‘Oh yes, quite well, and with the sweetest temperament. She sleeps like a charm and rarely cries.’
‘Allegra was so sure she would have a girl,’ he’d said wistfully.
Romily had suggested he might like to hold the baby, and he’d looked shocked.
‘Me?’ he’d said.
‘Why not?’ she’d asked.
‘Because … because I might drop her.’ He’d held up his large rough hands as though this was evidence enough to prove his case.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Romily had encouraged him. And without giving him a chance to back out, she had reached into the pram and carefully placed Isabella in his arms. ‘See,’ she’d said, ‘nothing to it.’
But there was everything to it, and when Isabella’s soft hazel gaze had met his and her lips curved into what had become her trademark lopsided smile, Elijah’s eyes had misted over and Romily could see he was struggling to keep his composure. Expecting him to want to give the child back, she had put her hands out, but he’d shaken his head and turned away, slowly walking the length of the garden, his head lowered as if deep in conversation with Isabella.
Since then Elijah and Billy, as members of the 1st Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment, had been sent to Frome in Somerset to begin what they had been told would be a lengthy period of intensive training. Elijah wrote every week, always asking after Isabella and often sending her a small present. In return Romily also wrote every week, and occasionally she would include a sketch that Hope would draw of Isabella as a keepsake for him.
Now, as Romily picked a handful of fragrant sweet pea flowers to take inside, holding the bunch so Isabella could look at them, she thought of Elijah’s willing involvement in the child’s life and felt sure that before too long, providing he survived this bloody awful war, Isabella would come to know him as her loving father, just as Allegra had wanted.
Deep in thought and retracing her steps across the dewy lawn, Romily looked up to see Hope standing at the French doors of the drawing room. She was dressed in a sombre dress of dark green, a colour that drained her of what little colour she possessed, and it reminded Romily that she had better get a move on. Today they were holding a memorial service at the church for Kit. Hope had put off organising it, perhaps refusing to let go entirely of her younger brother.
If ever there was a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, it was the Reverend Tate.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d actually known Kit properly, but as it was, he was merely gushing one insincere platitude after another. It was one of the reasons Hope had not rushed to hold this service; she had not trusted herself to sit through an hour of her brother being wholly misrepresented. At times like this, she thought with caustic irreverence, it seemed to be the prerogative of the living to canonise the dead.
Positioned in the pew at the front of the church, with Arthur to her left and Romily and Roddy to her right, she longed for Reverend Tate to bring a halt to his monotonous drivel. But there seemed to be no end to his verbosity. Kit was now being held up as a shining example of bravery, an example the young boys in the village should live up to.
No! Hope wanted to scream. It wasn’t bravery that had led Kit to his death; it was a desire to prove to their father – even if he was dead – that he was as much a man as Jack Devereux had ever been. Poor Kit, so desperate for approval all his short life, he had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Tears filled Hope’s eyes as she recalled the last letter her brother had written to her, and she dashed them away angrily. From nowhere she was suddenly consumed with a white-hot anger. Anger that Kit had felt the need to prove himself. Anger that their father could not have shown that he loved Kit for the boy he was. Anger that a madman in Germany had plunged Europe into a war that was going to claim many more lives yet. She was angry too that loving another person could make one feel so vulnerable to the pain of loss. First Dieter, then her father and Allegra, now her brother. How many more would she lose? Otto and Sabine? Edmund? Oh please not Edmund!
Not for the first time that day, Hope wished Edmund had managed to find the time to get away, but he was still frantically busy in London treating all those poor horrifically injured soldiers who had returned from France and Belgium.
She leant forward just a couple of inches and turned discreetly to look at Evelyn, who was sitting in the pew across the aisle from her. Hope had never known Evelyn to show an excess of emotion, and she wasn’t showing any now. Staring ahead, her gaze fixed on the stained-glass window behind the altar, she gave the impression of being oblivious to Reverend Tate droning on. The only sign that she was upset was the handkerchief that was poking out from her hands on her lap.
Thank God that fiasco was finally over, thought Arthur as he followed his sister out of the church and into the bright summer sunshine. Another minute and they’d all have fallen asleep, or died of sheer boredom.
With no grave to stand around, people were gathering in small groups on the gravel pathway, unsure what to do next other than avoid the peril of getting stuck talking to Reverend Tate; in that purpose they seemed entirely of one mind.
‘I can’t think for a moment that Kit would have approved of that,’ said Evelyn Flowerday as she approached Hope and Romily.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ replied Hope. ‘It was truly ghastly. I hardly recognised the person Tate was talking about. What did you think, Arthur?’
Surprised at the question, that his opinion mattered to his sister, he said, ‘I couldn’t agree more. The whole show was deplorable and plumbed depths of sentimentality that even Kit would have baulked at. Please swear on all you cherish that you won’t allow my send-off to be so soppy.’
Hope gave a half smile. ‘The same goes for me. Just have a choir to sing “How Great Thou Art” and then get on with having a drink.’
The exchange surprised Arthur. He had thought his sister might have lapped it all up, a ready convert to Kit’s new status as courageous hero who could do no wrong.
‘Talking of which,’ said Romily, ‘do you suppose we ought to put everyone out of their misery and tell them it’s time to move on to Island House for refreshments?’
‘Why not?’ said Hope. ‘Having survived the awfulness of that toe-curling service, I certainly think we all deserve a drink.’
‘A very large one at that,’ said Roddy. ‘Shall I do the honours and round everybody up? Not that I think they’ll need much encouraging.’
Roddy was right; it didn’t take long for people to get the message and begin the short walk to Island House, the sombreness of the last hour evaporating in the warm sunshine as they strolled along the footpath. By the time they reached the house, the mourners had adopted an air of cheerful revelry, as if on a pleasant day out. A flash of irritation had Arthur wanting to tell them to show some bloody respect, but his annoyance was so insignificant that frankly he didn’t have it in him to criticise, not when he himself had been feeling in such good spirits lately.
Ever since he’d discovered Pamela was alive, that he hadn’t actually murdered her, he had felt different, almost as if he had had a close shave with death itself and survived. In many ways he had, for if he really had killed the woman and had somehow been found guilty of doing so, he would have very likely been hanged for it. Until that day when he’d encountered Pamela and David Webster together, he hadn’t understood just how heavily that threat of discovery had weighed upon him. Yes, the news that he was going to be a father had cheered him considerably, but as the weeks had gone by he had realised just what he might lose if the police did come knocking on his door to arrest him. The thought of never knowing his child had made him sick to his stomach.
