by Erica James
He laughed. ‘Not for a minute. But the thought of it did stop you in your tracks, didn’t it? So how about it, Allegra? How about we put an end to all the talk in the village and surprise everybody?’
‘Would that be the only reason for us to marry?’
‘Oh, my darling Allegra, of course not. We should marry because I love you and you love me. And then the beautiful daughter you’re going to give birth to, or the handsome son, will have a father in its life. The child could have my name on the birth certificate to make everything nice and respectable.’
‘You’ve given this a lot of thought.’
‘Are you saying you haven’t?’
Of course she had. Being with Elijah, whether it was at his cottage or hers, had made Allegra feel happier than she could ever remember being. Any time spent apart from him dragged, and the thought of him leaving to return to barracks and then being sent to fight God knew where chilled her to the marrow. If she could, she would keep him safe with her at Winter Cottage, never to let him go again.
But even marriage wouldn’t keep him by her side where he would be safe. Married or not, he would still have to go and fight, and she would still be left alone in Melstead St Mary with her child. For herself she didn’t care a fig about marriage providing her with a veneer of respectability, but as husband and wife, would they spend the rest of their lives fighting prejudice, because in the eyes of some people they came from different worlds? Surely Elijah deserved better than that.
‘This long silence from you is not filling me with hope that you’ll say yes,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you know what you’ll be taking on?’ Allegra responded. ‘It’s not just me you’re marrying; you’re taking on a child as well. Another man’s child.’
‘Allegra, don’t you think I’ve worked that out for myself? Now for the love of God, it’s gone midnight and it’s the first day of 1940. Give me your answer before it’s 1941! Yes or no, will you marry me?’
Chapter Forty-Four
January 1940
‘Darling, I think it’s time we bought a bigger house, don’t you?’
‘Is that a statement of intent or a question?’ responded Arthur indifferently to his wife as he prepared for bed.
It was two o’clock in the morning, New Year’s Day, and he was standing at the side of the large four-poster bed debating with himself whether to put on a scarf as well as keep his dressing gown on. Their north-facing room caught the worst of the wind. He’d damned near frozen to death last night in this mausoleum of a house to which Irene’s parents insisted on retreating for New Year.
The very first time Irene had proposed visiting her parents in their Scottish house overlooking Loch Leven, he’d been more than happy to make the long journey; a week of shooting and fishing, and then hunkering down in a comfortable chair in front of a log fire with an endless supply of locally produced whisky and the newspaper had sounded just the ticket. But the reality was quite different. Yes, there was shooting and fishing to enjoy, but the log fires and whisky were always in short supply, the latter being kept practically under lock and key by the dour, miserable-faced housekeeper.
Irene’s family was bred from hardy puritanical stock – freezing-cold winds rattling through windows that didn’t fit properly in the casings were apparently good for one, put some backbone into a person. And then there was the endless socialising – it was Liberty Hall with people coming and going all hours of the day, the laird of this, the laird of that calling in to say hello. There wasn’t a moment of peace to be had. And as for all that blasted Scottish dancing and bloody bagpipes …
Of course, this wasn’t the first New Year in Scotland Arthur had been forced to endure, but somehow he’d hoped the tedium of it all would lessen with each returning visit, that he would become inured to it. No such luck!
‘It’s a statement of intent,’ Irene said, regarding him steadily in the mirror as she applied yet more face cream. ‘I just think that we’ve outgrown our present home. And’ – now she did turn round to look at him properly – ‘we’re going to need more space very soon.’
‘What for?’ Oh God, he thought, she hadn’t gone on a spending spree behind his back and bought a lot of new furniture, had she?
Her expression softened and she looked coy. ‘I’m going to have a baby. At last, darling, we’re going to be parents.’
The news took him off guard. Myriad questions flew to the tip of his tongue, but the one that came out was: ‘How long have you known?’
‘Since before Christmas, after I saw Dr Osborne.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were seeing him?’
She screwed the lid back on to the pot of face cream and placed it amongst all the other pots, tubes and bottles that cluttered the dressing table. ‘I didn’t tell you because I wanted to surprise you,’ she said, ‘and judging by your expression, I have.’
‘You’re right, you have. Why didn’t you tell me before, though? Why wait until now?’
‘Because I wanted to keep the news until this very moment, to mark the coming of the new year. I wanted 1940 to start with something positive. I’m sick of all the talk about the war. It’s so depressing. You are pleased, aren’t you?’
He tried to think how he really felt, but could summon nothing genuine that he could put into actual words. He went over to her; clearly that was expected of him. ‘Of course I’m pleased,’ he lied.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘That’s because I’m worried what kind of a world our child will be born into,’ he said smoothly.
She grasped his hands. ‘Don’t say that. Not a word about the war. I’m so very tired of it. It’s all Daddy and his friends talk about. You are pleased that you’re going to be a father, aren’t you? Only you’ve seemed so distracted lately. All Christmas I kept thinking there was something you weren’t telling me, that there was something bothering you.’
‘It’s work,’ he lied again. ‘It’s damnably boring. I had hoped your father would find me a role with more responsibility.’
‘Would you like me to speak to him? I’m sure he could arrange for something better for you to do if I asked him. Especially now that you’re going to be a father.’
‘Best not,’ he said, thinking of the tedious job his father-in-law had found for him following Irene’s last intervention. But then, and not without a trace of irony, realising that an important role with more responsibility had now been unexpectedly thrust upon him in the form of fatherhood, he said, in a more conciliatory tone, ‘You should get some sleep, Irene. You need to look after yourself. I don’t know what you thought you were doing dancing all night in your condition.’
She rose from the dressing table stool and giggled, which was very unlike her – Irene wasn’t a giggler; she was always too poised for such behaviour. ‘That’s just what Mummy said to me.’
‘You told her before me?’ Arthur said, vexed that he wasn’t actually the first to know, although it shouldn’t have surprised him. Irene and her mother came as a pair; nothing happened to one that the other didn’t know about.
‘She guessed,’ Irene replied. ‘She noticed that I wasn’t eating breakfast, that the very thought of it made me feel queasy.’
Arthur hadn’t noticed that, but then he had been somewhat preoccupied. ‘I suppose your mother told your father?’ he said.
Irene pulled back the heavy eiderdown and got into bed. ‘Naturally she did. But I swore them both to secrecy until I’d told you.’ She giggled again. ‘And now that I have, the whole world can know!’
Later, when he had put out the light and the wind was howling and making the curtains sway at the draughty window, Arthur tried to take stock.
A baby. He was going to be a father.
He still could not work out just how he felt about it. He wasn’t exactly unhappy, but neither did he feel particularly pleased or
excited. It would just be another burden to carry. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind.
The events of Christmas Eve were never far from his thoughts. Daily he’d searched the newspaper for a report of the death of a woman in Wembley, but had found nothing. Had Pamela’s life been of so little consequence her death wasn’t worth mentioning? Ironically, he could almost feel sorry for her, but then he would remind himself of what she’d been prepared to do.
It was possible that her body had not yet been discovered, that it was lying where he’d left it on the floor of that poky back bedroom, the curtains drawn. She had never spoken about family, or the neighbours, so perhaps there was nobody who would miss her, or mourn her passing.
In the moments immediately after bringing that ashtray crashing down on Pamela’s skull, Arthur had sat on the edge of the bed and gathered his wits. That was when the reality of what he’d done had hit home and he’d had to force himself to breathe deeply to combat the shock.
Murder; he’d committed murder. He hadn’t intended to. All he’d wanted to do was ensure the wretched woman wouldn’t extract a penny piece from him. Not ever. But looking at the gruesomely lifeless body on the floor at his feet, blood staining the rug beneath her head, he’d had to accept that this was not something he could now undo. What was done was done.
Once the worst of the shock had passed, he quickly set about covering his tracks, but more importantly, finding where Pamela had hidden the negatives of the photographs that had been taken of him on her doorstep.
It hadn’t been difficult. He’d found them in her private sanctuary, in a wooden box at the bottom of the wardrobe. They were not the only photographs he discovered. He also found a notebook containing a list of men’s names, his included. It was a client list. How sickeningly methodical she had been. Any qualms Arthur had experienced at having taken a life existed no more. In fact he’d go so far as to say he had done the world a favour in ridding it of such a vile woman.
His conviction was compounded as he continued to search through Pamela’s things and found her bank statements neatly stored in another box. A look through them showed regular amounts of money being deposited into an account for the last six months. She had been systematically blackmailing half a dozen poor devils who would very likely sigh a massive sigh of relief when they realised they would no longer be at her mercy. They would thank him if they only knew who had brought about an end to the extortion.
He could see from the bank statements that the initial request she had made of him would very probably have been only the start. It puzzled him why she had left it until now to blackmail him. Had the other men been easier targets? He would never know, and frankly he didn’t care.
He’d thought hard about his next step after sorting through Pamela’s things. Should he remove all evidence of the other men who had been blackmailed, or leave the notebook so that her death would be pinned on one of them?
In the end, and deeming it a necessary insurance policy – an echo of Pamela’s own words – he had carefully removed the page from the notebook that contained his name, putting it safely in his briefcase along with the photographs. He then went around the house meticulously wiping any surface he might have touched.
It was dark when he left, and with the brim of his hat pulled down and his coat collar up, he strolled away from the house as nonchalantly as he could in the direction of the train station.
The only fly in the ointment was that the photographer who had taken the incriminating pictures was an unknown quantity. There was no way of knowing who it was; Arthur had been unable to find any reference to him in amongst the carefully kept records. Would the partner in crime have kept copies? He had no way of knowing, and there was little point in worrying about something he had no control over.
But he’d learnt an important lesson. There would be no more visits to women to satisfy those urges that Irene would recoil from in horror; he would have to turn his back on them and satisfy himself with what his wife could provide.
It would be his New Year’s resolution, not to stray. Moreover, from here on, he would look upon the whole sordid business as a warning, and a lucky escape. If he so much as allowed a single thought to step out of line, he would have to remind himself of the wholly apposite proverb that one of the masters used to quote to the boys at school: ‘The lips of a forbidden woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil, but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’
Chapter Forty-Five
A week after Billy’s proposal, Florence woke to a beautiful morning with a low sun sending long shadows stretching across the glittering hoar frost that covered the garden. Whitened cobwebs hung like delicate lace doilies amongst the bushes and a blackbird pecked hungrily at the ruby-red berries on the holly.
It was truly the most glorious of mornings, and within a few hours Florence would no longer be Florence Massie, she would be Florence Minton. She could say the words a hundred times over in her head and still it wouldn’t seem real. Glory be, she was actually marrying Billy Minton!
Once she had said yes to Billy’s proposal and he had told his parents, everything had moved at lightning speed for them to be married before he returned to barracks. He would be gone tomorrow and he didn’t have a clue where he would be sent. But for now, all that mattered was that they made it through the day without Billy’s mother finding some just cause and impediment as to why her son should not take Florence as his lawful wife.
Miss Romily had been delighted at the news, but was anxious to know that Florence would still want to work at Island House. It simply hadn’t crossed Florence’s mind that she wouldn’t carry on as normal. At this stage, she and Billy both agreed, that there was no point in finding anywhere else to live, they would deal with that when they needed to.
They weren’t the only ones who were going to be married, Allegra and Elijah were also tying the knot, and with two ceremonies taking place, and at only a week’s notice, Reverend Tate had somewhat pompously taken it upon himself to propose that since there was a war on and there were economies to be made, they might like to consider a joint wedding. ‘Lazy old devil,’ Mrs Partridge had muttered. ‘The man’s too idle to conduct two weddings at such short notice, more like it.’
Florence hadn’t thought Allegra would agree – after all, she was a Devereux and had probably expected a grand affair – but she was all for it, even joked that she would be able to hide behind Florence so people couldn’t see just how big she now was.
With a growing sense of excitement, Florence began to get dressed, slipping on the lovely dress Miss Romily had bought for her. It was going to be the most perfect of days, she told herself. But even as she thought this, a small part of her longed for her mother to be here to witness her marrying Billy.
At once she chased the futile thought away and wondered instead how Allegra was getting on at Winter Cottage.
Allegra was in tears. ‘Sono brutta! Non posso farlo! I can’t do it! I can’t!’
Hope shook her head wearily. ‘Allegra,’ she said as patiently as she could. ‘You don’t look ugly; far from it – you look beautiful, just like every bride does.’
Allegra snapped her head up and stared at Hope, her eyes flashing angrily. ‘Madonna, how can you say that! Just look at the size of me! I look ridiculous in this dress! This heart-shaped neck was a terrible mistake; my bosom is more out than in! I swear the dress fitted when I bought it. How could I have got fatter since only a few days ago? Oh, la mia vergogna!’
‘You look lovely, Allegra, and by the time you have Romily’s fur stole on, your breasts will be perfectly hidden.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Hope!’ Allegra screeched, stamping her foot. ‘I’m not a child!’
Her patience wearing thin, Hope sighed. ‘Can I say anything that won’t lead to me having my head bitten off?’
Allegra glared at her, her eyes danger
ously wide, her hands on her hips. Then, as if slowly loosening the tightly wound coil inside her, she composed herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I want to look my best for Elijah.’
‘And you will, I promise you.’
Hope had been here with Allegra since breakfast to fulfil her role as bridesmaid, a role that she was dividing between her cousin and Florence. Annelise was playing her part too, as a flower girl, but wisely Hope had left her back at Island House in Romily’s care.
Glancing at her reflection in the mirror once more, Allegra shook her head in disgust.
‘It might help if you stopped looking at yourself,’ Hope suggested.
‘I have to know the worst,’ Allegra muttered dismally, before whipping round to face her. ‘Tell me honestly. Do I look very awful?’
‘I’ve told you many times already, you look beautiful. I wouldn’t lie to you. Now stand still while I do your hair.’
Amazingly Allegra did as instructed and allowed Hope to finish pinning up her dark hair. As she worked, Hope risked giving her cousin some advice. ‘Allegra,’ she said soothingly, ‘please be happy on your wedding day. Don’t spoil it by worrying about how you look. Elijah loves you. He’ll take care of you no matter what. Your vows today will include the words “in sickness and in health”, which means that pregnant or not pregnant, fat or thin, Elijah will love you. He’s a good man.’
Allegra looked back at Hope in the mirror. ‘He is, you’re right. I am the one who is not good; we both know that. I wish with all my heart the baby was his.’
‘To all intents and purposes it will be. The child will grow up always believing Elijah is its father.’
‘I hope you’re right. I really don’t deserve him. I just hope he knows what he’s doing.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ Hope said firmly. God help him if he didn’t!
