Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  ‘Well, I’m told some Georgian wag who had the original part of the house built decided it had the feel of an island, with the stream feeding the pond and then skirting around the house down into the next valley, and named it accordingly.’

  The more Romily saw of the house, the more she came to regard it as a real island, set apart from the rest of the world, an oasis to which she and Jack could retreat.

  Staring out at the garden now, and at the pond beyond with its spectacular display of flowering water lilies, she recalled the warm evening last month when Jack had taken her down to the boathouse, helped her into the wooden dinghy and rowed her into the middle of the pond. Without warning, he had thrown the oars into the water, startling a pair of moorhens. ‘What did you do that for?’ she’d asked, amused.

  ‘Have I ever told you that you have the most beautiful violet eyes?’ he’d replied.

  ‘Yes, you have. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to marry me, and until you say yes, we’re marooned here.’

  She had laughed and watched the oars drift slowly away from the boat on the current that fed the pond. ‘And if I accept your proposal, how do you plan to get us back onto dry land?’

  ‘First tell me your answer,’ he’d said, leaning forward, his expression now intensely serious.

  ‘Oh, it’s a yes, of course it is. I’m just surprised it’s taken you this long to get around to asking me.’

  His expression softened. ‘I needed time to pluck up the courage. But are you sure you want to throw in your lot with a man so much older than you?’

  ‘My darling Jack, I threw in my lot with you the day we met at Brooklands. Now then, have we dispensed with the small talk? Are you going to kiss me to seal the deal?’

  He had, and with a long and very sure kiss. When they finally drew apart, she said, ‘On the basis that we’re now officially betrothed, I’m eager to hear your plan for getting us back to the bank.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, that’s easily done.’ Slipping off his shoes, he stood up, causing the wooden dinghy to rock precariously, then with a cry of ‘Geronimo!’ threw himself into the water, splashing her comprehensively into the bargain.

  ‘You’re mad!’ she called out to him when he surfaced some distance from the boat.

  ‘Mad with love for you! Are you coming in?’

  ‘Just you try and stop me.’ In seconds flat, she had stripped off down to her underclothes and dived in too.

  The memory of that evening, of the two of them drying off in the boathouse and making love on a blanket on the floor in the soft glow of a storm lantern, made her close her eyes, both to recapture the moment entirely, but also to stop the tears that were once again threatening to expose her pain. When she deemed it safe to open them again, she saw a fat bumblebee buzzing drunkenly amongst the roses immediately in front of the window, the fragrant scent of the dusky pink blooms discernible on the warm air.

  She sighed, tempted to go outside to escape the sniping of this querulous family at war. Behind her, and with the angry exchanges continuing around the table, she could hear Hope trying unsuccessfully to settle the crying child.

  On impulse, Romily rose from her seat. ‘Hope,’ she said, ‘why don’t I take Annelise for a walk around the garden? She must be bored out of her mind. I know I am.’

  Hope looked back at her with a stunned expression on her face, as though Romily had just suggested she throw the child into the pond with a heavy weight tied around her neck.

  ‘I would have thought you of all people would want to stay here and enjoy the spectacle of our humiliation right to the bitter end,’ commented Arthur, regarding her with his unpleasantly pale grey eyes.

  ‘I imagine there’ll be plenty of opportunity for that in the coming days,’ Romily said smoothly. ‘The bitter end is indubitably a long way off yet.’ Ignoring the intake of breath from both Arthur and his wife, she reached for the fractious child. Finding no resistance from Hope, who, to put it bluntly, looked exhausted from trying to comfort the distressed infant, she settled Annelise on her hip.

  She nodded at Roddy on her way out of the room. He nodded in return, the gesture implying that he would fill her in later.

  In the warm afternoon sunshine, Romily took the baby round to the back of the house, through the gated archway in the yew hedge to a small private garden that Jack had especially loved. It was directly outside his study, accessed through a pair of French doors. She had not had the courage to set foot inside the study yet; it was the room they had turned into a bedroom for him, and where he had died.

  Now his body lay in the churchyard on the other side of the tall beech hedge that sheltered this part of the garden. From here she could see the solid square tower of St Mary’s, the pews of which had been packed full earlier today, not only with curious or well-meaning people from the village, but also with Jack’s friends and acquaintances from London.

  Some of Romily’s friends had attended the funeral too, including Sarah, who was still on crutches nursing her broken ankle. Both Romily’s agent and editor had come, and she’d appreciated their support. They knew how much she had loved Jack; knew too that he was the first man to whom she had given her heart.

  Before her friends had set off for the train to London, her agent had advised her to take it easy and not to rush back to work too soon. He’d cancelled an appearance in London she was booked to do at Foyle’s next week, and she was grateful for that.

  She settled Annelise on the lawn and sat down beside her. The little girl looked up at her, her intensely dark eyes filled with something Romily could only guess at. At ten months old, and with silky-fine blonde hair, she was a pretty little thing, almost doll-like she was so petite. Romily thought of the girl’s parents and wondered how they were coping without her. They had to be going through hell. And the worst of it was, who knew how long Annelise would have to stay in Hope’s care?

  Shuffling over to Romily, the baby hauled herself up onto her lap and, as if thoroughly pleased with herself, beamed a hugely happy smile. Something deep inside Romily tugged at her heart. She had never aspired to being a mother, but in that instant, she wished Jack had left her with a child. Something tangible of him, something stronger than mere memories.

  A tear slid down her cheek, and seeing it, Annelise frowned, reaching up and touched it with a small finger. It made Romily cry all the more.

  Chapter Twelve

  Florence was in the kitchen with Mrs Partridge and Mrs Bunch, the last of the washing-up now dried and put away, the tea brewing and a freshly baked batch of rock cakes just out of the oven.

  It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet, not with Mr Devereux’s family around. They were an awkward lot, especially that Arthur. Every time he summoned Florence for something, he looked down his nose at her as though she were muck he’d stepped in. His wife wasn’t much better either. Thank God they weren’t actually staying here.

  ‘Come on, Flo, come and sit yourself down,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Your tea’s poured.’

  Drying her hands, Florence took her place at the table gratefully. She’d been on her feet since first thing that morning, and as well as helping to prepare for the expected funeral guests, she had also looked after the baby for a couple of hours. She’d had no previous contact with babies before and had been more than a little anxious when Mrs Meyer had asked if she would mind the child for her while she attended the funeral. Florence had wanted to go to the church herself and pay her respects, but she hadn’t felt it was her place to refuse the request. Luckily the baby had slept for a short time, making it possible for Florence to help Mrs Partridge with all that needed doing.

  At the other end of the table, Mrs Bunch let out a long exhalation of breath like a train sending a whooshing cloud of steam into the air. She rubbed at her legs – her varicose veins were the bane of her life, she frequently
complained, repeatedly telling anyone who would listen that she was a martyr to the wretched things. ‘I’m gettin’ too old for all this runnin’ around,’ she said, after taking a noisy slurp of her tea.

  ‘Get away with you, Elsie,’ said Mrs Partridge, passing her a plate of sandwiches left over from the guests. ‘Plenty of good years left in you yet.’ She nudged the plate towards Florence. ‘Better eat up and enjoy the peace and quiet before the next round of demands from that lot.’ She inclined her head towards the closed kitchen door, as though Mr Devereux’s family were lurking on the other side of it.

  ‘How long do you think they’ll be holed up in the dining room?’ asked Florence.

  ‘Depends how complicated the will is, I suppose,’ answered Mrs Partridge, ‘and if the family start arguing over who gets what. Some folk can argue over just about anything when it comes to wills. I had a cousin who rowed something awful over the ugliest of china dogs.’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they gets nothin’,’ Mrs Bunch said through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘It’s not as if they were that fond of the old boy, or he that fond of them if you asks me.’

  Mrs Bunch had lived in the village all her life; there wasn’t anything she didn’t know about anyone, and she had a ready tongue to share her knowledge, too. ‘I’ve told you before about my friend that used to work here,’ she said, after taking another gulp of tea. ‘Oh, the stories she told me! When them children came for their holidays, and more often than not without their father but with a nanny, there were troubles aplenty, let me tell you. There wasn’t a nanny alive who could control them little ones; they as good as roamed free to do as they pleased. You never heard so much squabbling as they got up to!’

  ‘Did they make friends in the village?’ asked Florence.

  ‘Young Master Kit and Miss Hope did, Miss Allegra too, but Master Arthur always saw himself as being above mere village folk. It was different when Mr Devereux came. He might not have been the best of dads, being absent such a lot, but he did try. He’d put on these big parties, invited all the kiddies from the village and all. But that was stopped after one summer when Miss Allegra got into a fight with a boy who’d lured her down to the boathouse. When she refused to kiss him and he made fun of her Italian accent, she flew into a rage and kicked and punched him like any street fighter, until finally she shoved him into the lily pond.’

  ‘Sounds like he got what he deserved,’ said Florence, feeling some sympathy for the girl.

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but the thing was, the lad couldn’t swim and in places the lily pond is fair deep. If Master Kit hadn’t dived in and dragged him to safety, he might’ve drowned.’

  ‘Does the boy still live in the village?’ asked Florence.

  ‘He do indeed. His name’s Victor, and some say it might have been better if he had drowned that day; he’s been nothing but trouble to his family since the day he was born.’

  She paused for a moment to drain her teacup, and after Mrs Partridge had filled it again, and passed her a rock cake, she continued.

  ‘That wasn’t the only time Miss Allegra’s temper got the better of her. One day she’d had enough of that Master Arthur and his sneering ways and lay in wait for him in the garden.’ The old woman chuckled. ‘She’d got hold of Master Kit’s catapult and hit her target fair and square, blinded him in one eye. She’s got a real fiery heart to her, that one. Must be all that Latin blood runnin’ through her veins. Makes them different to us, don’t it?’

  It was difficult for Florence to picture the aloof young woman she had so far encountered doing any of those things; she seemed much too grand for such behaviour. She didn’t seem a very happy woman, but then maybe you couldn’t be a happy person to be an opera singer; perhaps you had to have a streak of tragedy running through you. There again, she was only here because her uncle was dead; she would hardly go about with a big grin on her face, would she?

  ‘I heard one of the funeral guests saying that Collings hardware store has sold out of wireless sets this week,’ said Florence, after Mrs Partridge had topped up her teacup. ‘Apparently they’ve sold more in the last month than the whole year put together.’

  ‘There’s always some that benefits from war, isn’t there?’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Or even the threat of it.’

  ‘Folks are stocking up on tinned food,’ Mrs Bunch said. ‘And you can’t blame them, can you?’

  Thinking of the tins Mrs Partridge had already squirrelled away for what she called a rainy day, Florence said, ‘Another guest was saying that the threat of war is more real than ever now that Hitler and Stalin have formed an alliance. And there’s talk of children being evacuated from London.’

  ‘Evacuated to where, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said Mrs Bunch.

  A short while later, after Mrs Bunch had left to go home, there was a knock at the kitchen door and Miss Romily came in. She had a frown on her face and was holding the baby in her arms.

  ‘I think the poor thing might be hungry,’ she said anxiously. ‘I was playing with her in the garden but can’t seem to settle her now.’

  A widow who’d never had children of her own and who would have given anything to have a dozen grandchildren to cluck over, Mrs Partridge sprang into action. ‘We’ll soon have the little mite sorted. Florence, warm some milk for me and then make a fresh pot of tea for Miss Romily while I knock up some scrambled eggs. I’ve yet to meet a child who didn’t like my scrambled eggs.’ Within no time she had the infant contentedly sipping milk from a small cup and eating the eggs from a spoon.

  ‘You’re a miracle-worker,’ said Miss Romily, sitting at the table with them and drinking her tea.

  ‘Nothing to it,’ the older woman said, smiling happily at the little girl and spooning in another dollop of egg.

  ‘How’s it going in the dining room?’ Florence ventured to ask.

  ‘You may well ask. It was cowardly of me, but I left poor Roddy to deal with them. I’d had enough.’

  ‘What could they possibly be talking about all this time?’ asked Florence. ‘Sorry if that’s impertinent of me.’

  Miss Romily waved the apology aside. ‘That’s all right. You and Mrs P are fully entitled to know what’s going on, as I’m afraid the outcome might mean more work here for you both. You see, Jack’s will has an unusual twist to it. In order to inherit, his children and Allegra have to spend a week together here at Island House. If they don’t agree to it, or if one of them drops out, nobody gets a penny.’

  ‘Gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs Partridge. ‘How’ve they taken that?’

  ‘Not well. Particularly Arthur. Which is why I left when I did, before I was extremely rude to him.’

  ‘Why do you think Mr Devereux put that in his will?’ asked Florence.

  ‘I think it was his way of teaching them to realise that they’re a family. And also, perhaps more importantly, that one has to pull together and work as a team in life to get the best out of it.’ She paused and drew a line with her finger on the table. ‘I happen to believe it’s a sentiment that couldn’t be more true if there is a war, and it looks increasingly likely that there will be.’

  ‘War or not, people will do all sorts for a bit of money,’ said Mrs Partridge, spooning the last of the egg into the compliantly open mouth of the child on her lap. ‘Doesn’t mean they’ll play fair.’

  Miss Romily nodded slowly. ‘I expect Jack understood that all too well, but he probably wanted them to have the chance to put the past behind them. I fear it may well come down to how much they want, or need, the money.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Florence. ‘Will you have to be here with them?’ Privately she thought the poor woman had suffered enough and would be better off escaping to her flat in London.

  ‘It was Jack’s intention that I should stay to try and keep the peace. And knowing how much I love Island House, he’s left the place to me, s
o his family will have to jolly well play by my rules, or else. Moreover,’ she went on, ‘I don’t want them taking liberties with you two if I’m not around.’

  ‘Oh don’t you be worrying about us,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘We can look after ourselves. Isn’t that right, Annelise?’ She tickled the little girl under her chin and was rewarded with a gurgle of unfettered laughter. ‘Now there’s a sound we could all do with hearing a bit more round here. Nothing like a baby to put you in a good mood.’

  Florence exchanged a look with Miss Romily. ‘Looks like Annelise has found herself a new champion,’ she said.

  ‘Well, the poor little darling needs all the love she can get if you ask me,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Lord knows how her parents could have parted with her, and to send her so far away… it quite breaks my heart to think about it.’

  ‘They did it because they had no alternative,’ said a stern voice at the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. It was Mrs Meyer, and she looked far from happy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Meyer,’ said the woman who had Annelise on her lap. ‘I meant no harm; I was just saying what a desperate wrench it must have been for the parents to do what they did.’

  ‘It was, I assure you,’ Hope said coolly. ‘It was not a decision they took lightly.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘I am.’ And feeling she ought to, that the child was her responsibility, Hope lifted the infant up and held her against her shoulder. But then something in the juxtaposition between the little girl’s softness and the harshness of her own tone of voice made her relent. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be so short. It’s just that … ’ She broke off abruptly, not sure what to say to them. Oh, but why bother to waste what little energy she had in explaining to these people? Let them think what they wanted to. What would they know of the daily fear Otto and Sabine lived in, of the sacrifice they had made in giving up their child? What would they think if they knew just how tiring Hope found the task of looking after her, or how guilty she felt when she found herself wishing she had never agreed to it.