‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ said Romily, rising from her seat. ‘The garage in the village collected it this morning and will have it for a while to carry out the repairs. I still feel incredibly foolish about the accident and putting you to so much trouble; I’m normally such a careful driver.’
‘My stepmother’s not being wholly honest with you,’ said Hope. ‘She’s an expert behind the wheel of a car; she’s raced at Brooklands and in Europe. She’s quite the daredevil champion.’
Romily tutted. ‘Really, Hope, now the wing commander is going to think I go tearing about the lanes in an altogether reckless manner.’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Tony. And perhaps you’d tell me about your racing exploits; I’m beginning to see you in a whole new light.’
‘Why, did you have me down as a quiet little countrywoman who sat at home twiddling her thumbs?’
He laughed. ‘Far from it.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Hope, surprised that Romily hadn’t yet offered.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘so long as I’m not putting you to any trouble.’
‘I’m sure our hospitality can run to providing a cup of tea, can’t it, Romily?’ said Hope.
‘Of course,’ replied Romily with a brittle smile. ‘But be careful not to wake Mrs Partridge; it’s her time for a nap.’
In the kitchen, Hope tiptoed round Mrs Partridge, who was indeed having her customary mid-afternoon nap. On the hearthrug at her feet Bobby was curled up fast asleep and snoring loudly. Hope took a moment to study the pair of them – it would make an ideal little vignette to go in the children’s book she was writing. This latest book, she had told her publisher, apart from being a totally new departure for her, was a heart-warming story of a young evacuee called Freddie finding happiness in the countryside through the companionship of Ragsy, a plucky mutt who rarely left his side. Hope was beginning to foresee all manner of adventures in which the two could become involved. Not that she had said this to her publisher, but in many ways the book had its roots in her own story of rediscovering happiness here at Island House.
As she filled the kettle at the sink, she looked out of the window. There, bundled up in their thick overcoats and hats, scarves and gloves, were Allegra, her back now recovered from slipping on the stairs at Winter Cottage, and Florence, standing either side of the impressive snowman Stanley had built, They were watching Stanley pull Annelise along on the sledge he had found in one of the outhouses – it was the old sledge Hope and Kit had played on as children.
One winter, when the lily pond had frozen over, they had ventured onto the icy surface to play with the sledge, Kit declaring it would be quite safe and much more fun, as the ice would send them skidding along at top speed. From the drawing-room window their father had seen what they were up to and had run outside and ordered them inside the house, clipping them both around the ear. He’d been livid and yelled at them until he was red in the face and his voice quite hoarse. Sent to their rooms, they were banned from playing in the garden until the snow and ice had thawed. At the time Hope and Kit had seen it as another example of tyrannical unfairness from their father, his determination always to spoil their fun.
Now, as Annelise’s guardian, Hope saw things in a different light. Her father’s angry reaction had been fuelled by fear – fear at what might have happened had the treacherous ice cracked. And of course, Kit had not been the healthiest of children, always catching colds, which went straight to his chest and confined him to bed for prolonged periods. Their father had merely acted with their best interests at heart, Hope now understood.
She also understood that she had been repeating the pattern of mistakes her father had made. It seemed as clear as daylight to her now that they had both, in the aftermath of their grief, turned themselves into strangers, to themselves and to those around them. A short while ago she would never have believed that she had something like that in common with her father, but she saw now that they had both allowed heartache to dictate their lives. Having Annelise in her care had made Hope realise just how fierce was the instinctive urge to protect a child, and by any means. She had also realised how challenging it was to be a parent on one’s own, and that for her father that must have been doubly difficult. Hand in hand with that new knowledge came the understanding that so many of her father’s apparently unfair and dogmatic actions had been carried out through nothing more than his wanting to keep his family safe.
She reflected on this now as she considered the stern lecture she had given Stanley about not going anywhere near the lily pond should it freeze over. ‘And heaven help you if you go near it with Annelise!’ she had warned him, her finger wagging just inches from his nose.
The memory of how recklessly she and Kit had put themselves in danger sledging across the ice reminded Hope that she hadn’t replied to Kit’s latest letter. He sounded like he was having the time of his life in Canada. With the clear sense of purpose he now had, she could detect in him the change that he’d plainly been in search of. She just hoped that when he returned to Europe to enter the fray, he wouldn’t be too full of brio. There was a fine line between bravery and sheer stupidity.
Hope had thought she was showing bravery of a different sort when she had stubbornly insisted on returning to London, but now she could recognise how foolish it had been. Accepting Romily’s invitation to regard Island House as her home for as long as she and Annelise needed it had been the answer all along. Here she could provide the child with a true sense of home and all the love, care and fun she deserved. In contrast, in London, Hope had woken every day with the feeling she was failing her charge, failing Otto and Sabine too.
A peal of laughter from outside broke into her thoughts, and looking out of the window again, she saw Allegra and Florence having snowballs thrown at them by Stanley and Annelise, the four of them thoroughly enjoying themselves. It was good to see Allegra and Florence laughing together so happily, especially when they must both be so concerned about their husbands.
The kettle came to the boil and Hope took it off the hob quickly before its whistle woke Mrs Partridge. She filled the teapot and set it on the tray, then went to the pantry to fetch the cake tin, which Mrs Partridge practically kept under lock and key now that sugar and butter had become so precious.
In the drawing room, Romily wondered what on earth was keeping Hope. How long did it take to rustle up a cup of tea? She felt stifled by all this absurd small talk of the weather. Another minute of agreeing with their guest that it was difficult to remember a winter like it and she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.
All of which was quite out of character for her. She was never fazed by anyone or anything; it had always been a trait she was proud of. Oh yes, throw anything at Romily Temple and she could not only catch it but throw it back clean over the boundary. But here she was at a loss to know how to deal with the simplest of things, that of conversing with a pleasant enough man who had done nothing wrong other than commit the crime of being overly familiar while rescuing her in her hour of need. And as for him just passing by, did he take her for a fool?
Their small talk having now run aground, she went over to the fireplace to add more logs to the grate. It was time, she decided, to take matters by the scruff of the neck and clarify her position before this fellow made an ass of himself. ‘I didn’t explain things entirely clearly the other day, Mr Abbott,’ she began.
‘Please,’ he interrupted her, ‘call me Tony.’
‘Tony,’ she said, obliging him politely. ‘As I was saying, the other day I—’
‘There’s no need for you to apologise again. I understand completely. Your feathers were ruffled by the accident and not surprisingly you weren’t yourself.’
She spun round to face him. ‘Please don’t patronise me as though I’m so feeble I don’t know my own mind.’
He looked back at her, startled. ‘Seeing you with that poker in your hand, I shouldn’t dream of it. You look as fierce as Boadicea!’ He grinned. ‘But a lot more beautiful.’
She pursed her lips, returned the poker to its holder next to the log basket, then faced him squarely again. ‘I just want you to know that I was recently widowed, which I’m sure you can appreciate makes a remark like that last one of yours wholly inappropriate.’
He stared at her, his eyes wide, and then rose slowly to his feet. ‘I’m most terribly sorry. I … I had no idea. I asked if you had a husband … and you …’ His voice, full of contrition, fell away.
