The two women, who for most of their lives had been unable to find any common ground between them, smiled, and when Allegra put her arms around Hope, and thanked her for all that she’d done, Hope found herself hugging her cousin back with genuine affection.
The two wedding parties gathered at the Half Moon Hotel after the combined marriage ceremonies.
Resplendent in their battledress uniforms, Elijah and Billy both looked so very young to Roddy. He felt sad at the sight of their youthful vitality, knowing that tomorrow they would be returning to barracks to hear what their fate would be. He could not look at the two fresh-faced men without thinking of how he and Jack had met in the field hospital during the bloodiest of wars that was supposed to end all wars.
‘You did a wonderful job earlier, walking Allegra down the aisle.’
He turned to see Romily at his side. ‘It was easy,’ he said. ‘I just put one foot in front of the other and held onto Allegra.’
Romily smiled. ‘I didn’t mean that, and you know it. You looked as proud as any father could standing in the church.’
‘I was proud, and I’m proud of the way Allegra has finally allowed herself to be happy. But …’ He let the word hang in the air, unsure whether to say more.
‘But what, Roddy?’ Romily pressed.
‘I can’t bear the thought of her suffering, should anything happen to Elijah.’
Romily slipped her arm through his. ‘We’ll be there for her. You and me. We’ll pick up the pieces if we have to. If she’ll let us.’
He smiled admiringly at Romily. ‘You had no idea what you were getting into when you fell in love with Jack, did you, taking on his family?’
‘That’s life for you. You think you have it perfectly licked, but somehow it has a way of going its own way.’
‘And now you have Hope living back here with Annelise. I’m so pleased you persuaded her to leave London.’
‘It took some doing, I can tell you! But just as I knew it would, being here has relaxed her and she’s drawing again. Don’t say a word, Hope swore me to secrecy, but she’s begun working on a children’s book based on Stanley and his dog Bobby. She’s actually writing it as well as doing the illustrations.
‘Did you have a persuasive hand in that?’
‘I may have suggested something along those lines, but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Jack’s family, it’s that they’re as stubborn as hell and have to do things their own way and in their own time.’
Roddy laughed. ‘Just like Jack himself, in that case! And maybe you, if I may be so bold.’
‘You may,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Have you heard anything from Kit or Arthur?’
‘I had a letter from Kit just after Christmas, but not a word from Arthur. Though after that stunt he pulled on you girls in the summer with Annelise, I have no desire to speak to him ever again. He’s a rotten apple through and through.’
‘I can’t help but think that when a man loathes the world as Arthur does, and with such an intensity, really it’s himself he detests. But come on, this is a party, not a wake. And any minute now you’ll be called upon to carry out your last duty of the day: the wedding speech on behalf of both brides.’
Roddy groaned. ‘How did I ever let you talk me into doing that?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘You’ll be fine.’
He was just about to ask her when she thought she would be next in London, and if she might find time to have dinner with him, when he heard the sound of glass breaking. Across the crowded room he caught sight of Florence with Billy and his parents, and she had the oddest expression on her face. She looked quite literally as if she had been turned to stone.
Chapter Forty-Six
Her brain told her that she was seeing things, but her heart said otherwise, and not caring that the glass she had been holding now lay in pieces at her feet, Florence crunched over it and rushed to the small window that looked out onto the market square.
Yes, there in the fading afternoon light was the woman she had caught sight of through the window! She was walking across the cobbles, a basket of shopping in each of her gloved hands. She was wearing a tailored navy-blue woollen coat with a scarf at her throat and a knitted cream-and-blue tam-o’-shanter pulled to one side of her head, from beneath which hair the same colour as Florence’s could be clearly seen. She was striding briskly in the direction of the war memorial.
‘What is it, Flo?’ asked Billy, at her side now. ‘What’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer him; instead she pressed her face against the cold glass, trying to get a better look, willing the woman to turn around.
Several times as a young child Florence had been in this very same situation, convinced that she had seen her mother, even calling out to her. But each time she had been proved wrong. Afterwards she would feel crushed with disappointment and would vow never to make the same mistake again, no more would she be subconsciously looking out for her mother who had abandoned her.
But here, surely, was a woman who could not be anyone but Ernestine Massie. It wasn’t just the colour of her hair that made Florence so sure; it was the tam-o’-shanter she wore. Florence had such a clear memory of her mother knitting one for her just like that.
