The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,85

I really didn’t care what Charles or anyone else thought of my absence. To hell with them.

Dawn brought only a little sleep before we eventually, reluctantly, rose to make something of the day – Christmas Day, my birthday. Edward dug a rusty saw out of the shed and we went on a hunt to find the perfect Christmas tree, but I felt a desperate pang of guilt. There was so much destruction in the world, why harm a little tree? Instead, we knocked on the door of a chap Edward knew in the village and borrowed the man’s wheelbarrow and spade. I watched while Edward dug up a tiny little fir tree we found in a copse at the back of the school and placed it carefully in the barrow. The little tree was placed into a pot and given pride of place in the lounge.

‘It’s not quite finished, though,’ Edward said, frowning from the doorway as I turned the pot to offer the tree’s best aspect to the room. ‘There’s a box of decorations in the loft. Back in a second.’

We sat in front of the fire and took great delight in rummaging through a box of decorations Edward had saved from the festivities of Christmas 1938. Most were bits and bobs made by the children in the hall – dried orange peel on string and paper chains. In 1938, Angels Cove had seemed far removed from the real world and the prospect of war, and even now, with the war raging on – not just in Europe but via the Luftwaffe on our home front, too – Angels Cove still seemed separate from the rest of the world, an escapists paradise, where all the right elements came together to promote nothing but harmony and an inexplicable feeling of peace and contentment.

But there were two particular items in the box which, when I saw them, filled my heart with joy – a Christmas tree ornament and a Christmas card.

I recognised the Christmas card, which had a hand-drawn angel on the front. I opened it up to read the message.

Dear Edward.

I have loved my week at Angels Cove and it’s been an absolute pleasure to meet you.

Here’s wishing you the very best of Christmases.

Yours, with love,

Juliet

Edward smiled as I read it. My eyes misted over.

‘You saved it?’ I whispered, still looking at the card in my hand.

‘Of course. Although, once you married Charles, I put it away with the decorations … too painful.’

I glanced up at him adoringly.

‘When did you know?’ I asked.

‘That I was in love with you?’

I nodded. ‘It’s a school girl question, I know, but answer it anyway.’

‘I suppose it would have been that day on the cliff, when you jumped out of the Tiger Moth with oil smeared all over your face, trying to shoo the cows.’

We both laughed at the memory.

‘The very first day, then?’ I pushed.

He touched my face tenderly and nodded.

‘The very first day.’

I placed the card on the mantelpiece and delved back into the box. The second item – the Christmas tree ornament–had a sliver of a red ribbon attached for hanging and was, in fact, a tiny oil painting set into a silver frame. The painting depicted a winter snow scene of Edward’s cottage, painted from the side aspect when looked on from the tiny pebbly beach which was down the path, just beyond the cottage, around our secret corner.

‘This is lovely,’ I said, holding the ornament in my hand.

Edward looked on tenderly.

‘It’s yours, actually.’

‘Mine?’

‘I painted it as a Christmas present that first year – the night you left. But when you married Charles, I …’

My heart melted. ‘I’m so sorry, Edward. More than you can ever know.’ I stood and crossed to the sideboard to hang the ornament on the tree. ‘We’ll have to make sure it’s always on show at Christmas, won’t we?’

He joined me by the tree.

‘Always?’ He took me by the hand and we crossed to the velvet chaise.

‘I’m leaving Charles tonight and heading back to Hamble in the morning. It’s over, Edward. No more lies.’

He nodded and stroked the back of my hand.

‘I’m not going to ask you if it’s the right decision because I’m sick of doing the right thing. I want you in my life, Juliet, whatever it takes. For ever.’

He kissed me then.

‘But what about Lottie?’ I asked, his mouth exploring my neck.

‘Lottie?’

He pulled away slightly.

‘She seems to have designs on you again. And what with you having escorted her to the party