“Goodness,” Hattie said, moving Rose’s pram away from the activity—she’s getting frightfully mother-hennish. “Well, perhaps it’s time to give him up, Venetia. I don’t mean to be heartless, but I worry about you, and I don’t think getting involved with him will bring you any happiness.”
“I don’t know.” I flopped down in a chair. “All I know for certain is that I can’t stop being with him without breaking my heart in the process. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t leave without getting to the bottom of it. It simply means too much to me.”
“What does your mother think of all this?”
“Mama is completely taken up with baby Lawrence, who still won’t keep down any milk. She’s also busy with Daddy as he’s become so volatile. Kitty’s running amok, and Silvie’s being looked after by Kitty and old Nanny Godwin from what I can gather. No one seems to care what we do or what’s happening.”
“Well, don’t worry about them for now. Think of what you need to do.” She patted my hand gently. “Isn’t there a way you could find out more before deciding?”
“I’ve made up my mind to follow him,” I told her with sudden conviction.
She sighed a great sigh, and it dawned on me that she’s the only one who ever really looked after me. “Well, just be careful,” she said. “And please give up if it gets too dangerous, Venetia. You don’t always have to be the brave and daring one.”
I went to the door and looked back, feeling such warmth and concern from her. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“You know I’ll always worry about you, Venetia,” she said, and I suddenly felt like crying. So I quickly turned and paced determinedly across the green, the ducks waddling fast to avoid my feet. I took a deep breath of the warm summer air, and prayed I’d come out of this alive.
I’ll write as soon as I can and tell you how it all goes, fingers crossed.
Venetia
Monday, 29th July, 1940
What an odd thought occurred to me today. I’m still trying to think it all through. The morning was quite usual, as I popped over to the surgery to help deal with everyone’s aches and pains. Since the war started, people come to see me when they’re out of sorts, even if there isn’t much wrong with them. Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in one of the air raids on Dover, has developed an ongoing cough with no apparent cause. She comes in most days to see me. I try to offer kind words, but she edges back as if unable to bear it, her face gray like a ghost’s. All we can do is make more tea and give her some aspirin. Mrs. Quail got her to join the choir, and although she remained silent for a full half hour, she finally managed a few lines of “Praise My Soul.” It was an oddly moving moment for all of us, as if we were trying to bring a crushed bird back to life with nothing but song.
After luncheon I had to pop over to Hattie’s, where she tried to convince me that little Rose is the image of Victor, and I couldn’t help thinking it odd that she doesn’t look like either of them. In fact, baby Lawrence with his sprouts of dark hair looks more like Hattie, and then I remembered noticing at the christening that Rose had the same coloring as her godmother, Venetia. And that started me thinking about it all: the nasty medicine, the fact that both births happened on the same afternoon—the afternoon that I was in Litchfield. Then they both had the same breathing problem, both requiring resuscitation at Miss Paltry’s house.
And when I’d met Miss Paltry in the square that day, I’d imagined—ridiculously, I thought at the time!—that there was a noise coming from her bag. Could it have been a child? Could she have swapped the babies? I shuddered at the horror of the idea. I think I must have looked a little dazed as Hattie touched my elbow and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Tilling?”
I pulled myself together sharply. I can’t have anyone suspecting anything until I have more time to think it all through. Until I have proof.
“It’s fine, dear,” I said, smiling. “I just remembered I need to hurry a little today because I need to check on Mrs. Winthrop’s little one, too.” I pondered a moment, then asked, “Do you remember when poor Rose had that breathing problem after she was born?”
“How could I forget it? It was the worst moment of my life.”
“Did you see little Rose at all before Miss Paltry took her away?”
Her eyes looked doubtful, questioning my question, and I had to quickly put her at ease.
“I mean, you should have at least been able to hold her before she was whisked away from you?”
Hattie’s thin face crumpled into tears. “No, I hardly saw her pretty little face before she was rushed out.” She looked down at the baby in her arms, and her shoulders relaxed. “She was gone a whole five minutes. I was beside myself. I pulled myself out of bed and hauled myself down to the front door, and Miss Paltry was back, with my precious little baby.”