Mary with a last puff of steam, Annelise couldn’t step down onto the platform fast enough.
Stanley was there to meet her. She all but fell into his welcome embrace.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Florence
‘Florence, do you have a moment to talk?’
In the laundry room, and hearing the serious tone to Romily’s voice as she stood in the doorway looking in at her, Florence said, ‘It’s not bad news from the hospital, is it?’
Hope had been unconscious now for two weeks. The longer it went on, the more they all feared she might never regain consciousness. During that time Romily had been away on a ten-day tour of speaking engagements in Scandinavia and only returned late last night. She had wanted to cancel the tour, but Edmund had insisted she go, that everyone back at home would keep her up to date. Every day the news had been the same: Hope showed no sign of improvement.
Romily shook her head. ‘There’s been no word today from Edmund or Annelise. Would you come into the library, please, there’s something I want to discuss with you?’
Putting the basket of washing on the floor, Florence wondered what Romily wanted to discuss. Was she unhappy with her work? Florence knew that she had been distracted recently, worrying about those poison pen letters, so maybe she had forgotten something important she was supposed to have arranged. She hoped not.
In the library, Romily invited her to sit in the comfortable armchair to one side of the fire. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I need to ask you something personal.’
‘Goodness, that sounds ominous.’
Romily sat in the chair opposite. ‘I’m afraid it is. We’ve always been very honest with each other, haven’t we?’
Puzzled, Florence nodded.
‘In the past when you’ve had any worries, you’ve shared them with me, and I with you. I’ve always valued that between us. It’s made us the friends we are.’
‘That’s true,’ said Florence.
‘Yet, and I don’t think I’m imagining this,’ Romily went on, ‘you haven’t been yourself lately, have you? You’ve had something on your mind, and I’ve been a poor friend in that until now I haven’t made the time to find out what was wrong.’
‘You don’t need to apologise to me, Romily, I know how busy you are. And then, what with Hope being in hospital and you being away, it didn’t seem right to bother you.’
‘My work schedule, no matter how busy, is no excuse. A while ago you tried to talk to me. In fact, you tried on several occasions, and for various reasons, for which I can only apologise, I didn’t pursue the matter with you. It didn’t, by any chance, have something to do with receiving an anonymous letter, did it?’
Florence’s jaw dropped. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘It was a guess. You see, Hope received one, and Evelyn has had two sent to her. They both had struck me as being out of sorts recently, and the letters would explain their behaviour.’
‘So you thought I was in the same boat?’
‘Yes. It came to me while I was away. What did your letter say?’
‘I’ve had two, both accusing Billy of cheating on me. Rubbish, of course. Billy’s not like that. He really isn’t. But—’
‘But the letters sowed the seed of doubt,’ said Romily, ‘and now you can’t stop wondering if it might be true.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Florence. It shamed her to admit that she could doubt her husband. ‘It’s been driving me mad. I’ve even begun snooping through his things. Can you believe that?’
‘If it reassures you, the letter Hope received implied that Edmund was being unfaithful to her.’
Again Florence was shocked. ‘Dr Flowerday would never do that!’
‘I agree. No more than your Billy would. But to sow the seed of distrust in a wife’s head about her husband is a particularly malicious act.’
‘What about Evelyn’s letters?’
Romily hesitated before saying, ‘A variation on the same theme, but slightly different. Evelyn wondered if the sender of the letters was somebody with whom she worked during the war. But I think we can discount that theory now. Do you have any suspicions who it might be?’
‘Only that it could be Ruby, you know how she hates me. I was so sure it was her I searched her cottage for any sign of glue and bits of newspaper.’ Florence gave a hesitant smile. ‘You would have been proud of me, I was just like your Sister Grace, looking for evidence. I didn’t find anything though.’ She paused and considered for a moment what she now knew. ‘But it doesn’t make sense that my mother-in-law would be sending anonymous letters to Evelyn and Hope, does it? Ruby doesn’t have a grievance with them, only me for marrying Billy.’
Romily looked thoughtful. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Would you show me your letters? There might be a clue in the wording that could give away who’s doing this.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got rid of them. Do you suppose the three of us are not the only ones to be targeted, that there might be others in the village who have received letters?’
‘Possibly.’ Romily smiled. ‘Who knows, I might be next on the list of recipients?’
‘They wouldn’t dare, not to you.’
‘To a twisted mind nobody is immune.’
Florence knew Romily was right. Ruby was a perfect example of somebody whose mind was so twisted against her, she would stop at nothing to make life as difficult as she could for her.
Sensing there was nothing more to be said on the subject for now, Florence rose from her chair. ‘I’d better get on,’ she said.
She was at the door when she turned around. ‘We won’t have to go to the police about this, will we?’
‘I’d like to think not,’ Romily replied, ‘but if the situation escalates it would be the sensible thing to do. We’ll cross that bridge if we need to. Over the years, you and I have solved many a problem together, so let’s see if we can resolve this one too. Oh, and I meant to say earlier, don’t leave it too late going home this afternoon. By all accounts the smog in London is getting worse and heading our way. And knowing how you worry about George, why don’t you try telephoning him before you go to make sure he’s all right?’
‘Thank you, Romily, I will.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
London
December 1962
Ralph
The smog was so thick visibility was reduced to less than a few yards. With a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose, Ralph had lost count how many times he’d bumped into another person or building, or stumbled off the pavement very nearly into the path of an oncoming car crawling along in the dark. It was unnervingly disorientating, and he supposed this was how it had been during the blackout in the war. Just without the choking air.
Everyone in London was hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as the smog that killed thous
ands ten years ago. He’d been a boy back then and could remember receiving a rare letter from his mother – from the safety of the south of France – advising him to stay indoors. The letter had been sent to the prep school he attended in North London and he’d opened it with a mixture of emotions. He hated the slapdash nature of her communications – nothing for six months, then suddenly a rambling letter telling him how much she loved him and how she wished he could be with her. Initially he had made the mistake of believing her, but when he replied saying he would like to spend the school holidays with her, there was a lengthy silence. His father hated him to have any contact with his mother, and so he kept her letters secret. He had enjoyed keeping secrets. But didn’t everybody?
More than once he had thrown a letter from his mother straight into the bin, not bothering to read it. She had abandoned him, after all. What kind of mother did that? But as the years went by, he reasoned that any woman in her right mind wouldn’t stick around for long with a husband like Arthur Devereux. For the life of him, Ralph couldn’t understand how any woman would want to attach themselves to his father in the first place.
Women were unfathomable creatures. Take Isabella for example. One minute she was fine with him, the next she was criticising him and making out she was so much better. He really shouldn’t have raised his hand to slap her, but then she shouldn’t have provoked him.
She was spoiled, that was her trouble. Just like Annelise. And that was Romily’s doing. Why hadn’t the woman shown him a fraction of the attention she’d lavished on those two girls when they’d all been growing up?
It was a rhetorical question. He knew jolly well why Romily had kept her distance. Why they all did. It was because of his father. They despised Arthur Devereux. When Ralph had been old enough to realise this, and wanting to dissociate himself from the old man, he’d tried his best to be affable and charming in order to gain acceptance into the inner circle, as he saw it.
In some small measure, he had achieved a degree of approval, but he would never be granted full membership to the clan. It was laughable, that he, a true-blooded Devereux – unlike Isabella, the bastard child of a mother who’d been a bastard child herself, and Annelise, a German and not even a blood relation – was made to feel he was a stranger on the outside looking in.