by Erica James
He twisted his head round to look at me and my heart missed a beat at the sadness in his eyes. ‘I wish you didn’t have to leave,’ he murmured.
‘I wish I didn’t have to either, but I’ll come again just as soon as I can.’
‘You are a famous lady novelist and a pilot with the ATA, what do you see in a man like me?’ he asked when we were retracing our steps back to where he was needed to help the lumberjills. ‘I have nothing to offer you,’ he continued, ‘I’m just a prisoner of war who has to work like a peasant.’
‘Oh Matteo,’ I said, ‘don’t speak that way. That day when you pulled me from the wreckage of the Walrus, you saved my life. And in so many ways,’ I added.
‘So you love me out of gratitude?’
I stepped in front of him and pressed my finger to his lips. ‘Shh . . . ’ I said, ‘don’t spoil our brief time together. Just accept that fate brought us together.’
And fate might separate us, was the thought that kept me company during my lonely drive home to Island House.
True to my word, I returned to Tilbrook Hall the following month in September. On this occasion Matteo knew to expect me and had managed to request some time off from potato picking with the rest of the POWs.
Again we went for a walk and, as if guided by our very own North Star, we ended up on the riverbank where we’d made love before. We did so again, but this time Matteo came prepared, having acquired the necessary item through a source he was at pains not to reveal.
But it turned out that it was a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. I was already pregnant.
Chapter Sixty
Chelstead Cottage Hospital
December 1962
Hope
Pregnant . . . Pregnant . . . Pregnant . . . The word kept spinning around inside Hope’s head.
But she must surely have dreamt Annelise telling her that she was pregnant? Annelise would never be so stupidly careless. She just wasn’t that sort of a girl. But why then had Hope’s brain seized hold of the notion that she was expecting a baby?
Every time Annelise visited, Hope tried desperately to speak, to ask the girl if it was true. But it was futile; Hope could do nothing but rage against the frustration of her useless body while listening to Annelise talk about it being almost Christmas. During her last visit she had read from A Christmas Carol, a book that Hope had loved as a child. Not a word did Annelise say about being pregnant. Did that mean Hope had dreamt it?
The longer she lay here, the more difficult it became for Hope to keep track of time, and of what was real or imagined. Edmund explaining that he now knew about the anonymous letter she had received felt very real. As did him saying he would never be unfaithful.
‘The very idea that you could be persuaded of such a thing makes me sick to my stomach,’ he had said. ‘You have to believe me, Hope, I would never ever have an affair.’
She had cried inside at the intensity of his words, filled with happy relief that he hadn’t been cheating on her.
But what if he was lying?
Or what if this was all going on in her head and was just another of the many dreams she had? Some of the dreams were terrifying and made her want to scream. The one about the nurses who were trying to kill her by injecting her with lethal poisons was particularly disturbing. Other times she dreamt she was out walking and being chased by a car. Sometimes the speed of the car was as fast as a bullet, coming at her out of nowhere, and other times it was menacingly slow, hunting her down. But always the driver was her brother, Arthur. Sitting behind the wheel, he would be laughing at her, then driving off into the darkness with a cheery wave.
There was something about those dreams that snagged on her brain. It was to do with Arthur’s wife, Julia. A feeling that Julia had been sitting here by the side of Hope’s bed saying she had something important to tell her. But was that just another dream?
Oh, if only her muddled brain could make sense of it all and discern what was real and unreal!
Chapter Sixty-One
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
It was the day before Christmas Eve and Romily should have been wrapping presents. But as the last of the afternoon light drained from the wintry sky, her mind simply would not settle to the task. Instead, she was in the cold and dusty attic clambering over old items of cobwebby furniture and rolled up rugs. She was hunting for what she had hidden up there many years ago. More than once she had considered throwing the contents of the box away, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
Perhaps this moment was always going to happen, that there would be a catalyst for her to revisit this particular episode in her life. Annelise’s news that she was expecting a baby – and in similar circumstances – had been that unexpected catalyst. Romily had resisted the urge to do what she was now doing for more than a week, forcing herself to concentrate on the book she had started writing as well as preparing for Christmas. But this afternoon she had finally given in.
She found the wooden jewellery box inside a large travelling trunk, the sort that opened up like a mini wardrobe. The last time she had used the trunk was ten years ago when she had gone on a world cruise on board the illustrious RMS Caronia.
Back downstairs, and the house cloaked in silence – Florence, Beatty and Mrs Collings having gone home – Romily placed the old jewellery box on her desk in the library and sat down. She stared at the box, as though waiting for the lid magically to rise all on its own.
But when she tried to lift the lid, it refused to budge. It was locked. With no idea where the key was, she reached for the letter opener on her desk, and not caring about the damage she would be inflicting, she pushed the pointed blade into the lock and jiggled it around. When that didn’t work, she forced the knife under the lid and pushed hard to prise it open. It was no match for her determination to gain access and with a splintering of wood, the lock gave way and she raised the lid. At once the air was fragrant with the poignant scent of summer. She had forgotten that before locking the box she had placed sprigs of lavender from the garden within the precious contents.
Putting the knife down, she lifted out the bundle that had lain as dormant as a seed in winter. A lilac-coloured ribbon was tied around the bundle and attached to it was a small card. Written in her own hand were the words: Letters From the Past.
As though it were only yesterday, she could remember writing those few poignant words and how heartbroken she had been. She had encountered heartbreak before, but this was different. Very different. She had lost an integral part of her that could never be replaced.
She untied the ribbon with a scattering of desiccated lavender, and one by one, she passed Matteo’s letters from her left hand to her right. The postmark on each envelope revealed the letters were in date order. How typical of her that, even in the depths of despair, she should have been so organised.
While some memories were a comfort to revisit, others were too painful. It was why she had gone to the lengths she had to commit Matteo to the past. And yet she had been reluctant to let go entirely. If she had, these letters would not exist. Nor would his painting that was in the drawing room.
She sifted through the envelopes once more and selected one that was postmarked 20 October, 1944.
Carissima Romily,
You have brought such happiness into my life, but I do not deserve it. All this time in the days since we met – since that fateful day when your aeroplane crashed – I have kept something from you. I am ashamed of myself for my deception. I have become the type of man I never thought I would.
I said that this war would tear us apart and it will. For when the fighting is over and I am free to return to Italy, I will be reunited with my wife. There, at last I have admitted the truth to you. I am married. I never meant to deceive you, but I have an
d for that I know you have every right to hate me. Why would you not, when I hate myself so much? Before you rip this letter into many pieces, please let me try to explain. I had no intention of falling in love with you, but the more time I spent in your company, the stronger my feelings became, and then before I realised it, it was too late and I could not bring myself to tell you the truth. For I knew that once I confessed my sin and guilt to you, that would be the end of my happiness.
This is no justification for what I have done, but my marriage is not a happy one. My wife, just as my family did, wanted me to be someone I could never be. I have been a great disappointment to my wife. I have never matched the expectations Maria had for me. I believe that when we married, she had the strongest confidence in her ability to make me the man of her dreams. Instead, I am the man of her nightmares of whom she is ashamed. I am weak in her eyes. And perhaps I am.
But far worse, in her eyes, I have failed Maria in my duty to give her a child. In my heart I want to believe that God did not want us to have children, that it would have been wrong to bring a child into the world whose parents did not love each other in the way they should. For me this is both a blessing and a curse. Is it arrogant of me to think that I would be a good father? I believe I have lost the opportunity ever to know what it would feel like to hold the hand of my child. But I tell myself that it is better this way. Better that Maria could not manipulate a child against me. For surely as I breathe, I know that this is what would happen.
Why do we not divorce? you ask. Maria would never agree to that. When it suits her, she wears her faith in the Roman Catholic Church with fierce devotion. I have asked her before to free us both from our unhappy marriage, but she refuses to agree. She believes it is a far greater sin to divorce than it is to make another person miserable.
I now have to accept that in writing this letter I have made you as unhappy and angry as Maria. I will not waste my time in asking you to forgive me. It would be asking too much, and more than I deserve.
You have given me more joy in these few months than I have ever experienced in my life. It is a precious gift I will treasure always.
And now I must accept the inevitable, that I will not receive a reply to this letter. But how ever you feel about me, my dearest Romily, my feelings for you will never change.
With love and sincere regret
for causing you pain,
Matteo
Her eyes blurred with tears, the pain returned to Romily afresh of that day when she had read the letter for the first time.
Married . . . wife . . . Maria . . .
The words had leaped off the pages at her, like a knife repeatedly thrust through her heart. How had she not suspected he was married? Why hadn’t it crossed her mind to ask outright if there was a wife or a girlfriend back in Italy waiting for him? Because she had assumed he would have mentioned one if such a person existed.
That’s what she had told herself for a long time. Until she had eventually confronted her own part in his deception. She had deliberately chosen not to ask him if he were married because she hadn’t wanted anything to burst the bubble of her happiness. In doing that she had deceived herself as much as he had lied to her through omission.
Now, in the soft light cast from the lamp on her desk, and thinking of what followed, she gave an involuntary shiver, as if a shadow had passed across her. Seeing that the fire had burned down to a faint glow, she stood up and carefully added some logs from the basket.
Perched on the soft leather of the fender, she waited impatiently for the fire to spring back into life and to warm the chill that had seeped into her bones. A biting cold easterly wind had blown in from the North Sea today, she could hear it still hurling itself against the windows, and the forecast was for a heavy fall of snow in the next twenty-four hours. With a wry smile, she thought how much she had enjoyed the more temperate climate of Palm Springs back in October, and how well it had made her feel.
The thought inevitably led her to think of Red. She wondered what he was doing right now. Counting the time difference in her head, she worked out that it would be late morning for him. She pictured him in his garden with the stunning mountain backdrop in the distance. But then just as vividly, she pictured the scene over lunch when she had offended him. She had touched a nerve and wished now that she hadn’t. Everybody was entitled to their no-go areas and inadvertently she had trampled all over his.
She gave an exasperated sigh at the futility of her regret, and with the fire now burning brightly and its warmth spreading through her, she returned to her desk and the bundle of letters.
She selected the one dated 30 October, 1944. It had been in response to her carefully worded letter to him, a letter she had known would be read by the censors. Just as his to her would have been.
Carissima Romily,
I know I said before that I would accept that you do not want to see me again, but after reading your letter which arrived today, I would give anything for you to visit me so that we can talk properly, and in private. You say you are unwell, and that is of great concern to me. Please my darling, I know you are strong and resourceful, like no other woman I know, but I cannot bear the thought of you being unwell without me to help you.
You must believe me when I say that when this awful war is over, I will make my wife agree to a divorce. I will then return to you, I swear. Nothing will stop me! Not now!
You say that I have a duty to be with my wife, but I see it differently. I now have a bigger duty to be with you.
Please, I beg you, write to say that you have not given up on me. Or on us.
With all my love,
Matteo
With tears in her eyes once more, Romily carefully refolded the letter, and slid it back inside its envelope. She was about to return it to the wooden box when there was a ring at the doorbell. With nobody else in the house, she went to answer it.
Nothing could have prepared her for the bewildering shock of who was standing there on the doorstep.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Red
‘Red! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I was just passing through and thought I’d say hi,’ Red replied, cranking up the tone of his most light-hearted voice.
The stunned expression on Romily’s face was definitely worth every minute of the time and effort it had taken for him to make the journey. Even that taxi ride from the station when he was worried to death what kind of reception awaited him. At every twist and turn in the road, he’d been ready to abandon the enterprise and head for home. But here he was, and who knew how it would play out?
‘I don’t remember it being this cold when I was last in merry old England,’ he remarked, when she’d let him over the threshold and was shutting the door against the sub-zero air outside.
‘Apparently there’s a lot worse to come,’ she said, still staring at him as though she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.
‘Hey, that’s the story of my life,’ he quipped, expecting Romily to smile. When she didn’t, but continued to regard him steadily, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Would turning up like this – a grand gesture if ever there was! – be considered just another example of crass behaviour for which she would condemn him?
With an imperceptible shake of her head, she said, ‘I’m so sorry. I seem to have completely forgotten my manners. Please, let me take your coat.’
Okay, so he wasn’t being thrown out into the cold of the night straight off the bat. That was a good sign. Putting his suitcase on the floor and shrugging off the big woollen overcoat he’d had the sense to bring with him, along with a scarf, he passed it to her.
‘Nice house,’ he commented, when she showed him through to a large and very English-style drawing room. He watched her switching on a collection of silk-shaded l
amps; at the same time he took in the tasteful décor of pretty rugs and chintz-covered sofas and armchairs. There was a large Christmas tree in one corner of the room, decorated with coloured glass balls and tinsel. Nothing in the room jarred. Apart from him, that was. He was a mass of jangling nerves.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, drawing the curtains across and blocking out the darkness. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me on the hop somewhat, I was busy in my library and haven’t lit a fire in here yet.’
The room was indeed on the chilly side. ‘I could do that for you, if you like?’ he offered.
‘There’s no need, I can manage.’
I’m sure you can, was on the tip of his tongue. But with great restraint he held his tongue. He had not come all this way to blow it within the first few minutes of his arrival. He also had the sense to realise that having a task to do gave Romily time to assemble her wits and self-possession. Something he guessed she would value highly.
He watched her strike a match and put it to the screwed-up balls of newspaper and kindling already placed in the grate. With her back to him, he took the opportunity to take in some more of the room. There was a console table behind a sofa that was home to an array of framed photographs, and he was tempted to go over and study them closely, to see if he could learn anything new about the extraordinary Romily Devereux-Temple.
For safety’s sake – his own safety – he fixed his attention on a painting on the wall nearest to him. It was illuminated by a lamp positioned beneath it and, bending in for a closer look, he could see the strong fluid strokes the artist had employed to capture a group of men gathering in the harvest. The sun was low in the sky, casting a fiery glow of light across the field in which they toiled under the watchful eye of a man in a soldier’s uniform. The men themselves were all similarly dressed in khaki-coloured trousers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up. On the backs of their shirts and trouser legs were large red circles. Prisoners of war, he guessed, put to work to ease the shortage of labour. He thought it an unusual choice of painting for an English drawing room. But remembering Romily telling him about the Italian POW who had rescued her from the burning wreckage of her crashed Walrus, he leaned in closer still to locate the artist’s signature. He failed to find it though.
