by Erica James
‘We don’t plan with whom we fall in love,’ she’d said. ‘Look at us; it just happens when it happens. I call it a happy collision.’
How right she was. Falling in love again at his age had seemed about as likely as him dancing on the moon, but that day at Brooklands, when he’d first approached Romily having frequently seen her about the club, he had felt something astonishing happen to him. Something he hadn’t believed he was still capable of feeling. After taking her for dinner, he’d promised to go straight out and buy one of her novels. To his shame, he’d never found time to read much before; work had always consumed him.
In the days that followed, when she had been too busy to see him again, he had found it difficult to concentrate on anything; all he could think of was being with this extraordinary woman. Yet at the same time he had wanted to deny what he felt, telling himself he was too old to succumb to such absurd behaviour. But after seeing her again, he’d known that he’d been given a special gift, a second chance to love once more. And to use Romily’s analogy of a collision, she had hit him absolutely with all the force of a fast-moving train.
Experiencing such a profound sense of contentment and love with Romily had made him face a harsh truth: that since Maud’s death, he’d stopped himself from feeling any real depth of emotion. Everything he’d done had been through a sense of duty, never through genuine love. Regret and bitterness had played their part too – why should others be happy when he could not find the key to it himself?
But fear had also been a factor. When the children had been young, he’d lived in fear of losing them, just as he’d lost Maud. He’d veered from being too protective and flying into a furious rage if they did anything that he considered put them at risk, to leaving them to their own devices in the belief they had to learn from their mistakes. There was no halfway house for him, no middle ground of showing them how much he cared. For he had cared, he just hadn’t known how to show it.
From the far reaches of his memory he had a sudden picture of catching Kit and Hope playing on the frozen lily pond one winter when they were little. Fear at knowing they could so easily slip through the icy surface at any moment had tipped him over the edge of mere parental anxiety into a frenzy of wrath that must have terrified them. And hardened their hearts against him.
Was this his punishment then for being such a poor father and uncle? To be a burden to the woman he now loved? If so, the sooner he died the better. Except he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. Just not like this.
He had lost track of how many days he’d been imprisoned here in bed, no longer able to control his body, a body that had become a dead weight, his arms and legs too heavy to move. Was he imagining it, or did it become more useless each time he awoke from a deep sleep?
Sometimes when he woke he forgot he’d suffered a stroke and panicked. It took him a while to remember what had happened. Other times he was convinced that he was still asleep and this was all a dream. Was it even possible that he was dreaming now? Was the nurse sitting by the side of his bed reading a copy of Picture Post not real at all? And was the bird singing with such obscene joyfulness in the garden beyond the open window nothing but a figment of his imagination? If so, would he finally wake up properly and be his normal self again?
His last memory of normality had been of waiting for Romily to arrive home from her book tour. He hadn’t said anything to her before she’d set off, but he’d been apprehensive about the errand she had volunteered to undertake while in Europe, worried that the German authorities would arrest her and throw her into some godawful detention centre never to be seen again.
His mind lingered over the concern he’d felt while waiting for her to return, recalling how he would have moved heaven and earth to bring her back. Hell, he’d have declared war on Germany himself!
His eyelids heavy with tiredness, he gave in and closed them. He thought of the surprise he’d had in store for Romily on her return: a motoring trip up to the Lake District to watch Malcolm Campbell in his Bluebird attempt to beat his own world speed record on Coniston Water. He was just thinking that he must ask her if the attempt had taken place when his mind became muddled. What if he’d only dreamt that Romily had returned? What if she hadn’t and she’d been arrested? The thought so alarmed him, he tried to call to her. But it was hopeless; nothing came out of his mouth but a distorted grunt.
A thin, pale face loomed out of nowhere over him and made him start. Round pebble-like eyes behind spectacles stared into his. He tried to call to Romily again and throw back the bedclothes, but his arms wouldn’t move. Or was this strange woman stopping him? Had she tied his arms down?
‘It’s all right, Mr Devereux,’ she said. ‘Don’t fret now.’
She disappeared out of his sight line. Where had she gone? And who the hell was she?
Then he remembered. She was a nurse. She was here to look after him. There were two of them. But as the confusion cleared from his mind, and he relaxed in the knowledge that Romily was safely here at Island House with him, his heart gave an abrupt and agonising jolt. Some kind of reflex action made him want to clench his fist and put it to his chest, but his hand wouldn’t move.
He struggled to catch his breath, gasping and gulping like a desperate drowning man. Was he having a heart attack? He tried to call for help, but he couldn’t get the words out. The pain in his chest was building, as though his heart was being crushed. Suddenly raging hot, the blood rushing in his ears, he squeezed his eyes against the pain, convinced that the battle was lost. This really was the end and now he would never be able to tell his family how sorry he was.
Not yet, he wanted to cry out; let me see my beautiful wife one more time. And my family, let me make it right with…
But he got no further. He breathed his last choking breath and darkness engulfed him.
It was Romily who found him, Nurse Nichols having informed her as she took off her hat in the hallway after collecting Kit and Arthur from the station that Mr Devereux seemed agitated over something.
One look at his face and she knew straight away that he was dead. With a shaking hand, she felt for a pulse, her own heart beating wildly against her ribs.
There was no pulse, just as there was no sign of breath coming from his open mouth. Very tenderly she closed his lips and his eyes, then she lay down on the bed beside her husband, resting her cheek next to his, her hand placed protectively across his chest.
‘Oh my darling,’ she murmured through the tears that were spilling onto his face, ‘why did you have to leave me so soon?’
A knock at the door made her start.
‘Go away!’ she cried, dreading that it would be Arthur demanding to see his father. ‘Leave us alone!’
But when the door opened, it was Roddy who stepped into the room. For a moment he stood perfectly still, staring at her lying on the bed with Jack, her face wet with tears.
‘He’s dead,’ she managed to say. ‘And I wasn’t here with him when he left me. I should have stayed, I shouldn’t have … ’ Her voice trailed away, and with a choking sob she buried her face in Jack’s neck and wept.
Chapter Ten
‘Dead then. Dead and buried, and the family not here in time to speak to him.’
‘I told you no good would come of that fast piece moving in with him.’
‘Practically half his age. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did. Did you see that showy hat she was wearing? Quite inappropriate for a funeral.’
‘And the fact they married in secret tells us everything we need to know. She must have been after his money all the time.’
‘It’s not like she doesn’t have enough of her own. I read in the newspaper that she’s a wealthy woman in her own right from those dreadful books she writes.’
The three women pondered this while they drank their tea. They had felt it only right that they do their duty and attend the funeral serv
ice for Jack Devereux; they were now reviving themselves at the Cobbles Tea Room.
At length, Edith Lawton lowered her cup to its saucer. ‘Must have well and truly put the cat amongst the pigeons when the family discovered he’d married.’
Ivy Swann nodded and helped herself to a slice of seed cake from the cake stand. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall while the will’s being read.’
‘Oh, there’ll be ructions to be sure,’ said Elspeth Grainger. ‘Did you see how the children could barely look at each other? I thought Allegra might actually slap Arthur at one point.’
‘And what about him moving out of Island House and into the Half Moon Hotel with his wife? What does that say about the family?’
Ivy nodded her head again so vigorously her hat slipped to one side. She straightened it and leaned in closer to the other two women. ‘I heard from my sister Cynthia that the widowed daughter, Hope, the one who married a German, arrived home with a baby. A baby no one knew anything about.’
‘I heard that it’s her German niece.’
‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’
‘When did her husband die?’
‘About a year ago. So it could be hers.’
‘Then why lie about it?’
‘Search me. But I know this much, I could believe anything of that family.’
The other two women tutted, and together the three of them shuddered in unison.
Chapter Eleven
‘I’m afraid there is no ambiguity; those are the terms of the will. It’s unusual, I grant you, how he’s left things, but then Jack was not the most orthodox of men.’
With a loud snort of derision, Arthur all but leapt to his feet, roughly dislodging his wife’s hand, which had been resting on his forearm throughout the reading. ‘Unusual doesn’t come close!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘The very idea is preposterous, and I for one do not have the time for such nonsense.’
His gaze still on the document in front of him, Roddy spoke in a quiet and steady voice. ‘Then you will forfeit the generous inheritance your father wished for you. It’s as simple as that.’
‘The only simple aspect to this absurd business is that it’s nothing short of blackmail from the grave. I have my principles; I will not be told what to do by Jack Devereux of all people, alive or dead! It’s the most divisive and contentious will I’ve ever heard.’
Roddy removed his spectacles and looked steadily at Arthur with a gaze as unyielding as any Romily had seen. ‘As a lawyer, I have come across far more complicated wills than this, but as you wish, Arthur. However, I’m not sure how the others will feel about your decision. As your father’s will states only too clearly, the four of you must spend a minimum of seven days together here at Island House, as of now, or not one of you will inherit. Which means you can forget your share of the proceeds from the business concerns your father sold eighteen months ago, the stocks and shares too. Do you really want to let your pride stop you from benefiting from all that?’
A silence fell on the room as Kit, Allegra and Hope turned to look at Arthur. From her chair positioned at the far end of the dining table, a seat that distanced her from everybody else, Romily doubted any of them wanted to spend a second longer than necessary in Arthur’s company, but she guessed they were prepared to put aside their dislike of him in order to go along with Jack’s wishes. She wanted to believe that they weren’t guided purely by the sizeable bequests Jack had put in place for them, but that they could see beyond that. Jack had truly wanted them to be a family again, to put the past to rest in a way they couldn’t while he was still alive. In the time she had spent with him, she had come to know that this stick-and-carrot approach was typical.
The silence was broken abruptly by the sound of crying, loud crying that had been brewing for some minutes. Until now it had been an occasional grizzle of protest, probably from boredom and having to sit quietly. Romily could sympathise.
‘For pity’s sake, Hope, can’t you keep that brat quiet? And God knows why you think it’s appropriate to bring it in here for the reading of our father’s will!’
‘She’s not an “it”, Arthur,’ said Hope, lifting the child and putting her awkwardly against her shoulder in an effort to distract her. ‘Her name is Annelise, and if the poor girl is crying, it’s because she’s picking up on your blatant hostility.’
‘If I’m hostile, it’s down to not being able to think straight. Why don’t you take her out of the room? For the life of me I can’t begin to think what possessed you to agree to have her in the first place.’
‘She did it because she’s a decent human being,’ Kit intervened. ‘Now why don’t you sit down so we can decide what we’re going to do?’
‘Yes,’ said Allegra, roused from her air of bored detachment. ‘As always, you’re making us all suffer your ill-temper.’
‘That’s rich coming from you!’
Every inch the operatic prima donna, Allegra rolled her large expressive eyes theatrically and gave a weary shrug of her shoulders – the distinctive gesture of an Italian. ‘I had hoped you might have changed since I last saw you, Arthur, but you’re still as obnoxious as I remember, if not worse.’ She simmered with a deliciously haughty air that reminded Romily of a cat watching its prey, trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to pounce.
‘Please don’t talk to my husband that way,’ said Irene as Arthur sat down heavily next to her, but not before glaring across the table. ‘As far as I can see, he’s the only one prepared to be honest here. The rest of you are cowards and too browbeaten by your father to speak your mind.’ She turned her gaze on Kit as though deliberately singling him out. Knowing their history from Jack, Romily winced.
Next to Kit, Allegra drummed her fingernails on the table. ‘Va bene, cara,’ she said, her voice low and honeyed. ‘If it’s honesty you want, then maybe this suits you better – I’d sooner lock myself in a cold dark cellar with a barrel of scorpions for company than spend a week in your husband’s company.’
In spite of everything, Romily had to bite back a smile. It was the nearest she had got to smiling since Jack’s death. Until today she had shut herself away, too grief-stricken to play the part of hostess tending to the needs of her guests. Let them get on with fighting amongst themselves, she had thought miserably. It was the first time in her life she had been unable to cope; the first time ever that she had wanted to run away from something. She had been desperate to return to London, to mourn for Jack in private, away from his family. But Roddy had urged her to stay and help him arrange the funeral in the way Jack would have wanted it to be conducted – as simple as possible and not a mawkish affair.
It was seeing how devastated Roddy was by Jack’s death that had helped Romily to find the strength to face each day. She had wept on his shoulder, pouring out her grief. ‘Dear girl,’ he had soothed, his own tears mingling with hers. Sharing their grief had helped both of them.
Florence had been a godsend, bringing meals upstairs to Romily’s room – the room that she and Jack had shared as lovers, and then as husband and wife. Initially Romily had not been able to eat so much as a crumb, and no amount of coaxing on Florence’s part could persuade her. But eventually, and at Dr Garland’s insistence, she had forced herself to try some of what Mrs Partridge had so solicitously prepared in order to tempt her.
As well as trays of food, Florence had brought her updates on Jack’s family, as had Roddy. It was no surprise to know that Arthur had immediately assumed the role of head of the household, and in so doing had offended Mrs Partridge by making unreasonable demands and rebuking Florence for not polishing his shoes as he’d instructed. So incensed was Romily by his high-handed rudeness that she emerged briefly from her room to put the upstart in his place, but was greeted with the news that both Kit and Arthur had just left for London and would return for the funeral. They had both done so yesterday – Kit to Island House, an
d his brother and Irene opting to take a room at the Half Moon Hotel in the village.
Their return coincided with Allegra and Hope’s arrival: Allegra in the afternoon, having travelled from Venice, and Hope in the evening with the surprise of a child in her arms. The selfless act of kindness Hope had carried out in bringing this poor infant to safety from Germany had given Romily cause to think well of her. Here was someone who cared, who had a heart; unlike Arthur, who had iced water running through his veins, and a stone where a heart should be. He was probably the sort of man who, as a boy, had enjoyed taunting small animals and found pleasure in pulling the wings off butterflies. But if he thought he could treat Romily with the kind of arrogant rudeness with which he treated everyone else, he was in for a shock: this was her house now, as Roddy had informed them during the reading of Jack’s will.
While he still had the power of speech, Jack had told Romily that he had made a new will while she’d been away in Europe, and that as well as leaving her an impressive portfolio of stocks and shares, he wanted her to have Island House and all it contained. At no stage had she let on to the family that she knew this, deeming it better for it to come formally from Roddy’s lips. She was touched that Jack had gifted her this beautiful house, a place that she had loved on sight. But she would happily live in the meanest little hovel if it meant Jack was still alive. That their happiness had been cut short so soon, and that he had died alone and without her by his side, broke her heart.
With tears filling her eyes, she turned to look out at the garden through the open window, remembering her first visit, how perfectly idyllic it had seemed. ‘But it’s not actually an island, is it?’ she’d said to Jack when he was showing her around.
‘You sound disappointed,’ he had responded.
‘No, not at all, only the name suggests it is.’
