Of course, I am not so stupid as to rule out the prospect that sometime in the future she may desperately want a family of her own. If so, that is a hurdle I will have to deal with. But for now, Isabella and I plan to marry just as soon as we can.
So you see, Evelyn, if you ever had cause to worry that Kit wasn’t the father of your delightful twins, then worry no more. As I said before, I am telling you this because you seemed so rattled by what you had been accused of in that anonymous letter – which we now know was the work of a scheming con woman. Although I must confess that I did have my own suspicions when I heard that you married Kit so hastily following our night together all those many years ago, and that you were pregnant a short time later. Whatever suspicions I had, I kept them to myself. I respected you too much to do otherwise.
I sincerely hope that this letter may go some way to help you believe my commitment to Isabella, and that in loving her, I have changed from the arrogant, self-absorbed young man you once knew.
With fondest and very best wishes,
Max
Evelyn stared and stared at the letter. Never had she been so wrongfooted. Every word contained a jolt of surprise, though perhaps not Max’s line of work.
She slowly refolded the four pages of pale blue Basildon Bond notepaper and slipped them back inside the envelope. All the while her heart began to race and deep within her there was a trembling sensation. The trembling grew until suddenly it exploded, and with such force, it caused Evelyn to feel as light-headed and as giddy as the entire school of girls put together. Taking a steadying breath, she went over to the window and stared out at the snow. She had been ninety-nine per cent sure that Kit was Pip and Em’s father, but that one per cent of doubt occasionally had the power to weigh on her conscience. But now she was free of the doubt. She was so happy with relief she could twirl around on the spot and hug the first person to walk through her office door!
The appearance, seconds later, of Bill Noakes, the school’s notoriously grumpy caretaker, had her choking back a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat look positively maudlin.
‘Boiler’s on the blink,’ he said, regarding her with a dour expression and probably thinking his announcement would wipe the silly grin off her face. ‘I’ve done everything I can to get it working again, but it ain’t playing ball. I tried bashing it with a hammer, like I usually do, but nothing.’
Thinking the boiler might have finally objected to being hit, Evelyn offered to go and take a look herself.
‘It’ll take more than looking at it to get it going,’ he said sullenly.
‘Even so,’ she said brightly, ‘I shall still take a dekko.’ If she could fix their rotten old oven at Meadow Lodge, she could jolly well try her luck with the school boiler!
Alone in the boiler room and feeling as though she could take anything on in her current mood, which was making her fizz like a bottle of champagne, she rolled up her sleeves. ‘Now then old friend,’ she murmured to the ancient boiler, ‘I know this is a lot to ask of you, and you’re probably worn out with the extra load expected of you during this cold weather, but if you could see your way to working again, I’d be so very happy. If only to prove you-know-who wrong!’
An hour had passed when, and with her hands covered in grease and grime and her hair falling loose from the clips holding it in place – not to mention a stream of curses having been muttered under her breath – the boiler stirred into life with a series of clunks and gurgling noises. Evelyn gave it a grateful pat. ‘I knew you could do it, old girl. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
Grabbing a grubby old towel from the back of a chair, she wiped her hands and gave thanks that by some miracle of birth she was born with a practical nature.
She also gave thanks to Max that he had gone to the trouble to write to her. She supposed she should feel sorry for him that he’d had the news he had from his doctor, and how that might affect his relationship with Isabella one day. But selfishly all she could think right now was that his inability to father a child chased away every last trace of the cloud that had been hanging over her since Miss Casey had sent that first poison pen letter.
Later, as she was crawling home in the car at a snail’s pace, the light from the headlamps picking out yet more softly falling snow in the dark, she felt the past, which had been so much in her mind these last few months, had finally been put to rest. It was the future now that occupied her thoughts. Not just hers, but that of Max and Isabella. As unlikely a match as they were, they had as much chance as anybody of making it work. She hoped they did.
Letting herself in at Meadow Lodge, and with a spring in her step and a happy lightness of heart, she called out to Kit. ‘Darling, I’m home!’
‘In the kitchen,’ he called back.
She found him on his hands and knees peering mournfully into the open oven. ‘I was going to cook dinner for you, as a surprise, but the wretched thing is refusing to work. I really think it’s time we replaced it.’
She laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Life,’ she said cheerfully, shrugging off her coat, then tossing her hat and gloves onto a chair. ‘Life is just full of surprises. Now why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses of Dubonnet and gin while I deal with the oven?’
On his feet, he kissed her. ‘What would I do without you?’
She kissed him back. ‘Since you’re stuck with me forever, that’s not something you’re ever going to have to deal with, my darling.’
Her sleeves rolled up for the second time that day, she set about coaxing their dilapidated oven into life.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
January 1963
Florence
‘I never thought to see the day when we’d be standing here,’ said Billy.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Florence, gazing round the crowded drawing room of Melstead Hall. Everywhere she looked there was a familiar face from the village. Many had come out of sheer nosiness, eager to have a snoop round the Hall and see if it was as dismal a mausoleum as legend had it.
Florence was guilty of the same curiosity and while the house itself was large and forbidding, and lacking in any homely charm, with a drinks party in full swing, it didn’t seem too awful.
Frank Ifield singing ‘I Remember You’ on a radiogram helped to create a relaxed atmosphere. All the same though, it struck an odd note, a party to celebrate Julia Devereux’s birthday while her husband was in hospital possibly breathing his last. Not that anybody seemed to mind very much. If this was her way of enjoying, or maybe even celebrating, her new-found freedom, Florence wished her well.
‘I could do with a bite to eat,’ said Billy, ‘any sign of one of those waitresses we saw earlier with a tray of canapes?’