Hope’s instinctive reaction was to refuse the request, to withhold every precious memory she had of Dieter for fear of exposing it to ridicule, or worse, losing it. But sensing she was in the presence of somebody who might actually understand, she said, ‘Dieter made me feel the same way my father made you feel, he made my world feel infinitely better than it had ever been before.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At a lunchtime concert at the Albert Hall. It was a piano recital, Grieg. I don’t know how you feel about Grieg, but after a while he palls for me.’
Romily smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
Hope smiled too. ‘Well, I rather rudely began to occupy my time with doodling on my recital programme, drawing a family of trolls and their little house built into the rock of a hillside. I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice that the man in the seat next to me was watching what I was doing.’
‘And that was Dieter?’
‘Yes. When the concert was over, I apologised for distracting him from the music, and he said that he’d welcomed the distraction, that it had given him enormous pleasure to watch me and that he was envious of anyone who had such a natural gift. I’m making him sound more forward that he really was; he was actually quite a shy man.’
Romily nodded. ‘But he plucked up the courage to ask you to go out with him, I’m assuming?’
‘He gave me his telephone number in the hope that I might like to arrange an outing together to another concert sometime.’
‘Which you did?’
‘Yes. And from then on, we were more or less inseparable.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, not until they were almost on the terrace of the house. ‘It strikes me,’ said Romily, ‘that we’re not so very different, you and I. We’ve both lost the man we loved and we’re in a similar line of work, with deadlines to meet with our respective publishers. Why don’t we, in the days ahead, do all we can to support each other?’
Hope was surprised at the suggestion. ‘I’m not sure how I can support you. Or if you really need any assistance.’
‘Don’t you? How about helping to make peace with your cousin and brothers?’
Chapter Twenty
Lady Fogg arrived the following morning on the stroke of eleven o’clock, just as the last of the chimes from St Mary’s rang out.
An overbearing, condescending woman of advancing years who believed firmly in the old order – the more feudal the better – Lady Fogg was comprehensively reviled within the village for her ability always to cause offence. Romily was fascinated by her, from the top of her Queen Mary styled hair to her large sensible lace-up shoes. Most assuredly, and before too long, the woman would appear as a femme formidable of some magnitude in one of her novels.
Villages up and down the country undoubtedly needed and relied upon this type of woman. They were the backbone of small communities; without them, nothing would get done. It was a fact that Lady Fogg had been only too quick to point out to Romily as she swept in on a gust of her own martyred self-importance.
‘If one wants anything done, one has to get on with it oneself,’ she’d barked. ‘As if I haven’t enough to do! But since nobody else was inclined to grasp the nettle and offer themselves as billeting officer, there was nothing else for it but for me to volunteer.’
Privately Romily would sooner believe that nobody else had had the courage to put themselves forward, or if they had, the move had been swiftly vetoed.
‘Now then, Miss Temple,’ said Lady Fogg, as though addressing a large gathering, while settling her ample posterior into the armchair opposite Romily and clasping a folder to her equally ample bosom. ‘I need to check a few details with you and convince myself of the suitability of the accommodation you have here, which I’m sure—’
Romily raised a hand to interrupt the flow of Lady Fogg’s words, something she warranted not many dared to do.
The woman looked at her askance.
‘It’s Mrs Devereux-Temple,’ Romily said smoothly. ‘After all, Jack and I were married.’
A flaring of nostrils indicated that Lady Fogg was far from pleased at being corrected. Furthermore, she probably doubted the veracity of Romily’s marital status.
‘I believe the accurate use of titles is so important, don’t you agree, Lady Fogg?’ said Romily with a smile. ‘Please, do carry on.’
‘I was under the impression that you were retaining your maiden name,’ the woman responded.
‘And so I am for professional purposes; to my readers I shall always be plain old Romily Temple. However, in my private life I was Jack’s wife, alas all too briefly, and I’m proud to bear his name.’ She knew that Lady Fogg had been particularly vocal on the subject of her living in sin at Island House with Jack; had even snubbed her on one occasion.
‘Quite,’ replied the woman with a steely tone.
Not for a second had Romily expected any kind of half-hearted attempt on Lady Fogg’s part to offer condolences on Jack’s untimely death, and in many ways it was refreshing not to have to summon the platitudes demanded in such circumstances. It was much more fun to be sparring with the woman.
