MaxBlythe-Jones. It had to be. Romily just knew it. And could it really be possible that Evelyn had had a relationship with Max, a man who had what could be politely called a colourful reputation when it came to women?
Before Romily met Jack, Max had flirted outrageously with her whenever their paths crossed at some party or other in London. It went without saying he was an attractive man, and Romily, even though she was a few years older, had enjoyed flirting back with him. But after the war she never came across him again. Last night, when Annelise had confided in her, was the first time in years she had thought of MaxBlythe-Jones.
Romily had always suspected that the work Evelyn did during the war was not of the straightforward clerical variety, as she had claimed. With Evelyn’s fine mathematician’s brain, she would have been put to far better use than merely shuffling papers. Romily’s closest friend, Sarah, had a cousin who worked at Bletchley and he had dropped a number of hints at what went on there, that it was a hothouse oftop-secret activity. It would have suited Evelyn and Max perfectly.
Just as she had considered speaking to Edmund about Hope, Romily now wanted to talk to Evelyn as soon as she left Oxford and returned to Island House. But again, was it any of her business?
But what concerned Romily most about everything Annelise had told her last night was her being involved with a college professor. She had clearly fallen for him badly and had shyly taken out a photograph from her handbag to show Romily.
‘His name’s Harry,’ Annelise had said, ‘and I’m afraid I’m very much in love with him, despite him being married.’
The full story told, every protective instinct in her made Romily want to confront the man. She would guarantee he had no intention of leaving his wife – he would have done so by now if he was serious about Annelise. The sooner she realised that, the better. No wonder the poor girl spoke of the pain of being in love.
Much as Romily wanted to intervene, she knew she had to leave well alone. But it was hard not to throw herself into the fray and fight Annelise’s battles for her. She was not, as she often had to remind herself, some kind of saviour. It was not her job to fix everyone else’s problems. But a wily voice inside Romily’s head whispered that it did stop her from thinking too deeply about her own mistakes.
Seldom did she waste her emotions on worrying about doubts and regrets, seeing it as futile. Which was what she had kept telling herself during the journey home from Palm Springs. What was done, was done. In her parting conversation with Gabe and Melvyn she had made a point of not blaming Red in any way for her declining the offer to collaborate on a film script.
‘What if we found another writer?’ they had suggested. She had refused that too, because otherwise it would look as if Red was the problem.
She was very much of the opinion that there was a lot more going on inside his head than he cared to reveal. Perversely she almost wished she had stuck around to dig a little deeper, to find out what he was hiding.
There she went again, always trying to fix things! When would she ever stop meddling and take a moment to consider that Red St Clair was not the only one to be hiding something?
She took a modest breakfast with Annelise in Hall, then leaving her to prepare for a tutorial, Romily returned to her own room to go over the notes she’d made for the talk she was giving that evening in Blackwells on the Broad.
The event had only been arranged a couple of days ago when her agent was approached to beg a favour of her. Could Romily,always such a good stick, be persuaded to step into the shoes of Ngaio Marsh who had been forced to cut short her book tour and return to New Zealand due to a family emergency? Romily had readily agreed to fill in, seeing it as a chance to spend some valuble time with Annelise.
She was currently between novels, having finished one before her trip to America, and was now playing around with a few ideas before knuckling down to work. She wasn’t like Hope who hardly drew breath between finishing one book and starting another. They were very different in their writing habits. Romily had a more relaxed attitude, perhaps because she enjoyed the creative process so much and didn’t like to rush it. Hope wrote as though her life depended on it.
Satisfied now that she was sufficiently prepared for her talk that evening, and looking out of the window and seeing that it wasn’t raining, she decided to go for a walk in the park.
She had only made it to the far side of Chapel Quad when the lodge porter, Roberts, came towards her. ‘I have a message for you, MrsDevereux-Temple. The Dean wondered if you’d like to join her, and a few others, in the Senior Common Room for coffee.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ she said brightly, despite preferring the idea of going for a walk, followed by an hour of shopping before meeting Annelise for lunch.
The Dean greeted her warmly. She was a stately woman of ample girth with a head of grizzled curls. Her name was Dr Drusilla Spriggs, otherwise known as Spriggsy according to Annelise. While pouring Romily a cup of coffee from an urn on awhite-clothed table, she set about introducing her to the college bursar, Dr Daphne Mallow, and a gaggle of Fellows and Tutors, whose names Romily forgot in seconds flat.
Predictably the conversation turned to novel writing.
‘Please do tell us about your excellent mysteries,’ the Dean said. ‘I’m sure we’d all love to hear how you go about writing yourSister Gracenovels.’
No sooner had Romily embarked on a brief description of the process, than through the window she saw Annelise hurrying across the quad towards the porter’s lodge. She stopped short when a man carrying a briefcase appeared. Romily had the distinct impression that he had been waiting for Annelise. Was this the man with whom she was having a secret affair?
Summoning to memory the photograph which Annelise had shown her last night, Romily was sure it was. It took all of her willpower to remain where she was and continue talking, and not rush outside to give the man a hefty piece of her mind.
ChapterThirty-Six
Chelstead Preparatory School for Girls, Chelstead
November 1962
Evelyn
Evelyn stood at her office window watching Miss Gillespie, Head of Latin and Classics, chastising Camilla Stewart and Lorna Fairfax for some playtime misdemeanour.
It was a cold blustery day, the sort of day that brought out the worst in the girls. For some reason the gusting winds made themhigh-spirited and prone to doing silly things, like letting off stink bombs, painting red dots on their skin to feign illness, or flicking ink at each other during lessons. The tomfoolery would escalate as the end of term drew to a close for the Christmas holiday, and by the last week of term the girls would be at the height of giddiness and the teachers at their wits’ end.
Evelyn raised the mug in her hands to her lips and pulled a face. The coffee was stone cold, and the milk had formed a disagreeable skin on the surface. How long had she been standing here lost in thought? Too long was the answer. And it would never do. She had to pull herself together.
