She nodded at Roddy on her way out of the room. He nodded in return, the gesture implying that he would fill her in later.
In the warm afternoon sunshine, Romily took the baby round to the back of the house, through the gated archway in the yew hedge to a small private garden that Jack had especially loved. It was directly outside his study, accessed through a pair of French doors. She had not had the courage to set foot inside the study yet; it was the room they had turned into a bedroom for him, and where he had died.
Now his body lay in the churchyard on the other side of the tall beech hedge that sheltered this part of the garden. From here she could see the solid square tower of St Mary’s, the pews of which had been packed full earlier today, not only with curious or well-meaning people from the village, but also with Jack’s friends and acquaintances from London.
Some of Romily’s friends had attended the funeral too, including Sarah, who was still on crutches nursing her broken ankle. Both Romily’s agent and editor had come, and she’d appreciated their support. They knew how much she had loved Jack; knew too that he was the first man to whom she had given her heart.
Before her friends had set off for the train to London, her agent had advised her to take it easy and not to rush back to work too soon. He’d cancelled an appearance in London she was booked to do at Foyle’s next week, and she was grateful for that.
She settled Annelise on the lawn and sat down beside her. The little girl looked up at her, her intensely dark eyes filled with something Romily could only guess at. At ten months old, and with silky-fine blonde hair, she was a pretty little thing, almost doll-like she was so petite. Romily thought of the girl’s parents and wondered how they were coping without her. They had to be going through hell. And the worst of it was, who knew how long Annelise would have to stay in Hope’s care?
Shuffling over to Romily, the baby hauled herself up onto her lap and, as if thoroughly pleased with herself, beamed a hugely happy smile. Something deep inside Romily tugged at her heart. She had never aspired to being a mother, but in that instant, she wished Jack had left her with a child. Something tangible of him, something stronger than mere memories.
A tear slid down her cheek, and seeing it, Annelise frowned, reaching up and touched it with a small finger. It made Romily cry all the more.
Chapter Twelve
Florence was in the kitchen with Mrs Partridge and Mrs Bunch, the last of the washing-up now dried and put away, the tea brewing and a freshly baked batch of rock cakes just out of the oven.
It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet, not with Mr Devereux’s family around. They were an awkward lot, especially that Arthur. Every time he summoned Florence for something, he looked down his nose at her as though she were muck he’d stepped in. His wife wasn’t much better either. Thank God they weren’t actually staying here.
‘Come on, Flo, come and sit yourself down,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Your tea’s poured.’
Drying her hands, Florence took her place at the table gratefully. She’d been on her feet since first thing that morning, and as well as helping to prepare for the expected funeral guests, she had also looked after the baby for a couple of hours. She’d had no previous contact with babies before and had been more than a little anxious when Mrs Meyer had asked if she would mind the child for her while she attended the funeral. Florence had wanted to go to the church herself and pay her respects, but she hadn’t felt it was her place to refuse the request. Luckily the baby had slept for a short time, making it possible for Florence to help Mrs Partridge with all that needed doing.
At the other end of the table, Mrs Bunch let out a long exhalation of breath like a train sending a whooshing cloud of steam into the air. She rubbed at her legs – her varicose veins were the bane of her life, she frequently complained, repeatedly telling anyone who would listen that she was a martyr to the wretched things. ‘I’m gettin’ too old for all this runnin’ around,’ she said, after taking a noisy slurp of her tea.
‘Get away with you, Elsie,’ said Mrs Partridge, passing her a plate of sandwiches left over from the guests. ‘Plenty of good years left in you yet.’ She nudged the plate towards Florence. ‘Better eat up and enjoy the peace and quiet before the next round of demands from that lot.’ She inclined her head towards the closed kitchen door, as though Mr Devereux’s family were lurking on the other side of it.
‘How long do you think they’ll be holed up in the dining room?’ asked Florence.
‘Depends how complicated the will is, I suppose,’ answered Mrs Partridge, ‘and if the family start arguing over who gets what. Some folk can argue over just about anything when it comes to wills. I had a cousin who rowed something awful over the ugliest of china dogs.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they gets nothin’,’ Mrs Bunch said through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘It’s not as if they were that fond of the old boy, or he that fond of them if you asks me.’
Mrs Bunch had lived in the village all her life; there wasn’t anything she didn’t know about anyone, and she had a ready tongue to share her knowledge, too. ‘I’ve told you before about my friend that used to work here,’ she said, after taking another gulp of tea. ‘Oh, the stories she told me! When them children came for their holidays, and more often than not without their father but with a nanny, there were troubles aplenty, let me tell you. There wasn’t a nanny alive who could control them little ones; they as good as roamed free to do as they pleased. You never heard so much squabbling as they got up to!’
‘Did they make friends in the village?’ asked Florence.
‘Young Master Kit and Miss Hope did, Miss Allegra too, but Master Arthur always saw himself as being above mere village folk. It was different when Mr Devereux came. He might not have been the best of dads, being absent such a lot, but he did try. He’d put on these big parties, invited all the kiddies from the village and all. But that was stopped after one summer when Miss Allegra got into a fight with a boy who’d lured her down to the boathouse. When she refused to kiss him and he made fun of her Italian accent, she flew into a rage and kicked and punched him like any street fighter, until finally she shoved him into the lily pond.’
‘Sounds like he got what he deserved,’ said Florence, feeling some sympathy for the girl.
‘Maybe you’re right, but the thing was, the lad couldn’t swim and in places the lily pond is fair deep. If Master Kit hadn’t dived in and dragged him to safety, he might’ve drowned.’
‘Does the boy still live in the village?’ asked Florence.
‘He do indeed. His name’s Victor, and some say it might have been better if he had drowned that day; he’s been nothing but trouble to his family since the day he was born.’
She paused for a moment to drain her teacup, and after Mrs Partridge had filled it again, and passed her a rock cake, she continued.
‘That wasn’t the only time Miss Allegra’s temper got the better of her. One day she’d had enough of that Master Arthur and his sneering ways and lay in wait for him in the garden.’ The old woman chuckled. ‘She’d got hold of Master Kit’s catapult and hit her target fair and square, blinded him in one eye. She’s got a real fiery heart to her, that one. Must be all that Latin blood runnin’ through her veins. Makes them different to us, don’t it?’
It was difficult for Florence to picture the aloof young woman she had so far encountered doing any of those things; she seemed much too grand for such behaviour. She didn’t seem a very happy woman, but then maybe you couldn’t be a happy person to be an opera singer; perhaps you had to have a streak of tragedy running through you. There again, she was only here because her uncle was dead; she would hardly go about with a big grin on her face, would she?
‘I heard one of the funeral guests saying that Collings hardware store has sold out of wireless sets this week,’ said Florence, after Mrs Partridge had topped up her teacup. ‘Apparently they’ve sold more in the last month than the whole year put together.’
‘There’s always some that benefits from war, isn’t there?’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘Or even the threat of it.’
