‘With Castro urging the Soviets to attack America with a nuclear missile, I don’t think there’s much point looking too far into the future, do you?’
Isabella tutted. ‘In the hope that doesn’t happen, where do you see yourself in five years?’
‘I don’t know. But one day, when I’m a lot older, I’d like nothing more than to be the Dean of St Gertrude’s. What about you?’
‘Does marriage not figure in your ambition?’ Isabella replied without answering the question.
For a split second, Annelise’s expression faltered. ‘I don’t think I’m the marrying sort,’ she said, running a finger along the windowsill.
Storing away that hesitant response from Annelise, Isabella smiled. ‘Well, I plan to marry at least three times. The first time to further my career. The second for money. And the third for love.’
Annelise’s face was a picture of scandalised shock. ‘That’s dreadful, even by your standards.’
Isabella laughed. ‘I’m joking! You really need to lighten up; you’re much too serious these days. Which brings me back to Hope. She needs to watch out, because if she’s not careful, she’ll push Edmund too far. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes, or more precisely, I’ve been on the receiving end of a neglected husband’s need to feel wanted. It never fails to amaze me how fragile the male ego is.’
Annelise looked aghast. ‘You can’t possibly think Edmund would stray. He’s not like those unprincipled actors you mix with. He’s a decent and honourable man, the epitome of a loyal and utterly trustworthy husband. What’s more he loves Mums.’
‘All of which may well be true. But a man can only be pushed so far before his principles fly out of the window.’
‘I can’t believe you’re talking this way. You’ve become so cynical.’
Accepting there was no point in going any further with the conversation, Isabella decided to change the subject.
‘What are you wearing for the party tonight?’ she asked. ‘Can I see? After all, we don’t want to clash, do we?’
Chapter Sixteen
Island House, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Annelise
Alone in her bedroom, Annelise stood in front of her writing desk with its view of the garden. The leaves on the trees had turned, and in the afternoon sun, rich autumnal hues of rust, copper and gold were perfectly reflected in the still surface of the pond. She loved autumn.
She was about to turn away from the window when she saw Isabella in the garden below. Annelise watched her walk across the lawn, then disappear through the archway in the hedge. She knew exactly where Isabella was going; she was following the path that led to the churchyard where Elijah and her mother were buried. She went there every time she came home. It was a pilgrimage for her.
Isabella may not have known the woman who had given birth to her, and given her own life in the process, but she had a tangible connection, a gravestone she could touch, a place where she could lay flowers. Annelise envied her that. She had nowhere close at hand where she could go to mourn the passing of her parents.
Thanks to the meticulous records kept by the Nazis, Annelise knew that her mother had been sent to Ravensbruck, where eight months later she had died of typhus. Her father had been sent to Buchenwald to work in the infirmary of the camp, but died two years later of hypothermia. He had been forced to stand naked in the snow for disobeying an order.
In Oxford Annelise had been encouraged by Rebecca Hoffman, a friend and colleague at St Gertrude’s, to observe the Sabbath, the Jewish holy day. Rebecca had invited her to join a group to celebrate Shabbat. She had accepted the invitation in the hope that she would feel some kind of connection to the people and the ritual, but mostly she had wanted to feel connected to her parents. But she had felt nothing, other than that she was an outsider, as though she were a spectator watching a performance that had no relevance to her life. Rebecca had sympathised, saying it was the lack of familiarity that had made Annelise feel the way she had, that regular attendance would change how she felt.
It was thanks to Rebecca that everything did indeed change for Annelise, just not in the way she could have foreseen.
Forever saying that Annelise didn’t go out enough, Rebecca one day insisted that she accompany her to Blackwell’s for the launch of a new book –The History of Jews in Italy– written by Professor Harry Knoller, a Fellow in Politics at Merton College. Reluctantly Annelise had agreed to go.
Her friend had been adamant that they arrive early for the event and had grabbed two seats on the front row. From the moment the author of the book had started speaking, Annelise could see that he was an immensely charismatic man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He spoke eloquently and with searing conviction, and it was obvious that he wanted his audience to be in no doubt that he possessed a ferocious intellect.
From her front row seat, and being in such close proximity to the speaker, it was impossible to avoid his gaze as it swept around his audience. More often than she was comfortable with, Annelise found his powerfully searching gaze settling on her. It made her wish she were seated at the back, safe from his scrutiny.
In his mid to late thirties, he had a full head of wavy dark brown hair, a narrow face andblue-grey eyes behindtortoiseshell-framed spectacles. He wore anopen-necked shirt and a tweed jacket, which she noticed had a button missing. He looked every inch the college professor, but there was something overplayed about him. His performance, and that’s exactly what it was, reminded Annelise of a play she had seen Isabella in. The leading actor had been hamming it up something awful, to the point that his character was wholly unconvincing.
Asthought-provoking as she’d found the talk, Annelise had no wish to join the long queue to buy Professor Knoller’s book, but Rebecca wasn’t leavingempty-handed. They joined the queue until finally, in a gush of breathy admiration, Rebecca had her chance to request the great man’s signature.
‘What about you?’ he said, pointing his fountain pen at Annelise, ‘don’t you want a book like your friend?’
‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I have enough to read at the moment.’
