by Erica James
She found the sensation of his teeth pressing against her skin hugely erotic. ‘I’m not sure that I do, Dr Max.’
He now kissed her finger. ‘Don’t be disingenuous, my darling. I’m displaying all the classic signs of a jealous lover, so please do me the courtesy of not compounding my shameful agony.’
The admission sent a spark of pleasure running through her. ‘Why should you be ashamed of your jealousy?’
‘Because it’s not something I’ve experienced in a long time.’
She smiled. ‘Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’
‘Such as?’
‘You must come to Suffolk and spend Christmas there with me.’
He looked doubtful. ‘You wouldn’t rather stay here in London and let me spoil you?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t ever missed Christmas at home. It’s a tradition. Come with me,’ she added, her mind running over the pros and cons. Romily wouldn’t mind one more guest, surely? But how would the rest of the family greet Max, him being so much older than she was? And what would Evelyn think? There was also Hope’s condition to consider. Would it be inappropriate to bring a stranger into the family at such a time? But then Max wasn’t a total stranger, was he? Not from what he’d told her about knowing Romily and Evelyn from before and during the war.
‘Won’t that be a break in tradition, having somebody with you?’ he asked, while her mind was racing on ahead.
‘It had to happen some time,’ she said, ‘it might just as well be now. And with you.’
‘In that case, we ought to telephone Romily and make sure it’s convenient for her to have an extra guest.’
But each time they tried ringing, there was no reply; the line was permanently engaged. ‘I don’t feel comfortable showing up without warning Romily,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. Nothing ever fazes Romily.’
Isabella shivered and pulled her mink coat around her. The heater wasn’t working in their compartment on the train, which explained why it was as cold as an iceberg and why they were the only ones occupying it. They had tried looking for two seats together in the other compartments, but despite catching an earlier train than planned in the hope they might avoid the worst of the crush of people going home for Christmas, there were none to be had. At least she had Max to help keep her warm.
‘I’m intrigued,’ he said, ‘am I the first man you’ve taken home to meet your family?’
‘Yes,’ she said, trying to suppress a cough. Since leaving the cosy warmth of the flat, her chest had felt like hot daggers were being systematically pushed into it. Maybe Max had been right to say that she wasn’t well enough to travel yet. But it was too late now to regret leaving London. Too late also to worry about the reception they might be given on arriving at Island House.
‘I’m honoured,’ he said.
‘So you should be.’
‘Does that mean I’m special to you?’
She nestled in closer to him, both for warmth and because she loved being wrapped in his arms. He made her feel cherished. And safe. No man other than Elijah had been able to do that. ‘Max,’ she said, ‘what is it you’re really trying to ask me?’
For a moment he didn’t speak. Leaning forward slightly, he used his gloved hand to wipe the steamed-up window. Through the porthole-sized space he’d cleared, Isabella watched the snow falling on the already white landscape. It all looked so unreal and impossibly beautiful. She felt as though she were travelling through a land of make-believe, a wondrous and magical fairytale.
At last Max turned his gaze back to her. ‘I know I’m much older than you,’ he said, ‘and we’ve known one another for so little time, but I want you to know that I’m serious about you.’
She returned his gaze. ‘You’ve told me that before. And for the record, I like the fact that you’re so much older than me.’ It was true. Any reservations she’d initially held about the twenty-six-year gap between them had long since disappeared.
He smiled. ‘Hey, you don’t have to emphasise it quite that much, you know.’
‘You were the one who brought up the age difference, not me. And I assume you’re no stranger to dating younger women, so why let it trouble you now?’
‘For the simple reason this is different. Being with you is different. I’ve never felt the way I do when I’m with you. Or when I’m not with you. You . . . you’ve done something to me that no other woman has.’
‘What’s that?’ she murmured.
‘You’ve made me question myself, and the way I’ve lived my life.’
‘How have I done that?’
‘By being entirely yourself. By not playing silly mind games with me or having an ulterior motive behind anything you say or do. You’re so refreshingly open and honest, and so full of life.’ He smiled. ‘Even when you’re unwell.’ His expression suddenly turned serious again. ‘But I need to know how you feel about me. If you genuinely feel the same as I do. Because if we’re going to keep on seeing each other, and I hope to God we are, there are things you need to know about me.’
The quiet but persistent voice that had previously questioned whether Max was too good to be true was now bellowing for all it was worth that it had been right. ‘If you’re about to confess that you’re married with a brood of children and have been playing me for a fool, you can get off at the next station,’ she said, sitting up straight so that she was no longer wrapped in his arms.
As fiercely hard-headed and certain of herself as she sounded, Isabella could feel the thump of her pulse, and the unexpected pain of what she was about to lose. Without realising it, she had subconsciously allowed herself to dream of a future with Max. And now those dreams were to be snuffed out like the flame of a candle.
So much for travelling through a magical and wondrous fairytale! But then didn’t bad things always happen in fairytales?
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Red
Red had surprised himself. No mean feat, given how predictable his behaviour could be when it came to women. As his sister would be only too quick to point out. But here he was, having flown across the Atlantic expressly to see Romily, lying in bed completely alone and as chaste as a monk.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world last night to take the obvious step of sleeping with her, but two things had happened to prevent him from doing so. Firstly, he hadn’t wanted to rush things, just as he’d admitted, and secondly, the journey and time difference had caught up with him.
Once he’d started yawning he couldn’t stop, and with a firmness that had brooked no argument, Romily had shown him upstairs. Within seconds of undressing, he had collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the dead. He had woken a short while ago and after checking the time on his watch, he had been shocked to see that it was gone one o’clock in the afternoon.
A better guest might have leapt out of bed and rushed to dress in order to go downstairs, but he had wanted to continue lying here some more so he could take stock. If he were honest, everything about seeing Romily again scared him. Never before had he bared his soul to a woman as he had last night. To have shown such vulnerability was anathema to him.
For the best part of two decades, he’d had Sophie’s death on his conscience. As well as the death of all those other villagers. It had been a heavy load, but one he was reluctant ever to lose. He believed that it would be a betrayal to forget Sophie and all those villagers who had sacrificed their lives in order to protect his. He should never have put them at risk. He should have been a better pilot. A better man . . .
He was well aware that he was not the only serviceman to make a mistake and end up in enemy territory and be helped by the Resistance. But they hadn’t been with Sophie. They hadn’t seen the fear in her eyes when she’d asked if he would
shoot her to prevent the Nazis having the chance to torture her. That was what haunted him most: her fear. And yet she had still helped him escape. When had he ever displayed courage of that magnitude?
Why didn’t she shoot herself? He had often wondered. Or asked somebody she knew from the village to do it? Was she frightened they would call her a coward? And when had she thought he would put a gun to her head to protect her? He had no answers to any of his questions. But whatever her reason for asking him, what he really blamed himself for, was failing to insist that she escape with him. He should not have let her return to the village when it was to her certain death. That was the crux of his guilt, and never, as long as he lived, would he forgive himself for not taking her with him.
For all the years since, he had successfully fooled people – apart from Patsy – that he was okay. Sure, he’d lost a leg. Sure, he had occasional nightmares of hearing guns firing and people screaming, and of a girl being dragged off to a chateau, but hey, that was war for you; it went with the territory. But along had come Romily and, as though she possessed X-ray vision, she had seen through the carefully applied veneer.
The irony was, in his film script for Yesterday is Tomorrow, in which Spencer Tracy and Ava Gardner had starred, he’d written: ‘You cannot be close to another person unless you are mad enough to self-eviscerate and be cold-bloodedly honest with them.’
Writers did it all the time, imbued their characters with a wisdom and valour they didn’t have themselves. Or if they did have that acumen, they lacked the courage to act on it. For some writers – he was one of them – their characters were their alter ego.
Was that true of Romily, he pondered? Did she write the novels she did because she relished putting her protagonist, Sister Grace, into danger so that the author could recapture the sense of adventure she’d experienced during the war? From everything he had read about Romily, Red knew that she had been a thrill-seeker in her younger years. Did she hanker for those days?
Red had encountered many a decorated war hero who had found it impossible to readjust to civilian life. In much the same boat himself, he recognised the signs – a volatile temperament, a maudlin fondness for drinking too much, and needless risk-taking. One guy he knew blew his brains out playing Russian roulette with an old military issue pistol.
Had it not been for his reckless desire to lose himself in the arms of women, Red may well have done something equally stupid. Every time he bedded a woman, it was that moment with Sophie that he had wanted to evoke. It was like a drug for him. Over and over he repeated the pattern, the desperate and twisted need to resurrect Sophie. For a time, and when he moved to Los Angeles, he saw a shrink; after all, everybody there did. You weren’t considered normal unless you paid somebody to whom you regularly spilled out your guts. The sessions were laughable and became a game to him. He took perverse pleasure in running rings around the so-called expert; an attractive woman with eyes the colour of cobalt. Inevitably he slept with her and having fully compromised her, that put paid to any more sessions. He had done it deliberately, of course. Sex was always his weapon of choice.
Question was, was he brave enough to admit that to Romily? Did he need to? Was she smart enough to figure that out already? Probably yes.
Pushing back the bedclothes, he placed his foot on the floor – his prosthetic leg was propped against the wall the other side of the nightstand. At home he used a crutch to get himself about until he was showered and dressed, but without one here, he used the furniture to assist him. He made it over to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. The dazzling brightness of the snow-covered landscape made him blink, and leaning against the sill, he stood for a moment taking in the magnificence of the view, his gaze sweeping over the sculptured effect the snowstorm had created. It was a timeless and monochrome world he looked out onto. A magpie flew across the pewter-coloured sky, putting him in mind of a Brueghel painting. He watched the bird land on a tree branch, scattering a mini snowstorm with its movement and weight.
‘Toto,’ he murmured, thinking of Palm Springs and the desert, ‘I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’
He was showered, shaved and fully dressed and with his prosthetic leg strapped on, and was whistling Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, when there was a light tap at the door. He went to open it.
Dressed in black slacks and a red polo-neck sweater and wearing a pearl necklace, Romily stood before him with a tray of what looked and smelt like a pot of coffee. There was also a plate of toast on the tray with a small dish of butter, and another of what he guessed was marmalade.
‘Sorry I’m such a lousy house guest,’ he said, ‘staying in bed so late. You should have banged on the door hours ago.’
‘No need to apologise, your sleeping in gave me time to wrap some presents.’ She stepped in and placed the tray on the table between the two armchairs in front of the window. ‘I didn’t expect you to surface before noon anyway, given how tired you were last night.’
‘That’s one way to describe me yawning my head off so rudely. Is there sufficient coffee in that pot for two?’ he asked.
‘Depends how much coffee you like to drink.’
‘It would be nice to share. If it wouldn’t be keeping you from something more important.’
She smiled. ‘Now what could be more important than tending to my guest?’
She was back upstairs with another cup and saucer within minutes and the coffee poured.
‘You need to be honest with me, Romily,’ he said, biting hungrily on a triangle of toast. ‘It’s Christmas Eve and if I’m gatecrashing your perfectly orchestrated holiday, you must say so.’
‘I assure you, you’re not. And the arrangements I had in place for Christmas are already in tatters. My cook telephoned earlier to say she is snowbound and with reports on the wireless that there’s more snow on the way, who knows who will make it for lunch tomorrow. If anybody.’
‘Does that mean we might be snowed in together? I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’
She laughed. ‘It may come to that.’
‘But seriously, if you need me to get out of Dodge, just say the word, I won’t be offended.’
‘I told you last night, you’re welcome to stay, and in any case, just like in Bethlehem, there’ll be no room at the inn around these parts. The only house guest I’m expecting, that’s if she makes it up from London this afternoon, is Isabella. Everyone else is local.’
‘If I stay, you must let me help you in the kitchen.’
‘Offer of help accepted,’ she said with alacrity. ‘But before that happens, I need to go to the village to collect the turkey and the rest of the shopping.’
‘Won’t the shops deliver?’
‘I suspect the roads will make that extremely difficult. Much easier, and more fun, if I go on foot.’
He took a sip of his coffee. It was good and strong, just how he liked it. ‘Do you have a sledge?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Several in fact.’
‘Then our problems are over. We can pile the shopping onto one and Bob will be our Uncle St Nicholas!’ He saw her gaze flicker towards the lower part of his leg. ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ he said. ‘I can handle snow all right. I’m a pretty good skier, and not a bad skater, even if I say so myself.’
‘I should have known,’ she replied with a smile.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘Do you mind not doing that?’
‘Doing what precisely?’
‘Smiling. I need to stay focused.’
‘On anything in particular?’
‘On behaving myself.’
‘Please don’t feel you have to.’
‘Are you giving me permission to take liberties with you?’
She gave him one of her penetrating stares. The type that left him feeling thoroughly exposed. How the hell did she do it? For good
measure the cup wobbled precariously on the saucer in his hand.
‘I think we’ve danced around that particular question long enough, haven’t we?’ she said.
The cup wobbled some more and before it jumped clean out of his hand, he put it down on the table. He stood up and holding out his hands to Romily, he pulled her to her feet. He had her in his arms, his mouth hovering just a tantalising inch from hers, when there was an explosion of sound coming from downstairs.
‘Whoever that is giving your doorbell hell, their timing is appalling.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Shall we pretend there’s no one at home?’
She grazed his mouth with her lips. ‘We’ll continue this moment later,’ she said, pulling away from him.
He hung on to her hands. ‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘You’d better be a woman of your word.’
‘I assure you I am,’ she said with a laugh.
He followed her downstairs. They were at the bottom of the stairs when the bell rang again, long and hard. Next thing, the letterbox flipped open and a pair of eyes peered in.
‘Romily, let us in, we’re freezing to death out here!’
Chapter Seventy
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
‘I knew you wouldn’t mind my bringing along an extra guest,’ declared Isabella with a hacking cough while standing on the hall rug shivering. She resembled a bedraggled abominable snowman in her mink coat, which was covered from top to bottom with clumps of frozen snow. ‘After all, what’s Christmas without a few surprises?’
‘What indeed?’ Romily replied with a reticent smile. Her pleasure at seeing Isabella was severely marred by the presence of the man standing next to her with a case in each hand. What on earth was Isabella doing with Max Blythe-Jones? More to the point, what was he doing with Isabella? And what on earth would Evelyn have to say when she found out about this?
‘Long time no see,’ said Max, lowering the cases to the floor. ‘I do hope this isn’t too much of an imposition, me turning up out of the blue like this. It was very much a last minute decision. We did try telephoning this morning, but couldn’t get through.’