by Erica James
‘I mean no disrespect to my cousin,’ she said, ‘but if it had been Isabella who had got herself into this fix, nobody would have been very much surprised. Actresses lead such rackety lives, they would say, but academics are supposed to know better.’
‘Goodness me,’ Romily said with a shake of her head, ‘you must feel so giddy up there on that pedestal.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Annelise with a frown.
‘I mean stop imagining that you’re not as flawed as the next person. Nobody is immune from falling in love. Or getting something wrong.’
‘I know one person who has put me on a pedestal,’ she said quietly.
‘Ah, that would be Stanley, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s adored you all his life, but I wouldn’t say he’s put you on a pedestal.’
‘Aren’t the two one and the same?’
‘Absolutely not. Adoring a person means you love them with all their flaws.’
‘Do you know what he said this morning, while we were out walking and I told him about the baby? ’
‘Go on.’
Once more tears filled Annelise’s eyes. ‘He said I should marry him so that the baby would have a father and I could continue with my work. Can you believe he would say that?’
‘I can. Stanley is a decent man who always believes in doing the right thing.’
‘But this wouldn’t be doing the right thing for him.’
‘Why not? And I’d like to point out that Elijah did much the same in marrying Isabella’s mother, Allegra. They had very little in common on the face of it, but they made each other happy.’
‘That was different. Allegra loved Elijah.’
‘There are many shades of love. What you felt for Harry in Oxford was one variation, and the feelings you have for Stanley, another. With the benefit of hindsight, which do you trust more? Passion for a man prepared to cheat on his wife and lie to you, or—’
‘But Stanley is like a brother to me,’ she interrupted.
‘Could you regard him differently, in time?’
When Annelise didn’t answer her, Romily continued. ‘I’ve known you both since you were children and I’ve never known the two of you to fall out.’
‘Is compatibility enough reason to marry?’
‘Marriages work on many levels and for all sorts of reasons.’
‘Maybe so, but I won’t saddle Stanley this way. It wouldn’t be right. I would be using him, and one day he would realise that and end up hating me. And I’d rather face my predicament alone than do that.’
Romily wagged a finger at her. ‘One thing of which I can assure you, whatever you decide to do, you will not be facing the future alone. If you keep the baby, he or she will be a part of our family, and I for one shall do all I can to help.’
Annelise turned and hugged Romily. ‘You’ve already helped by talking with me,’ she said. ‘But I want you to promise that you won’t breathe a word to anyone else. I don’t want Edmund knowing while he’s worrying about Hope. It’s a distraction he doesn’t need.’
‘I promise. And now, if you can face it, I think we should go back downstairs and join the others. If Edmund asks, you can pass this off as a tiresome monthly issue. That should keep the father and doctor within him from pressing for any more details.’
They stood up together and once more Annelise hugged Romily. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for being you. For always being so practical and reassuring. What would I ever do without you?’
‘Oh, you’d manage very well. Now come on, best foot forward and let’s put Stanley’s mind at rest. Knowing what he knows, out of everyone he will be the most anxious about you.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he will.’
‘Let him worry about you, Annelise. And in return for the promise I made you, I want you to promise me you won’t shut him out. It would break his heart if you did.’
‘All right. I promise.’
‘Good girl.’
But when they were downstairs and were entering the dining room, and Annelise saw the troubled expression on Stanley’s face – his obvious concern for her – she felt her own heart break a little.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
That night in bed Romily lay awake unable to sleep. It had become a regular occurrence since her return from America. Initially she blamed it on the time difference, and while it was true that may have contributed to her inability to sleep well, there was more to it than that. It grieved her immensely to admit it, if only to herself, but Red St Clair was at the heart of the problem.
She had hoped, perhaps somewhat arrogantly, that he might write. But there had been nothing from him. Did she really think she had made that big an impression on him? Heavens, the man would simply have moved on to the next woman! And why on earth shouldn’t he?
The image of him that came to her, and far too frequently for her liking, was of him that night they’d gone out into the desert together. For the first time in his company she had begun to relax and enjoy being with him. It seemed a shame now that they had parted the way they had.
But what is done is done, she told herself firmly. No regrets. It was an echo of what she had whispered to Annelise when lunch was over and everybody was leaving, putting on their coats to brave the cold.
She had done her utmost to conceal her shock at Annelise’s news and had given the poor girl what she so badly needed: unconditional love and support.
People were always claiming that the times were changing, that so many of the old rules were being jettisoned. But times hadn’t changed that much for women, not yet at any rate, not when the rules that applied to men did not apply to women. Why should Annelise have to lose her position at St Gertrude’s, and very likely her reputation as a fine academic, while the man who had got her pregnant would carry on with his life as though nothing had happened?
For all her understanding of Annelise’s plight, had Romily been too insistent in advocating so strongly that she should seriously consider marrying Stanley? An answer to a prayer was often no such thing. But what if, in this instance, it could be the perfect solution? Stanley would devote himself to making Annelise happy and in time, once the child was of a suitable age, Annelise, as a respectable married woman, would be able to pick up where she’d left off with her career.
But what of love? Stanley deserved to be truly loved, not just admired or cared for in the manner of a brother. Could, as time went on, Annelise’s feelings for him develop into something deeper and more passionate?
In many ways Romily had to agree with Annelise when she’d said that if Isabella were to announce she was pregnant in the same circumstances, it would not come as so great a shock. Like mother, like daughter, some would take delight in saying, and very unfairly in Romily’s opinion. It was never as simple as that; it was much more a case of there but for the grace of God go I.
Nobody knew the truth of those words more acutely than Romily. Had she remained alone with Annelise any longer, she may well have shared her most closely guarded secret with her.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Tilbrook Hall, Norfolk
August 1944
Romily
I had been back at work for some weeks ferrying aircraft around the country when I was given a few days’ leave. I took the opportunity to go home to Island House, and then drive over to Tilbrook Hall in Norfolk.
Since I had made a full recovery and been discharged from the medical care at Tilbrook Hall, Matteo and I had exchanged letters on a regular basis. The pages of his letters contained exquisite little drawings in the margins. Sometimes a whole page was devoted to a sketch of something that had caught his eye – a child flying a kite, a butterfly sunning itself on a wall, a squadron of
bombers flying overhead, an old man leaning against a stile smoking a pipe. In comparison, I feared he found my letters rather ordinary. Although he said not. ‘You cannot know the pleasure I experience,’ he wrote to me, ‘when I see an envelope with your beautiful handwriting on it.’
I had decided to keep my return visit to Tilbrook Hall a surprise. And having saved up valuable petrol coupons, I was enjoying the freedom of driving my beloved MG. With the top down, I drove at speed along the winding country lanes, the sun shining down from a clear blue sky, my heart soaring at the prospect of seeing Matteo again. Untying the scarf from around my head, I shook out my hair, letting it catch in the wind. I hadn’t felt this carefree in a very long time. I began to sing at the top of my voice.
It was almost possible to believe there was no war raging, no bombs dropping, no rationing, no hardship, and no death. There was just this beautiful summer’s day to enjoy, and the prospect of spending it with a man whom I had fallen in love with. In the five years since I had been widowed, I had been told repeatedly that I would one day find love again, and perhaps when I least expected it. I hadn’t believed them. Or perhaps I hadn’t wanted to because it would have seemed like a betrayal of my love for Jack. But Matteo had changed that.
Stuck behind a horse-drawn cart laden with milk churns, I was forced to drive the last mile at a snail’s pace. I knew better than to roar past and unnerve the horse, so quelled my eagerness to reach my journey’s end. When I entered the village of Tilbrook and parted company with the milk churns by taking the first turning to the left, I then pulled into the long driveway that led to the Hall. Part way along, and in the shade of a magnificent chestnut tree, I drew the car to a stop. Vanity prevailed, and I took out the necessary equipment from my handbag to make good the damage the drive had inflicted on my appearance. Hair combed and protected once again by the silk headscarf, perfume dabbed behind my ears, powder and lipstick reapplied. Make-up was in such short supply, all I had by way of lipstick was a measly stub of my favourite Chanel lip-colour. I used it only for special occasions, and today was just that.
Reporting in at the office, a delightful sun-filled south-facing room that had been the owners’ informal sitting room, I was told that Matteo was out working in the woods.
Picnic basket in hand, I crossed the sun-drenched slope of lawn and followed the directions I’d been given. I found him stripped to the waist and wielding an axe. He was fully immersed in the task of chopping down a tree, and taking advantage of his absorption, I observed him for a few moments, shamelessly enjoying the sight of the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling in the dappled sunlight.
Some distance from Matteo, two lumberjills were tackling a felled tree with a cross-cut saw. It was one of the girls who saw me first.
‘I’m guessing you haven’t come here to help?’ she said, weighing up the smart summer frock I had deliberated over first thing that morning. It contrasted forcibly with the uniform the two girls were both dressed in – sturdy dungarees with a beige short-sleeved shirt, and a green beret. The girl’s tone was teasing, but not unfriendly. Her fellow member of the Women’s Timber Corps turned to look, followed by Matteo, who promptly dropped the axe he was holding. He could not have looked more startled if the sky had parted and Moses had been standing before him, stone tablet at the ready.
‘Why did you not tell me you were coming?’ he asked, after the two lumberjills had given him permission to take a break, and not without a good deal of mischievous asides. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ one of them called out to us as we walked away.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I said.
‘You certainly did that,’ he remarked, a shy smile covering his face. He had now smoothed back his dark hair and put on his shirt. I had to admit privately that I experienced a flicker of disappointment as he did up the buttons and snapped his braces into place over his shoulders. It also did not pass my notice that he was all fingers and thumbs and the buttons of his collarless shirt weren’t correctly aligned.
‘Is it a good surprise?’ I asked, suddenly anxious that he might be annoyed I had caught him in a state of partial undress. POW or not, he was Italian and Italian men were the vainest I had ever come across.
He stopped walking and turned to face me. ‘Seeing you again is . . . is like the sun bursting through the clouds after many weeks of rain.’
‘What a lovely thing to say,’ I said.
He smiled and took the picnic basket from me. As we walked on, he slipped his free hand through mine and a spontaneous spark of electricity ran through me. It felt so real, I half expected my hair to stand on end.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To my favourite place. It is where I go when I want to think of you.’
‘Do you think of me a lot?’
‘More than I should say.’
‘What if I said that ever since I left here, I haven’t been able to get you out of my thoughts?’
‘I would then have the courage to say that you are the first thing I think of when I wake in the morning, and the last when I go to sleep. And if I am lucky, I dream of you.’
Hand in hand, we walked on without another word, the air fragrant with haymaking, the hedgerows filled with the fluttering of birds and their sweet song. Overhead a lark swooped and dived in the crystalline sky; its distinctive call adding to the perfection of the day.
Our destination proved to be a secluded spot on the riverbank. Unfolding a tablecloth from the basket, I laid it on the bone-dry grass. ‘I’m afraid it’s not much,’ I said, revealing the meagre picnic I had thrown together, ‘it was the best I could manage in the circumstances.’
‘For some reason I am not hungry,’ he said, his soft dark brown eyes settling on mine. I held fast to his gaze and as the moment – potent with a pulsating energy – stretched between us for the longest time, I smiled.
‘But it would be a shame for it to go to waste,’ I said finally, passing him a precious bottle of champagne to open. ‘And if you’re going to be felling more trees, you’ll need your strength.’
Having said he wasn’t hungry, and doubting my own appetite being this close to him, we made short work of the half loaf of bread I’d brought, along with the lump of cheddar, the small jar of Mrs Partridge’s homemade apple chutney, a clutch of pea pods, and the tomatoes I’d picked from the greenhouse. For dessert I produced the remains of an apple pie, again care of Mrs P.
As we ate and drank our fill, I thanked him for his letters, saying how much I had looked forward to reading them.
‘I could not say all that I wanted to,’ he said, lying on his side, his head propped up so he could look at me.
‘Why not? Were you worried about our letters being censored?’
‘No. I was afraid if I said too much . . . if I declared my feelings for you, it would ruin our friendship.’
‘Is that what we have, a friendship?’
He traced his forefinger along the chequered pattern of the gingham tablecloth beneath us. ‘I do not know what we have, Romily, only that it feels wonderful and I never want it to end.’
His hand moved towards mine so that our fingertips were touching. Once more that spark of electricity fizzed through me causing my heart to race and my mouth to turn as dry as the champagne we were drinking. My gaze locked with his, and with my body zinging with the kind of desire I hadn’t felt since being with Jack, I didn’t know how much longer I could continue in this virtuous manner. I tilted my head, just the slightest of movements, and it appeared to be all the signal he needed.
When our lips met, the passion between us ignited spontaneously, putting us both in danger of self-combusting. Our hands, no longer tentatively touching, explored each other’s bodies with an urgency that matched the fervour of our kissing. But when he entered me, he did so with a more measured tenderness. Impatient for that soaring moment of euphoric release tha
t I knew I was seconds away from, I urged him on.
‘Slowly,’ he whispered, cupping my face in his hands, ‘I want to remember this always.’
At the mercy of his self-control, he kept me teetering on the brink until finally in an explosion of mutual climax, we clung to each other as one complete body. Then with tears in our eyes, we stared at each other as though we couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
‘Ti amo,’ he murmured. ‘I love you.’
I never thought to hear those words again, or utter them myself, but I wiped the tears from his eyes, and mine, and told him I loved him. ‘Ti amo, Matteo.’
We lay for some minutes in the warm sunshine, basking in the exquisite bliss of what we had just done. ‘I can’t believe you’re really here in my arms’ he said. ‘I shall wake up in a minute and find it was just a beautiful dream.’
Thinking it would be wonderful to lie here for ever, I sighed like the most contented of cats who had got more than her share of cream.
‘I’m so happy I could sing!’ I suddenly exclaimed.
He lifted his head. ‘And what would you sing, mia cara?’
I grinned. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure I’ll think of something.’
‘I’m sure you could. You are, after all, the most beautiful and amazing woman I know.’
‘Well, that’s true, of course. I am incredibly beautiful, and fantastically amazing.’
He laughed. ‘Dio mio, how can I ever let you go now?’
‘You don’t have to let me go. Not if you don’t want to.’
His expression changed, and he suddenly looked painfully solemn.
‘What is it?’ I said.
He sat up and like the gentleman he was, smoothed down my rumpled dress so that I looked a little less in disarray. ‘It’s this war,’ he said quietly, his back to me as he faced the river. ‘It is going to tear us apart.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I replied, raising myself up so that I was sitting next to him.