But fear had also been a factor. When the children had been young, he’d lived in fear of losing them, just as he’d lost Maud. He’d veered from being too protective and flying into a furious rage if they did anything that he considered put them at risk, to leaving them to their own devices in the belief they had to learn from their mistakes. There was no halfway house for him, no middle ground of showing them how much he cared. For he had cared, he just hadn’t known how to show it.
From the far reaches of his memory he had a sudden picture of catching Kit and Hope playing on the frozen lily pond one winter when they were little. Fear at knowing they could so easily slip through the icy surface at any moment had tipped him over the edge of mere parental anxiety into a frenzy of wrath that must have terrified them. And hardened their hearts against him.
Was this his punishment then for being such a poor father and uncle? To be a burden to the woman he now loved? If so, the sooner he died the better. Except he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. Just not like this.
He had lost track of how many days he’d been imprisoned here in bed, no longer able to control his body, a body that had become a dead weight, his arms and legs too heavy to move. Was he imagining it, or did it become more useless each time he awoke from a deep sleep?
Sometimes when he woke he forgot he’d suffered a stroke and panicked. It took him a while to remember what had happened. Other times he was convinced that he was still asleep and this was all a dream. Was it even possible that he was dreaming now? Was the nurse sitting by the side of his bed reading a copy of Picture Post not real at all? And was the bird singing with such obscene joyfulness in the garden beyond the open window nothing but a figment of his imagination? If so, would he finally wake up properly and be his normal self again?
His last memory of normality had been of waiting for Romily to arrive home from her book tour. He hadn’t said anything to her before she’d set off, but he’d been apprehensive about the errand she had volunteered to undertake while in Europe, worried that the German authorities would arrest her and throw her into some godawful detention centre never to be seen again.
His mind lingered over the concern he’d felt while waiting for her to return, recalling how he would have moved heaven and earth to bring her back. Hell, he’d have declared war on Germany himself!
His eyelids heavy with tiredness, he gave in and closed them. He thought of the surprise he’d had in store for Romily on her return: a motoring trip up to the Lake District to watch Malcolm Campbell in his Bluebird attempt to beat his own world speed record on Coniston Water. He was just thinking that he must ask her if the attempt had taken place when his mind became muddled. What if he’d only dreamt that Romily had returned? What if she hadn’t and she’d been arrested? The thought so alarmed him, he tried to call to her. But it was hopeless; nothing came out of his mouth but a distorted grunt.
A thin, pale face loomed out of nowhere over him and made him start. Round pebble-like eyes behind spectacles stared into his. He tried to call to Romily again and throw back the bedclothes, but his arms wouldn’t move. Or was this strange woman stopping him? Had she tied his arms down?
‘It’s all right, Mr Devereux,’ she said. ‘Don’t fret now.’
She disappeared out of his sight line. Where had she gone? And who the hell was she?
Then he remembered. She was a nurse. She was here to look after him. There were two of them. But as the confusion cleared from his mind, and he relaxed in the knowledge that Romily was safely here at Island House with him, his heart gave an abrupt and agonising jolt. Some kind of reflex action made him want to clench his fist and put it to his chest, but his hand wouldn’t move.
He struggled to catch his breath, gasping and gulping like a desperate drowning man. Was he having a heart attack? He tried to call for help, but he couldn’t get the words out. The pain in his chest was building, as though his heart was being crushed. Suddenly raging hot, the blood rushing in his ears, he squeezed his eyes against the pain, convinced that the battle was lost. This really was the end and now he would never be able to tell his family how sorry he was.
Not yet, he wanted to cry out; let me see my beautiful wife one more time. And my family, let me make it right with…
But he got no further. He breathed his last choking breath and darkness engulfed him.
It was Romily who found him, Nurse Nichols having informed her as she took off her hat in the hallway after collecting Kit and Arthur from the station that Mr Devereux seemed agitated over something.
One look at his face and she knew straight away that he was dead. With a shaking hand, she felt for a pulse, her own heart beating wildly against her ribs.
There was no pulse, just as there was no sign of breath coming from his open mouth. Very tenderly she closed his lips and his eyes, then she lay down on the bed beside her husband, resting her cheek next to his, her hand placed protectively across his chest.
‘Oh my darling,’ she murmured through the tears that were spilling onto his face, ‘why did you have to leave me so soon?’
A knock at the door made her start.
‘Go away!’ she cried, dreading that it would be Arthur demanding to see his father. ‘Leave us alone!’
But when the door opened, it was Roddy who stepped into the room. For a moment he stood perfectly still, staring at her lying on the bed with Jack, her face wet with tears.
‘He’s dead,’ she managed to say. ‘And I wasn’t here with him when he left me. I should have stayed, I shouldn’t have … ’ Her voice trailed away, and with a choking sob she buried her face in Jack’s neck and wept.
Chapter Ten
‘Dead then. Dead and buried, and the family not here in time to speak to him.’
‘I told you no good would come of that fast piece moving in with him.’
‘Practically half his age. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did. Did you see that showy hat she was wearing? Quite inappropriate for a funeral.’
‘And the fact they married in secret tells us everything we need to know. She must have been after his money all the time.’
‘It’s not like she doesn’t have enough of her own. I read in the newspaper that she’s a wealthy woman in her own right from those dreadful books she writes.’
The three women pondered this while they drank their tea. They had felt it only right that they do their duty and attend the funeral service for Jack Devereux; they were now reviving themselves at the Cobbles Tea Room.
