She passed the turning in the road that led to the entrance for Melstead Hall, and for a moment was tempted to march all the way up the long drive to have it out with her brother. ‘Is it you sending me these hateful letters?’ But if it was him, he would only deny it and would somehow end up with the upper hand. Just as he always did. Never would she give him the satisfaction of knowing he had successfully rattled her, or that somebody else had.
It amazed Hope that Arthur had found three women stupid enough to marry him. She was not so heartless that she didn’t feel sorry for Julia, and she had, along with Romily and Evelyn, tried to extend the hand of friendship to her sister-in-law and nephew, seeing as they were members of the family. But they had never received more than a lukewarm response from Julia. Undoubtedly that was Arthur’s doing, actively discouraging her from mixing with the rest of the family too often, especially without him there. He was probably worried they would tell her what her husband was really like.
It was completely dark now and with the wind gathering strength, and rain beginning to fall, Hope decided she had no choice but to retrace her steps and make her way back to Fairview. She had gone only a few yards along the narrow road when she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. She turned around and saw the bright headlamps of a car travelling at speed towards her. Shielding her eyes from the dazzle of the car’s lights, she waited for it to pass by. Too late, and with terrifying certainty, she realised the driver mustn’t have seen her. And before she had time to step out of the way, the car slammed into her. For a moment she felt weightless as her body flew through the air. Then she landed with a heavy and painful thud that knocked the air out of her.
In the panicked confusion of her thoughts, she let out a small cry, no more than a whimper, and lay very still in what felt like a deep black hole waiting for the driver to come and help.
But with the taste of blood in her mouth, and sickening pain throbbing through her, she heard not the sound of hurried footsteps and a concerned voice, just the sound of the car continuing on with its journey.
Chapter Forty-One
Island House, Melstead St Mary
November 1962
Romily
Romily watched Stanley put a large log onto the fire in the grate, carefully pushing it into place with the poker, before adding another.
She remembered him as a boy doing the same thing. He used to love making up the fire for her, and always with his faithful dog Bobby at his side. Now he had Tucker, who was equally devoted. Like Romily, the dog was keenly observing Stanley’s every move, no doubt waiting for him to get out of the way so he could resume his place on the hearth rug and enjoy the warmth from the fire.
The weather had suddenly turned quite wintry – a strong cold wind was blowing in from the North Sea and rain was lashing at the windows. Romily was glad to be in the warm, hunkering down in the drawing room with tea and crumpets.
It had been a strange day. She had woken with a debilitating headache and she hadn’t surfaced properly from her room until nearly midday. By the time she had settled at her desk to get on with some work, the telephone had sprung into life and didn’t stop interrupting her until gone four o’clock. On two different occasions Florence had come to Romily asking if she could talk to her, but each time the wretched telephone had put paid to that. Florence had left for home, along with Mrs Collings and Beatty, before Romily had a chance to go in search of her to ask what she wanted to discuss.
For now, though, Romily’s priority was Stanley. She had invited him to join her for tea so she could find out more of what had passed between him and Annelise. Romily had always suspected that his feelings for Annelise went deeper than he made out, but she hadn’t appreciated just how deep.
Pouring their tea, she waited for him to put down the poker and return to the armchair opposite her before resuming the conversation. So far it had been something of a stop–start affair, which was unlike both of them. Normally they had no end of things to say to each other. It was as if Stanley sensed why she had invited him here and was on his guard.
‘You seem uncharacteristically quiet, Romily,’ he said, when he was seated and had taken his cup and saucer from her.
‘I was thinking the same of you.’
He pursed his lips. Then: ‘In that case, I suppose we’d better cut to the chase, hadn’t we? What has Annelise told you?’
‘That you were unwell the night of the party,’ Romily said, glad that he was prepared to be so direct.
He carefully put down his cup and saucer. ‘Is that all?’
‘No.’
He sighed and slumped forward, his hands hanging between his knees, his head low.
‘Stanley, she told me what she did because she cares about you.’
‘Yes,’ he said, straightening up and meeting Romily’s gaze. ‘She does care for me. I know that. Just not in the way I’ve always wanted.’
‘Always?’ Romily repeated questioningly.
‘For as long as it counts.’
‘Why did you never make your feelings known before?’
‘That’s disingenuous of you. I’ve never been her equal, not socially or intellectually.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘Let’s face it, it’s what Hope believes, even if she never says it aloud. You and I both know that she was happy to let me design her new house, but God forbid I should have designs on Annelise. Which is ironic, given how she used to go on about the classless society during the war.’
Romily knew that Stanley was right. There was a time when Hope had indeed been a great advocate of an egalitarian society, just as Romily had been. But whereas Romily still was, Hope’s principles, and for whatever reason, had perhaps not stayed the course. And certainly not when it came to Annelise and the man she might one day marry. Heaven only knew what she would have to say about Annelise having an affair with a married man!
‘Annelise said you were physically sick at the party.’
He frowned, plainly embarrassed. ‘I’d drunk too much. That was all.’
Romily gave him a direct stare. ‘Not according to Annelise. She seemed to think that it was talking about your childhood that made you ill. She mentioned also that you’d attended your mother’s funeral earlier in the year and—’
She got no further as the telephone rang shrilly, causing Tucker to stir from his slumbering in front of the fire. Pointing to the plate of buttery crumpets on the table and indicating that Stanley should help himself, Romily went over to the telephone on the secretaire and picked up the receiver.
‘Romily, it’s me, Edmund.’
‘Hello, Edmund. How’s it going with the new house?’