by Erica James
Florence wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t her place to press the point. Even so, she couldn’t just walk away. The woman looked so distressed. To Florence’s knowledge she had no friends in the village. Romily had often invited Julia to join them at Island House for lunch or dinner when Arthur was away, as he often was, but the invitations were always declined.
‘If there’s anything you need, Mrs Devereux,’ Florence said, ‘you only have to ask.’
The comment drew a stifled sob from her, much like the sound Florence had heard when the vicar had announced they should pray for Hope.
‘Excuse me,’ Julia muttered, ‘I need to get home before—’ her words ground to a halt as she pressed the handkerchief against her mouth.
Her misery was horrible to see. ‘Before what?’ Florence said gently. Before Julia broke down completely? Before that unpleasant housekeeper could look down her snooty nose at Julia?
In the last twelve months since Miss Casey had started working at the Hall, she had gained herself a reputation for being rude and stand-offish. Nobody in the village had warmed to her.
But without answering Florence, Julia wheeled away sharply and set off down the road. Florence watched her go. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for her going back to that great mausoleum of a house. It must be a lonely life there for her.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
Conscious that Edmund was at the end of his tether worrying about Hope, Romily had invited him and Annelise for Sunday lunch, along with Kit and Evelyn, and Stanley. Had Pip and Em not been away in Lincolnshire for a house party to celebrate a friend’s birthday, the invitation would have included them too.
The meal of roast pork now served, and with plates and glasses filled, the talk around the table turned to the ever-reliable topic – when the mood was awkward – of the weather.
‘They say it’s going to become a lot colder,’ said Evelyn.
‘I read in the newspaper it’s going to snow,’ agreed Kit.
‘I read that too,’ remarked Romily.
‘A white Christmas is on the cards,’ said Stanley.
The stilted conversation moved on to snatches of village gossip, but it was desperately forced and through it all Edmund remained tight-lipped, his expression impassive. But was it any wonder when there was still no improvement in Hope’s condition and optimism was fast running out? Annelise was also quieter than usual, and to Romily’s eye, the girl didn’t look well. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes which emphasised just how pale she was.
‘Evelyn and I saw Julia walking home on our way here,’ said Kit, when the conversation ran dry and a jarring silence had fallen on them. ‘I stopped the car to say hello, but she behaved most oddly.’
‘It was quite extraordinary,’ Evelyn said, perhaps glad of something to say, ‘but she as good as ignored us. Just carried on walking. Almost at a run.’
‘I know we’ve always had our difficulties with Arthur,’ Kit said, ‘but I had hoped we were on better terms with Julia, and young Charles too.’
‘Do you suppose she’s all right?’ asked Romily. ‘I’d heard that Arthur was away in London and I telephoned this morning to invite her to join us for lunch today.’
‘What did she say?’ asked Kit.
‘She didn’t say anything. Miss Casey answered the telephone and told me Mrs Devereux had left instructions not to be disturbed.’
‘Well,’ said Kit, ‘she was most assuredly out and about this morning.’
Romily made a mental note to contact Julia again. Since her return from America she had heard a number of unpleasant rumours flying around the village about the way Arthur treated his wife, but what with one thing and another, she hadn’t found the time to find out if there was any truth in the stories.
‘Pip and Em have expressed a wish to see Hope when they’re back from Stamford, Edmund, would that be okay with you?’ asked Evelyn.
‘I’ll have to check with the hospital,’ her brother said. ‘Some days it’s like Piccadilly Circus there with the number of visitors coming and going.’
‘If you’d rather they didn’t see her,’ said Evelyn softly, ‘I’m sure they’d understand.’
‘Well, they’d understand a darned sight more than I do, in that case!’ Edmund’s voice was unexpectedly loud and caused everyone to stare at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s just that I can’t make sense of what’s happened to Hope.’
‘We none of us can,’ said Romily gently.
‘The worst of it is, the last words Hope and I spoke were in the heat of a row. I’d give anything to take back those words. Anything.’
‘What did you argue about?’ asked Evelyn.
Edmund put down his knife and fork. ‘That’s the devil of it; I don’t know exactly. I was trying to provoke some sense out of Hope, because for weeks it was as if she was accusing me of something, but she wouldn’t come right out and say what it was.’
‘Did you think she was depressed again?’ This was from Annelise.
Edmund puffed out his cheeks with a long exhalation of breath. ‘Yes and no. I can’t put my finger on it, but I just felt this was different. I felt that I was the cause of her unhappiness, that I couldn’t do anything right for her.’
Romily exchanged a look with Evelyn. They had agreed not to say anything to Edmund about the anonymous letters until they knew more, and also because they didn’t want to burden him with anything else. Evelyn had her own reason for keeping quiet; she didn’t want Kit to know about the letters she had received.
‘But it’s obvious, isn’t it, it was the letter Hope was sent that was making her feel so unhappy?’
Both Romily and Evelyn looked at Stanley in alarm.
He stared back at them and then, as if realising his blunder, that he wasn’t supposed to mention any letters, he frowned and reached for his glass of wine. But the harm was done.
‘What letter?’ demanded Edmund.
After another exchange of anxious glances with Evelyn, and an imperceptible nod from her, Romily outlined what they knew. But without being too specific in Evelyn’s case.
‘And now you know as much as we do,’ she said when she came to the end of her explanation. ‘That Hope, Florence and Evelyn have all been on the receiving end of these spiteful letters. They may well not be the only ones.’
‘This is monstrous!’ exclaimed Edmund, banging his fist on the table. ‘Of course I haven’t been having an affair! Oh my God, that Hope had been taunted into believing I had! No wonder she was so cross with me. I just wish she’d said something.’
Seeing his distress, Annelise reached over to squeeze his hand. ‘It explains so much,’ she said softly. Then to Stanley, she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Don’t be cross with Stanley,’ Romily said before he had a chance to reply. ‘We agreed to keep it to ourselves until we’d discovered who the perpetrator was.’
‘What did your letters say, Evelyn?’ asked Kit. There was no mistaking the concern in his voice, or face.
‘Just some vindictive tosh,’ Evelyn said airily. ‘Nothing that made any sense.’
‘I haven’t been accused of being unfaithful, have I?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Oh, that I was a harlot, the usual stuff that a person who enjoys sending poison pen letters would say of a woman they don’t like.’
Kit was aghast. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I didn’t want to give the silly letters any credence. Or upset you. And you are now, aren’t you?’
‘As would any husband be upset when his wife is being attacked like this. It’s not on. It’s . . .’ He faltered and then slappe
d a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh my God,’ he cried, ‘I’ve just remembered something!’
‘What?’ asked Evelyn.
‘She told me . . . well, it was in confidence. Hope made me promise I wouldn’t say anything and so I didn’t. It was the night of our party. She told me she’d received a poison pen letter, but I’m afraid I didn’t take it seriously.’
‘Why on earth not?’ demanded Edmund.
‘I’m sorry, Edmund, but I thought it was no more than some silly old biddy in the village up to mischief. I advised Hope to ignore it.’
‘And look where that’s got us. You should have told me!’
‘Edmund, that’s not fair,’ intervened Evelyn. ‘If Hope swore Kit to secrecy, what else was he to do?’
As the voices around the table became more heated, Romily noticed that Annelise had barely touched what was on her plate. ‘Are you all right, Annelise?’ she asked quietly. ‘Can I fetch you something else to eat if the pork isn’t to your liking?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl murmured, her pallor now the colour of putty, ‘but I’m not very hungry. It must be the shock of hearing about these awful letters.’
‘That’s my fault,’ said Stanley. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘I disagree,’ retorted Edmund, turning towards him, his tone uncharacteristically harsh. ‘You should have spoken up before. So should Kit. Maybe then Hope and I wouldn’t have had that dreadful row and she wouldn’t have gone out for a walk. And then,’ he went on, his voice rising, ‘she wouldn’t have been hit by some bloody reckless driver and now be fighting for her—’ He broke off as Annelise suddenly pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘Please excuse me,’ she murmured before bolting from the room.
Watching her go, Romily was visited by the strongest sense of déjà vu. In a flash she was transported back in time to a day more than twenty years ago when a similar scene had taken place in this very dining room. The memory, along with another that was much more painful, propelled her to her feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if Annelise needs anything,’ she said, gesturing to Edmund that he should leave this to her. ‘The dear girl is obviously upset.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Annelise
Annelise made it upstairs to the nearest bathroom just in time. She flushed away the small amount she had just eaten, then went over to the basin to wash her face. Running the taps, she shuddered at the blotchy-faced woman staring back at her in the mirror. Who was she? Who was the idiotic person who had got herself into this mess?
Pregnant.
The word alone was enough to make her feel sick all over again.
There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by Romily’s voice. ‘Annelise, can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’ How long had Romily been standing there? Had she heard Annelise being sick? If she had, she would know that Annelise wasn’t fine. But then anyone sitting around the table would have reached the same conclusion.
‘Annelise, I know you probably want your privacy,’ said Romily, ‘but I’d like to help if I may.’
How could anyone help her? She was beyond help. She had brought this on herself and somehow, she would have to live with the consequences.
She did her best to tidy herself up, then opened the door, all set to make light of feeling ‘a little under the weather’. But seeing the look on Romily’s face was too much and she had to bite on her lower lip to keep it from wobbling and betraying her.
‘Come with me,’ Romily said, taking her by the hand.
Annelise did as she said and allowed herself to be led along the carpeted landing to Romily’s bedroom. Again at Romily’s instruction, she sat on the window seat. ‘I used to love sitting here listening to you reading to me when I was little,’ she said absently.
‘It seems like only yesterday,’ Romily responded, sitting next to her.
‘Life is so much easier when you’re a child, isn’t it?’ Annelise said.
‘It doesn’t seem that way at the time, but it is. When’s the baby due?’
‘You never did beat about the bush, did you?’
‘I’ve never seen the point. I’m assuming nobody knows about it?’
‘Stanley knows.’ Then before Annelise could stop them, tears filled her eyes. Romily magically produced a handkerchief. Annelise blew her nose and took a steadying breath. ‘Nothing ever shocks you, does it?’ she said.
‘Very little.’
‘How did you guess? What gave me away?’
‘Let’s just put it down to a sixth sense. When is the baby due?’
‘July. I think.’
‘And the father, Harry, does he know?’
Annelise shook her head. ‘I only realised, or rather, I only accepted that I was pregnant when I came here and started feeling so queasy. I can’t help but wonder if subconsciously I already knew that I was pregnant the morning I spoke to Harry shortly before I caught the train to come home. I so badly wanted him to come with me and I suppose I was testing him. If he agreed to drop everything I would know then that he . . .’
‘That he would what?’ asked Romily when she hesitated.
Annelise sighed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘That he really did care for me. That there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.’
‘But he failed the test?’ suggested Romily. ‘Is that what happened?’
‘Yes, and in an instant the scales fell away from my eyes. I knew then that I didn’t matter sufficiently for him to leave his wife and commit himself to me.’
‘Would he seek a divorce if he knew you were pregnant?’
Such had been Annelise’s complete turnaround in her feelings towards Harry, she had not asked herself this question. ‘I’ve seen him for what he actually is,’ she said, ‘a liar and a cheat. I could never trust him. And I’m appalled with myself that I fell for him the way I did.’
‘Did you love him very much?’
‘I did, to the point of pain. But now I hate him. Truly I do. And I’ve never felt that way about anyone before.’
Romily put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘My advice is don’t waste your energy on hating him. You have far more important things to think about.’
‘Yes,’ Annelise said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘My life at Oxford is now over. St Gertrude’s likes to be regarded as a progressive college, but a pregnant unmarried junior fellow would be considered a reformist step too far. It would be a wholly inappropriate example to the undergraduates.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Romily. ‘It might be too soon for you to answer this, but do you plan to keep the baby?’
‘Or give it up for adoption, you mean? Because the third option just isn’t an option for me. I couldn’t do that.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking you to do. But how do you feel about adoption?’
Fresh tears pricked at the backs of Annelise’s eyes. Every time she thought she had decided what she would do, she lost her nerve. It was a constant battle between her brain and her heart. Her brain said she should give the child up, but her heart pleaded to keep it.
Her throat thick with emotion, she said, ‘I don’t know what to do, Romily, that’s my honest answer. If I give the baby away, how could I ever live with myself having cast it aside? What would my parents have thought of me doing that? Giving away their grandchild? They gave me life, not once, but twice. First when I was conceived and born, and then again when they handed me over to Hope to bring me here to safety. If they hadn’t done that, I would have been murdered just like them. And then there’s what Hope is going to think of me. I told her yesterday. I . . . I felt I had to confess to her while I
still could. Now I wish I hadn’t. It was selfish of me. Why couldn’t I have left well alone; if she’s not going to make it I should have let her die thinking well of me. Or if she pulls through she’s going to say I’ve carelessly thrown away every chance she’s given me. She and Edmund will be so disappointed in what I’ve done.’
Romily tutted. ‘Don’t write Hope off too soon; she’s a fighter, and if anyone is going to survive what she’s gone through, it’s her. And I implore you to stop worrying about what others may or may not think of you. This is your life, nobody else’s.’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘I’ve always had a golden rule,’ Romily said, ‘and that’s never to give a damn what others think of me. You’re a person in your own right, and you’re allowed to make whatever decisions and mistakes you want to. What other people think of that is up to them. Those who truly love you will continue to love you no matter what.’
‘This might sound odd, but part of me, the cowardly bit, was glad that Hope wasn’t able to respond to my confession. But another part of me hoped that if she really could hear, like Edmund says she can, that she would be so shocked it would jolt her out of the coma.’
‘That would certainly have been worth the pain of confessing,’ Romily said with a faint smile. ‘And who knows, it may yet happen. Maybe the thought of a grandchild might spur her to pull through. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’
‘That’s a nice idea, but you and I both know that Hope may devote her life to writing for children, but the actual human specimen is not entirely to her liking.’
‘It’s always possible she may regain consciousness with a new perspective on life.’
Somehow Annelise couldn’t imagine that. But then she couldn’t imagine so many things, like how she had managed to get herself into such a mess. Well, she knew the reason for her being pregnant, of course she did, but it was the sheer wanton carelessness of her behaviour that she couldn’t comprehend. Loving Harry had made her reckless, something nobody in the family would have predicted of her.