‘Does he know?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve only just guessed at the truth myself.’
‘You mean you don’t know for sure?’
‘I don’t need a test to tell me what I already know. I’ve been feeling sick every morning since I arrived home.’
‘But you might have a stomach virus, or— ’
‘No, Stanley, it’s a baby growing inside my body that’s causing me to have morning sickness. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I may have fooled myself into believing everything Harry told me, but I’m now level-headed enough to know that the folly of my actions has to be confronted.’
Listening to her calmly blaming herself for the predicament she found herself in filled Stanley with the need to get into his car and drive to Oxford to kill the man who had done this to her.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, when he trusted himself to speak as calmly as Annelise had.
‘Will I keep the baby? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Yes.’
She sighed. ‘The thought of giving the baby up for adoption appals me, but if I keep the child, how would I be able to carry on with my work in Oxford? There’s not a hope of St Gertrude’s wanting to keep me on as an unmarried mother. My career would be over.’
Stanley took his hands out of his jacket pocket and wrapped them around Annelise’s cold fingers. ‘There’s one very easy solution to the problem,’ he said. ‘Marry me. I’ll help you raise the child. For all intents and purposes, it will be ours. Together. Nobody need ever know that it wasn’t our child.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
St Mary’s, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Florence
Billy and his parents had always been members of the Salvation Army, and while Florence often attended the services with her husband, she didn’t always. This particular Sunday morning she had fancied a change – and time away from her mother-in-law – and had come to St Mary’s. If she had stayed at home, even on the pretext of writing Christmas cards and cooking lunch, Ruby would accuse her of being godless and bound for hell. Who wasn’t in Ruby’s eyes? Apart from Billy, that was.
The Reverend Allsop had now drawn his rather long-winded sermon to a close, and the organist started playing ‘Thine Be the Glory’. With everyone rising to their feet, Florence glanced around at the congregation, wondering if it was one of them who was sending the anonymous letters. No one struck her as a likely candidate, but what did she expect the person to look like? Another thought then occurred to her. Who else here had received a letter? And was it only women who had been singled out?
When the hymn came to an end and they once again sat down to bow their heads in readiness for prayer, Florence spotted Julia Devereux amongst the worshippers. She was alone, which never happened. If she came at all, it was with her husband and invariably only for the special occasion services, such as Easter and Christmas.
When eventually the service was over and Florence was buttoning up her coat and pulling on her gloves, she joined the queue to get out of the church. While the vicar was engaged in conversation with a couple Florence only knew by sight and who had recently moved to the village, she found herself standing next to Julia.
‘Good morning, Mrs Devereux,’ Florence said politely.
The woman started violently and dropped one of her gloves, along with her prayer book. Florence picked them up for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving Florence a puzzled look, as if trying to place her.
‘Florence Minton,’ she said helpfully. ‘I work at Island House, and my Billy runs the bread shop.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Clutching her handbag to her, the woman looked a regular bundle of nerves and appeared desperate to get away from Florence, as though she might catch something from her.
‘Ah, hello Mrs Devereux!’ chimed the vicar, as they moved forward, ‘what a pleasure to see you; it’s good of you to join us this morning. Mr Devereux not with you?’
‘He . . . he’s in London. Business matters . . . he’s always so busy.’
‘I hope he’s not suffered any ill-effects from the smog while there. It was bad enough what drifted our way here in dear old Melstead St Mary. We must give thanks that it’s now dissipated. Will you and Mr Devereux be here for Christmas? And your young son, Charles?’
Whatever her answer was, Florence didn’t hear the woman as she seemed intent on escaping as quickly as possible. Florence followed soon after and caught up with her on the gravel pathway where she was blowing her nose. But just as Florence was about to pass by, she realised Julia was crying. She slowed her step.
‘Everything all right, Mrs Devereux?’
Again Julia started. The woman was as nervous as a rabbit! ‘I’m . . . fine,’ she stuttered, fumbling with the handkerchief. ‘It’s the cold, it always gets in my eyes like this.’
Florence wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t her place to press the point. Even so, she couldn’t just walk away. The woman looked so distressed. To Florence’s knowledge she had no friends in the village. Romily had often invited Julia to join them at Island House for lunch or dinner when Arthur was away, as he often was, but the invitations were always declined.
‘If there’s anything you need, Mrs Devereux,’ Florence said, ‘you only have to ask.’
The comment drew a stifled sob from her, much like the sound Florence had heard when the vicar had announced they should pray for Hope.
‘Excuse me,’ Julia muttered, ‘I need to get home before—’ her words ground to a halt as she pressed the handkerchief against her mouth.
Her misery was horrible to see. ‘Before what?’ Florence said gently. Before Julia broke down completely? Before that unpleasant housekeeper could look down her snooty nose at Julia?
In the last twelve months since Miss Casey had started working at the Hall, she had gained herself a reputation for being rude and stand-offish. Nobody in the village had warmed to her.
But without answering Florence, Julia wheeled away sharply and set off down the road. Florence watched her go. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for her going back to that great mausoleum of a house. It must be a lonely life there for her.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
Conscious that Edmund was at the end of his tether worrying about Hope, Romily had invited him and Annelise for Sunday lunch, along with Kit and Evelyn, and Stanley. Had Pip and Em not been away in Lincolnshire for a house party to celebrate a friend’s birthday, the invitation would have included them too.