by Erica James
The coffee now ready, she took a tray through to the sitting room where Hope spent most of her time. Stanley had designed this part of the house, with its large picture windows and French doors, to catch the sun from morning to mid-afternoon. Such was the brilliant whiteness of the snow outside in the sunlight, the room felt artificially lit up.
With a pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes, and in her usual armchair with a blanket over her legs, Hope was observing the birds pecking at the crumbs of bread Annelise had earlier scattered on the snow-covered terrace.
‘The blackbirds and robins have been fighting again,’ she said, when Annelise placed the tray on the table next to her, carefully moving Hope’s sketch pad out of the way. With her left wrist still in plaster, and her typewriter withheld from her, Hope spent most of her days reading the newspaper, listening to the radio and sketching. She had used up two pads already with delightful drawings of the view from her chair.
‘For such innocent-looking birds, they’re exceptionally aggressive,’ Annelise said, pouring their coffee.
‘That’s what comes of having a fiercely territorial nature.’
‘I wonder if that’s what Uncle Arthur would claim excuses his vile behaviour, that he was merely being territorial.’
Hope lowered the binoculars and put them on the floor at her feet. She took the coffee cup Annelise held out to her. ‘Nothing can excuse that dreadful man’s behaviour. And I know it’s not a charitable thing to say, but I don’t possess a scrap of sympathy for him and what he’s now going through.’
Annelise sat in the chair next to Hope. ‘Nobody would criticise you for saying that, Mums. Not when we all think the same.’
The words divine retribution and reaping what one sows had been said many times since they had heard of the massive stroke Arthur had suffered on Boxing Day. Annelise and Edmund had been at the hospital with Hope, having stayed the night by her side, when Arthur had been brought in by ambulance accompanied by Miss Casey. It had taken the ambulance an hour to reach Melstead Hall, followed by another hour to the hospital. Of course, at this stage they didn’t know about Ralph helping Julia and Charles to leave, and the reasons why. That came later. But what they did know was that Arthur was responsible for nearly killing Hope.
Were it not for him now being unable to move and barely able to speak, and not likely to live for much longer, Edmund would have had no qualms about informing the police so Arthur could be brought to justice for what he’d done. But justice, Hope maintained, had been served without any intervention on their part. She also didn’t want it being publicly known that her own brother could behave so cold-bloodedly.
Julia had since moved back to the Hall with Charles and Ralph. Miss Casey had been given her marching orders and reported to the police for sending anonymous letters. Isabella’s fiancé, Max, had subsequently surprised them all by unearthing a mine of information about Miss Casey’s past.
It turned out she wasn’t who she purported to be. Her real name was Bernice Reynolds and six years ago she had spent time in prison for conning the life savings out of an old lady for whom she worked.
A compulsive and scheming liar, this was not the first time she had been caught sending anonymous letters. The recipients, so Max had discovered, were usually married women. She targeted them for no other reason than she got a kick out of causing trouble between couples, of shattering their happiness. A psychologist might well say she was inherently jealous of any woman who had more than she did. Romily’s theory that the letters were nothing but random shots fired in the dark was found to be spot on. It was awful to think of the harm and heartache the ghastly woman had so wilfully caused.
‘Have you thought any more about our going away together?’ asked Hope, breaking into Annelise’s thoughts.
‘I’ve thought about it frequently,’ said Annelise. ‘I’m worried about Edmund leaving the surgery in the hands of a locum for so long, but mostly I’m concerned that it would be too much for you, Mums.’
Hope tugged at the woollen blanket that had slipped off her lap. ‘Whatever effort it takes, it will be worth it to escape the misery of this weather. I was thinking we could perhaps start our trip in Cairo, spend a few leisurely weeks there before cruising along the Nile. Edmund has always wanted to do that. And just think how blessedly warm it would be. From Egypt we could then take a cruise around the Aegean.’
Annelise smiled. ‘Edmund’s been on at you for years to take a proper holiday, and now here you are planning a Grand Tour.’
Hope smiled too. ‘Don’t you dare tell him I said this, but he may have been right that I have focused on work too much. Lying in that wretched hospital bed, once I was fully compos mentis, and sitting here every day, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on what’s important in life. And it’s family. Everything else is just frippery. Who will care in fifty years how many books I’ve churned out, or what riches I’ve accumulated?’
‘But you can’t dismiss the incredible pleasure you’ve given to the many children around the world who adore the books you’ve written for them. You could say they’re your family too.’
‘You sound just like my publishers,’ Hope said with a dismissive tut. ‘But I think the time has come for me to reconsider my priorities. So how about the three of us going to Egypt and then working our way round the Mediterranean and then maybe hiring a villa by the sea on the French Riviera? Or what about Switzerland? You could have the baby there quite anonymously.’
As good as it was to hear Hope talking about working less and enjoying life more, Annelise couldn’t stop herself from saying, ‘Then what? When I’ve had the baby, what happens next?’
‘By then you will have decided what you want to do, and whatever decision you reach, Edmund and I will support you. Is there any more coffee?’ She held out her cup.
The matter-of-fact way Hope spoke was so far removed from what Annelise had ever believed possible, it was difficult to take in. Was it the medication she was prescribed that made Hope so calm, or was this new Hope the result of having faced death head on and won?
‘Has Edmund said anything to you about his idea?’ asked Annelise.
‘Yes,’ replied Hope, taking the coffee cup she had just refilled. ‘He put it to me earlier before he left for the surgery.’
‘And?’
‘I’m amazed it took him this long to come up with it.’
‘You’re not surprised by his suggestion?’
‘I would have been more surprised if Edmund hadn’t suggested what he has. You know how fond of children he is.’
‘But what about you? How do feel about having a baby here?’ Annelise chose her next words with care. ‘You’re not really overly fond of children, are you? You like them as a concept, but not as a reality.’
‘How very succinctly you put it. But it’s knowing that I failed you when you were a young child that makes me want to do better for you now. To help you all I can. Who knows, maybe I’ll make a better grandmother than a mother?’
With a surge of emotion bubbling up inside her, Annelise had to put down her cup of coffee. ‘Oh, Mums, please don’t think you failed me, you didn’t. Not once have I ever thought that. I just accepted the way you were. God knows it’s what my child will have to do with me, because I’m never going to be perfect.’
Hope leaned over and patted her arm. ‘Nobody is. But you won’t be alone in the challenges you’ll face; you’ll have plenty of help.’
‘Edmund seems to have everything worked out,’ said Annelise, ‘is that how you see it?’
‘You and I both know Edmund has a much more positive way of looking at things than I do. But in theory I can see his suggestion working very well. He and I, with the help of a nanny of your choosing, will look after the child here while you continue your work at St Gertrude’s and visit as often as possible.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘You can’t imagine how absurdly exci
ted Edmund is at the prospect of being a grandfather. It’s most unseemly.’
Annelise had to laugh. She could easily imagine Edmund being a wonderful grandfather; he had always been such a good father to her, and a great uncle to Pip and Em. What she couldn’t imagine so clearly was balancing her Oxford life with that of being a mother. Even a part-time mother. ‘You make it seem so perfectly respectable and normal what Edmund has proposed, but what if they find out at St Gertrude’s that I have a child?’
‘Who will tell them? And if anyone does, you simply say a widowed friend of yours who was terminally ill asked you to be her child’s guardian. And don’t forget we have a history of doing that in our family, first me with you, and then Romily with Isabella.’
‘But is it right to live with a lie of that magnitude?’
‘Oh, Annelise, we live with lies all the time. But if I know you, you’ll know when the time is right to be honest.’ Hope suddenly shivered and once more tugged at the blanket.
‘I’ll put some more logs on the fire, shall I? By the way, Stanley’s offered to come and chop some trees down if we run low on logs. He said it was the least he could do after Edmund let him stay here while he waited for a plumber to mend the burst pipes at his cottage.’
Hope sipped her coffee thoughtfully, then took a bite of shortbread. ‘Stanley hasn’t seemed his usual self recently. Would you agree?’
The fire nicely built up, Annelise sat down again. ‘I would. Romily told me that he’s thinking of leaving the village.’
‘Really? Where is he planning to go, back to London? I didn’t think he much cared for it.’
‘All Romily said was that it might surprise everybody.’
Hope frowned. ‘And he hasn’t told you what he’s planning? I thought he told you everything.’
Not anymore, thought Annelise sadly. She stared out of the window at the sculptured beauty of the garden in the slanting sunlight. With everything buried beneath a deep covering of snow, she thought how Stanley kept so much of himself hidden out of sight. But then, who didn’t?
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chelstead Preparatory School for Girls, Chelstead
January 1963
Evelyn
The atmosphere at school was feverish with the dizzy-headed girls struggling to concentrate on their lessons. Evelyn could hardly blame them. All they wanted to do was be outside on the playing fields hurling snow at each other.
There had been no question in Evelyn’s mind that she wouldn’t open the school for the start of term; as far as she was concerned she had an obligation to teach her pupils and that was that. Thank goodness the members of her staff were similarly minded and either braved the treacherous roads in their cars as Evelyn did, or trudged through the snow with the kind of gritty determination they had probably shown during the war. Joyce Gatley, the games mistress, had taken to cross-country skis to make the journey every day, and a large number of the girls used sledges to take advantage of any downhill slopes. Morning assembly had been shortened to no more than a few minutes during which Evelyn tried to calm the girls and instil a sense of order to the start of the day.
First break was now over and a crowd of girls, flush-faced and as giddy as a herd of goats, was in the long corridor divesting themselves of their outer wear and shrieking their heads off.
‘A little more decorum, ladies,’ Evelyn said as she passed through the mêlée. An instant hush fell on the high-spirited girls, but was soon followed by stifled giggles when she pushed open the door to her office.
Seated at her desk, and after dealing with a number of telephone calls, she reached for her handbag. Opening it, she pulled out a letter which had arrived in the post yesterday while she was at work, and while Kit was over at Fairview seeing Hope. With the flying school closed until further notice, he spent most afternoons keeping his sister company. There had been something vaguely familiar about the handwriting on the envelope, and taking it through to the kitchen, she had been about to open it when she realised why the writing was familiar. At the same time, she’d heard Kit’s key in the lock of the front door. Hurriedly she had stuffed the unopened letter into her handbag to read when there was no danger of Kit asking who it was from.
That moment was now.
Dear Evelyn,
I know your first reaction, when you realise this letter is from me, will be to chuck it away without reading it. But please don’t. I urge you to take a deep breath and read what I have to tell you.
But before I do, I want to stress how disappointed I was at Christmas that we didn’t have the opportunity to talk in private; had we been able to, I might have succeeded in allaying the worst of your fears. Hopefully I can do so now.
I want you to know that I understand completely why you and Romily would sooner Isabella had brought Jack the Ripper home for Christmas! Perhaps that is an exaggeration on my part, but it makes the point I am trying to impress upon you, which is, I don’t underestimate your distrust of me. But, and this I swear is the absolute truth, my feelings for Isabella are wholly genuine. No woman has ever turned my world upside down in the way she has. I’m well aware that you will have tutted or rolled your eyes as you read that, but I assure you, it’s true.
I love Isabella and count myself the most fortunate of men that she loves me in return, which is why I have been totally honest with her. I didn’t want Isabella to be confronted at a later date with anything that might hurt her. That was why I told her about the two of us at Bletchley. I have also taken the step of sharing with Isabella something I ordinarily withhold. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that when I left Bletchley, and with the threat of the Cold War knocking on the door, I was recruited by MI5. It’s very tame what I do, mostly vetting procedures for the Security Services. I’ve often thought that you would have been a perfect fit for the organisation.
And now I come to the crucial part of this letter which I hope will put your mind at rest, if indeed you ever had any doubts. But I raise the matter because of what you told me the night of your party. In early December, just after the smog began to clear, I visited my doctor for a specific test to be carried out. You may think it was an odd thing for me to do, but it was a measure of the way I felt about Isabella – I badly wanted (and always will want) the best for her, which in all seriousness isn’t hitching herself to a man twenty-six years her senior! But thank God the heart is a fickle entity and for reasons beyond my comprehension, Isabella regards me as a worthwhile risk.
To my very great regret, the upshot of the test I requested from my doctor dealt me a personal blow – I am, it turns out, incapable of fathering a child. On Christmas Eve, on our way to Suffolk on the train, I shared this disappointment with Isabella, feeling it only right that she be in full possession of the facts before our relationship went any further. As painful as it would be to let her go, I knew it would be the right thing to do if she wanted to be with a man who could provide her with children one day.
Of course, I am not so stupid as to rule out the prospect that sometime in the future she may desperately want a family of her own. If so, that is a hurdle I will have to deal with. But for now, Isabella and I plan to marry just as soon as we can.
So you see, Evelyn, if you ever had cause to worry that Kit wasn’t the father of your delightful twins, then worry no more. As I said before, I am telling you this because you seemed so rattled by what you had been accused of in that anonymous letter – which we now know was the work of a scheming con woman. Although I must confess that I did have my own suspicions when I heard that you married Kit so hastily following our night together all those many years ago, and that you were pregnant a short time later. Whatever suspicions I had, I kept them to myself. I respected you too much to do otherwise.
I sincerely hope that this letter may go some way to help you believe my commitment to Isabella, and that in loving her, I have changed from the arrogant, self-absor
bed young man you once knew.
With fondest and very best wishes,
Max
Evelyn stared and stared at the letter. Never had she been so wrongfooted. Every word contained a jolt of surprise, though perhaps not Max’s line of work.
She slowly refolded the four pages of pale blue Basildon Bond notepaper and slipped them back inside the envelope. All the while her heart began to race and deep within her there was a trembling sensation. The trembling grew until suddenly it exploded, and with such force, it caused Evelyn to feel as light-headed and as giddy as the entire school of girls put together. Taking a steadying breath, she went over to the window and stared out at the snow. She had been ninety-nine per cent sure that Kit was Pip and Em’s father, but that one per cent of doubt occasionally had the power to weigh on her conscience. But now she was free of the doubt. She was so happy with relief she could twirl around on the spot and hug the first person to walk through her office door!
The appearance, seconds later, of Bill Noakes, the school’s notoriously grumpy caretaker, had her choking back a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat look positively maudlin.
‘Boiler’s on the blink,’ he said, regarding her with a dour expression and probably thinking his announcement would wipe the silly grin off her face. ‘I’ve done everything I can to get it working again, but it ain’t playing ball. I tried bashing it with a hammer, like I usually do, but nothing.’