Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  It amazed Hope that Arthur had found three women stupid enough to marry him. She was not so heartless that she didn’t feel sorry for Julia, and she had, along with Romily and Evelyn, tried to extend the hand of friendship to her sister-in-law and nephew, seeing as they were members of the family. But they had never received more than a lukewarm response from Julia. Undoubtedly that was Arthur’s doing, actively discouraging her from mixing with the rest of the family too often, especially without him there. He was probably worried they would tell her what her husband was really like.

  It was completely dark now and with the wind gathering strength, and rain beginning to fall, Hope decided she had no choice but to retrace her steps and make her way back to Fairview. She had gone only a few yards along the narrow road when she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. She turned around and saw the bright headlamps of a car travelling at speed towards her. Shielding her eyes from the dazzle of the car’s lights, she waited for it to pass by. Too late, and with terrifying certainty, she realised the driver mustn’t have seen her. And before she had time to step out of the way, the car slammed into her. For a moment she felt weightless as her body flew through the air. Then she landed with a heavy and painful thud that knocked the air out of her.

  In the panicked confusion of her thoughts, she let out a small cry, no more than a whimper, and lay very still in what felt like a deep black hole waiting for the driver to come and help.

  But with the taste of blood in her mouth, and sickening pain throbbing through her, she heard not the sound of hurried footsteps and a concerned voice, just the sound of the car continuing on with its journey.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Island House, Melstead St Mary

  November 1962

  Romily

  Romily watched Stanley put a large log onto the fire in the grate, carefully pushing it into place with the poker, before adding another.

  She remembered him as a boy doing the same thing. He used to love making up the fire for her, and always with his faithful dog Bobby at his side. Now he had Tucker, who was equally devoted. Like Romily, the dog was keenly observing Stanley’s every move, no doubt waiting for him to get out of the way so he could resume his place on the hearth rug and enjoy the warmth from the fire.

  The weather had suddenly turned quite wintry – a strong cold wind was blowing in from the North Sea and rain was lashing at the windows. Romily was glad to be in the warm, hunkering down in the drawing room with tea and crumpets.

  It had been a strange day. She had woken with a debilitating headache and she hadn’t surfaced properly from her room until nearly midday. By the time she had settled at her desk to get on with some work, the telephone had sprung into life and didn’t stop interrupting her until gone four o’clock. On two different occasions Florence had come to Romily asking if she could talk to her, but each time the wretched telephone had put paid to that. Florence had left for home, along with Mrs Collings and Beatty, before Romily had a chance to go in search of her to ask what she wanted to discuss.

  For now, though, Romily’s priority was Stanley. She had invited him to join her for tea so she could find out more of what had passed between him and Annelise. Romily had always suspected that his feelings for Annelise went deeper than he made out, but she hadn’t appreciated just how deep.

  Pouring their tea, she waited for him to put down the poker and return to the armchair opposite her before resuming the conversation. So far it had been something of a stop–start affair, which was unlike both of them. Normally they had no end of things to say to each other. It was as if Stanley sensed why she had invited him here and was on his guard.

  ‘You seem uncharacteristically quiet, Romily,’ he said, when he was seated and had taken his cup and saucer from her.

  ‘I was thinking the same of you.’

  He pursed his lips. Then: ‘In that case, I suppose we’d better cut to the chase, hadn’t we? What has Annelise told you?’

  ‘That you were unwell the night of the party,’ Romily said, glad that he was prepared to be so direct.

  He carefully put down his cup and saucer. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No.’

  He sighed and slumped forward, his hands hanging between his knees, his head low.

  ‘Stanley, she told me what she did because she cares about you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, straightening up and meeting Romily’s gaze. ‘She does care for me. I know that. Just not in the way I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘Always?’ Romily repeated questioningly.

  ‘For as long as it counts.’

  ‘Why did you never make your feelings known before?’

  ‘That’s disingenuous of you. I’ve never been her equal, not socially or intellectually.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Let’s face it, it’s what Hope believes, even if she never says it aloud. You and I both know that she was happy to let me design her new house, but God forbid I should have designs on Annelise. Which is ironic, given how she used to go on about the classless society during the war.’

  Romily knew that Stanley was right. There was a time when Hope had indeed been a great advocate of an egalitarian society, just as Romily had been. But whereas Romily still was, Hope’s principles, and for whatever reason, had perhaps not stayed the course. And certainly not when it came to Annelise and the man she might one day marry. Heaven only knew what she would have to say about Annelise having an affair with a married man!

  ‘Annelise said you were physically sick at the party.’

  He frowned, plainly embarrassed. ‘I’d drunk too much. That was all.’

  Romily gave him a direct stare. ‘Not according to Annelise. She seemed to think that it was talking about your childhood that made you ill. She mentioned also that you’d attended your mother’s funeral earlier in the year and—’

  She got no further as the telephone rang shrilly, causing Tucker to stir from his slumbering in front of the fire. Pointing to the plate of buttery crumpets on the table and indicating that Stanley should help himself, Romily went over to the telephone on the secretaire and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Romily, it’s me, Edmund.’

  ‘Hello, Edmund. How’s it going with the new house?’

  ‘Is Hope with you?’ he asked, ignoring her question.

  ‘No. Did she say she was coming to see me?’

  There was a silence down the line.

  ‘Edmund, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, to be honest.’

  Thinking how odd he sounded, and aware that Hope had definitely seemed more on edge recently, Romily pressed for more information. ‘I can hear in your voice that you’re worried, Edmund. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  It was a few seconds before he answered. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘we had an almighty row earlier and when I came back from being called out to a patient, Hope was gone. Heather, our maid, says she went for a walk. But that was hours ago.’

  ‘Perhaps she went to see your sister?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken with Evelyn and Hope hasn’t been there. I can’t think of anybody else she would go and see when, well, you know, when she’s not feeling herself.’

  Again Romily could hear the concern in Edmund’s voice, as well as the storm that was building outside. ‘We should go and look for her,’ she said decisively. In a lighter tone, so as not to alarm Edmund any further, she added, ‘Probably all that’s happened is that Hope is sheltering somewhere until the worst of the weather has passed.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Melstead St Mary

  November 1962

  Stanley

  The rain was icy cold, yet it pricked at his face like hot burning needles. The storm
was making the tree branches creak and saw, and each time he tried to say anything to Romily, or called out Hope’s name, his voice was snatched from his mouth and lost on the wind.

  With Tucker accompanying them, they had set off in Romily’s Lagonda to find Hope. They had only reached as far as the end of the drive when their way was suddenly, and terrifyingly, barred. A massive branch was ripped from the old oak tree in the gale and crashed to the ground just a few feet from the bonnet of the car.

  With nothing else for it, they had taken the torch which Romily kept in the glove compartment and continued on foot. They were drenched in no time. Stanley hoped to God they hadn’t embarked on a wild goose chase. These were not the conditions to be out on a fool’s errand. He really wouldn’t be surprised if Hope was somewhere warm and dry, and deliberately paying Edmund back for something.

  To be honest, Hope wasn’t Stanley’s favourite person right now. Ever since moving into Fairview, she had been in constant touch with him to complain about one thing or another. He had tried explaining that there were always teething problems with a new house and the contractors would happily resolve whatever needed putting right. But there had been no mollifying her. He had made the mistake of talking to Edmund in private, but Hope had found out and torn a strip off him.

  During his years of training to be an architect, he had been warned that even the most easy-going of clients could turn on a sixpence. When he had accepted the commission from Hope and Edmund to build them a new house, he had accepted the inevitably of Hope keeping a close eye on every step of the design and build process. What he hadn’t anticipated was how irrational or bad-tempered she would become.

  Annelise once said the pressure Hope put on herself was merciless. Anybody could see that she lived a tightrope existence and that those around her had to dance to her tune. Stanley wondered how Edmund put up with it. He must love her an awful lot was the only conclusion he could reach.

  ‘Over there, Stanley!’ Romily suddenly shouted, making him start. He looked to where she was directing the beam of light from the torch and then they hurried to where Tucker was peering into the ditch at the side of the road. His ears were pinned back and his tail low and between his legs. He was giving off alternate growls and whimpers. Pushing the dog aside, Stanley saw what Tucker had found.

  With Romily’s help, they lifted Hope out of the ditch and on to the road. It wasn’t easy; her body was a deadweight, wet and slippery, mostly from the rain, but there was blood too. He fumbled to feel for a pulse at her neck. He couldn’t find one. Next he tried her wrists, first one, then the other. Still nothing.

  He shook his head at Romily.

  Romily stared back at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘She can’t be,’ she said, wiping the rain from her face. ‘Let me try.’

  He watched Romily do the same as he had just done. An eternity seemed to pass as he silently watched, numb with shock. Only minutes ago he had been thinking less than kindly about Hope, now she was dead. With Tucker at his side, shivering with the rain and cold, he knelt on the ground willing Romily to do the impossible, to bring Hope back to life.

  ‘I’ve found a pulse!’ she blurted out, her fingers pressed against Hope’s neck. ‘It’s faint, but it’s there. Just. Can you run and fetch help? I’ll stay here and try to get some warmth back into her. She’s frozen.’

  Stanley shook his head. ‘Better still, why don’t I carry her back to Island House?’

  Romily looked doubtful. ‘Do you think you can?’

  He nodded. ‘If you think it’s safe to move her, that is?’

  ‘We’ve already moved her once, so let’s risk it again,’ said Romily.

  Taking off his coat, Stanley wrapped it around Hope and had just lifted her when, in the light cast from the torch, he noticed something white drop to the ground and land in a puddle at his feet. It looked like a letter.

  Romily noticed it too and bent to pick it up before stuffing it into the pocket of her raincoat.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chelstead Cottage Hospital, Chelstead

  November 1962

  Romily

  ‘How is she, Edmund?’ asked Romily. She and Stanley had been waiting anxiously for more than an hour at the small cottage hospital.

  They had been making slow progress returning to Island House with Stanley carrying Hope when they’d been caught in the headlamps of a car coming towards them in the rain. Flagging it down for help, relief had flooded through Romily when she’d recognised it as Edmund’s Jaguar.

  ‘Not good,’ he murmured in answer to her question. ‘She has a serious head injury and is still unconscious. On top of that, she has three cracked ribs, a broken wrist and a whole range of cuts and bruises.’

  ‘Oh, Edmund,’ murmured Romily. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘The car that hit her,’ he went on, ‘and I can’t think of anything else that would have produced the level of injury she’s suffered, must have been going at a hell of a speed.’

  ‘The driver had to have known he’d hit something or someone,’ said Stanley.

  ‘Whoever the bastard is,’ Edmund said furiously, ‘he left Hope to die.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which was already sticking up as though he’d been repeatedly tugging at it. ‘What sort of person would do that?’ he demanded, his voice breaking. Then, and as if all the energy had now drained out of him, he took a step back and slumped against the wall of the corridor in which they were standing. Lowering his head, he rubbed his eyes. ‘I just can’t believe this is happening,’ he groaned. ‘And the worst of it is, that bloody row we had. What if those are the last words we—’

  ‘Don’t say it, Edmund,’ Romily said firmly. ‘Don’t even think it. You have to believe Hope is going to pull through.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  In the silence that followed, Stanley said, ‘I did as you asked and telephoned Annelise. I didn’t actually speak to her, but left a message with one of the college porters. I told him it was urgent and that Annelise should ring the hospital as soon as she could.’

  Edmund straightened up and stood away from the wall. ‘Thank you. And thank you both for finding my wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to be with her.’

  ‘Is there anything we can fetch for you, or Hope?’ asked Romily.

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve done all that you can. You should both go home and get out of those wet clothes.’

  Sensing he no longer wanted, or needed, the strain of talking to them, Romily hugged Edmund goodbye. ‘You know where I am if there’s anything I can do,’ she said softly. ‘And I mean anything.’

  She and Stanley had started to walk away down the length of the corridor when Edmund called after them. ‘Perhaps you could tell Evelyn and Kit what’s happened.’

  ‘We’ll go straight to Meadow Lodge,’ Romily assured him.

  Using the payphone by the main entrance, which was where they’d left Tucker, they called for Jim Trent, their local taxi driver. He was with them within twenty minutes and was a welcome sight.

  ‘You two look like you’ve fair been in the wars,’ he remarked, when they climbed into the back of the Ford Popular and apologised for their dishevelled state. Stanley’s clothes were covered in Hope’s blood. ‘You been in an accident?’

  ‘Helping at the scene of one,’ Romily said cagily out of respect for Edmund, and knowing that Hope would hate to be at the centre of any gossip. ‘Could you take us to Meadow Lodge, please, Jim?’

  ‘I’ll have you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. So long as we don’t come across any more fallen trees. It’s a filthy old night, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ she agreed, staring grimly out of the car window as the rain continued to beat down and the windscreen wipers swept ineffectually back and forth. She was thinking of Jack and how all those years ago he had entrusted her with
the task of taking care of his family. She knew it wasn’t her fault that his daughter, Hope, was now lying in a hospital bed, but her heart ached with sadness and the feeling she should somehow have stopped the accident from happening. Had Hope not been so wound up and cross with Edmund she might not have gone for a walk this afternoon. Why hadn’t Romily paid more attention to her stepdaughter’s mental state?

  ‘You cannot save everyone,’ a gentle voice from the past whispered to her, ‘it is not possible. God does not expect you to do it all on your own.’

  It was Matteo’s voice, reasoning with her that she had to accept her limitations, something she had never been able to do, as she’d told him.

  The conversation had taken place at Tilbrook Hall when she had been grumbling that she needed to be back at Hamble, ferrying aircraft about the country. She had been stuck in bed with her leg in traction for over three weeks and by then it was May. She had heard the awful news the day before that one of her colleagues had crash-landed in a Mosquito and had not been as lucky as she had been when the Walrus had dropped out of the sky. Poor Mildred had died on impact.

  ‘I’m needed,’ she’d said when Matteo had tried to reason with her that she was in no state to fly. ‘Look at your leg,’ he’d said. ‘You are not going anywhere. Sei pazza! You are mad to think you can!’

  His diagnosis had not been far off the mark. She had indeed gone slightly mad, having succumbed to a fever because the wound to her leg had become infected. Only later did she know that Matteo had been instructed to sit by her bedside to keep an eye on her while the fever had raged. She was told it had caused her to hallucinate that she was back in the Walrus trying desperately to land the aircraft.

  ‘Here you go, then,’ said Jim, bringing the taxi to a stop in front of Meadow Lodge.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ exclaimed Romily when she reached for her handbag and realised she didn’t have it.