As he hastily rang off, she whispered into the receiver in her hand. ‘I love you, Harry. I love you more than you’ll ever know.’
Just a few moments ago she had been elated at the sound of his voice, that he had somehow found the telephone number for Island House, but now, as she climbed the stairs up to her bedroom, her heart felt as though a heavy weight was pressed against it.
She was tired of being his mistress, of making do with snatched moments behind his wife’s back. On the one hand she lived for those moments – to hear his voice and to see him – but on the other, it simply wasn’t enough. Isabella had said work was like a drug for Hope, an obsession; well, that’s what Harry was for Annelise.
For six months she had waited for him to keep his promise that he would leave his wife. Every conversation they ever had, she waited for him to say the magic words, that he had asked Miriam for a divorce. She knew better than to push him, to force him to make a choice. Do that and she would lose him.
She had told Isabella earlier that she wasn’t the marrying kind, but it was a lie. She wanted to marry Harry, to be his wife. And for that to happen she had to be patient. And careful.
Chapter Seventeen
Island House, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Hope
Stanley had left a short while ago and Hope was now upstairs trying to work in what had been, a very long time ago, her childhood bedroom. She and Edmund slept in the main guest suite further along the landing. This room was her private space, her sanctuary. But try as she might to work, she just couldn’t concentrate. Twenty-four hours ago this book had seemed to be writing itself. As most of her books did.
Her writing day usually started after an early breakfast when she would sit at her desk, her fingers poised over the typewriter. All she had to do was close her eyes and magically the words and ideas would flow. On her desk, next to the typewriter, would be a thermos flask of coffee, which she drank from until it ran out and she stopped for a short break to eat lunch. Afterwards, and switching to a thermos of hot tea, she would return to her desk until six o’clock. She hated for her routine to be disrupted and people knew better than to interrupt her with anything trivial.
But since reading that anonymous letter yesterday afternoon, she had written no more than a couple of pages. She simply couldn’t think straight. Inside her head there was a clamour of voices vying to be heard. All telling her that of course Edmund was running around with every woman in the village, that it was glaringly obvious that the women would be falling at his feet in their droves. He was an attractive man. Intelligent. Thoughtful. Charming. And very caring. She was a fool to believe that he would have remained interested in her after all these years. Of course he would have strayed! And straight into the arms of someone so much more interesting and beautiful than she was. Didn’t this confirm what she’d always feared, that she would lose Edmund? She was cursed! Always to be denied happiness, never to have peace of mind.
She sighed and clasped her elbows as she sat back in the chair. She had always been plain. Even as a child. A dull withdrawn child who had lost herself in roaming the lanes and meadows in search of wildlife to draw. Sometimes she would drag her younger brother, Kit, along with her.
She thought of Kit now. Could she confide in him about that anonymous letter? She shook her head. She couldn’t bear for him, or anyone for that matter, to feel sorry for her. Poor old Hope, they’d think. Poor old pathetic Hope, so wrapped up in her work she had been blind to what had been going on right under her nose.
And yes, she knew she was guilty of putting all her energy into her work. But it gave her so much pleasure. And let’s face it, she earned far more money than Edmund ever would as a GP in a small village. Would that be his excuse? That she had diminished him?
Unclasping her hands from her elbows, she stood up and opened a window. She then pulled out one of the desk drawers, and from the back of it took a packet of cigarettes, a lighter and a small enamelled ashtray, the sort that had a lid and could be carried around in a pocket or handbag. When she had the cigarette lit, she inhaled deeply on it, filling her lungs and letting the nicotine flood through her before exhaling and watching the smoke escape out of the window in one long stream. She had taken to smoking to calm her nerves – to prevent another downward slide – pretending to Edmund that it was no more than the occasional cigarette. The truth was, it was a lot more than that, but she kept that from him, knowing he would be cross with her.
But what right did he have to be cross if he was cheating on her? And on their own doorstep? Didn’t he stop to think of what Annelise’s reaction would be? The poor girl would be devastated. She had always been so fond of Edmund.
Hope shuddered with horrified disgust. Oh, it was all so sordid! How could he have cheapened himself, and their standing in the village? Scandal about a husband and a wife, it was the stuff of every gossiping tongue. Were they all talking about them in the village, and worse, laughing at Hope behind her back?
How could she face everybody this evening at the party? She felt sick at the prospect. Perhaps she could cry off, claim she had a bad headache. God knew she suffered enough of them. But why should she miss celebrating Evelyn and Kit’s twentieth wedding anniversary? She had done nothing wrong. It was Edmund who should be hiding. And hanging his head in shame!
For the briefest of moments she contemplated confiding in Evelyn. They had known each other since childhood, and Evelyn was one of the most down-to-earth people Hope knew. But she was Edmund’s sister, so how on earth could Hope tell her an anonymous letter was calling her beloved brother an adulterer?
Or did Evelyn already know what Edmund was getting up to?
Chapter Eighteen
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Evelyn
There seemed no escape from the bedlam going on around her; every which way Evelyn turned, somebody was pestering for her advice or opinion.
Right now one of the caterers was complaining that the oven didn’t work. She was a young blonde woman with a waxy complexion and the affected manner of somebody who was used to working in far better surroundings. Well, that wouldn’t be difficult, the kitchen at Meadow Lodge was practically a relic from the last century. Not like those swish kitchens she’d heard about on the new estate in the village. Breakfast bars were all the rage there, along with Formica counter tops and stainless steel sinks. It was a far cry from the antiquated appliances she made do with here – a refrigerator that conducted its own orchestra of hums, rattles and buzzes, a washing machine that leaked, and a moody oven that played up at will.
Pip and Em were constantly on at her to modernise Meadow Lodge, claiming that they might not keep losing the girls who came to clean for them if she did. Gone were the days of obliging and reliable housemaids; now Evelyn had to make do with a turnaround of young married girls from the estate who liked to earn a bit of pin money.