by Erica James
‘She’s good about most things, in my experience. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yes caro,’ Allegra said, leaning forward. ‘Accept my apology for the way we parted on Sunday. My words came out all wrong. I didn’t mean to sound the way I did.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I was at fault too. But I do understand, you have your reputation to consider.’
She shook her head and rested a hand across her abdomen. ‘I think it’s a little late for me to be concerned about that, don’t you?’
‘To hell with anyone who criticises you,’ he said vehemently, leaning in closer still.
Smiling, she said, ‘I wish you could sit and chat with me.’
He glanced up at the house behind them, as if checking for anyone watching them. ‘Best not,’ he said, ‘as much as I’d like to.’
A sadness came over her. ‘I wish things were different.’
‘In what way?’
‘That we were children again. Life was so much more simple then. Although I didn’t think so at the time. I couldn’t wait to be grown up; I thought things would be easier when I could make my own decisions and be in control of my destiny. I’ve proved not to be very good at doing that,’ she said with a rueful sigh.
‘We can’t turn back the clock,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘We are where we are.’ He cast another glance over his shoulder, then looked back at her. ‘If you’re well enough in the next day or so, would you like to go for a walk sometime? That’s if you’re happy to be seen with me.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said with a smile. ‘And to hell with what anyone else thinks! But what about you signing up? When will you do that?’
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I’ve told Mrs Devereux-Temple that I’ll be going.’
‘I wish you weren’t so keen to put yourself in danger. You won’t disappear without saying goodbye, will you?’
‘That rather depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’ll still be here when I leave. I expect you’ll go before me. Your week here will soon be up and you’ll be off to London, won’t you, or somewhere else?’
She shrugged. It was as much as she could manage to think as far as the next hour, never mind tomorrow or the day after. ‘I haven’t got very far with planning what happens next,’ she said.
‘Just don’t do anything hasty,’ he said. ‘Not when you have the baby to consider.’
‘That’s exactly what Romily said.’
He smiled. ‘Then you’d best do as she says. And I’d better get on and do what I’m paid to do.’
Disappointed that he couldn’t stay and keep her company, Allegra watched him push the wheelbarrow across the lawn towards the kitchen garden. How pathetic it now seemed to her that she had been concerned what people would think of her staying the night at Clover End Cottage. Since when had she cared about such things?
Sadly, though, she suspected that Elijah did, for there was no mistaking the fact that he regarded her as a Devereux. Which was nonsense. Had they met in Italy when she’d been in the orphanage, they would have been on an equal footing; there would have been no question of them being of a different social class. But because by a fluke of birth Jack Devereux was her uncle, their roles had been defined accordingly.
As there often was, there was a queue outside the baker’s shop, but Florence didn’t mind; she was quite happy to take her turn in the warm sunshine. It also gave her the opportunity to watch Billy through the window as he helped his mother serve the queue of customers. Mrs Partridge had said she’d phone the bread order through and have Billy deliver it, but Florence had seized her opportunity and offered to fetch it herself. ‘And no guesses why that would be,’ Mrs Partridge had said, causing Florence’s cheeks to flame.
But then what did she expect when nothing was secret round here, not with Mrs Bunch in the village? There didn’t seem to be anything she didn’t know. For instance, she knew that Allegra had been seen leaving Elijah’s cottage early Sunday morning. ‘Sweet as a pair of cooing turtle doves, they be,’ claimed Mrs Bunch with a smug smile. ‘Though what will come of it is anybody’s guess.’
With her own eyes Florence had spotted Allegra and Elijah talking in the garden earlier that morning, and from the look of them, she’d bet a whole king’s ransom they hadn’t been discussing the best way to prune roses!
As the queue moved forward, she saw Billy looking at her through the window. He smiled and waved at her, and absurdly her stomach gave a little flip and set off a fluttering sensation as though a million butterflies were flapping their wings inside her. By the time the sensation had settled, Billy had appeared outside the shop with a full basket of bread, which he strapped onto his delivery bicycle propped against the wall. When all was secure, he came over to her. ‘Can I walk you back to Island House when you’ve got what you need?’ he asked quietly.
‘Haven’t you got your orders to deliver?’ she whispered, conscious that they were being observed.
He smiled. ‘I’ll do them afterwards. I’ll wait for you by the postbox at the end of Market Lane.’
When he’d gone – whistling merrily to himself – Florence kept her gaze fixed firmly on her shoes, diligently avoiding any speculative glances. Who among them in the queue, she wondered, would be the first to report back to Mrs Bunch?
At last she made it inside the shop, with its invitingly sweet and yeasty smell, and was served by Billy’s mother, Ruby Minton. Ruby was never the friendliest of women, and there was nothing remotely inviting about the cool look she gave Florence over the counter. Florence knew what the look meant – Leave my son alone; you’re not good enough for him! She also knew, thanks to Mrs Bunch, why just about any girl in the village would be on the receiving end of such a look. Ruby Minton had had so much difficulty in delivering a healthy baby that from the day Billy was born, she had guarded him jealously, rarely letting him out of her sight. The story Mrs Bunch told was that in the garden at the back of the baker’s shop was a fruit tree planted for every baby the Mintons had lost; they numbered half a dozen.
With the bread wrapped, paid for and placed in her basket, Florence politely wished Ruby Minton a good day. After receiving no more than a sniff of dismissal, she stepped back out into the bright sunshine. Poor woman, she thought, her life had probably been overshadowed by a never-ending cycle of sadness. Was it any wonder she was scared of losing her one and only child to a girlfriend or wife?
The market square behind her, Florence saw Billy waiting for her just where he had said he would.
‘You look fair pretty today, Flo,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her smack on the lips. ‘As pretty as a picture.’
‘And you, Billy Minton, are taking liberties,’ she replied, her stomach turning somersaults as she looked anxiously about them to make sure nobody was around to see.
He laughed. ‘I promise that’s the only liberty I’ll take with you today.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ she said primly.
He walked alongside her down the narrow lane, pushing his heavily laden bicycle, and then together they crossed the main road. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said when they were on the other side.
‘That depends on what it is you want to know.’
‘I’d like to establish things between us,’ he said. ‘You know, make things official, like, so there’s no misunderstanding.’
‘That sounds very formal,’ she said. ‘What exactly is it you have in mind?’
‘You know jolly well what I have in mind, but if I have to say the words, so be it. I want us to be officially stepping out, Miss Florence Massie.’
‘Do you indeed?’ She sounded much more in control than she actually felt. Inside she was all a-quiver, her heart beating double fast, the butterflies flapping their wings again.
‘Don’t tease me, Flo. You must know ho
w I feel about you. And I’m pretty sure you feel something for me, so why not say you’ll be my girl?’
Florence thought of Mrs Minton and all those trees planted in her garden. ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea?’ she asked. ‘I don’t believe your mother would take too kindly to me, do you?’
‘Take no notice of her. She’s just, well, you know, a bit overprotective; some mothers are like that.’
Florence decided to be honest with him. ‘She was quite off with me just now in the shop. Like she was warning me off you.’
‘Pay her no heed. She’s too cautious for her own good. She’ll come round, you see if she don’t. So how about it, shall we step out together?’
Her head said no, but her heart – her treacherous heart – said yes, yes, yes! ‘If that’s what you really want,’ she murmured, ‘then yes.’
He laughed. ‘You could sound a bit more enthusiastic about the idea,’ he said. ‘Anyone would think you would sooner court a rattlesnake!’
She laughed too. ‘Like your mother, I’m naturally cautious. And don’t you be thinking you can get away with anything, William Minton. I’m not that sort of a girl. I’m really not.’
‘And I’m not that sort of a boy. So don’t you go making assumptions about me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘As well you should be. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to. And that’s a promise.’
Such was the forcefulness of his tone, Florence believed him. She slowed her step and put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ she said. ‘You’re the nicest lad I’ve ever known and I really enjoy your company, and … and I’m not going to say anything else or it’ll make your head grow too big for those shoulders of yours.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll have you know my shoulders are strong enough to support the biggest of heads. I’m not a weakling baby, you know. Oh, and talking of babies, I’ve got something to tell you, something I saw in the woods at the back of Island House on Sunday.’
When he’d told her, and after Florence had asked him if he was sure, she knew it was something Miss Romily should hear about it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, Miss Romily,’ said Florence. ‘I’m not one for telling tales, I never have been. But I thought this was important and you should know about it.’
Romily put down the pen she’d been writing with and turned away from her desk to give Florence her full attention. ‘It’s not about that gypsy fortune-teller, is it?’
‘No. It’s about Mr Arthur Devereux. The thing is, Billy – Billy Minton from the baker’s …’
‘Yes, I’m well acquainted with Billy,’ Romily interjected with a smile. ‘He’s your young beau if I’m not mistaken.’
Florence blushed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I mean we’re only …’
‘I’m teasing you, Florence, which is naughty of me. I apologise. Do carry on.’
‘Well the thing is, it’s what Billy saw on Sunday. He’d been with his parents down at the Sally Army hall, and afterwards he and his mate Tommy Fisher from the butcher’s decided to go rabbiting in the woods at the back of here. Tommy can be a bit pushy, so Billy says, and well, he insisted they take the short cut along the private path around the pond; he said the bushes were so overgrown there nobody would see them, so nobody would be any the wiser, because strictly speaking they were trespassing, and Billy was worried about that.’
When the girl drew breath, and sensing she was going to go into rather more detail than might be necessary, Romily sat back in her chair and made herself more comfortable. She couldn’t help but be intrigued. ‘Go on,’ she said encouragingly.
‘Billy says it was when they were skirting round the furthest side of the pond that he peered through the bushes, through the bit where they’re not so thick – he was afraid they might be seen across from the garden – and that’s when he saw Arthur bending down to the sleeping baby and carrying her off. So he wasn’t telling the truth when he said he found Annelise on the path heading towards the woods. He lied, didn’t he, to get Miss Allegra into trouble?’
‘And you’re absolutely sure Billy isn’t making this up?’ asked Romily.
Florence shook her head vigorously. ‘He’s not like that. He doesn’t say things for effect like some lads do. And for what it’s worth, and because I knew it was important, I made him swear he was telling the truth.’ She paused and fiddled with her apron. ‘I have done the right thing in telling you, haven’t I?’
‘You did entirely the right thing in coming to me,’ said Romily. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Florence, and to Billy for sharing with you what he saw. What made him tell you, by the way?’
‘He’d heard about Annelise going missing, and that Arthur was the one to find her – probably Mrs Bunch had the news all round the village by teatime yesterday – and he just thought it didn’t add up.’
‘He’s an astute young man,’ Romily said thoughtfully.
Florence smiled shyly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before now, but there hasn’t been time since yesterday when he told me, what with everything that’s been going on and looking after Annelise.’
‘That’s all right. I know now, that’s the important thing.’
‘It’s none of my business, but I can’t help but think Miss Allegra has been treated badly by that cousin of hers. He deserves stringing up for putting her through all that torment, especially as she’s not well. Is she feeling any better?’
‘Rest is what Dr Garland says is best for her,’ Romily said evasively. ‘But I think this news you’ve shared with me may well help.’
Left on her own, Romily contemplated just how loathsome a creature Arthur was. What a twisted mind he had to carry out such a scheme. And why? To pit Hope against Allegra and divide them yet further? What satisfaction did he gain from such a ploy?
But Florence was right. A great wrong had been committed against Allegra, and Romily was determined to see that it was put right. Arthur would be shamed for his plotting and scheming.
She returned to the chapter she had been writing before Florence had knocked on the door, but try as she might, she could not settle. Her mind kept dwelling on what Arthur had done, in particular the awful minutes spent searching for Annelise in the pond, fearing the worst. She remembered too how distressed Allegra and Hope had been, the terror on Allegra’s face and the hopeless misery on Hope’s. What sick delight Arthur must have taken knowing that he had caused such a commotion and instilled such panic. What drove him to want to be always in control, to be the consummate puppet-master pulling the strings to manipulate others to his amusement? Roddy had warned Romily that there was a dark side to Arthur and that he was capable of almost anything, but she had underestimated that warning.
It was exactly a week ago that Jack’s funeral had taken place, and this evening Roddy would be arriving to inform the family whether they had fulfilled the terms of the will to his satisfaction. His decision would be made tomorrow morning, after he’d spoken with Romily.
Whatever the final decision was, Romily strongly suspected the connection between Island House and Jack’s family would not be broken immediately. Free as they were to go their different ways, she was not sure everyone would leave. Kit and Arthur would probably return to London and their jobs, but Allegra and Hope would be in no rush to go. In fact, Romily felt bound to urge them to stay on. She would be happy to extend the same invitation to Kit, but not Arthur. The sooner that malign influence left, the better.
She put down her pen, abandoning the idea of work, and switched on the wireless to listen to the latest news on the ultimatum Hitler had sent Poland regarding Danzig. With still no word on the outcome, it was as if the world was holding its breath, the future as they knew it hanging precariously in the balance. In many ways it was a reflection of their own little world h
ere at Island House, the family waiting to hear the outcome of their week spent together.
With a heavy heart, Romily switched off the wireless and went and stood at the open French doors, where a gentle breeze blew in, carrying with it the milky-sweet scent of freshly mown grass. It was late afternoon, and in the golden sunlight the garden’s exquisite loveliness had the power to touch her. But despite the warmth and beauty of the day, a shiver of fear ran through her.
It was later, after Roddy had joined them and they were having dinner, that Romily chose her moment to confront Arthur, when she sensed he was taking his final chance to rile everybody around the table. There was no getting away from it: the man enjoyed a captive audience and manipulating it for his own warped pleasure.
She waited for Florence to finish serving their dessert, and when the girl had left the room, Romily raised her wine glass. ‘I think a toast is in order, wouldn’t you agree?’
Everyone looked at her uncertainly.
‘What are we drinking to?’ asked Arthur pompously. ‘The fact that we’ve survived a week cooped up together and not resorted to murder?’
‘There’s still time,’ muttered Allegra.
Arthur snorted. ‘That’s rich coming from you, the woman who very nearly caused Annelise’s demise.’
Before Allegra could reply, Romily said, ‘I was going to suggest we drink to truth and honesty. And regarding that, I have something I’d like to share with you all.’
Roddy looked at her, puzzled. He was as much in the dark as everybody else; Romily had decided not to tell him of Arthur’s deceit before the others learnt of it.
‘Here we go,’ said Arthur. ‘This is the bit where our beloved stepmother informs us that we won’t see a penny of our inheritance because we’ve fallen foul of some legal clause or other. I knew this would happen.’
‘Do be quiet, Arthur!’ snapped Hope. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of your own voice?’
‘Don’t you ever get tired of being such a sanctimonious bore?’
