On the whole the nursing staff were competent and did their job well. She wished though they wouldn’t prattle on so much, telling her how much they’d enjoyed her books when growing up. They were familiar with Edmund in his capacity as a doctor, of course, and fussed over him whenever he visited, bringing him tea and shortbread.
It was all a far cry from her many dealings with the hospital in the past. For years she had helped with much-needed fund raising and every Christmas she would attend the children’s parties to give out free copies of her books. For the children too sick to get out of bed, she would go to them with a book and a pat on the head. What she never told anyone, not even Edmund, was that immediately afterwards she would have to wash her hands thoroughly, then rush home to change out of her clothes. She had a horror of germs, of catching something from a sick child which would prevent her from working.
Edmund had read out a letter from her agent, as well as several cards from her various publishers. They all wished her well. Flowers had been sent, too. She hadn’t been able to see them, but their cloying perfume had been too much. It was a relief when they died and were removed from her room.
Thinking of her agent and her publishers, she supposed they were already totting up the loss of future sales from her. The golden goose that stopped laying. Was somebody also writing her obituary?
She remembered reading her father’s obituary in The Times and the Telegraph. It had made impressive reading, but hardly reflected the man she had known. Would that be true of her? Probably. After all, the face she showed to the world as the renowned children’s author was not the real Hope.
Lying here she’d had a lot of time to reflect on her life. It wasn’t her achievements she dwelt on, but her failings. She had failed as a wife and as a mother to Annelise.
Annelise visited her every day. Sometimes she barely spoke; she just sat very still and held Hope’s hand. The silence was oddly comforting. It was a rare moment of calm when Hope didn’t have to listen, or think of something else to block out the flow of banal chatter.
Once more she heard the sound of the trolley with the squeaking wheel passing the door to her room. This time it was accompanied by the laughter of a couple of nurses.
She suddenly thought of something. Kit knew about the first letter she had received! She had told him about it the night of the party at Meadow Lodge. How had she forgotten that? Romily and Evelyn believed Hope had received only the one letter, but she’d had two. But then what did it matter how many letters she had been sent? Or that she’d told Kit and sworn him to secrecy?
Just as her head began to ache with the effort of trying to make sense of it all, she heard the door open followed by the sound of someone coming into the room. Listening hard, she could make out the noise of a coat being taken off. At the same time the distinctive sharp smell of a cold winter’s day mixed with a slightly sulphurous odour permeated the sterile air of the room. The same smell had met her nostrils when Romily and Evelyn arrived.
‘Hello Mums, it’s me, Annelise.’
In her head, and listening to Annelise make herself comfortable in the chair to her right, she said hello back to her. In her head she also began to say how sorry she was for her every act of neglect and disapproval. For working when she should have been—
Mid thought, she stopped listing all the things for which she needed to apologise, and concentrated on what Annelise was saying. But she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Not from Annelise. No!
Chapter Fifty-Three
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Julia
‘Going out, Mrs Devereux?’
Julia nearly jumped out of her skin. She felt her cheeks flush and a quake of fear gripped at her insides. ‘Yes, Miss Casey,’ she said with as much authority as she could summon.
‘Are you sure that’s wise, madam?’
Grasping the handles of her handbag while standing in the large hallway, a couple of yards from the front door, Julia said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m surprised to see you up and dressed, madam, that’s all, let alone venturing out into the fog. It might not be good for you, given how unwell you’ve been of late. And you know how Mr Devereux worries about you.’
The quaking to Julia’s insides intensified. But she was determined to go out. ‘With Christmas around the corner,’ she said, trying to stick to the script she had written for herself, ‘I want to buy some Christmas cards.’
‘But the car, madam. It’s in London with Mr Devereux.’
‘I’m quite capable of walking. It will do me good. Is that all, Miss Casey?’ She forced a note of dismissal to her tone and the other woman, her face perpetually inscrutable, blinked, then looked steadily back at her with her cold blue eyes. Never before had Julia challenged her and she could see that it had taken the housekeeper off guard. Doubtless there would be consequences. Toe the line or face the consequences. That was another instruction from her father’s rule book.
Shutting the front door after her, she set off down the driveway in the damp cold at a brisk pace. Not once did she turn around and look back.
The fog had finally begun to lift. When Julia had opened the curtains in her bedroom this morning and seen that for the first time in days the end of the driveway was clearly visible, she had made up her mind that she would dress and walk into the village. And nothing would stop her.
Until this morning, she could not have contemplated the journey. She blamed the tonic and the sleeping pills the doctor from London had prescribed her. ‘He’s the best in Harley Street,’ Arthur had said when she had rung him one evening to say she needed him to come home, that she was sick with worry.
‘For goodness sake, whatever are you babbling on about?’ he’d demanded.
‘It’s Hope. Surely you’ve read about her in the newspapers. She’s still in a coma. Arthur, we have to say something’
‘And what do you suggest we say?’
‘The truth! I can’t go on like this. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. My nerves are shot to pieces. What if she dies?’
‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Julia! You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re overwrought and making yourself ill.’
‘But the car, Arthur.’
‘What about the car?’
‘It must have been damaged in the accident. What if—’
‘Now listen to me very carefully. What little damage the deer made, the car has been repaired while I’ve been here in London. And do I have to remind you that if you say anything contrary to the fact that I hit a deer, you know what will happen, don’t you? Prison. Not for me, but for you. Is that what you want? Is it what you want for Charles?’