Since her brother had left for Canada, Hope had regretted not doing what she should have done a long time ago, and that was apologize to Kit. She should never have treated him the way she did, it had been cruel and unnecessary. Kit had never done anything other than be a good brother to her, and yet when she had perhaps needed him most, she had cut him out of her life. Even knowing that it would upset him, she hadn’t been able to relinquish the need to isolate herself, to bury herself yet deeper in her grief.
Several times in the weeks since he’d left, she had planned exactly what she wanted to say in a letter to him, but somehow each attempt failed to express just how sorry she was for cutting him out of her life. It left her wanting to say the words to his face, for him to know that she meant them. His forgiveness would be automatic, she knew, he was that sort of person, but she wanted him to know that while she had been in that horribly dark place, she had never stopped loving him. It was only now that she sensed a glimmer of light at the end of the long tunnel through which she had been travelling that she understood that herself.
Aware of Edmund’s gaze on her, she realised he was giving her another searching look. ‘London might feel safe now,’ he said, shifting her thoughts back to what he’d been saying before, ‘but I’m convinced we’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. If the Luftwaffe do start filling the skies over our cities, you’ll be in great danger. Wouldn’t you want Annelise to be somewhere safer than a bombing target?’
‘Are you trying to scare me?’ she said.
He put a hand on her forearm. ‘I’m trying to tell you that I care about you and want you to be safe. Promise me you’ll think about it.’
She looked down at his hand, then back up into the intensity of his beseeching eyes. ‘I will,’ she said. Then, more cheerfully, ‘And that’s my New Year’s resolution!’
Chapter Forty-Three
It was gone eleven o’clock and Romily thought she would never get away from Sir Archibald Fogg. Many a time Lady Fogg had looked across the room, her face resembling a thundercloud, as though Romily had deliberately cornered her husband and was playing the femme fatale.
For what seemed an eternity the man had stood so close to her that his bushy whiskers all but brushed against her face while he shared his opinions – Stalin: a thoroughly disgusting man; the neutrality of America: a detestable country; conscientious objectors: he’d have the damned cowards publicly horsewhipped, would happily do it himself; the war would be over in six months: a tap to the side of his nose indicated he knew people in high places who knew such things.
But his particular grievance, which he was keen to share with Romily, and on which he had much to say, was his view that the country was going to the dogs: people no longer knew their place, the old order was in danger of being lost forever, and that was the real battle they were facing. He had questioned Romily’s prudence in the way she had arranged this party. ‘Capital idea of yours to throw a bash like this,’ he’d said. ‘Just what was needed to raise morale. But take it from me, it’s never a good idea to invite every Tom, Dick and Harry into your home.’ He’d looked pointedly at George and Ruby Minton and their son, Billy, who were chatting to Evelyn.
Romily had now reached the stage when, if forced to listen to another word, she would gladly shoot herself, and so to bring matters to an immediate halt, she applied her most charming smile. ‘I really can’t help but wonder whether one morning we’ll all wake up and decide we deserve a Bolshevik regime to put right the wrongs history has laid upon us and redress the balance,’ she said.
Sir Archibald goggled at her, his face brick red, his bearded jaw momentarily slack. Seizing her chance, she touched his arm. ‘Do excuse me, I really ought to attend to my other guests. They must think me a very poor hostess monopolising you for so long.’
She turned on her heel and left him to deal with his shock, not caring that he would now regard her as an untrustworthy viper in the nest. A commie, right here in Melstead St Mary! she imagined him telling Lady Fogg later. By lunchtime tomorrow she would once again be the talk of the village, perhaps elevated to the status of a Nazi propaganda agent!
The prospect pleased her no end. Because lord knew she had grown tired of the status quo. Yes, she had been pleased to return to Island House after a brief stay in London, but as soon as the excitement of Christmas was over, she had grown restless, unable to settle and resume the novel she was working on. With talk of paper being rationed, she wondered why she should bother; it also seemed in poor taste to write a murder mystery when so many lives were genuinely at risk. Melvyn, her agent, was of the opinion that books would be needed even more as a distraction. ‘Whatever is going on in the world,’ he had said, ‘people still want to be entertained. More so if there are further restrictions on petrol, and opening hours for theatres and cinemas come into play. Reading will be one of the few pleasures left to us.’
In many ways that was why Romily had decided to throw a party, an open house for anyone who wanted to come. Hope had been unsure about the idea. ‘What if everyone comes?’ she had said, concerned. ‘Where will we put them?’
‘The more the merrier!’ had been Romily’s response, which would have been exactly what Jack would have said. In fact, this party was her private way of honouring Jack, for she knew it was exactly the kind of thing he would have done to lift everybody’s spirits. She just wished with all her heart he was here to join in with the fun.
After going upstairs to check that the noise from the guests wasn’t disturbing Annelise and Stanley, she went through to the kitchen to see if there was anything she could do to help Mrs Partridge who had done such a sterling job creating delicious party food. Reassured that everything was under control, she rejoined the party, taking with her a tray of mushroom vol-au-vents to pass around. It was something to do, especially if it meant she could avoid getting stuck again with Sir Archibald.
It wasn’t so much that she was bored at her own party; far from it, it pleased her enormously to see her guests enjoying themselves – the old boys from the village who had brought the piano up from the church hall and were gathered around it with their glasses of beer, and the younger guests dancing in the dining room, the rugs rolled back, music playing on the wireless – but there was no getting away from it: she was filled with a restless energy, a sure sign that she needed something new with which to occupy herself.
She’d been like it as a child, had driven her parents mad with her constant antics of daredevilry, climbing trees that no sane person would attempt, or swimming underwater for longer than anybody else. It was what drove her to take up challenges like learning to fly, or getting behind the wheel of a car at Brooklands. She had always enjoyed the thrill of pushing herself to the limit. Only trouble was, each new thrill had to out-thrill the last.
Earlier in the evening, she had been chatting to Edmund about Sarah’s determination to join the Air Transport Auxiliary. ‘Once the silly old duffers realise women can fly aircraft just as well as any man,’ her friend had told her, ‘I’ll apply to join. You should too, Romily. You need to be active; you can’t sit at home dwelling on Jack while waiting for the war to end. I don’t need to tell you we’ve all got to do our bit.’
Romily had taken offence at hearing her friend describe her in this way, and had defended her position, listing all that she did – running Island House, trying to keep to her writing schedule, looking after Stanley, keeping an eye on Allegra, and joining the WI so she could learn to knit socks and balaclavas for the troops, a skill she had yet to grasp with any real aplomb.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sarah had said dismissively, ‘all of which you could do standing on your head while juggling a couple of eggs! You could be doing so much more, Romily.’
‘But I can’t just abandon my post,’ Romily had countered. ‘I have commitments, namely an evacuee. I’m responsible for him. Why should you expect me to be doing more?’
‘Because you’re Romily Temple!’ cried Sarah.
‘I’m Romily Devereux-Temple,’ she’d replied staunchly. ‘I’m not the same woman now.’
But Sarah was having none of it and continued to insist that Romily should be out in the field rather than resting on her laurels at Island House. ‘You could at least volunteer to drive an ambulance, like Rosalind Chapel has signed up for. You remember her from school – beaky nose, large hands? Or better still, join the ATA with me. Lord knows it will be fun putting all those men in their place!’
Maybe it would, thought Romily as she caught sight of Sir Archibald staring across the drawing room at her with a look of undisguised mistrust on his face. Amused, she gave him a false smile of acknowledgement and continued offering around the tray of vol-au-vents. When the last one had been taken, she returned the tray to the kitchen and suggested it was high time Mrs Partridge joined the party. ‘It’s almost midnight; come and sing “Auld Lang Syne” with everyone else,’ she said.
‘But I’ve got all this washing-up to do,’ the older woman replied.
‘I’ll give you a hand later when everybody’s gone.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Florence and I will see to it.’
