‘Are you thinking of the father of your child?’
She nodded.
‘I would never treat you that way, Allegra. You must know that. Just as you must know that I’ve always loved you, even when we were children.’ He smiled. ‘I adored you on sight. I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.’
‘I wasn’t beautiful, I was just different.’
With a smile, he ran a finger along the curve of her chin. ‘What was it I said earlier about you not being able to accept a compliment? To me you were beautiful, and so very fierce. I’d never come across anyone like you before.’
She said nothing as a wave of great sadness came over her. ‘I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t left here when I was sixteen.’
‘You wouldn’t have been happy. You had to leave. And then,’ he added solemnly, ‘you had to come back to me.’
She pressed herself closer to him. ‘But now it’s you who’s leaving me,’ she said. ‘When will you have to go and fight?’
‘Shh … ’ he said, brushing his lips against hers. ‘Let’s not talk about that now. Let’s enjoy this time together.’
Yes, she thought, for who knew what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter Forty
Meadow Lodge,
Melstead St Mary
10th December, 1939
Dear Kit,
I can’t believe it will be Christmas in less than two weeks and the school term will come to an end. Our classrooms have more or less resumed their normal numbers after most of the evacuees returned to London. Many of them hated being in the countryside; they found it too quiet, with nothing to do, and couldn’t wait to leave and go home. We never did have an evacuee ourselves – I suspect they’d all got wind of Mother!
Talking of not being able to wait … I’m still surprised that you weren’t prepared to wait it out as a reservist for your call-up papers. But when I really think about it, I may well have done something equally rash, had I the opportunity and the financial wherewithal to relieve myself of the boredom of the status quo and travel halfway round the world to do it. So I salute you, Kit, for your impatience, and your good fortune in being able to afford to do what you’ve done.
How are the flying lessons going? I have it on good authority that it’s perishingly cold there in Winnipeg, so I hope the enclosed present will come in handy for you. And yes, I knitted it myself; not very well, admittedly, but I defy you to be so impolite as to find one single fault with it. (You decide whether to open it before Christmas or not.)
Never did I think I would turn into one of those women who sits at home knitting while listening to the wireless and humming along to Gracie Fields singing ‘Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye’, but Lady Fogg issued a dictat that we must all do our bit and knit for our brave troops. It’s a sentiment I fully endorse, but I pity the poor fellows who receive anything I make them. You included! (If my effort doesn’t fit you, use it as a tea cosy!)
I hear from Edmund that he’s seen Hope occasionally in London and is concerned about her. He seems to think that she’s tired and anxious as a result of fretting over Annelise, and would, in his opinion, benefit from returning to Island House. I’m not sure whether this is my brother speaking in a professional capacity as a doctor, or as a friend who cares deeply about Hope. Either way, I know him well and wouldn’t question his judgement.
Mother continues to be Mother, which means I continue to grit my teeth and square my shoulders. She has some absurd notion that she should be exempt from rationing, that others can go without coal or petrol, or whatever else will be rationed in due course, in order for her to carry on as normal. I have explained to her until I’m blue in the face about the ration books with which we’ve been issued, that everybody has them, but as I say, she seems to think her needs should not be affected in any way.
We’ve lost the lad who had been working in the garden for us this last year – he’s joined the navy – and Jean, who’d been cleaning for us, has joined the Women’s Land Army. I can quite see the attraction of working from dawn till dusk on the land in preference to putting up with Mother’s infernal griping over the silver that hasn’t been polished to her liking. For that matter, I should like to do the same myself!
Well, I think I’ve grumbled on quite enough and should stop now if I’m going to stand any chance of getting this off to you in time for Christmas 1939!
I hope you’re well and keeping your promise not to do anything silly in the way of heroics. Leave the heroics to me as I battle on with these wretched knitting needles while tangling myself up in life-threatening balls of wool!
With warmest best wishes,
Evelyn
PS I apologise for the frequent use of exclamation marks, a habit I deplore in others but which I seem to have slipped into with lamentable ease in the writing of this missive. It must be you – you bring out the exclamation in me!
Kit had read the letter three times over, and each time he had smiled, hearing Evelyn’s acerbic tone so clearly. The picture of her with knitting needles in hand, her lips pursed in concentration, her brow furrowed with irritation, amused him greatly.
On the nightstand next to his bed was the three-page letter he had written to her late last night, and before hers had arrived in this morning’s post. Now, with just enough time before Charlie came to give him a lift to the flying school, he took it up to add a postscript so he could thank her for the present, which he was keeping to open on Christmas Day. Then he read the whole thing through one more time, just to be sure he hadn’t made any mistakes, or used the exclamation mark too frequently!
119 Sunny Ridge,
