‘I assure you I am,’ she said with a laugh.
He followed her downstairs. They were at the bottom of the stairs when the bell rang again, long and hard. Next thing, the letterbox flipped open and a pair of eyes peered in.
‘Romily, let us in, we’re freezing to death out here!’
Chapter Seventy
Island House, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Romily
‘I knew you wouldn’t mind my bringing along an extra guest,’ declared Isabella with a hacking cough while standing on the hall rug shivering. She resembled a bedraggled abominable snowman in her mink coat, which was covered from top to bottom with clumps of frozen snow. ‘After all, what’s Christmas without a few surprises?’
‘What indeed?’ Romily replied with a reticent smile. Her pleasure at seeing Isabella was severely marred by the presence of the man standing next to her with a case in each hand. What on earth was Isabella doing with Max Blythe-Jones? More to the point, what was he doing with Isabella? And what on earth would Evelyn have to say when she found out about this?
‘Long time no see,’ said Max, lowering the cases to the floor. ‘I do hope this isn’t too much of an imposition, me turning up out of the blue like this. It was very much a last minute decision. We did try telephoning this morning, but couldn’t get through.’
‘It’s true,’ said Isabella. ‘We kept getting the engaged tone.’
Romily could believe it, she had spoken for some time with her old friend, Sarah, as they always did on Christmas Eve, and afterwards with Mrs Collings, and then Annelise.
‘But I told Max nothing was ever an imposition to you, Romily,’ chirped Isabella. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘We all have our limits,’ said Romily mildly. Then more cordially, forcing herself to sound less aloof, she said, ‘Now let’s get you out of those wet things and warmed up. The pair of you look like you’ve trekked across the Siberian tundra! What were you thinking coming on foot from the station?’
‘We had no choice,’ said Max. ‘The taxi we thought we were lucky to find at the station had only gone a short distance when it slid off the road and we ploughed into a snowdrift that could rival the White Cliffs of Dover.’
‘We were lucky to escape with our lives,’ said Isabella with a laugh. Her laughter gave way to another rattling cough. Frowning, Romily took her sodden coat, but not before noting the concern on Max’s face.
‘I knew we should have stayed in London,’ he muttered, placing an arm – what looked to be a surprisingly protective arm – around Isabella’s shoulders.
Like a sunflower turning towards the sun, Isabella leaned in to him. It was only then that she seemed to realise that Romily wasn’t alone, that there was a fourth person standing in the hall with them. ‘Oh,’ she remarked, ‘you have company.’
‘This is Mr Red St Clair over from America,’ Romily told her, ‘I’ll introduce you properly once you’re in the drawing room sitting by the fire.’ And then you can tell me about you and Max, she thought.
‘How about I make your guests a drink?’ volunteered Red. ‘Maybe some hot chocolate? I’m a dab hand at that.’
Grateful for his offer of help, Romily told him hastily where to find everything. She then shooed Isabella and Max through to the drawing room, where she removed the guard from the fire and threw another couple of logs in the grate.
Isabella flopped into one of the armchairs nearest the fire. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so bone-numbingly cold,’ she said, stretching out her stockinged feet and resting them on the fender to warm.
‘I have to agree with Max on the wisdom of you making the journey,’ said Romily, brushing the log dust off her hands by rubbing them lightly against the backs of her legs. ‘That cough of yours sounds terrible. You told me on the telephone that you were better.’
‘I thought I was,’ she said, moving her feet so Max could perch on the corner of the fender next to her. ‘But I’ll soon be on top form again. You know how being at Island House always agrees with me.’
‘I fear it’s not going to be that jolly a Christmas, what with your aunt Hope still in hospital and now this weather.’
‘How is poor Hope?’
‘The same as before, I’m afraid.’
‘No sign of improvement at all?’
Romily shook her head. ‘So tell me how you two met,’ she said, keeping her voice as casual as she could while glancing at Max.
‘It was wonderfully romantic,’ Isabella gushed, ‘Max came to my rescue.’
Max scoffed. ‘I’d hardly call it romantic, me stepping in after that churl raised his hand to you.’
‘Heroic then. How does that sound?’
He smiled indulgently at her. ‘A slight exaggeration, darling.’
‘Who, I should like to know raised his hand to you, Isabella?’ asked Romily.
‘Oh, it’s all history. He’s since made an apology, which I’ve accepted, so water under the bridge now. I’m much more interested in hearing about the delicious man shacked up here with you, and currently in the kitchen making us hot chocolate.’
With a roll of her eyes, Romily tutted. ‘He’s not shacked up here as you so vulgarly put it; he’s a friend who is visiting.’
Isabella wriggled her toes on the fender. ‘If you say so,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is he a souvenir from your trip to America?’
‘Put your overactive imagination away, Isabella, and behave, or you’ll find yourself back out in the snow.’
‘And knowing Romily of old, as I do,’ said Max with a laugh, ‘I wouldn’t put her threat to the test.’
Isabella smiled up at him. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, to think how you all know one another from yonks ago.’
‘All?’ repeated Romily.
‘Well, you and Evelyn that is.’
An eyebrow raised, and knowing what Evelyn had told her about a one-off moment of madness that had occurred between her and Max at Bletchley, Romily looked askance at him.
In the silence that followed, as brief as it was, a log on the fire popped and spat. ‘There are no secrets between Isabella and me,’ he said. ‘She knows that I had a bit of a thing for Evelyn all those years ago. And that it wasn’t reciprocated in the way I would have liked at the time.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Romily said, surprised at his admission, ‘it would be better that you never repeat that while you’re here at Island House.’