‘Why on earth not?’ demanded Edmund.
‘I’m sorry, Edmund, but I thought it was no more than some silly old biddy in the village up to mischief. I advised Hope to ignore it.’
‘And look where that’s got us. You should have told me!’
‘Edmund, that’s not fair,’ intervened Evelyn. ‘If Hope swore Kit to secrecy, what else was he to do?’
As the voices around the table became more heated, Romily noticed that Annelise had barely touched what was on her plate. ‘Are you all right, Annelise?’ she asked quietly. ‘Can I fetch you something else to eat if the pork isn’t to your liking?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl murmured, her pallor now the colour of putty, ‘but I’m not very hungry. It must be the shock of hearing about these awful letters.’
‘That’s my fault,’ said Stanley. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘I disagree,’ retorted Edmund, turning towards him, his tone uncharacteristically harsh. ‘You should have spoken up before. So should Kit. Maybe then Hope and I wouldn’t have had that dreadful row and she wouldn’t have gone out for a walk. And then,’ he went on, his voice rising, ‘she wouldn’t have been hit by some bloody reckless driver and now be fighting for her—’ He broke off as Annelise suddenly pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘Please excuse me,’ she murmured before bolting from the room.
Watching her go, Romily was visited by the strongest sense of déjà vu. In a flash she was transported back in time to a day more than twenty years ago when a similar scene had taken place in this very dining room. The memory, along with another that was much more painful, propelled her to her feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if Annelise needs anything,’ she said, gesturing to Edmund that he should leave this to her. ‘The dear girl is obviously upset.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Annelise
Annelise made it upstairs to the nearest bathroom just in time. She flushed away the small amount she had just eaten, then went over to the basin to wash her face. Running the taps, she shuddered at the blotchy-faced woman staring back at her in the mirror. Who was she? Who was the idiotic person who had got herself into this mess?
Pregnant.
The word alone was enough to make her feel sick all over again.
There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by Romily’s voice. ‘Annelise, can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’ How long had Romily been standing there? Had she heard Annelise being sick? If she had, she would know that Annelise wasn’t fine. But then anyone sitting around the table would have reached the same conclusion.
‘Annelise, I know you probably want your privacy,’ said Romily, ‘but I’d like to help if I may.’
How could anyone help her? She was beyond help. She had brought this on herself and somehow, she would have to live with the consequences.
She did her best to tidy herself up, then opened the door, all set to make light of feeling ‘a little under the weather’. But seeing the look on Romily’s face was too much and she had to bite on her lower lip to keep it from wobbling and betraying her.
‘Come with me,’ Romily said, taking her by the hand.
Annelise did as she said and allowed herself to be led along the carpeted landing to Romily’s bedroom. Again at Romily’s instruction, she sat on the window seat. ‘I used to love sitting here listening to you reading to me when I was little,’ she said absently.
‘It seems like only yesterday,’ Romily responded, sitting next to her.
‘Life is so much easier when you’re a child, isn’t it?’ Annelise said.
‘It doesn’t seem that way at the time, but it is. When’s the baby due?’
‘You never did beat about the bush, did you?’
‘I’ve never seen the point. I’m assuming nobody knows about it?’
‘Stanley knows.’ Then before Annelise could stop them, tears filled her eyes. Romily magically produced a handkerchief. Annelise blew her nose and took a steadying breath. ‘Nothing ever shocks you, does it?’ she said.
‘Very little.’
‘How did you guess? What gave me away?’
‘Let’s just put it down to a sixth sense. When is the baby due?’
‘July. I think.’
‘And the father, Harry, does he know?’
Annelise shook her head. ‘I only realised, or rather, I only accepted that I was pregnant when I came here and started feeling so queasy. I can’t help but wonder if subconsciously I already knew that I was pregnant the morning I spoke to Harry shortly before I caught the train to come home. I so badly wanted him to come with me and I suppose I was testing him. If he agreed to drop everything I would know then that he . . .’
‘That he would what?’ asked Romily when she hesitated.
Annelise sighed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘That he really did care for me. That there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.’
‘But he failed the test?’ suggested Romily. ‘Is that what happened?’
‘Yes, and in an instant the scales fell away from my eyes. I knew then that I didn’t matter sufficiently for him to leave his wife and commit himself to me.’
‘Would he seek a divorce if he knew you were pregnant?’
Such had been Annelise’s complete turnaround in her feelings towards Harry, she had not asked herself this question. ‘I’ve seen him for what he actually is,’ she said, ‘a liar and a cheat. I could never trust him. And I’m appalled with myself that I fell for him the way I did.’
‘Did you love him very much?’
‘I did, to the point of pain. But now I hate him. Truly I do. And I’ve never felt that way about anyone before.’
Romily put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘My advice is don’t waste your energy on hating him. You have far more important things to think about.’
‘Yes,’ Annelise said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘My life at Oxford is now over. St Gertrude’s likes to be regarded as a progressive college, but a pregnant unmarried junior fellow would be considered a reformist step too far. It would be a wholly inappropriate example to the undergraduates.’