‘You’re forgetting, I never knew my mother, and you never hear me complaining about that.’
‘But you don’t have the stigma I grew up with! Being labelled a bastard never leaves you. I wouldn’t wish that on any child.’
Before Kit could say anything further, she leapt up from the wooden bench and marched off at practically a gallop. Baffled, he watched her go. What on earth was that all about?
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a day for callers – first Lady Fogg and now the Reverend Septimus Tate, who had presided over Jack’s funeral.
A confirmed bachelor, he was known for demanding strict piety and Christian charity from his flock while showing not a scrap of it himself. He usually timed his parish visits to coincide with mealtimes, when he could be sure of an invitation to join his hosts at their table.
Florence had announced his arrival to Romily just as they had sat down for lunch in the garden, Romily having decided that eating outside might make for a more convivial atmosphere, that the sun-drenched garden might temper Arthur’s obnoxious behaviour and Hope might feel more relaxed with Annelise in these less formal surroundings.
‘Apologies for the intrusion!’ boomed the vicar, emerging from the house onto the terrace before Romily had had a chance to tell Florence to ask him to wait in the drawing room. ‘I had no idea it was that time of day already,’ he said, ‘and that you’d be sitting down to eat.’
A compulsive liar as well as a grasping glutton, thought Romily, regarding with revulsion the corpulent red-faced man lumbering towards them. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join us,’ she said, observing him eyeing their plates of poached salmon, new potatoes and green beans. ‘I’m sure we can stretch things to go round a little further. Kit, perhaps you’d be so good as to find another chair from the summer house? And Florence, could you trouble Mrs Partridge for some lunch for our unexpected guest?’
‘How kind of you, Mrs Devereux-Temple,’ the man said, removing his hat and mopping his sweating brow with a handkerchief. ‘But really I don’t want to intrude.’
‘A bit late for that,’ muttered Arthur, reaching for his wine glass and taking a large mouthful.
Fortunately, as well as suffering from gout, the Reverend Tate was slightly deaf, which enabled plenty of his flock to mutter about him without fear of being overheard.
Once the inconvenience of his arrival had been dealt with and he was seated between Kit and Romily with a knife and fork held firmly in his meaty grasp, she asked him what brought him to Island House.
‘Ah yes, of course, so consumed was I by the warmth of your generosity, I almost forgot. I have a favour to beg of you, dear lady.’
‘Here we go,’ muttered Arthur. ‘The Bank of Devereux is about to be tapped.’
‘What’s that, Arthur?’ asked the reverend. ‘I didn’t catch it.’
‘I was asking my sister, Hope, if it was time for Annelise’s nap,’ he lied smoothly.
The vicar looked at Annelise as if only just registering her presence, and grimaced at the sight of the child pushing a marble-sized potato into her mouth. Whether or not it was the effect of the vicar staring at her, Annelise chose to spit out the potato. She appeared to find this highly amusing and giggled, which revealed a partially chewed green bean on her tongue. She then, with very dainty fingers, picked up the rejected potato and offered it to the vicar. Romily couldn’t help but laugh at his obvious disgust, which made Annelise chortle some more, as well as bob up and down happily in her high chair, her feet kicking the table and rattling the crockery.
‘Looks like you’re a hit with our youngest diner, Reverend Tate,’ remarked Kit. ‘What were you saying about a favour?’
‘Ah yes. We – that is, the village fete committee – find ourselves in something of a fix for the fete tomorrow. As you may recall, Mrs Devereux-Temple, your husband had accepted an invitation to officiate and declare the fete open, which leaves us hoping … and I’m aware of the imposition, but could you possibly find it within your power to do the honours for us in Mr Devereux’s place?’
Romily had forgotten about the fete, had forgotten too what Jack had agreed to do, but before she had a chance to reply, Arthur clanged his cutlery against his plate. ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate given that our father is barely cold in his grave. What would people think?’
‘Inappropriate to whom?’ asked Romily, her hackles up. How dare Arthur think he could answer on her behalf!
‘And since when did appropriate behaviour ever bother you?’ said Allegra.
‘I think you’re talking about yourself, Allegra,’ replied Arthur. ‘I for one care deeply about the correct way of doing things.’
‘Why not do it in Jack’s honour?’ suggested Kit.
Grateful for Kit’s intervention, Romily turned to the vicar. ‘Of course I shall do it. I’m sure Jack would have wanted me to take his place. What is more,’ she said, glancing around the table, daring anyone to disagree, ‘I think it would be good for us all to attend the fete as a family, as a way to thank the village for its kindness during this time of bereavement.’ Ignoring the inhalation of breath from Arthur, she added, ‘I strongly believe that this is something Jack would have wanted.’
‘Bloody hell, I call it a bit rich when she starts bossing us around as though we’re children. What gives her the right to do that? But I’ll tell you this for nothing: she can count me out from providing her with a false united front to the peasants of this village!’
Arthur had been banging on in this fashion for nearly an hour following lunch and the Reverend Tate’s eventual departure. With Hope back upstairs in her room working, and Romily doing some work of her own in the drawing room, Kit, Allegra and Arthur were in the garden minding Annelise while she slept on a rug in the shade of a parasol.
Allegra was fascinated by the pale smoothness of the baby’s skin; it was so enviably flawless, and so at odds with the disagreeably puce complexion her face turned when she was crying. How different that child was to the one sleeping so serenely now. How could two such extremes co-exist in one small scrap of life?
Never having seen the child sleep before, and seeing her lying so peacefully, Allegra was struck by her vulnerability. It made her think of the small life dwelling inside her, and from nowhere came a feeling of acute tenderness and the inexplicable urge to place a hand protectively over her stomach. When she realised she had actually done it, she whipped her hand away and pretended to shoo away an annoying fly or bee. It was nothing more than hormones making her react so illogically, she told herself sternly. She had to fight it, had to keep her emotions, which were fast taking over her mind and body, firmly under control. The thought of losing not just her mind but her figure, of becoming fat and ugly and unlovable, appalled her. Could she really go through with having the baby? But the alternative was unthinkable.
