The heating was turned up too high – the source of it was coming from the metal heating grille beneath her seat – and she longed to open the window, but daren’t. It had started to rain earlier and a ruddy-cheeked woman in a thick tweed coat had slammed it shut, and with a defiance that challenged anyone to open it again.
After stopping at yet another train station, an elderly man now joined them in the carriage, and tipping his hat with a smile, stowing his umbrella and loosening his scarf and coat, he revealed himself to be a man of the cloth. He then proceeded to light up a pipe, drawing on it with zeal.
Within minutes the fug of smoke was making Annelise nauseous. Oh, how she bitterly regretted that she had not received the news about Mums earlier so she could have travelled home last night. But she had been at a formal dinner at St Hilda’s and hadn’t returned to her rooms in college until nearly midnight. Had she not gone out, she would have received Stanley’s message in time to travel home at once. All she could do at that time of night was ring the hospital and speak to Edmund. The grave concern in his voice had meant she hadn’t slept a wink all night. At two in the morning, and unable to speak to the one person she wanted to – Harry – she had rung Stanley. ‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ he had said when she apologised for disturbing him. It had felt good to hear his voice and comforted by it, she had thanked him for finding Hope. ‘It’s Tucker who deserves the credit,’ he’d said.
‘But had you and Romily not braved the storm to look for her, Mums may well have died in that ditch.’ Annelise was determined he should accept her gratitude.
As soon as she was up and dressed, and too sick with worry to eat breakfast, she had gone in search of the Dean to request compassionate leave. Dr Spriggs was kindness itself and told her it was almost the end of term anyway, so she was to take as much leave as she required.
The fug of smoke in the confined space was now causing Annelise’s head to throb all the more. And with bile rising in her throat and desperate for some fresh air, she stood up, took down her suitcase from the overhead rack and slid open the compartment door and escaped.
Moving along the corridor, and finding most of the other carriages full, she gave up looking for a seat. With only twenty minutes of the journey left, she set her case down on the floor and stood next to a grimy window. The glass was so filthy she could only just see out of it at the passing scenery, the rain blurring the fields and houses. But at least she could open it and breathe in the damp cold air.
She closed her eyes and as the nausea and bile receded, she tried to focus on Hope, on willing her to regain consciousness, and for her injuries not to be life-threatening. But every time she attempted to corral her thoughts, Harry’s voice intruded, his words echoing the rhythm of the train tracks.
I’d do anything to be with you . . . I’d do anything to be with you . . . I’d do anything to be with you . . .
He had said a variation on the theme of this many times since their relationship had begun. Since their affair had begun, Annelise corrected herself.
He was never going to leave his wife, was he? She’d been a fool to think he would. A blind fool. Why had it taken so long for her to wake up and realise that? Why had she wanted so badly to believe in his lies?
For God’s sake, she was an intelligent woman, so she thought, but she had behaved as naïvely and as stupidly as the child he had accused her of being.
What had made her think she was so special that Harry would divorce his wife for her? Arrogance, that’s what it was! She had imagined herself to be infinitely better than that poor woman to whom he was married. She wasn’t better. She was so much worse. She had cheapened herself by allowing herself to become his mistress.
His bit on the side.
The other woman.
The homewrecker.
Seeing her actions for what they really were, for the first time ever she felt guilty. Moreover she felt sorry for the woman she had never met, but whom she had turned into an inferior being. In her love for Harry, Annelise had convinced herself that his wife didn’t deserve him, that she wasn’t capable of making Harry truly happy. Only Annelise could do that, she had believed.
It was a pity she had not followed the advice she gave her students, that there was always more than one way of looking at something, that it was a mistake to limit one’s potential by narrowing one’s perspective. If she had heeded her own counsel, she might have seen through Harry’s tissue of lies and seen him for what he was – a selfish man intent on having his cake and eating it.
Find what will make you happy. That’s what Romily always used to say to her. She had convinced herself that Harry was what made her happy, but the reality was, he had drained the joy out of her with her constant battle to disguise just how much she loved him.
Love. Was that what she’d felt for him?
If it was, it had been the wrong sort of love, she now acknowledged; it was a destructive love.
Romily had not warned her off when Annelise had confided in her, that was not her style. Instead, she had said that love was an adventure, and nobody ever knew how or where it would end up, no matter the strength of the emotions involved.
With a deep sigh, Annelise accepted that Romily had probably known exactly how this particular adventure would end.
Staring at the passing scenery, and realising that she was nearly home, she felt cross that she had allowed herself to be consumed with thoughts of Harry when it was Hope who should be uppermost in her mind. And Edmund.
When the train finally pulled into the station at Melstead St Mary with a last puff of steam, Annelise couldn’t step down onto the platform fast enough.
Stanley was there to meet her. She all but fell into his welcome embrace.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Florence
‘Florence, do you have a moment to talk?’
In the laundry room, and hearing the serious tone to Romily’s voice as she stood in the doorway looking in at her, Florence said, ‘It’s not bad news from the hospital, is it?’
Hope had been unconscious now for two weeks. The longer it went on, the more they all feared she might never regain consciousness. During that time Romily had been away on a ten-day tour of speaking engagements in Scandinavia and only returned late last night. She had wanted to cancel the tour, but Edmund had insisted she go, that everyone back at home would keep her up to date. Every day the news had been the same: Hope showed no sign of improvement.
Romily shook her head. ‘There’s been no word today from Edmund or Annelise. Would you come into the library, please, there’s something I want to discuss with you?’
Putting the basket of washing on the floor, Florence wondered what Romily wanted to discuss. Was she unhappy with her work? Florence knew that she had been distracted recently, worrying about those poison pen letters, so maybe she had forgotten something important she was supposed to have arranged. She hoped not.