She had been crying by this stage of the conversation and only stopped when Arthur’s tone became more conciliatory. ‘Come on old thing,’ he said soothingly. ‘Don’t cry, that won’t help anyone. Now I want you to promise me something. I want you to see this excellent nerve doctor I know. I’ll send him up to you and he’ll give you a thorough once over. But you must promise you’ll take what he prescribes you. Will you do that for me?’
‘I’d sooner you came home,’ she’d said.
‘I’ll be home very soon. I have business matters here to deal with. Now will you promise you’ll do as Dr Monk says? After all, you want to be well for when Charles comes home for the Christmas holiday, don’t you?’
‘Why go to all the bother of sending a doctor from London to see me?’ she’d then asked. ‘I’ll see Dr Flowerday.’
‘I want the best for you, Julia, not some country quack. Why bother Edmund when he’s so worried about Hope right now?’
Julia had promised Arthur she would do exactly as he said. He was probably right; her nerves had got the better of her. And if this specialist from London was able to ensure she slept at night, that the nightmares of Arthur’s car hitting his sister would stop, she would take whatever medicine she was offered.
Following Dr Monk’s visit, and after several days of taking the medicine he prescribed, Julia was convinced it disagreed with her. As a former nurse she knew that not all drugs suited all patients, and while it was true that she slept at night – she was knocked out cold minutes after swallowing the tablets – the nightmares continued. In fact, they were worse, and during the day she felt sluggish, as though her body was weighted with concrete. She also had the sensation of viewing everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Her sense of balance was affected, too and had kept her in bed. It was most disconcerting.
As convinced as she was that the tonic and tablets disagreed with her, she began to wonder if Miss Casey might be adding something to the dishes of food she put before her and which she insisted Julia ate. But was that paranoia making her suspect Miss Casey was poisoning her?
That was the trouble with paranoia, one could never tell what was really happening and what was going on inside one’s head. One thing she grew certain of was that she had to go out, if only to the village. Cooped up as she was, she was beginning to feel as mad as Rochester’s lunatic wife in the attic. And to go out, she had to break the promise she had made to Arthur. So she pretended to take the prescribed medication, but secretly poured the twice-daily dose of tonic down the plughole of the basin in her bathroom, and crushed the tablets so they too could be washed away.
Since then Julia’s head had cleared and the need to do what she considered the right thing became ever more vital to her. She wanted to visit Hope in hospital. What must the rest of the family be thinking that neither Arthur nor she had gone to see his sister?
While she had been out of her mind with worry, she had received another anonymous letter.
after shaming your husband you won’t
be mrs arthur devereux for much longer!
She supposed it was referring to her being drunk the night of the party at Meadow Lodge, but if she were honest, a spiteful village busybody was the least of her concerns right now.
With every step that took her further away from the Hall, Julia felt a mixture of emotion: pride that she had defied Miss Casey, and trepidation at what she planned to do. Her consternation wasn’t helped by feeling lightheaded, together with the tiredness that was creeping into her legs. This was the most active she had been in days. She should have eaten some breakfast, but she hadn’t wanted to risk eating anything Miss Casey brought to her. Not today.
In the centre of the village, she crossed the market square and went over to the bus stop. After checking the timetable, she saw that she had half an hour to wait. On the other side of the square, she spotted the Cobbles Tea Room. Or what used to be the Cobbles before new management took it over and renamed it the Bluebird Café.
A cup of tea and a scone would help pass the time. But she hesitated. Arthur had said she wasn’t to frequent the establishment. ‘Nothing but a parochial fleapit for the hoi polloi and gossiping old crones of Melstead St Mary,’ he said of it.
Her stomach fluttering again with nerves that she was being so daring, she walked towards the tearoom and pushed open the door. It was invitingly warm inside and rather jolly with a prettily decorated Christmas tree in one corner, and paper chains strung up between the oak beams. It didn’t look at all like a fleapit.
‘A table for one, please,’ she said when a waitress approached. Taking her seat, and picking up the menu, she was aware of people staring at her. Her head down as she looked at the menu, she wondered if the person who was sending her the anonymous letters was here.
‘What’ll it be, Mrs Devereux?’
Startled at the use of her name, Julia looked up to see an attractive young girl with a pencil poised over a pad of paper to take her order. It wasn’t until the waitress returned some minutes later with a pot of tea and a toasted teacake as well as a mince pie – she really was ravenous – that Julia realised why the girl had known who she was. She used to work at the Hall but left unexpectedly and without a word of explanation. Julia had been disappointed because the girl had always been so polite to her. She racked her brains to remember her name. Josie . . . Pam . . . No, it was Pat, that was it!
‘How are you, Pat?’ she asked, pleased with herself for recalling the name.
‘You remember me, then?’ the girl replied.
‘Of course I do. I was sorry you left.’
‘No disrespect to you, but nothing would have made me stay a moment longer.’
Taken aback, Julia watched the girl walk away to serve another customer.
It was while she was buttering her toasted teacake that she heard giggling from behind the screen that separated her table from the kitchen area. When the giggling stopped, she heard a girl’s voice. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, that Mr Devereux was like a bleeding octopus; he couldn’t keep his disgusting hands off me.’
‘Do you suppose his wife knows what he’s like?’
‘If she does, she’s too much under his thumb to do anything about it.’
It was all lies! Julia wanted to shout. Nothing but lies! Arthur wasn’t like that! She forced herself to stay calm. She must remember who she was. She was Mrs Arthur Devereux.
But maybe not for much longer . . .
She delved into her handbag for her purse, counted out the money to pay the bill, and tugging on her coat, she left.
Her heart racing, her breath short, she blindly crossed the cobbled square, just as the bus she had wanted to catch appeared. For a moment she hesitated, then suddenly guided by a force so strong it swept away any doubts, she boarded the bus and took a window seat at the front. It took her some minutes to compose herself – to pull herself together, as Arthur would say – and when she had, everything was frighteningly clear to her.