‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The last thing I would want to do is cause any trouble. I thought it might be prudent of me to give Evelyn a ring later, just to explain the situation.’
‘Yes,’ said Romily, ‘that might be prudent. Do you have her number?’
‘No. I was hoping you would give it to me.’
‘Of course,’ Romily said, turning to look at Isabella. The girl’s face was now glowing radiantly from the heat of the fire, and it was obvious from the adoring expression in her twinkling eyes as she looked up at Max, that she was hopelessly in love with him.
Romily wanted to be happy for her, but to be in love with a man like Max, how could that ever be a good thing? Short term, yes. But if Isabella was wanting something lasting and meaningful, Max could only disappoint her. Unless he had changed. Could he have done so? She reminded herself of that look of concern and the protective arm she had seen while out in the hall.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Romily,’ said Isabella.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, that Max is frightfully old for me.’
‘Is that what you imagine me to be thinking, Max?’ Romily asked him directly.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to trespass on that fine brain of yours,’ he said smoothly.
‘But, Romily,’ continued Isabella, ‘you can’t possibly criticise me for doing exactly the same thing as you did? Jack Devereux was years and years older than you, wasn’t he?’
‘She has a point,’ said Max.
Romily wanted to tell him to keep his opinions to himself, and that Jack had been the best of men and utterly devoted to her. Not once had she doubted his faithfulness in the short time they had shared together. Would Isabella ever know that peace of mind in a relationship with Max? In loco parentis, her every instinct was to take him aside and demand to know what his intentions were.
She was saved from doing just that, and embarrassing them all, by Red entering the room bearing a large tray.
‘I took the liberty of commandeering some mince pies loitering in a tin in the pantry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hope that’s all right with you, Romily?’
‘A splendid idea,’ she said, taking the tray from him and placing it on the console table behind the sofa, ‘thank you so much.’
‘I must say, you really are the perfect house guest,’ said Isabella. ‘Now come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. Romily has been remarkably coy in sharing any information. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was hiding something.’
‘Behave yourself, Isabella, don’t think for one moment I won’t carry out my threat.’
Every inch the actress, Isabella put a hand to her heart, ‘Mr St Clair, can you believe what you’re hearing, that my guardian would throw a poor sick waif out into the snow? It’s like something out of a Dickens novel!’
Red smiled back at her. ‘I suspect she’d do it in a heartbeat.’
Everybody laughed and Max went over to Red and shook hands with him. ‘I’m Max, an old friend of Romily’s from way back when, and . . . ’ he hesitated before continuing, plainly unsure of what he should say.
‘And he’s my beau,’ supplied Isabella. She extended her hand towards Red. ‘I’m Isabella Hartley, the actress of the family.’
‘As if he couldn’t guess that for himself,’ said Romily, while Red shook hands with her.
‘Red is a scriptwriter and we met while I was in Palm Springs,’ she explained, passing round the mugs of hot chocolate and mince pies.
‘That’s where I live,’ Red joined in.
‘Have you been to England before?’ asked Max.
‘Yes. During the war. I was stationed not that far away from here at a US airbase.’
‘So a trip down memory lane for you?’ said Isabella.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said, his gaze sliding towards Romily. ‘From here on, it’s all about the future. I’ve spent too much time dwelling on the past.’
Chapter Seventy-One
Minton’s Bakery, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Florence
Every Christmas Eve Minton’s Bakery was one of the last shops to close, and every year, for much of the day, it was the same; the queue of customers was out of the door and almost to the butcher’s shop where an equally long queue was formed.
Busy refilling the shelves of the window display with sausage rolls, mince pies and loaves of warm bread fresh out of the oven, Florence smiled at their loyal customers patiently waiting in line. Stamping their feet to keep the circulation going in their toes, their breath forming in the icy air, most of them clutched overflowing baskets of shopping, and one or two held Christmas trees in their gloved hands.
George had earlier cleared the pavement in front of the shop, but within minutes fresh snow had fallen and it was as bad as ever it was. He was now delivering orders on foot to their elderly customers who couldn’t brave the treacherous conditions. Rosie was also pitching in on one of her rare days off and helping to serve behind the counter with her father. It was times like this, when they all pulled together as a family, that Florence felt sad that neither of their children wanted to continue the tradition of running Minton’s Bakery. But she accepted that George and Rosie had their own lives to lead.
Across the market square, and in front of the tall Christmas tree which Billy and the other shopkeepers had erected, she saw a group of children breaking off from building a snowman to have a snowball fight. Their whoops of delight caused those in the queue outside to smile, and more so when a couple pulling a sledge stopped to join in.
It was a few seconds before Florence realised it was Romily with the sledge. But who was the man with her who appeared to be throwing himself into the snowball fight with such gusto? When he hurled a snowball at Romily, she didn’t waste any time in retaliating. Everybody in the square began watching them with amusement. Funny how snow, as inconvenient as it could be, brought out a light-heartedness in people.
Florence had offered to extend her hours at Island House to help Romily in the run-up to the festive period, but she had said that with Hope in hospital she wouldn’t be hosting Christmas in the grand way she normally did; she felt it wouldn’t be appropriate. In place of her lavish Boxing Day party, she would be hosting just a small gathering for drinks. And as far as Florence knew for lunch tomorrow, Romily would be entertaining Isabella, Stanley, and Kit and Evelyn with the twins. Perhaps the mystery man who was now being pelted with a torrent of snowballs by Romily, and all the children, would also be there?
The shelves in the window display now replenished, Florence was about to turn away when she saw the housekeeper from Melstead Hall passing by. She was a miserable-looking woman who didn’t mind who she offended, much like her employer, Arthur Devereux. She had on one occasion accused Billy of selling her a stale loaf of bread, something he would never do. The butcher had also come in for criticism on the quality of his meat, and the fishmonger was accused of overcharging her.