by Erica James
‘You mustn’t go back,’ I said. ‘I mean it. It’s too dangerous for you there now. Come with me.’
She shook her head. ‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘It is my duty. Just as it is your duty to return to England and get better so you can fly again. Germany has to be stopped.’
‘I won’t ever forget your help,’ I said. Just then two figures emerged from the bushes behind us. Sophie spoke in French to them and they beckoned for me to join them.
‘You must go now,’ she said.
‘Maybe one day we will meet again,’ I said, ‘in happier times.’
‘Maybe. Bon chance mon cherie,’ she said, with a ghost of a smile, and lapsing into French, something she seldom did with me.
I hugged her again and watched the cart disappear into the darkness. I felt like a chunk of my heart was disappearing too.
Two weeks later, when I was safely across the border in Spain, word reached me via the Resistance network that the soldiers had returned to the village and had taken Sophie away to the chateau. She was tortured, the one thing she was afraid of. Though it was counter to everything I believed I was capable of doing, I wished I had been able to spare her that by shooting her as she’d asked. But could I really have done it?
She died, so the Resistance said, bravely and without giving anything away.
She died because of me.
As did so many other villagers. How would I ever live with that on my conscience? If I had been paying better attention that day and spotted the Fw 190s on my tail sooner, I might not have been shot down. A better man would have blasted his own brains out rather than put an entire village at risk.
I let Sophie down in another way. I never got to fight again. When I finally made it back to England, my leg was in worse shape, having become reinfected, and I was shipped home to the US to have it amputated.
I lost my leg, but far worse, I lost the person I had once been. I was hollowed out. Haunted by the sacrifice that Sophie had made, I then spent the greater part of my life blaming myself for her death.
In comparison to what she had done with her life, mine wasn’t worth a dime.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
When Red finally fell silent, he slowly turned away from the fire to look at Romily. Not once had he looked at her while talking; his focus had been entirely on the flickering flames, as though seeing the past in them.
It didn’t seem possible, but he suddenly looked ten years older. His face was ravaged by what she knew was guilt, and guilt of the very worst kind. She suspected it was a wound that ran so deep he probably believed the pain of it could never be healed. She knew from experience that by burying the pain deeper still with layers of self-recrimination, the wound only became more infected.
Everything he had told her explained so much about his behaviour. How his mood could turn on a sixpence if he sensed somebody was getting too close and might catch a glimpse of the darkness within him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Truly I am.’
His eyes misted with emotion, he rose stiffly from the sofa. He stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, then pushed a hand roughly through his hair. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he blurted out. He looked about him as if searching for an escape route.
Romily stood up and went over to the French windows. She yanked back the curtains, unlocked the doors and swung them wide open. Immediately a blast of glacial night air swept in. To her surprise, she saw that it was snowing. Red joined her in the open doorway and together, they watched the snowflakes, like hundreds of small white handkerchiefs, fall from the dark sky. In the light spilling out onto the garden, Romily could see that it was already covered with a thick blanket of snow. How long had it been snowing?
‘I’ve told very few people what I’ve just shared with you,’ he murmured, after breathing in the cold air, ‘but you’re the first person whose immediate response hasn’t been to tell me it wasn’t my fault, that Sophie and everyone else who was murdered in that village were just casualties of war.’
‘Whoever said that to you, I’m sure they said it out of compassion,’ Romily responded, ‘but it’s bound to hit a false note for you. How could it not? You were there to experience the horror; they weren’t.’
It was some moments before he spoke. ‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly.
‘What for?’
‘For not patronising me. Or claiming that you know somebody who had gone through something similar. I’ve had that a couple of times. People rattling on as if they had any idea what I was feeling.’
‘They doubtless did it to minimize and normalise what you’ve gone through, without ever considering what an insult it would be to you.’
‘It was years before I told anyone what had happened. As you can see, it’s something I still find it hard to talk about.’
‘I expect you always will. But I’m glad you felt able to tell me.’
‘I’m glad too,’ he said quietly. He then lapsed into silence, his gaze steadfastly on the falling snow.
‘You know,’ he said at length, ‘I think those are the biggest snowflakes I’ve ever seen. No wonder it’s settling so fast.’
Noting the change of gear he’d made, Romily took her cue and wrapped her hand around his.
He slowly turned to face her. ‘You’re freezing,’ he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. ‘Had we better go inside?’
She shook her head, reluctant to break the spell of the moment. ‘No, not yet.’
‘You realise, don’t you, that if we stay out here for too long the cold will make me say things that will embarrass us both?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as you’re one of the most extraordinary and beautiful women I know, and that you’re worthy of so much more than I could ever offer you.’
‘Doesn’t the last part of that sentence depend on what you have in mind to offer me?’
‘I think you know. I think you always know what I’m about to say or do when we’re together.’
She tutted. ‘You’ll be crediting me with witchcraft skills next.’
He let go of her hand and put his arms around her. ‘Well, you’ve thoroughly bewitched me.’ He groaned. ‘Geez, forget I said that. That was real bargain basement corn.’
‘I’m beginning to think it’s your default setting.’
‘Only when I’m around you.’
‘Is that so?’ she said with a smile and tilting her head back so she could look into his eyes.
‘Good God, do you have to do that?’
‘What? What have I done?’
‘Look so bloody gorgeous.’
‘It’s the snow, it would make a warthog look gorgeous.’
He lowered his hands to encircle her waist. ‘Accept the compliment or pay the consequences.’
‘I’m intrigued to know what the consequences might be.’
‘You like to live dangerously, don’t you?’
‘Always.’
‘Okay, here goes, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. You remember the day we met?’
‘Of course. You kept me waiting for an age.’
‘Are you never going to let me forget that?’
‘I doubt it.’
He smiled. ‘Be that as it might be, when I saw you sitting there in the garden of the restaurant, it was as if the tectonic plates had shifted. Before I’d even exchanged a word with you, I knew life was never going to be the same again. I fought it though. Boy, did I ever fight it! Especially when later I realised you could see through my every move. That was what pained me most and drove me to be so rude, your ability to know a fraud when you saw one.’
‘You’re no more of a fraud than the rest of us. We all have our weak spots which we try
to protect.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course. Why would I be any different?’
‘Because you are, Romily. It’s like there is this golden aura around you that makes you—’
‘Enough,’ she interrupted him. ‘You warned me that the cold would start making you say things that would embarrass us, and you’ve gone well beyond that point.’
He smiled and with his hands still around her waist, he drew her close. ‘In that case we’d better go inside and warm ourselves by the fire.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And then what shall we do?’ No sooner had he asked the question, then he yawned hugely.
‘Then you’re going to go to bed,’ she said firmly.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Ralph
His speed greatly reduced because of the snow, the journey was taking Ralph longer than usual. He hadn’t expected it to snow tonight. That was the reason he had set off for Suffolk this evening – the day before Christmas Eve – to avoid the very thing he was now battling through: a blizzard. In places, where the snow was compacted down and already freezing, the roads were lethal.
Some might say it was masochistic of him to want to spend Christmas in Suffolk with his father, but with nowhere else to spend the holiday, Melstead Hall was the only option available to him. That, or be on his own. Which he didn’t fancy. Still, it looked like they were in for a white Christmas, which oddly cheered him. Maybe because snow had a tendency to bring out the child in them all. Until one grew bored of the stuff and it turned to piles of dirty grey mush. A metaphor, if ever there was, for the relationship between him and his father. Where once Ralph had been the apple of his father’s eye, now he was nothing but a thorn in his side.
Despite the hazardous nature of his journey, he was in a strangely mellow and repentant frame of mind. Christmas was, after all, a time of goodwill, and a host of other festive sentiment. Well, he wasn’t exactly awash with goodwill, but like Scrooge, he did have a number of regrets. Chiefly his behaviour towards Isabella.
He hadn’t received a response to the letter he had sent her in which he had apologised for his appalling behaviour. He just hoped they would be able to smoothe things out over Christmas. Thinking about it, he really should have contacted Isabella to offer her a lift home for the holiday. That would have been a good olive branch on his part.
Since the evening he’d dined with his father in his club, and the revelatory moment when he realised how abhorrent it would be to go through life as unpopular as Arthur Devereux, Ralph had taken a long, hard look at himself. Changes were required, he’d concluded. Big changes. It was quite an epiphany, realising that he could actually reinvent himself.
The first thing he had vowed to do was to be a better brother to young Charlie-Boy. God knew the little nipper needed somebody to take an interest in him when he was home from school. Somebody who could stand up to his father for a start. Because there was no chance of Julia being brave enough to do that. Not when one wrong step from her would have her locked in her room!
And that was another thing he would put right. He wouldn’t stand by and let his stepmother be treated no better than a slave.
As he drove through the entrance to Melstead Hall and travelled the length of the tree-lined driveway, he was relieved to see there was no sign of his father’s Rolls.
He’d come prepared with presents and hauling them out of the car, along with his luggage, Ralph carried everything up the steps to the front door. He didn’t bother pulling on the bell, he just tugged on the handle and let himself in.
The vast house was as quiet as the grave. And cold. It had all the makings of a horror-film set. His footsteps echoing on the black-and-white marble floor, he dumped his stuff on top of an oak chest and called to his stepmother. There was no reply. He called again, and this time he heard a sound coming from the other side of the door that led to the kitchen and to what had been the servants’ quarters. Nowadays there was just Miss Casey and whichever girls from the village were desperate enough for money to work there.
The door opened and Miss Casey appeared. She looked as stern-faced as she always did, and not at all pleased to see him.
‘Hello, Miss Casey,’ he said cheerily. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m very well, Mr Devereux. Are you expected?’
The supercilious tone to her voice thoroughly riled him. ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said, tossing her his coat to hang up, ‘of course I’m expected! I’ll have a whisky to warm me up, please. Make it a large one, that way I won’t have to ring for you to bring me a second.’
The woman hesitated before saying, ‘Where will you be?’
‘I’ll be with my stepmother and young Charlie-Boy. Wherever they are.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It’s nearly ten o’clock and master Charles has been in bed for some hours.’
‘In that case I shall see Julia on her own.’
‘Again, I’m afraid that’s also out of the question. Mrs Devereux is in her parlour. She’s not receiving guests.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not a guest; I’m her stepson.’
The woman was not to be put off. ‘Mrs Devereux left instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed.’
You mean Mr Devereux left instructions, more like it, thought Ralph.
Determined to have his way, he moved towards the stairs. ‘I’m sure Julia will make an exception for me,’ he said. ‘You can bring my whisky up there, Miss Casey. Oh, and I’ll have a sandwich too. Ham, cheese, or whatever else is to hand. I’ll have my usual room, please.’
He took the stairs swiftly, two at a time. When he was on the landing, he looked back the way he’d come and saw Miss Casey down in the hall picking up the telephone receiver. The telephone hadn’t rung, so who was she ringing? His father? Alerting the old man that Ralph had shown up unexpectedly?
Having earlier thought the house would make an ideal set for a horror film, Ralph suddenly felt like he was in one of Hitchcock’s psychological thrillers. His stepmother certainly had all the makings of a victim at the mercy of a cruel husband and a scheming housekeeper.
He knocked on her door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, this time louder.
‘Julia. It’s me, Ralph.’
‘Ralph?’
‘May I come in?’
‘Is Arthur with you?’
‘No. It’s just me.’
He heard the handle turn and then the door slowly opened, but for no more than a couple of inches. Julia’s eyes darted over his shoulder, then back to his face. ‘Has your father sent you?’
‘No. Why would he?’
She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve done something which he won’t like. He’ll be furious with me. I had to do it, though. It was only right. But now I’m scared.’
With no idea what she was talking about, but seeing how anxious she was, Ralph looked over his shoulder to see if Miss Casey was on the warpath. She wasn’t. ‘Julia,’ he then said, ‘why don’t you let me in and tell me what you’ve done. It can’t be all that bad, surely?’
He had never before seen himself in the role of knight in shining armour, but there was something about the desperation in Julia’s voice that stirred him to help. For once in his life he was compelled to do something good. Perhaps it was a guilty conscience from what he’d done the night of the Meadow Lodge party. Or maybe it wasn’t so much an act of kindness he wanted to perform, but an act of revenge on his father?
She opened the door just enough to let him in, then quickly shut it.
‘What are you so scared of?’ he asked. ‘And why the hell is it so cold in here?’ He looked at the empty grate where a fire should have been burning.
‘Well, I’m not. I shall insist that Miss Casey provides you with some coal and logs. Now sit down and tell me what’s going on.’
With the blind obedience of a dutiful child, she sat in an armchair to one side of a table on which stood an open sewing box. He sat opposite and gave her an encouraging smile.
‘It’s your aunt Hope,’ she said.
‘Hope? She hasn’t died has she?’
Julia shook her head and fiddled with a pair of sharp pointed scissors from the sewing box. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘So what does my aunt have to do with why you look so . . . so fraught?’
Before she could get the words out, there was a knock at the door and Julia, her eyes wide with fright, jumped to her feet and dropped the scissors.
‘Let me deal with this,’ he said. ‘It’ll be Miss Casey, I asked her to bring me something to eat and drink.’
‘Don’t let her in,’ Julia whispered.
‘I won’t.’
True to his word, he opened the door just enough so that he could take the tray the housekeeper had brought up for him. She tried to step into the room, but he deftly blocked her way. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘that’ll be all.’
She stood before him seemingly as resolute to defy him as he was to repel any advance on her part. ‘It’s colder than a morgue in here,’ he said, ‘will you bring up some logs and coal for my stepmother, please?’
‘I’ll see what I can do in the morning,’ she replied stiffly.
Beginning to shut the door, he added, ‘By the way, when is my father expected home? Presumably he is returning from London to spend Christmas in the bosom of his loving family?’
‘He’s due to arrive tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I can’t wait! Don’t forget to make up my room, will you?’
Ralph decided to watch her walk away down the corridor before closing the door. When he was satisfied that she really had gone, he shut the door and placed the tray on the table. He urged Julia to stop pacing the room and sit down again. She looked a bag of nerves.