by Erica James
‘That’s so typical of you!’ snapped Allegra. ‘Always sitting on the fence, not wanting to cause any fuss or bother.’
‘As opposed to you, always making a drama out of the smallest of things. It must be the—’
‘Oh, that’s right!’ interrupted Allegra, not giving him a chance to finish his sentence. ‘It must be the illegitimate hot-blooded Italian in me!’
Kit was astonished, although he shouldn’t have been; Allegra’s mood swings were legendary. ‘I was going to say it must be the prima donna in you.’
‘Liar!’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ he said, exasperated. ‘Aren’t you tired of always dragging out that old chestnut? Do you really think any of us gives a damn about it now?’
‘Maybe it’s because I do give a damn about it. You have no idea what it feels like never to have known your mother or father.’
‘You’re forgetting, I never knew my mother, and you never hear me complaining about that.’
‘But you don’t have the stigma I grew up with! Being labelled a bastard never leaves you. I wouldn’t wish that on any child.’
Before Kit could say anything further, she leapt up from the wooden bench and marched off at practically a gallop. Baffled, he watched her go. What on earth was that all about?
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a day for callers – first Lady Fogg and now the Reverend Septimus Tate, who had presided over Jack’s funeral.
A confirmed bachelor, he was known for demanding strict piety and Christian charity from his flock while showing not a scrap of it himself. He usually timed his parish visits to coincide with mealtimes, when he could be sure of an invitation to join his hosts at their table.
Florence had announced his arrival to Romily just as they had sat down for lunch in the garden, Romily having decided that eating outside might make for a more convivial atmosphere, that the sun-drenched garden might temper Arthur’s obnoxious behaviour and Hope might feel more relaxed with Annelise in these less formal surroundings.
‘Apologies for the intrusion!’ boomed the vicar, emerging from the house onto the terrace before Romily had had a chance to tell Florence to ask him to wait in the drawing room. ‘I had no idea it was that time of day already,’ he said, ‘and that you’d be sitting down to eat.’
A compulsive liar as well as a grasping glutton, thought Romily, regarding with revulsion the corpulent red-faced man lumbering towards them. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join us,’ she said, observing him eyeing their plates of poached salmon, new potatoes and green beans. ‘I’m sure we can stretch things to go round a little further. Kit, perhaps you’d be so good as to find another chair from the summer house? And Florence, could you trouble Mrs Partridge for some lunch for our unexpected guest?’
‘How kind of you, Mrs Devereux-Temple,’ the man said, removing his hat and mopping his sweating brow with a handkerchief. ‘But really I don’t want to intrude.’
‘A bit late for that,’ muttered Arthur, reaching for his wine glass and taking a large mouthful.
Fortunately, as well as suffering from gout, the Reverend Tate was slightly deaf, which enabled plenty of his flock to mutter about him without fear of being overheard.
Once the inconvenience of his arrival had been dealt with and he was seated between Kit and Romily with a knife and fork held firmly in his meaty grasp, she asked him what brought him to Island House.
‘Ah yes, of course, so consumed was I by the warmth of your generosity, I almost forgot. I have a favour to beg of you, dear lady.’
‘Here we go,’ muttered Arthur. ‘The Bank of Devereux is about to be tapped.’
‘What’s that, Arthur?’ asked the reverend. ‘I didn’t catch it.’
‘I was asking my sister, Hope, if it was time for Annelise’s nap,’ he lied smoothly.
The vicar looked at Annelise as if only just registering her presence, and grimaced at the sight of the child pushing a marble-sized potato into her mouth. Whether or not it was the effect of the vicar staring at her, Annelise chose to spit out the potato. She appeared to find this highly amusing and giggled, which revealed a partially chewed green bean on her tongue. She then, with very dainty fingers, picked up the rejected potato and offered it to the vicar. Romily couldn’t help but laugh at his obvious disgust, which made Annelise chortle some more, as well as bob up and down happily in her high chair, her feet kicking the table and rattling the crockery.
‘Looks like you’re a hit with our youngest diner, Reverend Tate,’ remarked Kit. ‘What were you saying about a favour?’
‘Ah yes. We – that is, the village fete committee – find ourselves in something of a fix for the fete tomorrow. As you may recall, Mrs Devereux-Temple, your husband had accepted an invitation to officiate and declare the fete open, which leaves us hoping … and I’m aware of the imposition, but could you possibly find it within your power to do the honours for us in Mr Devereux’s place?’
Romily had forgotten about the fete, had forgotten too what Jack had agreed to do, but before she had a chance to reply, Arthur clanged his cutlery against his plate. ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate given that our father is barely cold in his grave. What would people think?’
‘Inappropriate to whom?’ asked Romily, her hackles up. How dare Arthur think he could answer on her behalf!
‘And since when did appropriate behaviour ever bother you?’ said Allegra.
‘I think you’re talking about yourself, Allegra,’ replied Arthur. ‘I for one care deeply about the correct way of doing things.’
‘Why not do it in Jack’s honour?’ suggested Kit.
Grateful for Kit’s intervention, Romily turned to the vicar. ‘Of course I shall do it. I’m sure Jack would have wanted me to take his place. What is more,’ she said, glancing around the table, daring anyone to disagree, ‘I think it would be good for us all to attend the fete as a family, as a way to thank the village for its kindness during this time of bereavement.’ Ignoring the inhalation of breath from Arthur, she added, ‘I strongly believe that this is something Jack would have wanted.’
‘Bloody hell, I call it a bit rich when she starts bossing us around as though we’re children. What gives her the right to do that? But I’ll tell you this for nothing: she can count me out from providing her with a false united front to the peasants of this village!’
Arthur had been banging on in this fashion for nearly an hour following lunch and the Reverend Tate’s eventual departure. With Hope back upstairs in her room working, and Romily doing some work of her own in the drawing room, Kit, Allegra and Arthur were in the garden minding Annelise while she slept on a rug in the shade of a parasol.
Allegra was fascinated by the pale smoothness of the baby’s skin; it was so enviably flawless, and so at odds with the disagreeably puce complexion her face turned when she was crying. How different that child was to the one sleeping so serenely now. How could two such extremes co-exist in one small scrap of life?
Never having seen the child sleep before, and seeing her lying so peacefully, Allegra was struck by her vulnerability. It made her think of the small life dwelling inside her, and from nowhere came a feeling of acute tenderness and the inexplicable urge to place a hand protectively over her stomach. When she realised she had actually done it, she whipped her hand away and pretended to shoo away an annoying fly or bee. It was nothing more than hormones making her react so illogically, she told herself sternly. She had to fight it, had to keep her emotions, which were fast taking over her mind and body, firmly under control. The thought of losing not just her mind but her figure, of becoming fat and ugly and unlovable, appalled her. Could she really go through with having the baby? But the alternative was unthinkable.
‘Oh do give it a rest, Arthur,’ said Kit, rousing her sharply from her thoughts. ‘You’ve made your point repeatedly, and while you’r
e perfectly entitled to your views, please bear in mind that if we don’t go along with Romily’s wishes, she may well report back to Roddy and that could be the end of our inheritance. Can’t you just play along?’
‘You might have become totally emasculated and devoid of all pride,’ answered Arthur, ‘but I have not. I refuse to be treated like a child by that damned woman!’
‘Then stop acting like one,’ said Allegra. ‘And please watch your language in front of Annelise.’
This was too much for Arthur, and lighting up another cigarette, he strode off, shoulders hunched.
Allegra noticed that Kit was smiling. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘You telling him to watch his language when Annelise can’t understand a word of English.’
Allegra smiled. ‘Not yet she can’t, but she will very soon. I wonder if Hope knows what she’s taken on.’
‘In what way?’
‘In all ways. Because let’s face it, once war breaks out, that poor girl is unlikely to see her parents again, is she? Through no fault of her own, she’s going to end up a member of this wretched family for life. Just as I did.’
Kit frowned. ‘Is that how you really see it, even after all this time? That Jack adopting you was the worst thing to happen?’
No, she thought, the worst thing to happen to her was meeting Luigi and ending up in the mess she was now. Distracted by the sight of a tall, muscular man emerging with a wheelbarrow from the gate that led from the kitchen garden, she said, ‘Who’s that over there? There’s something familiar about him.’
‘Don’t you recognise him?’
Allegra shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. Seconds passed as she watched the man push the wheelbarrow across the lawn towards a holly bush. Her heart suddenly lurched.
‘It’s Elijah Hartley,’ said Kit when she didn’t say anything.
‘It can’t be,’ she murmured.
‘I assure you it is. I spoke to him briefly yesterday on my way back from the village; he took over the job of gardener here when his grandfather died.’
‘Did you tell him I was here?’
‘He already knew you were.’
And he hadn’t come and sought her out, thought Allegra sadly.
Dressed in a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cotton scarf knotted at his neck, and a pair of loose olive-green trousers held up with a thick belt, he was now clipping at the holly bush. ‘Why haven’t I seen him around before today?’ she asked Kit.
‘Apparently he works three days here and the rest of the time he’s up at Melstead Hall working for old Ma Fogg. You two used to be as thick as thieves, didn’t you?’ continued Kit in his infuriatingly blithe way.
As thick as thieves … Oh, it had been so much more than that! But how very different Elijah looked, how tall and handsome he had grown. The same age as Allegra, he’d been such a slight boy when he’d tagged along to help his grandfather in the garden here. Occasionally Allegra had gone to have tea with Elijah in the cottage where he lived. One time it had been his birthday and she’d taken him a book as a present – a book she had stolen from her uncle’s study. Only later did she discover how useless a gift it was because Elijah couldn’t read, something he had kept from her.
Back then Allegra had felt she had more in common with Elijah than with the family that had adopted her. Perhaps that was because his parents had both died from Spanish flu after the Great War, and his widowed grandfather, Joss Hartley, a devoutly religious man, had brought him up. His childhood had been a lonely one, just as hers was. Maybe that was why there had been such a strong bond of friendship between them, and why they had made a pact never to abandon each other.
But Allegra had broken that promise, and watching Elijah now, she accepted what she had always known but had tried to ignore: that it was one of her biggest regrets.
‘I say, Allegra, where are you going?’ asked Kit as, guided by an unstoppable force, she rose from her wicker chair and began to walk in Elijah’s direction. ‘You’re not leaving me here alone with Annelise, are you?’
Ignoring the desperate plea in his voice, Allegra kept on walking, held in the powerful grip of the past – a past for which she knew she had to atone. She had treated Elijah badly and she owed him an apology. Even after all this time.
As though sensing her presence, or more likely hearing Kit calling after her, Elijah stopped what he was doing and turned around. Giving no sign that he recognised her, he stood very still and watched her approach. When she was level with him, he stared at her in unnerving silence. She stared back, at a loss what to say. Whatever she said wouldn’t be enough.
It was Elijah who broke the silence. ‘I thought it was you over there with Kit,’ he said.
‘You didn’t want to come and say hello, then?’
‘I didn’t think you’d want the likes of me disturbing you.’
The likes of me … How cool and distant he sounded, not at all like the boy she had known.
‘How could you think that?’ she asked him.
He fiddled with the shears in his large square hands, but didn’t answer her.
‘You look well,’ she said, grasping for something to say. ‘You’ve grown.’
‘So have you. But then it’s been ten years.’
‘Yes,’ was all she could think to say.
‘I was sorry to hear about your uncle. He was a good and decent man.’
‘You’ve lost your Suffolk accent,’ she said, noting another change in him.
He shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you move away.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Down to the south coast to work for a time, then when my grandfather took ill, I came back. Folks round here made fun of me, said I was no longer one of them. What about you?’ With a subtle sweep of his dark brown eyes that left her feeling stripped to her soul, he looked her up and down. ‘Word is you’ve become quite the singing star in Italy, just as you always said you would. But then I never doubted you’d achieve your dream, that nothing would stand in your way.’
She could have wept at his words.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The fete was held at Clover Field, at the opposite end of the village to Island House.
Florence and Mrs Partridge had been given the afternoon off so they could come and enjoy themselves along with the rest of the village, and watching Miss Romily welcoming everybody to the fete, and knowing how difficult it was for her, Florence was filled with pride. Having deliberately eschewed the wearing of black since the funeral, Miss Romily had opted today to wear an elegant navy-blue dress with a white collar, a wide navy-blue brimmed hat and white gloves. With a stylish pair of sunglasses covering her eyes, she looked like a glamorous film star.
Florence knew that under normal circumstances Miss Romily was very used to speaking in public, but this, up there on the podium, standing in for her husband, was different. Only once did she seem to lose her way and hesitate, and that was when she mentioned Jack by name, saying how much he had liked being involved with the village.
‘I’m sure he’s looking down on us all,’ she said now, ‘and thinking, “Oh for heaven’s sake, woman, do stop rambling and let everybody get on with enjoying themselves!” So that’s what I shall do, but not without thanking you for supporting such a fine tradition as the Melstead St Mary summer fete!’
The crowd clapped enthusiastically and then the Salvation Army band struck up with ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. In the front row of the band, playing his trumpet, was Billy Minton. He looked very smart in his uniform, quite different to how he looked when he was serving in his parents’ shop, or on his bicycle delivering bread around the village. Spotting Florence in the crowd, he gave her a wink. She smiled back at him shyly.
With Mrs Partridge going off to find herself a cup of tea in the refreshmen
t tent, and no doubt to have a gossip with Mrs Bunch – a woman Miss Romily joked was head of the intelligence corps in the village – Florence went in search of the ice cream seller. She soon found him, and after waiting patiently in the queue, she handed over her 2d for a large cornet. She then wandered about looking at the various stalls of books, toys, bric-a-brac and home-made preserves. After browsing the jars of local honey, lemon curd and strawberry jam, she moved on to the plant stall run by Miss Gant and Miss Treadmill. Florence knew them to say hello to, and gave the ladies a smile and a wave, but with no need of a plant, she pressed on towards the home-produce tent. Mrs Partridge had wondered about taking part to see if she could win Best Cake, but what with having been so busy this last week, she hadn’t had time. ‘Next year,’ she’d said, ‘I’ll bake a cake to knock their socks off, see if I don’t!’
But from what some folk were saying, you’d think there wasn’t going to be a next year. War. It was all people could talk about. And not if, but when. Yesterday they’d been issued with horrid gas masks as well as pamphlets about what to do in the case of war breaking out, but somehow none of it seemed real. How could it? thought Florence, looking about her at all the happy smiling faces in the summer sunshine.
As she finished her ice cream, she passed a crowd of children clustered around a wooden barrel, their arms lost within the sawdust of the lucky dip as they dug down deep for some hidden treasure. Florence was suddenly struck by a memory of doing the same thing a long time ago.
She had been with her mother at a fair, a rare chance for them to be alone together. Her mother had said that it was to be a secret between them, and that if Florence could keep the secret, maybe they would do it again. They’d only been at the fair a short while when they got chatting to a man Florence had never seen before, but who her mother seemed to know. He’d been very friendly and had bought them ice creams and lemonade to drink. She had never seen her mother look so cheerful or carefree. The man had asked Florence if she would like a go on the lucky dip, and in amongst the sawdust she’d found a stick of pink liquorice wrapped in paper, which she’d eaten immediately. Next he had asked if she’d like him to try and win her a doll on the shooting range; he’d said he was a crack shot, so it would be as easy as anything. To her amazement, he’d done just that. Never had Florence seen a doll so pretty or dressed in such fine clothes. But when she and her mother had been on the bus going home, she’d lost the doll and had cried.
