by Erica James
‘I’d sooner you came home,’ she’d said.
‘I’ll be home very soon. I have business matters here to deal with. Now will you promise you’ll do as Dr Monk says? After all, you want to be well for when Charles comes home for the Christmas holiday, don’t you?’
‘Why go to all the bother of sending a doctor from London to see me?’ she’d then asked. ‘I’ll see Dr Flowerday.’
‘I want the best for you, Julia, not some country quack. Why bother Edmund when he’s so worried about Hope right now?’
Julia had promised Arthur she would do exactly as he said. He was probably right; her nerves had got the better of her. And if this specialist from London was able to ensure she slept at night, that the nightmares of Arthur’s car hitting his sister would stop, she would take whatever medicine she was offered.
Following Dr Monk’s visit, and after several days of taking the medicine he prescribed, Julia was convinced it disagreed with her. As a former nurse she knew that not all drugs suited all patients, and while it was true that she slept at night – she was knocked out cold minutes after swallowing the tablets – the nightmares continued. In fact, they were worse, and during the day she felt sluggish, as though her body was weighted with concrete. She also had the sensation of viewing everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Her sense of balance was affected, too and had kept her in bed. It was most disconcerting.
As convinced as she was that the tonic and tablets disagreed with her, she began to wonder if Miss Casey might be adding something to the dishes of food she put before her and which she insisted Julia ate. But was that paranoia making her suspect Miss Casey was poisoning her?
That was the trouble with paranoia, one could never tell what was really happening and what was going on inside one’s head. One thing she grew certain of was that she had to go out, if only to the village. Cooped up as she was, she was beginning to feel as mad as Rochester’s lunatic wife in the attic. And to go out, she had to break the promise she had made to Arthur. So she pretended to take the prescribed medication, but secretly poured the twice-daily dose of tonic down the plughole of the basin in her bathroom, and crushed the tablets so they too could be washed away.
Since then Julia’s head had cleared and the need to do what she considered the right thing became ever more vital to her. She wanted to visit Hope in hospital. What must the rest of the family be thinking that neither Arthur nor she had gone to see his sister?
While she had been out of her mind with worry, she had received another anonymous letter.
after shaming your husband you won’t
be mrs arthur devereux for much longer!
She supposed it was referring to her being drunk the night of the party at Meadow Lodge, but if she were honest, a spiteful village busybody was the least of her concerns right now.
With every step that took her further away from the Hall, Julia felt a mixture of emotion: pride that she had defied Miss Casey, and trepidation at what she planned to do. Her consternation wasn’t helped by feeling lightheaded, together with the tiredness that was creeping into her legs. This was the most active she had been in days. She should have eaten some breakfast, but she hadn’t wanted to risk eating anything Miss Casey brought to her. Not today.
In the centre of the village, she crossed the market square and went over to the bus stop. After checking the timetable, she saw that she had half an hour to wait. On the other side of the square, she spotted the Cobbles Tea Room. Or what used to be the Cobbles before new management took it over and renamed it the Bluebird Café.
A cup of tea and a scone would help pass the time. But she hesitated. Arthur had said she wasn’t to frequent the establishment. ‘Nothing but a parochial fleapit for the hoi polloi and gossiping old crones of Melstead St Mary,’ he said of it.
Her stomach fluttering again with nerves that she was being so daring, she walked towards the tearoom and pushed open the door. It was invitingly warm inside and rather jolly with a prettily decorated Christmas tree in one corner, and paper chains strung up between the oak beams. It didn’t look at all like a fleapit.
‘A table for one, please,’ she said when a waitress approached. Taking her seat, and picking up the menu, she was aware of people staring at her. Her head down as she looked at the menu, she wondered if the person who was sending her the anonymous letters was here.
‘What’ll it be, Mrs Devereux?’
Startled at the use of her name, Julia looked up to see an attractive young girl with a pencil poised over a pad of paper to take her order. It wasn’t until the waitress returned some minutes later with a pot of tea and a toasted teacake as well as a mince pie – she really was ravenous – that Julia realised why the girl had known who she was. She used to work at the Hall but left unexpectedly and without a word of explanation. Julia had been disappointed because the girl had always been so polite to her. She racked her brains to remember her name. Josie . . . Pam . . . No, it was Pat, that was it!
‘How are you, Pat?’ she asked, pleased with herself for recalling the name.
‘You remember me, then?’ the girl replied.
‘Of course I do. I was sorry you left.’
‘No disrespect to you, but nothing would have made me stay a moment longer.’
Taken aback, Julia watched the girl walk away to serve another customer.
It was while she was buttering her toasted teacake that she heard giggling from behind the screen that separated her table from the kitchen area. When the giggling stopped, she heard a girl’s voice. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, that Mr Devereux was like a bleeding octopus; he couldn’t keep his disgusting hands off me.’
‘Do you suppose his wife knows what he’s like?’
‘If she does, she’s too much under his thumb to do anything about it.’
It was all lies! Julia wanted to shout. Nothing but lies! Arthur wasn’t like that! She forced herself to stay calm. She must remember who she was. She was Mrs Arthur Devereux.
But maybe not for much longer . . .
She delved into her handbag for her purse, counted out the money to pay the bill, and tugging on her coat, she left.
Her heart racing, her breath short, she blindly crossed the cobbled square, just as the bus she had wanted to catch appeared. For a moment she hesitated, then suddenly guided by a force so strong it swept away any doubts, she boarded the bus and took a window seat at the front. It took her some minutes to compose herself – to pull herself together, as Arthur would say – and when she had, everything was frighteningly clear to her.
And just as clear was the decision that she must not lose her nerve when she reached the hospital.
She was used to hospitals and seeing very sick patients. She had nursed many to the end, right to their death rattle last breath. Yet for all her previous experience, Julia was shocked at the sight of her sister-in-law. But slowly removing her coat, she reverted to her old self, a trained nurse with a patient to take care of. She read the medical notes at the foot the bed, and then assessed the equipment that was helping to keep Hope alive. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she sat in the chair beside the bed.
Under normal circumstances Julia would never have dared to do what she did next, but she reached out for Hope’s right hand – her left was partially hidden beneath the plaster cast that covered her forearm. Reassuring patients had been a forte of Julia’s when she had been a nurse, that and listening. She had been taught to understand that these two things were a crucial part of being a good nurse. ‘Hold their hand,’ she was told, ‘and listen to whatever it is they have to say. It’s a great comfort to them.’
It was listening to Arthur when he’d been ill with pneumonia that had brought them together. He’d told her one day that he’d never before been treated with such kind compassion. ‘You’re a very special person,’ he’d said, ‘and I want to find a way to thank you f
or all that you’ve done for me.’
She had believed him. Every word. But now she didn’t. Now she was about to betray him, despite the risk involved.
‘Hope,’ she said in a low voice, ‘it’s me, Julia. I should have come to see you sooner, but I didn’t dare. You see, the thing is, I know who was driving the car that hit you. It was your brother, Arthur. He didn’t mean to. It was an accident. But it was very wrong of him not to stop and help you.’
There, she’d said it. She had done her duty. Just not in the way her father or husband would have wanted.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Melstead St Mary, Suffolk
December 1962
Stanley
‘I’ve been such a fool, Stanley.’
‘Nobody, least of all me, would ever accuse you of being a fool,’ said Stanley, trudging along next to Annelise.
‘You’ll think differently when you know the truth. You see, in common with all self-sufficient people when I did lose my self-control, I lost it comprehensively.’
It was difficult for Stanley to picture Annelise losing control and he said so.
A rueful smile flickered across her face, which until then had been intensely sad and pale, and with what anybody else would assume was worry for Hope. But for some days he’d felt Annelise had something else on her mind.
‘And that’s part of the problem,’ she said. ‘Perhaps deep down I had been longing to do just that; to defy expectations of me and rebel. To kick over the traces.’ She came to a stop and stared out across the valley.
They had been walking across the fields at the back of Fairview and were now on the crest of the rise looking down towards the village, which was just discernible through the thinning fog. Scampering on ahead, Tucker was on the trail of something, probably a rabbit. It was Sunday morning and in the distance the bells were being rung, calling the faithful to church. Regular worship was an aspect of village life that had passed Stanley by. He never felt quite good enough – clean enough – to be there.
‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ Annelise said.
‘Sounds like you want to make a confession,’ he said lightly, which belied how he felt. Filled with a sense of dread, he had the strongest sensation that he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.
But then the sense of dread had been with him since yesterday evening when he had driven her home from the hospital. He knew that she found visiting Hope upsetting, but last night she had been particularly upset. To cheer her up he had suggested they go for a drink, but with tears in her eyes, she had said she wouldn’t be good company.
When Stanley had stopped the car in front of Fairview, she had sat very still, her hand resting on the door handle as if trying to decide something.
‘I know Romily’s invited us all for lunch tomorrow, but will you come for a walk with me in the morning?’ she’d said finally. ‘Fog or no fog, would ten o’clock be all right for you to meet me here?’
‘I’ll be here,’ he’d said, hugging her goodnight. He’d driven home wondering what was wrong. Did she want to discuss how awkward she now felt around him, knowing what his true feelings for her were?
‘I tried to tell you about Harry the night of the party at Meadow Lodge,’ Annelise said now, her gaze fixed on some faraway point, ‘but I’d only said a few words when you were suddenly ill.’
Harry . . .? ‘Go on,’ Stanley murmured, remembering how revoltingly ill he’d been, but he had no recall of anyone called Harry.
‘I’m afraid I rather lost my head over him,’ she continued.
‘That’s you rebelling, is it?’ he quipped, forcing a levity to his voice he didn’t feel.
‘I thought he loved me,’ she said, still staring into the distance. ‘I thought . . . I thought everything he said was true, that his marriage really was on the rocks and he was planning to divorce his wife so he could be with me. But everything that came out of his mouth was a lie. I can see that now.’
‘He’s married?’
At last she turned to face Stanley. ‘Have I shocked and disappointed you?’
He was shocked. He was hugely shocked that Annelise could be so credulous, but he tried to hide it. ‘Of course not,’ he lied. ‘If we could choose who we fall in love with, and vice versa, life would be a lot easier.’ And wasn’t that the truth? he thought. ‘Was it love at first sight?’ he asked, despite the pain the question caused him.
She shook her head. ‘No. But when it hit me, it was a colpo di fulmine.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It means I was hit by a thunderbolt. Which is nothing compared to what I feel I’ve been hit with now. Will you promise me something?’ she asked. Her face was so earnest it hurt him.
‘Anything.’ He meant it, too. He would do anything for Annelise. He had always felt that way about her.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to share with you. Do you promise?’
‘You have my word.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
Seconds passed while Stanley floundered, trying to find the right words.
‘Say something,’ she said.
‘Does he know?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve only just guessed at the truth myself.’
‘You mean you don’t know for sure?’
‘I don’t need a test to tell me what I already know. I’ve been feeling sick every morning since I arrived home.’
‘But you might have a stomach virus, or— ’
‘No, Stanley, it’s a baby growing inside my body that’s causing me to have morning sickness. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I may have fooled myself into believing everything Harry told me, but I’m now level-headed enough to know that the folly of my actions has to be confronted.’
Listening to her calmly blaming herself for the predicament she found herself in filled Stanley with the need to get into his car and drive to Oxford to kill the man who had done this to her.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, when he trusted himself to speak as calmly as Annelise had.
‘Will I keep the baby? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Yes.’
She sighed. ‘The thought of giving the baby up for adoption appals me, but if I keep the child, how would I be able to carry on with my work in Oxford? There’s not a hope of St Gertrude’s wanting to keep me on as an unmarried mother. My career would be over.’
Stanley took his hands out of his jacket pocket and wrapped them around Annelise’s cold fingers. ‘There’s one very easy solution to the problem,’ he said. ‘Marry me. I’ll help you raise the child. For all intents and purposes, it will be ours. Together. Nobody need ever know that it wasn’t our child.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
St Mary’s, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Florence
Billy and his parents had always been members of the Salvation Army, and while Florence often attended the services with her husband, she didn’t always. This particular Sunday morning she had fancied a change – and time away from her mother-in-law – and had come to St Mary’s. If she had stayed at home, even on the pretext of writing Christmas cards and cooking lunch, Ruby would accuse her of being godless and bound for hell. Who wasn’t in Ruby’s eyes? Apart from Billy, that was.
The Reverend Allsop had now drawn his rather long-winded sermon to a close, and the organist started playing ‘Thine Be the Glory’. With everyone rising to their feet, Florence glanced around at the congregation, wondering if it was one of them who was sending the anonymous letters. No one struck her as a likely candidate, but what did she expect the person to look like? Another thought then occurred to her. Who else here had received a letter? And was it only women who had been singled out?
When the hymn came to an end and they once again sat down to bow their h
eads in readiness for prayer, Florence spotted Julia Devereux amongst the worshippers. She was alone, which never happened. If she came at all, it was with her husband and invariably only for the special occasion services, such as Easter and Christmas.
When eventually the service was over and Florence was buttoning up her coat and pulling on her gloves, she joined the queue to get out of the church. While the vicar was engaged in conversation with a couple Florence only knew by sight and who had recently moved to the village, she found herself standing next to Julia.
‘Good morning, Mrs Devereux,’ Florence said politely.
The woman started violently and dropped one of her gloves, along with her prayer book. Florence picked them up for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving Florence a puzzled look, as if trying to place her.
‘Florence Minton,’ she said helpfully. ‘I work at Island House, and my Billy runs the bread shop.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Clutching her handbag to her, the woman looked a regular bundle of nerves and appeared desperate to get away from Florence, as though she might catch something from her.
‘Ah, hello Mrs Devereux!’ chimed the vicar, as they moved forward, ‘what a pleasure to see you; it’s good of you to join us this morning. Mr Devereux not with you?’
‘He . . . he’s in London. Business matters . . . he’s always so busy.’
‘I hope he’s not suffered any ill-effects from the smog while there. It was bad enough what drifted our way here in dear old Melstead St Mary. We must give thanks that it’s now dissipated. Will you and Mr Devereux be here for Christmas? And your young son, Charles?’
Whatever her answer was, Florence didn’t hear the woman as she seemed intent on escaping as quickly as possible. Florence followed soon after and caught up with her on the gravel pathway where she was blowing her nose. But just as Florence was about to pass by, she realised Julia was crying. She slowed her step.
‘Everything all right, Mrs Devereux?’
Again Julia started. The woman was as nervous as a rabbit! ‘I’m . . . fine,’ she stuttered, fumbling with the handkerchief. ‘It’s the cold, it always gets in my eyes like this.’