Part One
The Family
‘Love is the crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, the golden link which binds us to duty and truth, the redeeming principle that chiefly reconciles the heart to life, and is prophetic of eternal good.’
Petrarch 1304–1374
‘Man has no greater enemy than himself.’
Petrarch 1304–1374
Chapter One
August 1939
‘There she is, the scarlet woman herself.’
‘She’s back then.’
‘Back to flaunt herself right under our noses. She’s no shame, that one.’
‘No shame at all.’
‘She’s a fast one and make no mistake.’
‘And just look what she’s done to the running of Island House, got rid of Mr Devereux’s old housekeeper, maid and cook as soon as she had her feet firmly under the table, didn’t she? Brought in her own staff too.’
‘We all know what that means. She has that Mr Devereux right where she wants him.’
‘Under her thumb,’ said three voices in unison. ‘That’s where.’
The three women watched with hostile curiosity the progress of the open-topped red sports car that had just been driven at breakneck speed into the market square of the village. With an abruptness that implied the driver had stopped on a sudden whim, the car skidded to a halt.
They continued to watch as the young woman threw open the driver’s door and leapt to her feet with a vibrant and youthful energy. In her early thirties and undeniably attractive, she was exactly the sort to turn heads. Her clothes were expensive and well cut and she carried herself with confidence and an easy grace. Tall and slender, with dark hair making a bid for freedom from beneath a silk scarf, she hooked a handbag over one of her bare arms, removed her sunglasses and entered Teal’s grocery shop.
Minutes later, she emerged into the August sunshine with a paper bag from which she pulled out a peach, biting into it with undisguised delight. As she paused on the pavement to relish the moment, licking the juice from her painted red lips and smiling happily to herself, the three disapproving women sitting at their table in the window of the Cobbles Tea Room shook their heads and shuddered collectively.
‘Mark my words, no good will come of that one,’ said Elspeth Grainger.
‘Never does when you live in sin,’ said Ivy Swann.
‘That’s what comes of writing those dreadful books,’ said Edith Lawton. ‘All that blood and twisted thinking, it warps the mind.’
In full accord, the three women shuddered again.
Romily Temple was well acquainted with the coven of Melstead St Mary who daily occupied the best table in the Cobbles Tea Room in order to carry out their malicious brand of espionage. Not for a second did she doubt the depths to which they would go in order to establish everybody’s business, or, more particularly, the contempt in which they held her.
With a roar of engine, Romily gaily waved to the three women and, still eating the peach, drove out of the cobbled market square ringed with a topsy-turvy assortment of shops and cottages, some with thatched roofs, others with slate, all of them as neat as new pins. As she slowed her speed to turn onto the main street, she spotted Miss Gant and Miss Treadmill trudging up the road. Following a few feet behind, and as if mimicking their slightly waddling gait, was a pair of white geese, each with a green and yellow ribbon around its neck. They were as well behaved as any faithful hound trailing after its owner and were a familiar sight in the village; nobody batted an eyelid, apart from strangers.
It was a short distance to Island House, and after tossing the peach stone into the shrubbery at the entrance, Romily drove through the gates and brought her MG to a stop alongside Jack’s prized 4½-litre Bentley saloon CXF 114. They had been planning to drive it down to the French Riviera next month, but now, with all the talk of war becoming a grim reality, the holiday was unlikely to happen. She had spent the last two weeks touring Europe carrying out a series of speaking engagements about her latest book, and everything she had seen and heard, particularly in Vienna and Berlin, told her that Nazi Germany was intent on spreading its vile roots, and by any means. War was going to happen – it wasn’t a matter of if any more, it was when.
Out of the MG, and taking a moment to stare up at the beautiful house she now regarded as her home, she thought how exceedingly glad she was to be back. Then, with eager hands, she hurriedly gathered up her handbag and the small amount of luggage she had brought with her. She was about to let herself in at the front door when it was opened by her maid, Florence. The dear girl had been with her for the last four years, having come to work for Romily in London when she was just fifteen. Back then she had been a shy and timid thing who had jumped at her own shadow, but Romily had soon cured her of that. The girl’s unswerving loyalty and devotion was matched only by her willingness to accept the unconventional manner in which Romily chose to live.
‘How was your trip, miss, I mean, madam?’ asked Florence, reaching out to take the heavier of the bags from her.
‘Tiring, but successful,’ Romily replied with a smile, amused at being called ‘madam’, a form of address she had yet to get used to. ‘Is Mr Devereux at home?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he’s in his study. He’s been in there since after lunch listening to music and told me he didn’t want to be disturbed, not for anything.’
