True to my word, I returned to Tilbrook Hall the following month in September. On this occasion Matteo knew to expect me and had managed to request some time off from potato picking with the rest of the POWs.
Again we went for a walk and, as if guided by our very own North Star, we ended up on the riverbank where we’d made love before. We did so again, but this time Matteo came prepared, having acquired the necessary item through a source he was at pains not to reveal.
But it turned out that it was a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. I was already pregnant.
Chapter Sixty
Chelstead Cottage Hospital
December 1962
Hope
Pregnant ... Pregnant ... Pregnant ...The word kept spinning around inside Hope’s head.
But she must surely have dreamt Annelise telling her that she was pregnant? Annelise would never be so stupidly careless. She just wasn’t that sort of a girl. But why then had Hope’s brain seized hold of the notion that she was expecting a baby?
Every time Annelise visited, Hope tried desperately to speak, to ask the girl if it was true. But it was futile; Hope could do nothing but rage against the frustration of her useless body while listening to Annelise talk about it being almost Christmas. During her last visit she had read fromA Christmas Carol, a book that Hope had loved as a child. Not a word did Annelise say about being pregnant. Did that mean Hope had dreamt it?
The longer she lay here, the more difficult it became for Hope to keep track of time, and of what was real or imagined. Edmund explaining that he now knew about the anonymous letter she had received felt very real. As did him saying he would never be unfaithful.
‘The very idea that you could be persuaded of such a thing makes me sick to my stomach,’ he had said. ‘You have to believe me, Hope, I would nevereverhave an affair.’
She had cried inside at the intensity of his words, filled with happy relief that he hadn’t been cheating on her.
But what if he was lying?
Or what if this was all going on in her head and was just another of the many dreams she had? Some of the dreams were terrifying and made her want to scream. The one about the nurses who were trying to kill her by injecting her with lethal poisons was particularly disturbing. Other times she dreamt she was out walking and being chased by a car. Sometimes the speed of the car was as fast as a bullet, coming at her out of nowhere, and other times it was menacingly slow, hunting her down. But always the driver was her brother, Arthur. Sitting behind the wheel, he would be laughing at her, then driving off into the darkness with a cheery wave.
There was something about those dreams that snagged on her brain. It was to do with Arthur’s wife, Julia. A feeling that Julia had been sitting here by the side of Hope’s bed saying she had something important to tell her. But was that just another dream?
Oh, if only her muddled brain could make sense of it all and discern what was real and unreal!
ChapterSixty-One
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
It was the day before Christmas Eve and Romily should have been wrapping presents. But as the last of the afternoon light drained from the wintry sky, her mind simply would not settle to the task. Instead, she was in the cold and dusty attic clambering over old items of cobwebby furniture and rolled up rugs. She was hunting for what she had hidden up there many years ago. More than once she had considered throwing the contents of the box away, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
Perhaps this moment was always going to happen, that there would be a catalyst for her to revisit this particular episode in her life. Annelise’s news that she was expecting a baby – and in similar circumstances – had been that unexpected catalyst. Romily had resisted the urge to do what she was now doing for more than a week, forcing herself to concentrate on the book she had started writing as well as preparing for Christmas. But this afternoon she had finally given in.
She found the wooden jewellery box inside a large travelling trunk, the sort that opened up like a mini wardrobe. The last time she had used the trunk was ten years ago when she had gone on a world cruise on board the illustrious RMSCaronia.
Back downstairs, and the house cloaked in silence – Florence, Beatty and Mrs Collings having gone home – Romily placed the old jewellery box on her desk in the library and sat down. She stared at the box, as though waiting for the lid magically to rise all on its own.
But when she tried to lift the lid, it refused to budge. It was locked. With no idea where the key was, she reached for the letter opener on her desk, and not caring about the damage she would be inflicting, she pushed the pointed blade into the lock and jiggled it around. When that didn’t work, she forced the knife under the lid and pushed hard to prise it open. It was no match for her determination to gain access and with a splintering of wood, the lock gave way and she raised the lid. At once the air was fragrant with the poignant scent of summer. She had forgotten that before locking the box she had placed sprigs of lavender from the garden within the precious contents.
Putting the knife down, she lifted out the bundle that had lain as dormant as a seed in winter. Alilac-coloured ribbon was tied around the bundle and attached to it was a small card. Written in her own hand were the words:Letters From the Past.
As though it were only yesterday, she could remember writing those few poignant words and how heartbroken she had been. She had encountered heartbreak before, but this was different. Very different. She had lost an integral part of her that could never be replaced.
She untied the ribbon with a scattering of desiccated lavender, and one by one, she passed Matteo’s letters from her left hand to her right. The postmark on each envelope revealed the letters were in date order. How typical of her that, even in the depths of despair, she should have been so organised.
While some memories were a comfort to revisit, others were too painful. It was why she had gone to the lengths she had to commit Matteo to the past. And yet she had been reluctant to let go entirely. If she had, these letters would not exist. Nor would his painting that was in the drawing room.
