Coming Home to Island House

by Erica James

  Miss Treadmill rolled her eyes and resumed digging, pushing the spade into the earth with a large booted foot. ‘How could I forget her,’ she said, ‘if for no other reason than the wretched bird hated me. The jealous fiend would peck me quite viciously. Until one day when I’d had enough and gave her a damned good shove up the backside. That soon taught her some manners, I can tell you!’

  ‘And her name?’ pressed Florence.

  ‘Oh, so sorry, didn’t I say?’ said Miss Gant. ‘It was Arcadia. I christened her myself. Such a lovely name, I always thought.’

  ‘And was that what the torpedoed ship was called?’ Florence asked with a terrible sense of foreboding. Yesterday, before Hope and Miss Romily had left for Mr Abbott’s concert, Hope had asked Mrs Partridge if she would make a birthday cake for her brother as he was due to arrive at Island House any day. Until this moment, the name of the ship Hope had mentioned as being the one bringing her brother home across the Atlantic had slipped Florence’s memory, but now she recalled with horrible certainty that it was called the Arcadia.

  ‘It was indeed,’ replied Miss Gant. ‘You see now why the name stuck with me, don’t you? It brought back so many memories.’

  ‘Did they say on the wireless whether there were any survivors?’ asked Florence.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear. I suddenly remembered that Philly was waiting for her drink and I rushed out here with it. She can be so very impatient, you know.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, you do exaggerate, Cissy, I’m the least impatient person alive!’

  Florence rounded up Annelise and leaving the two women to bicker, and, with Isabella still sleeping soundly, she set off for Island House with a heavy heart. Surely the Devereux family didn’t deserve yet another tragic loss?

  Missing, believed dead.

  The chilling words met Hope and Romily at every turn as they tried to find out what had happened on board the Arcadia and who exactly had survived. A naval vessel had responded to a distress call shortly after the ship had been hit, but only a handful of men had been rescued from the water before it went down. Christopher Devereux had not been named amongst the survivors.

  It was possible, so Tony had said when he called in to thank them for supporting the concert last night, that the naval ship had not hung around in case the U-boat returned, so other survivors might have managed to escape in a life raft from the Arcadia. Imagining her brother adrift in the treacherous waters of the Atlantic was the best Hope could come up with as a sickening alternative to him being dead. If he was lost at sea, there was at least the chance another naval or merchant ship might pick him up.

  She prayed that night in bed that Kit would be found. She kept the same prayer going in the days that followed. Together with Evelyn, she clung to the faintest of hopes that he had somehow beaten the odds and would arrive at Island House any day wondering what all the fuss had been about.

  But when a fortnight had passed and there was still no word of him having been picked up, Hope’s faith in prayer faded. Her brother was dead; she had no alternative but to accept that she had lost another person she loved. And just as she’d wished she’d had the chance to apologise to Allegra before she had died, and to her father, so she wished she could have had the chance to say sorry to Kit for being such a poor sister to him.

  To stop herself from dwelling on the last awful moments of what her brother might have suffered, she forced her heart to wrap itself around the memories of them wandering the meadows together as children, of him lying on his back in amongst the long grass and staring up at the clouds, of the times she had defied the orders of their nanny and sneaked into his room to keep him company when he was ill.

  Dear Kit, he had been such a gentle, loving boy. Why had his life had to end so cruelly and so needlessly?

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  As April drew to a close, the news on the wireless and in the newspapers took on a chilling reality that left no one in any doubt that the phoney war was over. Hitler had now invaded Denmark and Norway. Norway put up a valiant resistance, but the Germans overcame them and landed seven divisions ashore within forty-eight hours, seizing the main ports.

  ‘Could they do that here?’ asked Stanley, his eyes wide as he ran his finger over the words of the newspaper in front of him on the kitchen table, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  ‘Could who do what exactly?’ asked Romily.

  ‘Them Jerries. Could they invade us? Jimmy Powell at school today was saying it’s only a matter of time before we’re all speaking German.’

  ‘Jimmy Powell is talking nonsense,’ said Mrs Partridge, furiously knocking the lumps out of the potatoes she was mashing. ‘Them Danes and Norwegians might not have been ready for that madman, but let me tell you, we are!’

  ‘How do you know that for sure?’

  Mrs Partridge spun round, the potato masher in her hand. ‘That’s just the sort of cowardly defeatist talk we can do without!’

  ‘Mrs Partridge is right,’ said Romily more gently. ‘Hitler wants us all to be scared and to think it would be easier to throw in the towel and surrender.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Stanley,’ chimed in Mrs Partridge again. ‘We’re not going to let that Hitler get so much as a sniff of us. The navy will bomb the German warships clean out of the water or my name isn’t Enid Partridge! Now why don’t you put that newspaper away and go and play in the garden. You could help Mrs Bunch with the rugs if you want to be helpful. There’s a spare beater in the scullery you can use.’

  After Stanley had gone, Romily continued to give Isabella her teatime bottle of milk, marvelling as she always did at the baby’s perfection, and the tug she had on her heart. She glanced over at Mrs Partridge giving the saucepan of potatoes hell.

  ‘Does Stanley seem particularly anxious to you?’ she asked. It had often crossed Romily’s mind how scared the boy might be that his mother would show up here again and demand he return to London with her. Was it possible that his apparent growing fear of a German invasion masked the more tangible fear that his mother presented? So far their tactic of staying silent about him running away to be with them here at Island House was working; nobody from the authorities had been in touch, and better still, there had not been one word of contact from Mrs Nettles.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Mrs Partridge, ‘but truth be told, we’re all more anxious now, aren’t we? These last months most folk have been grumbling about what they can and cannot do; now it seems more real, that any day the enemy could land on these shores.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Romily. ‘There’s a change of mood in the air; people are beginning to take things more seriously. Which might make finding a new maid even more difficult, unless I become a lot less choosy.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t do that,’ the other woman said with a shake of her head. ‘We’re coping well enough as things are. Don’t fret over it.’

  ‘I had thought we might be able to poach one of the maids from Melstead Hall, but I hear they have their eyes firmly on pastures further afield.’

  ‘We can hardly blame them in the circumstances. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you, Mrs Bunch was saying earlier that Sir Archibald has gone to London and is remaining there for the foreseeable, leaving Lady Fogg to face her shame alone. Word is, she’s not got a friend to turn to, she’s been well and truly ostracised by the great and good of Melstead St Mary.’

  ‘That seems a little unnecessary,’ said Romily with a frown, picturing Lady Fogg alone and miserable in that great mausoleum of a house, and probably disappointing all and sundry in the village that she hadn’t been sent to prison and put to work sewing mailbags.

  ‘Some might say it’s the least she deserves.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never been an advocate of spite for the sake of spite.’

  ‘That’s because you’re always so fair-minded.’

&nb
sp; ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly; probably more a case of having been spared the full extent of Lady Fogg’s rudeness because I’ve had so little contact with her.’ An idea suddenly came to Romily. ‘What say you we invite her for tea one day?’ she added.

  Mrs Partridge stared at her with an expression of alarm. ‘Do you think that wise? Won’t we be tainted by association?’

  ‘Flirting with the enemy, you mean? What could be more delicious?’ said Romily with a smile. ‘In fact, a better idea would be to invite her to join me for tea at the Cobbles, that way the coven would either witness us together with their own eyes, or get to hear of it. Just imagine their shock and disgust! And who knows, it might go some way to help alter public opinion; after all, isn’t there enough hostility in the world?’

  Mrs Partridge smiled back at her. ‘I can see the idea has put the sparkle back in your eye.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware it had gone.’

  ‘You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately, if you don’t mind me saying. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s all that time you’ve spent in the drawing room typing, barely seeing the light of day. Like a mole you’ve been while finishing that book of yours. It’s not healthy. Not healthy at all.’

  ‘Even by your standards that’s quite an exaggeration. I sense, however, that you’re leading up to something. What’s on your mind?’

  The potatoes now mashed, Mrs Partridge went over to the sink to wash and dry her hands before returning to the table. ‘It’s just that I can’t help thinking that the handsome wing commander might help to put that sparkle in your eye on a more regular basis. Of course, it is only my opinion and one I’m sure you’ll take no notice of, but why not have a little fun? Go to the pictures with him occasionally, or a dance in Bury St Edmunds. I’ve known you long enough to know that you weren’t made to sit at home being idle.’

  ‘I’d hardly call finishing a novel and helping to look after Isabella, Stanley and Annelise being idle.’

  ‘You know what I’m getting at. You need excitement in your life, something to get the heart beating and the pulse ticking.’

  ‘Mrs Partridge, I do declare you have been reading too many romantic novels lately!’

  The other woman looked outraged. ‘I’ve done no such thing! I much prefer a murder mystery like the books you write.’

  The baby’s bottle now empty, Romily carefully lifted Isabella up onto her shoulder and gently rubbed her back. ‘I appreciate your concern for my well-being,’ she said, ‘but I regard Tony as a good friend and nothing more. He’s accepted that position, too, and happily so. In a way I think he now regards me as a sister, which is much more to my liking.’

  Her hands resting on the table, the fingers splayed out like a fan, Mrs Partridge looked at her steadily. ‘Did I ever tell you about when my husband died?’ she asked.

  Surprised at the question, Romily shook her head and continued to rub Isabella’s back. ‘No, I don’t recall you ever talking about him.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t carry him around with me like a millstone. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him all right, loved him more than life itself, but I knew that when he was gone, he was gone. But what I also knew was that I wasn’t gone. I was very much alive and wanted to enjoy life.’

  ‘You never married again, though?’

  ‘That’s not to say I didn’t want to, I just wasn’t asked.’ The older woman smiled. ‘I wasn’t that good a catch, I suppose.’

  Romily smiled too. ‘Perhaps you just didn’t meet the man who was worthy of you. There’s still time, you know.’

  Mrs Partridge laughed and was about to say something more when they both heard the sound of barking outside in the garden, followed by the letter box being pushed open in the hall. Until last week, the arrival of the post each day had brought with it the hope that amongst the letters there would be one saying Kit was alive and well. But that hope had died, replaced with the certainty that he could not have survived the sinking of the Arcadia. They knew now that there had been a fire on board the ship before it went down, and every time Romily thought of that, she hoped that the end had come quickly for Kit, that he hadn’t suffered.

  With Isabella now asleep, Romily carried her upstairs to her room and laid her gently in the cot. Covering her with a blanket, and taking a moment to absorb the delicate perfection of her clear pale skin, she fell under the spell of the enviable innocence of the child. Just a few weeks old, and with no understanding of the tragic circumstances of her birth, or of the threat of Nazi Germany advancing towards them, she was the most precious of things, a shining symbol of hope over adversity.

  Downstairs, Romily went to see what the postman had brought. Please God, not more bad news, she thought. She took the two letters through to the drawing room, and opened the first one.

  Dear Romily,

  I’m not going to beat about the bush (as if I ever do), but I do so wish you’d hurry up and finish that dratted book of yours – YOU’RE NEEDED!

  And no, I’m not exaggerating the case. We’re all working flat out here with scarcely a moment to ourselves. The truth is, the RAF now realise they’ve underestimated just how many pilots they need to ferry training aircraft about the country, which means the ATA is crying out for girls like YOU! So please, get on and apply!

  Love from your best friend who always knows best.

  Sarah X

  PS Appallingly rude of me to leave it as a postscript, but I was sorry to read in your last letter about Kit. How truly bloody awful! But it’s another reason why you should join the ATA – how else will we win this war if you don’t do your bit?

  PPS Please don’t think I’m being insensitive, I know you now have the additional responsibility of Allegra’s baby, but surely your devoted maid, Florence, can deputise for you?

  Typical Sarah, thought Romily amused, not so much avoiding the beating of any bushes as thoroughly flattening anything within a hundred-mile radius. The letter folded and put to one side, she picked up the silver paperknife on her desk and slit open the second.

  Dear Mrs Devereux-Temple,

  I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since Allegra’s death, but the truth is I couldn’t bring myself to put pen to paper. Each time I tried, I just couldn’t put into words how I felt. It’s like the last seven months has been a dream. I keep asking myself if Allegra really did come back to Island House. Or did I imagine it? Did I imagine our wedding day? But then I reread the letters from you and Mr Fitzwilliam telling me the awful news and I know it’s all true.

  Every day I wish to God I hadn’t been so keen to sign up. I’m haunted by the thought that if I had stayed at home and been with Allegra, she might still be alive. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for leaving her when I did.

  Billy tells me that Florence writes often about the baby in her letters to him. Apparently she’s beautiful, just like her mother. I hope she is. This is hard for me to say, but sometimes I think Isabella would be better off not having me as her adopted father. What can I give her when I return home? Wouldn’t she be better off living permanently as a Devereux with you at Island House? Please don’t think I’m trying to shirk my responsibilities; I’m not, I just want Allegra’s daughter to have the best start in life and I’m frightened I can’t do that. What if she refuses to regard me as her father?

  In the meantime, I must thank you for being Isabella’s guardian. I wish I could give her some kind of present, but stuck here in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing I can send, other than this lucky four-leaf clover I found the other day when I went for a walk during a short break from duty. It’s not much, I know, but I’m sending it with my love to the daughter of the woman I loved, in the hope that it will bring her luck.

  Kind regards,

  Elijah Hartley

  Touched by how painfully honest Elijah had been, Romily unwrapped the four-leaf clover he had carefully included w
ith his letter. It was such a little thing, but the thought of him taking the time and effort to preserve it for Isabella filled her with sadness. She pictured him finding it amongst the long spring grass and thinking of Allegra and her daughter. Just as soon as she could, Romily would have the lucky talisman pressed and framed as a keepsake for Isabella. Hopefully one day the girl would come to realise its significance.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  ‘I just wish I knew exactly what happened to Kit,’ said Hope. ‘With Dieter there was certainty; as heartbreaking as it was, I was with him at the end and could say goodbye. But with my brother, there’s so much uncertainty how he died. I can’t stand the thought of him suffering alone, of not being there, when he needed me …’ Unable to go on, she put down her cup for fear of her hand shaking too much and spilling tea over the tablecloth.

  ‘When he needed you most?’ said Edmund quietly, his voice only just audible above the hum of chatter and busy activity around them. It was mid afternoon and the Lyons Corner House on the Strand where they’d arranged to meet was packed; there was a pianist playing, adding to the noise.

  Hope raised her gaze and met Edmund’s. ‘It’s the not knowing that haunts me.’

  ‘I’d feel the same way. I’d want to know all the facts. As a doctor rooted in the laws of science, I always need physical proof of a thing before I can accept it. I think that’s why I’ve never been drawn to religion; it all boils down to faith rather than actual empirical knowledge.’

  ‘Sometimes I think faith is all we have,’ she said with a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘Do you remember that awful row we had as children,’ said Edmund after a pause, ‘when you announced that you were going to become a nun and—’