His smart leather valise now packed, he locked the door of his Chelsea mews and hopped into his awaiting MG Roadster. With its 1600 engine, it packed a satisfying punch, and hopefully, given it was eight o’clock in the evening, the roads would be clear enough to give him the opportunity to get his foot down hard. He turned the key in the ignition and roared away down the cobbled street, taking a sharp right, and then an equally sharp left, the tyres squealing in protest.
Once he was out of London and had the open road ahead of him, the real fun started as he revved up the engine. Funny to think of Romily having been a racing driver when she was young. He had to admire her for that. Not that he’d ever say anything in her favour in front of his father. Arthur Devereux hated Romily, really hated her. He resented her for so much, but mostly for marrying his father, Jack Devereux, and, as he saw it, for stealing Island House away from its rightful heirs. This, Ralph was convinced, was the reason Arthur had bought Melstead Hall. It was his way of putting Romily in her place.
Situated a short distance from Island House, and easily the largest and most imposing property in Melstead St Mary, Dad revelled in the status the house gave him. He enjoyed lording it over the rest of the village, especially the rest of the family.
Ralph hated it when anyone in the family so much as hinted that he was a chip off his father’s block. He may have inherited the old man’s cunning for manipulating people to do what he wanted, but physically he was nothing like Arthur Devereux. He was taller and a lot slimmer, and a hundred times fitter. His dad was hugely overweight. He smoked too much and he drank too much. He had a vicious temper that frequently gave way to explosive outbursts, which doubtless sent his already high blood pressure soaring. In short, he was a heart attack waiting to happen.
The person who bore the brunt of his temper was Julia, his third wife. Much younger than Arthur, she had always struck Ralph as a very improbable choice of wife. She was, it had to be said, a rather pathetic creature who was firmly under her husband’s thumb.
When Dad had announced he was marrying for the third time, and to the nondescript nurse who had cared for him when he’d been ill with pneumonia, nobody was more surprised than Ralph. Quiet and timid, she was the last woman anyone would have expected Arthur Devereux to install as his wife at Melstead Hall. She lacked class or wealth, both things the previous wives had possessed.
Within a year of marrying, Julia dutifully produced a new son for Arthur. Charles was now seven years old and experiencing his first term away at boarding school. Ralph had been the same age when he’d been sent away.
During the few occasions Ralph went home, he saw how his father treated Julia more like a servant than mistress of Melstead Hall. For instance, he insisted that she lay out his clothes every morning for him. They had any number of servants to do such a menial task, including Miss Casey the house- keeper, but for some reason Arthur made it clear that Julia had to do it.
Ralph could not imagine his previous stepmother ever agreeing to do that. Arthur had married Caroline when Ralph was six, just a year after he divorced Irene, Ralph’s mother. Irene’s name was never to be uttered again in Arthur’s presence, and apart from a few letters, Ralph had no contact with her from the day she left their house in London and went to live in Paris with the man with whom she had been having a long-term affair.
For some time it was just Ralph and his father, along with the household staff, a nanny, and a stream of women who came and went. But then along had come Caroline Thurlesford, the sole heir to Thurlesford Brewery in the Midlands. She was a vain, vacuous woman who had no interest in Ralph. Ralph had always been of the opinion that his father married Caroline because she was so wealthy and would, one day, be wealthier still when her father died.
That day came sooner than anyone anticipated, but with a twist – both Caroline and her father died in an avalanche while skiing in Chamonix. As a result, Arthur inherited a considerable fortune and immediately gave up his cushy job with the Civil Service. The last thing he wanted to do was take on the running of the brewery, so he sold it to a competitor for an obscene amount of money.
If Ralph played his cards right and stayed in his father’s good books, he would one day receive a decent share of the Thurlesford inheritance. God knows he could do with it.
With only ten miles left before he would arrive at Melstead Hall, he thought about the weekend ahead. Before or after the party at Meadow Lodge he hoped to persuade his old man to increase his allowance. It was ridiculous that he should be so penny-pinching when he was loaded to the extent he was. He’d grumbled endlessly when Ralph had come down from Cambridge and asked if he could have his own place in London. From the way Dad reacted anyone would think Ralph had asked if he would buy the Taj Mahal for him. The wrangling had gone on for weeks until finally the old man had extracted a promise from Ralph; that he would put his expensive education to good use and find himself a job.
The promise made, Ralph moved into 4A Caiston Mews. Furnishing it had cost him an arm and a leg, and the housewarming parties he’d put on for his friends had made a huge dent in his dwindling finances. He had yet to land himself a job; not that his hunt for one had been that exhaustively thorough, and he had reached the unavoidable conclusion that he had to ask for an increase in his allowance. It would be a temporary arrangement, he planned to say this weekend, just to get him on his feet. It wouldn’t be easy and all he could do was hope to catch his father in a rare good mood.
Putting aside the slim chance of that actually happening, he contemplated his Plan B, that of approaching Julia. She must surely be given an allowance for the running of the household, as well as her own personal use, so it was just a matter of him applying his legendry charm and persuading her to lend him some money. It was a long shot, but worth a try. It would have to be an arrangement which they kept very much between themselves.
Chapter Eleven
Casa Santa Rosa, Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
Darkness came early in Palm Springs and with surprising swiftness. The sunset, as glorious as it had been, had been fleeting and now the opaque velvety sky was studded with diamond-bright stars. With the air still scented with orange blossom, it should have been the perfect setting for a relaxing evening. But Romily was thrumming with restless energy.
Lunch with Red had gone on for some hours, during which he’d made it clear that he would enjoy the challenge of working with her.
‘What have you got to lose by giving it a go?’ he’d asked when she repeated her desire to think about their writing together. Which was her polite way of stalling, before finally ruling out the project.
‘My sanity,’ she’d told him, ‘that’s what I’d lose. Working with you would drive me mad.’
He’d laughed. ‘I’ve gotta give it to you, you tell it straight. I like that in a person. And I suspect you do too. Which is why I’m gonna urge you to loosen up and have a shot at relaxing. When was the last time you had any fun in your life? And I mean real fun?’