Yet for all that, his threat to Pamela, should she not do as he’d demanded in handing over all evidence of their association, had not been an empty one. It was now not only his own skin he was out to protect, but that of his unborn child.
Thanks to Mrs Partridge and Lotte, everything was ready for them when they arrived back at Island House. Florence had accompanied Stanley to the funeral, the boy having surprised them by wanting to attend. His interest in the war had grown since Billy and Elijah had returned from Dunkirk, and she worried that he saw life as a soldier or a pilot as one big adventure, a bit of a lark. He’d taken to quoting Churchill’s speeches at the kitchen table while they were eating, mimicking the prime minister’s gruff voice, which confused Bobby no end. Miss Romily had said that maybe attending Kit’s memorial service might temper the lad’s enthusiasm. After Reverend Tate’s eulogy, Florence doubted that.
With Isabella fast asleep in her pram and Stanley amusing Annelise with Bobby, Florence was free to help Lotte serve drinks. The guests were gathered on the terrace, making the most of the lovely day, and she went outside with a tray of sherry glasses and moved amongst the villagers, most of whom she knew. There had been a good turnout, larger than they had expected, but then people here had known Kit when he was a young boy. Billy’s parents had closed the shop to be in church, as had several others. Florence was glad for Hope that so many had wanted to show their respects. She went over to her in-laws and offered them a drink. Ruby declined, but George took a glass of sherry, his large hand wrapped clumsily around the small, delicate glass.
‘Seems hard to believe that this time last year none of this had started,’ he said with a shake of his head.
‘I know,’ said Florence, thinking how she hadn’t really got to know Billy properly until last August Bank Holiday at the village fete.
As if reading her mind, George smiled. ‘We only knew you as a customer back then, and now you’re our daughter-in-law.’
Florence glanced anxiously at Ruby, waiting for one of her cutting remarks, but the woman remained tight-lipped. Things had very slowly improved between them, but Florence was always on her guard. ‘Just another fortnight and Billy will be home for two days’ leave,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see him. I was wondering if you’d like to come to Winter Cottage for Sunday lunch when he’s home.’
‘That’d be very kind of you,’ said George, ‘but we wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all. It’ll be nice to use the cottage properly, as a real home, now it’s all official like and Elijah’s letting us rent it from him, and so cheaply too, since I spend most of my time at Island House.’
‘Must be fair odd for you toing and froing between here and there,’ said George, looking back up at the house behind them. ‘Like having two homes.’
‘That’ll all change when you have a baby,’ said Ruby with a meaningful look, ‘and stop working.’
From nowhere, the arrival of a grandchild had suddenly become important to Ruby, as though she saw this as Florence’s sole purpose. She made no bones about hinting that they should get a move on and produce one. A baby was the last thing Florence wanted any time soon, especially now that Miss Romily had confided in her about her plans for the future. But she wasn’t about to admit any of that to her mother-in-law.
Nor was she prepared to admit that she and Billy had yet to get anywhere near making a baby. Poor Billy had been too shattered by what he’d seen at Dunkirk to want to have sex with her. While a part of her had felt just a little bit rejected when he’d wanted to do nothing more than hold her, she’d known better than to push him.
‘A baby will happen soon enough, I expect,’ she said brightly to Ruby, and before the conversation could go any further, she left her in-laws and went to serve the other guests.
With only a handful of guests left now, Hope studied Arthur, unable to figure him out.
Her brother was a different man to the one who had spent a week here last year to fulfil the wishes of their father’s will. Not a vindictive word of scorn or criticism had he directed at Hope or Romily today. Could it be that the prospect of fatherhood was having a positive effect on him?
But when Hope thought of the day in London with Edmund when they had seen Irene with another man, she experienced the unknown sensation of actually feeling sorry for her brother. If Irene had been indulging in an affair, Hope wanted to believe that it would be short-lived. But more importantly, she wanted very much to believe that the child Irene was expecting was Arthur’s. Even after the extensive catalogue of terrible things he had done over the years, Hope couldn’t bear the thought that he could be made a cuckold in so cruel a fashion. Particularly so if it meant that unknowingly he ended up raising a child that wasn’t actually his.
And who, she thought with a stab of incredulity, would ever have thought she would feel a trace of sympathy towards her elder brother? Maybe it was because with Allegra and Kit gone, it was now just the two of them left.
She was about to answer Arthur’s question regarding the publication of her children’s book – he’d said he wanted to be the first to have a signed copy, for his child – when in the distance she noticed the figure of a man slowly limping across the lawn. The brim of a peculiarly large floppy hat hid his face; it was the sort of hat an artist might wear to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun while painting. She owned one not unlike it herself.
There was something oddly familiar about the man, and as he came nearer, the sensation of familiarity grew stronger, but at the same time every ounce of her reason told Hope she was mistaken. But suddenly, when the figure raised a hand in the air as if in acknowledgement of her, she knew she wasn’t wrong.
It was Kit, her dear, dear brother!
Chapter Seventy-Two
With the guests all magically gone, and exhausted and overcome by the reaction his appearance had caused, Kit sank gratefully into a chair in the shade of the apple tree, and dabbed lightly at the sheen of sweat on his face with a handkerchief.
He’d been told not to overdo it, and now he saw the sense in the advice he’d been given, and which he’d chosen to flout in his haste to return to Island House. He was used to people staring, especially strangers, but it was hard to bear the scrutiny of those who knew him – those who knew how he used to look. He didn’t blame them for being shocked, or even repulsed; it was, as he’d been told, something he would have to learn to live with for the rest of his life. A life he was lucky to have, he’d also been repeatedly told.
‘I still can’t believe it’s really you,’ said his sister, kneeling on the grass in front of him. Her face was flushed, her eyes still shining from the tears she’d shed. In the chair next to Kit, Evelyn sat very still. He hadn’t yet looked her directly in the eye, knowing that he would see a brave attempt on her part to hide her revulsion.
‘I can’t believe I’m actually here,’ he said to Hope.
‘But why didn’t you let us know you were on your way, or more to the point that you were alive?’
‘I did. I sent you a letter.’
‘When?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
