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.
