Isabella’s connection to the Devereux family was complicated, and had, if she were being objective, all the makings of a great film. Her mother, Allegra Salvato had been the illegitimate daughter of Harry Devereux, Jack Devereux’s ne’er-do-well brother. When Jack had learned that his brother was dead, and of the existence of a young child living in an orphanage in Italy, he had felt duty-bound to give Allegra a home at Island House alongside his own children, Arthur, Kit and Hope. But just as soon as she was old enough, Allegra went back to Italy to embark on what she had hoped would be a successful singing career. When Jack was dying, and now married to Romily, Allegra, down on her luck and pregnant, returned to Island House and married her childhood sweetheart, Elijah Hartley. It was not to be a happy ending for them, though. While Elijah was away fighting in the war, poor Allegra died giving birth to Isabella. In his absence, Romily was made Isabella’s official guardian.
Elijah had been a wonderful man. A soldier with the Suffolk Regiment, she had scarcely seen him for the first five years of her life, then when the war was over, and he came home for good, she moved out of Island House and into Winter Cottage with him. It had been a strange and bewildering time for her – he was her father, so she had been told from the earliest age, but she didn’t actually know him. As for her biological father, she never knew who he was and had no inclination to track him down.
In those initial weeks of living with Elijah she had often cried in her bed at night wanting to be back at Island House with Florence and Annelise and Stanley. Poor Elijah, he didn’t know what to do, other than let her spend time back at Island House. After a while she made the adjustment, as did he. It couldn’t have been easy trying to be her father. But she never doubted that he loved her, and she grew to adore him. He had made such a sacrifice taking her on, not that he ever said as much. He always said he had loved her mother and was determined to marry her despite knowing she was carrying another man’s child. How many men would do that? He had been exceptional in all ways. Isabella doubted she would ever find a man to marry who would be as good as he was.
His death when she was seventeen had left her bereft and unable to talk about him. She locked away her love and grief for him deep in her heart, where it could never be lost. It was that which she tapped into if an acting role she was playing called for her to cry. All she had to do was force herself to think of her grief for Elijah and the tears would flow. Somebody once said of her that she actually turned deathly pale when she cried on stage.
‘My parents are very well,’ George said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘and both as busy as ever – Mum at Island House and Dad at the bakery.’
‘And how’s university going for you?’ Isabella asked. She knew how proud his parents were that he was the first of their family to go to college. ‘Remind me what you’re studying?’
‘It’s going well, and I’m reading Chemistry.’
She smiled. ‘Quite the boffin.’
He laughed. ‘Not at all. By the way, I loved your last film. You were marvellous in it.’
‘Thank you.’
They talked some more and then George took out what looked like a Chemistry textbook with incomprehensible symbols littering the pages. ‘You don’t mind if I read, do you?’ he asked.
‘Be my guest. It gives me the chance to snatch a quick forty winks.’
Her eyes closed, she thought of the weekend ahead and of her disappointment that she wouldn’t be seeing Romily. It was very unlike Romily to miss a family get-together. All Isabella knew, based on the telegram she had received, was that ‘something unexpected had cropped up’ and Romily would be home a week later than planned.
Well, that was Romily all over, the unexpected was her speciality. She coped with it better than anyone Isabella knew.
Chapter Eight
Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
Romily had asked Clara the maid where she should go to have her hair done and having taken her advice, she was now back from the salon. The hairdresser, who had wielded the tools of his trade as though conducting an orchestra, had made an excellent job of trimming and setting her hair into a stylish wave that was swept back from her forehead. She felt better for going.
However, the slapdash nature of Red St Clair’s note earlier that morning still rankled. She wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for meeting him, but she couldn’t. Even so, she was determined to look her best, and most businesslike. This was a business lunch after all. She put on her favourite cream Chanel suit and silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. She applied her make-up with care, slipped on her butterfly-wing sunglasses, and then scooped up her handbag to go across to the main house.
But the moment she stepped outside she realised the dry arid heat of the day had increased and she was going to be far too hot. Back inside the guest house, she threw off her suit and put on the red and white candy-stripe boat-neck dress she had earlier dismissed as being too informal. She then hunted for the handbag that matched the dress and her red peep-toe sandals, then reapplied her lipstick. This time a deep red.
‘All set,’ she declared, reaching for her sunglasses once more and appraising her reflection in the mirror. ‘Showtime for Mr St Clair.’
She apologised to the taxi driver who had patiently waited for her, and following a short drive to La Bella Vista, she was told by the maître d’ – a suave Italian with an impressive moustache – that her dining companion had called to say he was sorry, but he was running late. Resisting the urge to turn on her heel, Romily politely allowed the man to show her to the table that had been reserved for them. It was outside in the garden in the shade of a vine-covered pergola.
‘Would the Signora like an aperitivo while she waits?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, the Signora would indeed like an aperitif while she waits. She would like a vodka martini with a twist of lemon. Shaken not stirred.’
He smiled. ‘Subito, Signora. Subito.’ He hurried off, clicking his fingers ostentatiously to attract the attention of a waiter.
While waiting for her drink, Romily turned her attention to the other diners. They were mostly couples enjoying what appeared to be a romantic lunch. Seated at the table nearest to her was a young woman about Isabella’s age staring adoringly into the eyes of her dining companion, a man old enough to be her grandfather. She was talking about them playing tennis later that afternoon and him taking her dancing that night at somewhere called the Thunderbird Country Club. The man looked the sort to want a nap after lunch, never mind exerting himself on a tennis court, or dance floor.
It was a sight Romily had often witnessed in Hollywood, young girls throwing themselves at older men who they believed would further their careers. Or those who hoped for marriage and a life of wealth and luxury. But there were, of course, plenty of rich and powerful men who took advantage of these wide-eyed ingenues for their own ends.