They stood up together and once more Annelise hugged Romily. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for being you. For always being so practical and reassuring. What would I ever do without you?’
‘Oh, you’d manage very well. Now come on, best foot forward and let’s put Stanley’s mind at rest. Knowing what he knows, out of everyone he will be the most anxious about you.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he will.’
‘Let him worry about you, Annelise. And in return for the promise I made you, I want you to promise me you won’t shut him out. It would break his heart if you did.’
‘All right. I promise.’
‘Good girl.’
But when they were downstairs and were entering the dining room, and Annelise saw the troubled expression on Stanley’s face – his obvious concern for her – she felt her own heart break a little.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
That night in bed Romily lay awake unable to sleep. It had become a regular occurrence since her return from America. Initially she blamed it on the time difference, and while it was true that may have contributed to her inability to sleep well, there was more to it than that. It grieved her immensely to admit it, if only to herself, but Red St Clair was at the heart of the problem.
She had hoped, perhaps somewhat arrogantly, that he might write. But there had been nothing from him. Did she really think she had made that big an impression on him? Heavens, the man would simply have moved on to the next woman! And why on earth shouldn’t he?
The image of him that came to her, and far too frequently for her liking, was of him that night they’d gone out into the desert together. For the first time in his company she had begun to relax and enjoy being with him. It seemed a shame now that they had parted the way they had.
But what is done is done, she told herself firmly. No regrets. It was an echo of what she had whispered to Annelise when lunch was over and everybody was leaving, putting on their coats to brave the cold.
She had done her utmost to conceal her shock at Annelise’s news and had given the poor girl what she so badly needed: unconditional love and support.
People were always claiming that the times were changing, that so many of the old rules were being jettisoned. But times hadn’t changed that much for women, not yet at any rate, not when the rules that applied to men did not apply to women. Why should Annelise have to lose her position at St Gertrude’s, and very likely her reputation as a fine academic, while the man who had got her pregnant would carry on with his life as though nothing had happened?
For all her understanding of Annelise’s plight, had Romily been too insistent in advocating so strongly that she should seriously consider marrying Stanley? An answer to a prayer was often no such thing. But what if, in this instance, it could be the perfect solution? Stanley would devote himself to making Annelise happy and in time, once the child was of a suitable age, Annelise, as a respectable married woman, would be able to pick up where she’d left off with her career.
But what of love? Stanley deserved to be truly loved, not just admired or cared for in the manner of a brother. Could, as time went on, Annelise’s feelings for him develop into something deeper and more passionate?
In many ways Romily had to agree with Annelise when she’d said that if Isabella were to announce she was pregnant in the same circumstances, it would not come as so great a shock. Like mother, like daughter, some would take delight in saying, and very unfairly in Romily’s opinion. It was never as simple as that; it was much more a case of there but for the grace of God go I.
Nobody knew the truth of those words more acutely than Romily. Had she remained alone with Annelise any longer, she may well have shared her most closely guarded secret with her.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Tilbrook Hall, Norfolk
August 1944
Romily
I had been back at work for some weeks ferrying aircraft around the country when I was given a few days’ leave. I took the opportunity to go home to Island House, and then drive over to Tilbrook Hall in Norfolk.
Since I had made a full recovery and been discharged from the medical care at Tilbrook Hall, Matteo and I had exchanged letters on a regular basis. The pages of his letters contained exquisite little drawings in the margins. Sometimes a whole page was devoted to a sketch of something that had caught his eye – a child flying a kite, a butterfly sunning itself on a wall, a squadron of bombers flying overhead, an old man leaning against a stile smoking a pipe. In comparison, I feared he found my letters rather ordinary. Although he said not. ‘You cannot know the pleasure I experience,’ he wrote to me, ‘when I see an envelope with your beautiful handwriting on it.’
I had decided to keep my return visit to Tilbrook Hall a surprise. And having saved up valuable petrol coupons, I was enjoying the freedom of driving my beloved MG. With the top down, I drove at speed along the winding country lanes, the sun shining down from a clear blue sky, my heart soaring at the prospect of seeing Matteo again. Untying the scarf from around my head, I shook out my hair, letting it catch in the wind. I hadn’t felt this carefree in a very long time. I began to sing at the top of my voice.
It was almost possible to believe there was no war raging, no bombs dropping, no rationing, no hardship, and no death. There was just this beautiful summer’s day to enjoy, and the prospect of spending it with a man whom I had fallen in love with. In the five years since I had been widowed, I had been told repeatedly that I would one day find love again, and perhaps when I least expected it. I hadn’t believed them. Or perhaps I hadn’t wanted to because it would have seemed like a betrayal of my love for Jack. But Matteo had changed that.
Stuck behind a horse-drawn cart laden with milk churns, I was forced to drive the last mile at a snail’s pace. I knew better than to roar past and unnerve the horse, so quelled my eagerness to reach my journey’s end. When I entered the village of Tilbrook and parted company with the milk churns by taking the first turning to the left, I then pulled into the long driveway that led to the Hall. Part way along, and in the shade of a magnificent chestnut tree, I drew the car to a stop. Vanity prevailed, and I took out the necessary equipment from my handbag to make good the damage the drive had inflicted on my appearance. Hair combed and protected once again by the silk headscarf, perfume dabbed behind my ears, powder and lipstick reapplied. Make-up was in such short supply, all I had by way of lipstick was a measly stub of my favourite Chanel lip-colour. I used it only for special occasions, and today was just that.
Reporting in at the office, a delightful sun-filled south-facing room that had been the owners’ informal sitting room, I was told that Matteo was out working in the woods.