Drinking her tea Florence marvelled at the child, in particular her trusting nature as she contentedly nestled in close. Or was it no more than a survival instinct? Either way, it gave Florence a strange feeling, one that she had never experienced before: a desire to protect and nurture something so vulnerable.
Continuing to suck on the bottle, the little girl had just opened her eyes and was staring with an unnervingly solemn and intelligent force directly into Florence’s gaze when the kitchen door opened and Hope came in. Still in her nightclothes, with a silk dressing gown tied loosely around her waist, she looked sleep-rumpled and cross. ‘You really shouldn’t have taken Annelise from her cot without speaking to me first,’ she said with a frown. ‘I was worried when I found it empty.’
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said Florence, stung at the rebuke, ‘but she was crying and so I thought—’
‘It wasn’t your place to think. Annelise is my responsibility, not yours!’ She came over and roughly snatched the baby out of Florence’s arms, knocking the bottle of milk to the floor. At once, Annelise began to cry.
‘I call that a fine way to show your gratitude to somebody who was only trying to help,’ said another voice. It was Allegra, and she too was in her nightclothes, except in her case, with her bare feet and scarlet-painted toenails and her long black hair, she looked far from sleep-rumpled. Admittedly she was a little pale, but the silk kimono she wore, which was untied and revealed a cerise silk sheath clinging embarrassingly close to her body, gave her the appearance of a seductive starlet luring a handsome man to her bed. ‘I was tempted to see to the poverina bimba myself,’ she went on, ‘but Florence beat me to it.’
‘For a woman who only thinks of herself, I find that hard to believe,’ said Hope stiffly, at the same time jiggling Annelise in her arms to quieten her.
‘Believe what you want, Hope, but if you ask me, you owe Florence an apology, and a word of thanks might not be out of place. The poor girl did you a favour, allowed you to sleep in. Which is more than some of us were able to do, given the racket.’
‘Since I’m not asking you, perhaps you’d like to mind your own business.’
Allegra shrugged and turned her attention to Florence, who was trying her best to give the impression she wasn’t witnessing the unpleasant exchange. She wished they would stop turning up in the kitchen unannounced. Why couldn’t they stick to the rest of the house to air their differences? Was this how it was going to be for the rest of the week while the family adhered to the terms of Mr Devereux’s will? She hoped to God it wasn’t. And why was Hope so cross with her? She had seemed pleasant enough yesterday. What had got into her?
‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of coffee? Black and with two sugars.’
‘Of course, miss,’ said Florence. ‘I mean signora. I mean signorina.’ Oh heavens, what was it Miss Romily had said she was to call Allegra?
‘You may call me Miss Salvato if it’s easier for you to remember,’ she said. ‘Or Allegra.’ Her voice might have sounded as sweet as honey, probably hoping to get on Florence’s good side, but Florence wasn’t going to be taken in. She knew how false familiarity could be; that more often than not it led to somebody taking downright liberties. Sometimes it was easier to cope with hostility; that way you knew where you stood. It was different with Miss Romily and the friendly way she treated Florence. Her informality had always been genuine; there was no side to her.
‘Thank you, Miss Salvato,’ she said politely. ‘Would you like anything to go with your coffee? Some toast, perhaps, before Mrs Partridge comes down to make breakfast for everyone?’
Allegra visibly blanched at the suggestion and she shook her head. ‘Just coffee. I’ll have it in the garden.’ She turned to go. ‘You’ll find me on the terrace in front of the drawing room.’
‘I hope you’re going to put some clothes on,’ remarked Hope, ‘instead of making an exhibition of yourself.’
Allegra gave her a cool look, her amber eyes narrowed, her lips slightly pursed. ‘Why? Who’s going to see me making an exhibition of myself, as you put it?’
Hope tutted. ‘You always did have to attract attention to yourself, didn’t you? You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Unlike you, cara. You have become an embittered old woman who can’t be nice to anyone, let alone yourself.’
And with that, ensuring she had the last word, Allegra closed the door behind her, but not before Florence caught a look of grim satisfaction on her face.
Gawd! Could no one in this wretched family be nice and get along?
Chapter Seventeen
With Roddy on the train back to London, Irene heading north to Scotland and Arthur now installed at Island House, Kit was keen to escape his brother and had seized on the opportunity to do so by offering to post some letters for his stepmother.
Before Roddy had left for the station, his parting words had been to remind them why their father had wanted them to stay here for the week. ‘It’s so that you can put your differences aside and learn to be the family you should have been,’ he’d said.
‘I’m surprised you’re not staying here to put us under house arrest and act as our gaoler,’ Arthur had responded. ‘Or are you entrusting our stepmother to carry out that duty on your behalf?’
‘I’m trusting you to act like the responsible adults you are,’ Roddy had replied evenly. ‘And please don’t upset Romily. Do that and you shall have me to answer to.’
For mild-mannered Roddy Fitzwilliam, this had been a severe admonishment indeed, and Kit had every intention of doing what he’d been told. Unlike Arthur, who would relish going out of his way to upset Romily.
At the end of the driveway, Kit waited for a cart to pass by on the road, the horse plodding slowly in the languid warmth. The air was scented with honeysuckle scrambling through the hedgerow, birds were singing and bees humming, and away from his family – or more precisely his brother – Kit felt himself begin to relax and enjoy the loveliness of it.
The horse and cart having now passed, he turned right towards the centre of the village. He had intended to ask his sister if she wanted to accompany him, but she had been embroiled in a lengthy telephone conversation. From what he’d caught of it as he’d hovered momentarily outside the drawing room door, Hope had been trying to explain to the publisher for whom she was currently illustrating a children’s book that her circumstances had altered dramatically in the last week and she could only try to do her best to meet the deadline, which had been unexpectedly brought forward. Kit could tell from the strain in her voice that it was an awkward conversation and she was struggling to provide the reassurance her publisher was seeking.
Kit himself had had an equally awkward conversation with the bank he worked for when he’d explained that he wouldn’t be returning until late next week. He’d cited grief as his excuse, somehow seeing the lie as preferable to disclosing the terms of his father’s will, which cast the family in an embarrassingly poor light. In many ways he didn’t actually give a damn what the bank believed; he had few aspirations to be well thought of there in order to rise through its ranks.
He was keeping his fingers crossed that he and his brother and sister and cousin could stick it out for the week and therefore earn their inheritance. The money, like an answer to a prayer, would give him the financial freedom to walk away from the bank. The idea of living abroad appealed to him, somewhere warm and sunny, the south of France perhaps, or maybe inland in the hills of Provence. Or he could go further afield, to Mexico and Central America. It would be an adventure! Wherever he went, he’d live modestly, unencumbered by the tedious constraints of his life here in England; he’d be at liberty to be himself. Although if he were honest, he wasn’t entirely sure just who he really was; he had yet to discover that.
