‘By being entirely yourself. By not playing silly mind games with me or having an ulterior motive behind anything you say or do. You’re so refreshingly open and honest, and so full of life.’ He smiled. ‘Even when you’re unwell.’ His expression suddenly turned serious again. ‘But I need to know how you feel about me. If you genuinely feel the same as I do. Because if we’re going to keep on seeing each other, and I hope to God we are, there are things you need to know about me.’
The quiet but persistent voice that had previously questioned whether Max was too good to be true was now bellowing for all it was worth that it had been right. ‘If you’re about to confess that you’re married with a brood of children and have been playing me for a fool, you can get off at the next station,’ she said, sitting up straight so that she was no longer wrapped in his arms.
As fiercelyhard-headed and certain of herself as she sounded, Isabella could feel the thump of her pulse, and the unexpected pain of what she was about to lose. Without realising it, she had subconsciously allowed herself to dream of a future with Max. And now those dreams were to be snuffed out like the flame of a candle.
So much for travelling through a magical and wondrous fairytale! But then didn’t bad things always happen in fairytales?
ChapterSixty-Nine
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Red
Red had surprised himself. No mean feat, given how predictable his behaviour could be when it came to women. As his sister would be only too quick to point out. But here he was, having flown across the Atlantic expressly to see Romily, lying in bed completely alone and as chaste as a monk.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world last night to take the obvious step of sleeping with her, but two things had happened to prevent him from doing so. Firstly, he hadn’t wanted to rush things, just as he’d admitted, and secondly, the journey and time difference had caught up with him.
Once he’d started yawning he couldn’t stop, and with a firmness that had brooked no argument, Romily had shown him upstairs. Within seconds of undressing, he had collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the dead. He had woken a short while ago and after checking the time on his watch, he had been shocked to see that it was gone one o’clock in the afternoon.
A better guest might have leapt out of bed and rushed to dress in order to go downstairs, but he had wanted to continue lying here some more so he could take stock. If he were honest, everything about seeing Romily again scared him. Never before had he bared his soul to a woman as he had last night. To have shown such vulnerability was anathema to him.
For the best part of two decades, he’d had Sophie’s death on his conscience. As well as the death of all those other villagers. It had been a heavy load, but one he was reluctant ever to lose. He believed that it would be a betrayal to forget Sophie and all those villagers who had sacrificed their lives in order to protect his. He should never have put them at risk. He should have been a better pilot. A better man ...
He was well aware that he was not the only serviceman to make a mistake and end up in enemy territory and be helped by the Resistance. But they hadn’t been with Sophie. They hadn’t seen the fear in her eyes when she’d asked if he would shoot her to prevent the Nazis having the chance to torture her. That was what haunted him most: her fear. And yet she had still helped him escape. When had he ever displayed courage of that magnitude?
Why didn’t she shoot herself? He had often wondered. Or asked somebody she knew from the village to do it? Was she frightened they would call her a coward? And when had she thought he would put a gun to her head to protect her? He had no answers to any of his questions. But whatever her reason for asking him, what he really blamed himself for, was failing to insist that she escape with him. He should not have let her return to the village when it was to her certain death. That was the crux of his guilt, and never, as long as he lived, would he forgive himself for not taking her with him.
For all the years since, he had successfully fooled people – apart from Patsy – that he was okay. Sure, he’d lost a leg. Sure, he had occasional nightmares of hearing guns firing and people screaming, and of a girl being dragged off to a chateau, but hey, that was war for you; it went with the territory. But along had come Romily and, as though she possessedX-ray vision, she had seen through the carefully applied veneer.
The irony was, in his film script forYesterday is Tomorrow, in which Spencer Tracy and Ava Gardner had starred, he’d written:‘You cannot be close to another person unless you are mad enough toself-eviscerate and becold-bloodedly honest with them.’
Writers did it all the time, imbued their characters with a wisdom and valour they didn’t have themselves. Or if they did have that acumen, they lacked the courage to act on it. For some writers – he was one of them – their characters were their alter ego.
Was that true of Romily, he pondered? Did she write the novels she did because she relished putting her protagonist, Sister Grace, into danger so that the author could recapture the sense of adventure she’d experienced during the war? From everything he had read about Romily, Red knew that she had been athrill-seeker in her younger years. Did she hanker for those days?
Red had encountered many a decorated war hero who had found it impossible to readjust to civilian life. In much the same boat himself, he recognised the signs – a volatile temperament, a maudlin fondness for drinking too much, and needlessrisk-taking. One guy he knew blew his brains out playing Russian roulette with an old military issue pistol.
Had it not been for his reckless desire to lose himself in the arms of women, Red may well have done something equally stupid. Every time he bedded a woman, it was that moment with Sophie that he had wanted to evoke. It was like a drug for him. Over and over he repeated the pattern, the desperate and twisted need to resurrect Sophie. For a time, and when he moved to Los Angeles, he saw a shrink; after all, everybody there did. You weren’t considered normal unless you paid somebody to whom you regularly spilled out your guts. The sessions were laughable and became a game to him. He took perverse pleasure in running rings around theso-called expert; an attractive woman with eyes the colour of cobalt. Inevitably he slept with her and having fully compromised her, that put paid to any more sessions. He had done it deliberately, of course. Sex was always his weapon of choice.
Question was, was he brave enough to admit that to Romily? Did he need to? Was she smart enough to figure that out already? Probably yes.
Pushing back the bedclothes, he placed his foot on the floor – his prosthetic leg was propped against the wall the other side of the nightstand. At home he used a crutch to get himself about until he was showered and dressed, but without one here, he used the furniture to assist him. He made it over to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. The dazzling brightness of thesnow-covered landscape made him blink, and leaning against the sill, he stood for a moment taking in the magnificence of the view, his gaze sweeping over the sculptured effect the snowstorm had created. It was a timeless and monochrome world he looked out onto. A magpie flew across thepewter-coloured sky, putting him in mind of a Brueghel painting. He watched the bird land on a tree branch, scattering a mini snowstorm with its movement and weight.
‘Toto,’ he murmured, thinking of Palm Springs and the desert, ‘I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’
He was showered, shaved and fully dressed and with his prosthetic leg strapped on, and was whistling Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, when there was a light tap at the door. He went to open it.
Dressed in black slacks and a redpolo-neck sweater and wearing a pearl necklace, Romily stood before him with a tray of what looked and smelt like a pot of coffee. There was also a plate of toast on the tray with a small dish of butter, and another of what he guessed was marmalade.
‘Sorry I’m such a lousy house guest,’ he said, ‘staying in bed so late. You should have banged on the door hours ago.’
‘No need to apologise, your sleeping in gave me time to wrap some presents.’ She stepped in and placed the tray on the table between the two armchairs in front of the window. ‘I didn’t expect you to surface before noon anyway, given how tired you were last night.’
‘That’s one way to describe me yawning my head off so rudely. Is there sufficient coffee in that pot for two?’ he asked.
‘Depends how much coffee you like to drink.’
