‘Of course. It’ll be no bother.’
‘You’re a saint, Florence.’
Upstairs in her room, the window open, Hope looked down onto the garden and saw Stanley pulling Annelise and Bobby along in the old wooden cart she and Kit had unearthed from the outhouse. As tempting as it was to continue watching the children playing, she tore her gaze away and sat down ready to start work.
Following Stanley’s return to Island House, her children’s book had gained a pleasing momentum, and it was now almost finished; both her agent and publisher were keen to see this new direction of her work. Stanley had no idea that he had become her muse; she hoped to surprise him with a copy of the book when it was printed.
To everyone’s relief, there had been no reappearance of Mrs Nettles on the doorstep, and for the time being life at Island House had settled back into its previous rhythm. Maybe the ghastly woman was ashamed of the state her son had been in when he’d run away to them, although she didn’t strike Hope as the type of woman who would be easily shamed.
She had been working for nearly an hour on a pen-and-ink drawing of Freddie and Ragsy ambling along a country lane on a bright and sunny summer’s afternoon when she heard Bobby barking down in the garden. She leaned forward to look out of the window and saw the post boy pedalling up the drive on his bicycle with the last delivery of the day. Stretching her neck and easing the tension in her shoulders from sitting in the same position for so long, she watched Stanley dart across the lawn to take the post from the boy. He gave it to Annelise, who was still sitting in the wooden cart, then lifted her out and took her by the hand, walking her beside him towards the house so that she could deliver the letters herself. He often did this with her, knowing that at even so young an age she liked to be helpful.
A few minutes later, when Hope had resumed drawing, Annelise came into the room. ‘Letter,’ she said proudly, holding it out to Hope. At eighteen months old, she was acquiring a new word almost on a daily basis, though heaven help them all at some of those she would end up learning from Stanley! ‘Letter,’ she repeated.
‘For me?’ asked Hope.
Annelise nodded and pushed it into Hope’s hands before scooting off with a giggle.
Hope recognised her brother’s handwriting instantly. Reaching for the penknife she kept for sharpening her pencils, she carefully slit open the sides of the blue airmail envelope, then the top. She smoothed the flimsy paper flat on her desk and settled down to read what Kit had to say.
Dear Hope,
I still can’t believe the news about Allegra; it really doesn’t seem possible that she’s dead. I wonder if you feel the same way as I do, that it was only recently, since our father died, that I came to know – and like – Allegra. I wish we’d had more time to get to know each other properly, as adults; we spent far too much time bickering as feuding children, each of us, as I see it now, vying for our father’s attention. It’s such a shame we didn’t find a way to forgive each other a very long time ago.
It’s funny, but being so far away has given me a fresh perspective on life, and us as a family. As I see it, you and I have always got on – and don’t be angry for me saying this, but after Dieter died, you turned away from the world, and from me, as if unable to bear anyone close to you. (Was it because you didn’t want me to see you at your worst?) I have a sense that maybe that need to isolate yourself is behind you now. I do hope so; you have so much to offer the world. Dare I mention (and I do dare, because I’m not within hitting range!) Edmund’s name at this juncture? He’s a good man who I know cares about you, and given the right sort of encouragement, he could care for you a lot more. Life can be cruelly short, Hope, as you know all too well, so don’t let the chance of happiness pass you by.
When I think about it, I suppose Dad’s final wish for us to grow closer as a family has been achieved to a degree, thanks to Romily. The exception being an obvious one: Arthur. Do you ever hear from him? I haven’t heard a word since I’ve been here. Did he bother to attend Allegra’s funeral? Probably not.
I don’t know why I’m asking you these questions as I shall be seeing you very soon – I now have my pilot’s licence and am coming home! If all goes to plan I’ll have a berth on the Arcadia departing from Halifax, Nova Scotia, in just over a fortnight’s time – I should make Liverpool docks on or shortly after my birthday, depending how the crossing goes, so please be sure to ask Mrs P to have a cake ready for me when I eventually get to Island House! I’ll try to put a trunk call through to you to let you know what train I’ll be on. It would be nice, petrol permitting, if somebody came to meet me at the station, as I’ll have my luggage with me.
Could you keep news of my return from Evelyn, please, as I’d like to surprise her when I’m back? So mum’s the word, sister dear!
I’m so looking forward to seeing you all. I expect Annelise has grown in my absence. I shouldn’t think she’ll remember me, especially as I’ve grown a moustache!
Fondest love,
Kit
Hope smiled, trying to picture her baby-faced brother with a moustache. Annelise was not the only one to have grown in the last few months; it was obvious to Hope that Kit had too. Going to Canada had evidently done him good, had matured him, so it seemed, and made him insightful as well. Not so long ago such a blatant reference to Edmund would have maddened her, but now it merely made her smile. She hadn’t seen Edmund since the night of the New Year’s Eve party, but they were regularly in touch, and increasingly Hope found herself looking forward to his letters.
But now she was looking forward to seeing Kit. She longed to hug her younger brother and say how sorry she was for treating him the way she had. Thank God she would have that opportunity, something she regretted not having with her father.
Thanks to her many conversations with Romily, the image in her head of the man she had grown up believing at worst to be a terrifying ogre, and at best distant and uncaring, his mind always elsewhere, had altered greatly. Now she saw a complex man she had never understood, a man who had perhaps never really understood himself. More and more she wished they had made their peace before he died and they had both been able to sweep aside the bitterness they had exchanged over Dieter. One thing she would say to her father now, if it were possible, was that she forgave him, that she knew grief had blighted his life just as she had allowed it to do her own.
Her flow of concentration now gone, she put away her drawing things and went downstairs to share the good news of Kit’s return with Romily. Her brother’s surprise would add to the enjoyment of the evening ahead of them, when they would be going to the concert Tony Abbott was playing in.
Downstairs, crossing the hallway, she could hear the sound of typing. Romily was in the throes of completing her latest novel and spent the afternoons cloistered away in the drawing room while Florence took care of Isabella. When it was the children’s bathtime, Romily stopped work and took over from Florence. Often she resumed work later in the evening after supper, the sound of her feverish typing continuing sometimes until nearly midnight.
Hope knocked on the drawing room door and instantly the sound of Romily’s typewriter went quiet. ‘Whoever it is, I hope you’ve brought me tea and cake. I’m famished.’
‘No tea and cake,’ answered Hope, going inside, ‘but good news from Kit; he’s written to say he’s on his way home. According to the date on his letter, he should be with us any day soon – perhaps even tomorrow for his birthday.’
‘How wonderful. We shall have to arrange a party for him.’
Hope smiled. ‘He’s already put in a request for Mrs Partridge to bake him a cake.’
‘In that case, we’d better not disappoint him, had we?’
Chapter Sixty-One
