Dear Julia: A Jazz Age Romance Read online

  Dear Julia

  by Romy Sommer

  Dedication

  To Mandy

  For your support, your friendship,

  and the idea that sparked this story: thank you!

  Praise for this book

  “The writing is as airy and bright as Rosalie herself, the characters are drawn with the sure strokes of an accomplished author, and the ending is as satisfying as any I’ve read. Dear Julia will wedge itself into your heart.”

  - Storm Goddess Book Reviews

  “With a wonderful atmospheric setting and interesting fully developed characters, Dear Julia is an elegantly written must-read historical romance.”

  - April, Goodreads Reviewer

  The Letter

  Stogumber, Somerset

  Wednesday, 23 May 1917

  Dear Julia,

  News is slow to arrive in our quiet corner of the world, so perhaps you have already heard these shocking tidings where you are.

  HMS Dartmouth suffered a torpedo attack off the Italian coast last Tuesday, after a naval fight in which no less than fourteen of our ships were sunk by the Austrian forces. Saturday’s edition of The Times, which has only now reached us, lists three dead, five missing and seven wounded. There are no names as yet, and we are all anxious for assurance that our dear William is not among the casualties.

  Since he has no family living, Mr Hemmings has agreed to undertake the trip to Portsmouth, where HMS Dartmouth is rumoured to be headed, to stand as a friend to William should he need it.

  Though you and he did not make a match of it as his mother and I once hoped (and there can be no blame attached to you, since I myself married for love, and have been so blessed in your Pappa, how could I possibly deny you your happiness?) I hope you will join your prayers to ours for his safe return and his future happiness.

  Your dearest Mamma

  PS: Your Pappa took a nasty fall while riding yesterday. Though he assures me he’ll be right as rain before the hunting season starts, I am concerned. We are neither of us as young as we used to be.

  My love to you and Daniel.

  Chapter One

  Dust swirled out in a thick, choking cloud as plaster and debris crashed to the floor. As the cloud cleared, Rosalie lowered her handkerchief from her face and coughed. In the yawning hole where the monstrous Victorian mantelpiece had been, a pile of broken bricks now lay in their own ashes. Something pale caught her eye amongst the rubble.

  “What is that?”

  One of the workmen bent to pick it up. “It’s a letter, miss.”

  He handed her the envelope, and she wiped her handkerchief across its grimy face to reveal paper yellowed with age and a name printed in a neat, square script, a man’s handwriting: Julia.

  Not just a letter. In one corner she felt the distinctive weight of something else. Curiosity growing, she turned the envelope over. No name or return address. She frowned. “It must have fallen behind the mantelpiece.”

  The man shrugged, disinterested, and she forced her attention back to the room. “Clear the bricks this afternoon, and tomorrow you can start to install the new mantel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The workmen began the clean-up and Rosalie moved to the window, holding the letter up to the light. Against the sharp autumn sunlight she could see a shape silhouetted within the envelope. A ring. Even through the fine paper of the envelope, she could tell it was very delicate and ornately filigreed. An old-fashioned design, to match the aged paper.

  She turned the envelope over again and looked at the writing. Beneath the dust and grime, perhaps it was not so old after all. The hideous black mantel had been installed less than fifty years ago. Whoever this ring had belonged to might still be alive.

  Rosalie left the builders to their work and headed to the back of the house, to the kitchen which overlooked the wild garden all the way down to the river. Anna the housekeeper sat at the table in the centre of the big room, shelling peas. She shook her head as Rosalie entered. “I hope you haven’t ruined that pretty dress.”

  Rosalie looked down at herself. She was covered head to toe in a film of grey dust. She shrugged. “It’s only a dress. Look what we found.”

  She held out the envelope to Anna. “Do you have any idea who Julia is?”

  Anna shook her head and took the letter. “No idea. But Mrs. Wallace in the post office is sure to know. She knows everything about everyone around here.”

  “Excellent idea. It’s the perfect afternoon for a walk into town.”

  “Not in that dress, you won’t.”

  Rosalie grimaced. “I guess not. And I’ll have to wash my hair, too, before I go.”

  “I’ll put some water to warm by the fire. Why your father couldn’t have got the plumbers in before we moved in, I’ll never know.”

  It was a familiar grumble, and Rosalie laughed. “We’ve lived in worse places. And I’ll have this place shipshape in no time.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. “I have no doubt of that, Miss Rosalie. And the rest of the village too, Heaven help them.”

  The tiny Somerset village of Stogumber lay amidst green fields, within sight of Exmoor. It was a pretty place, soft and sleeping beneath the pale sky, a world away from the bustle and noise of London. Since she’d barely been gone from the city a couple of weeks, Rosalie didn’t yet miss it, but she was sure she soon would. She could never stay still for long, and the quiet of the countryside held little appeal.

  She strode across the cow pasture that lay beyond the tangled edge of their property, her heeled boots sinking into the soft earth, then climbed the stile into the narrow and winding lane that led to the village. Dappled light slanted down between the trees, casting intricate patterns across the ground, reminiscent of the ring in its envelope which she’d locked carefully away in her jewellery box.

  The general store that doubled as the village post office was not hard to find. A bell chimed as she entered and the grey-haired woman behind the counter looked up. “Good afternoon, Miss Stanton. How may I help you?”

  “Mrs. Wallace?” Rosalie asked, though she hardly needed the confirmation. She’d definitely come to the right place if the woman already knew who she was.

  “That’s me.” The grey-haired woman beamed as she stepped out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Rosalie glanced around the store, taking in the neatly ordered shelves, and smiled. She’d been told many times she had an engaging smile that none could resist. “I’m curious about our house, and my housekeeper suggested you might be able to tell me a little about it and the people who lived there before us.”

  The older woman’s eyes brightened with the undisguised interest of the village gossip. Rosalie didn’t trust gossips. Mrs. Wallace might tell her what she wanted to know, but everyone within five miles of the village would most likely also know. And Rosalie had no intention of facing down a line of doubtful claimants.

  So instead she perched on the high stool before the counter, as if settling in for a light chat. “I gather the house stood empty for a couple of years before we moved in. Before that, who lived there?”

  “Alice Peabody stayed there for a few years, before she got sick and went to live with her son down Devon way.”

  “Did she live alone?”

  “There was a companion, another elderly lady, but she died not long after they moved in. Now what was her name?” Mrs. Wallace’s nose wrinkled as she thought. “It was a flower name. Violet, or Ivy, or something like that.”

  “And before them?”

  “Before them was the Fortescues. Gentry, they were. Old Grandfather Fortescue built the house with money he made out of the railways.” Mrs. Wallace dro
pped her voice, as if discussing something scandalous. “He’s the one who insisted on the bathrooms.”

  Rosalie sent up a prayer of thanks for the long dead Mr Fortescue’s fore-thought. And for Mrs. Wallace. At least now she knew the ring must have been intended for one of the Fortescues. But she didn’t want to ask outright if there had been a Julia in the family and risk rousing Mrs. Wallace’s curiosity. “Where they are now?”

  “The last Mr. Fortescue died during the war, after a bad riding accident, and his wife soon after in the Spanish Flu epidemic – though many of us thought she died of a broken heart. They were that devoted to each other.”

  Rosalie’s heart sank. How old might the letter be? And what if Julia no longer lived? She brushed aside the threatening disappointment. She would not give up so easily. “Did they have any children?”

  Mrs. Wallace smiled, her eyes warming with memory. “Just the one daughter, Julia. Such a sweet girl, so pretty, and lively as a bean.”

  Yes! Rosalie’s heart thumped against her ribs. “Is she still alive?”

  A cloud crossed Mrs. Wallace’s face. “Last anyone in the village heard, she’d gone to live in America with her new husband. Of course, he might know...”

  “Who might know?”

  The shopkeeper shook her head. “No, perhaps not. You could ask the vicar.”

  Now why hadn’t she thought of that?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace. This has been most interesting.” She hopped down from the stool. “Anna asked me to pick up a pound of sugar. I should hurry back with it or there won’t be cake for tea.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Stanton.” Mrs. Wallace measured out the sugar into a bag, and wrote up the payment. Then, as Rosalie headed for the door, she added, “You remind me of her, you know.”

  Rosalie hesitated on the threshold.

  “Same colour hair and bright blue eyes. And you have the same smile.”

  Rosalie smiled again. “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace.”

  She took the short cut to the vicarage, through the graveyard where lichened headstones stood tall above the freshly mown grass. The scent of drying grass hung heavy in the somnolent air.

  The vicar himself opened the door, a man built lean and tall like his church.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I’m not sure if you remember me? I attended your service last Sunday.”

  “Of course I do. Welcome to Stogumber, Miss Stanton. Would you care to come inside?”

  She followed him into the living room and perched on the edge of a heavily brocaded armchair, depositing the unneeded bag of sugar at her feet. Now that she was here, she wasn’t entirely sure what to say. Or whether to confide in him about the letter and the ring.

  The vicar settled himself on the sofa across from her. “I suspect this isn’t purely a social call?”

  “Not entirely, though in a village this size it’s good to know one’s neighbours.”

  “Indeed.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. He reminded her of her favourite uncle. “Will you be staying with your father for long?”

  “At least until the renovations are complete. My father’s too absorbed with his book to be bothered with builders and plumbers. After that…” she shrugged carelessly.

  “After that you’ll return to London for the season, I suppose?” he prompted.

  “It’s what young women do, isn’t it? Go to London to find a husband.” She smiled brightly, but she didn’t feel it. As much as she loved the parties and balls, the music and dancing and flirting, she had already begun to despair of finding a man she might actually want to marry. Twenty three was too young to feel so jaded.

  She shook her head, shaking off worries as she always did. Worrying was such a terrible waste of time.

  “I found some items during our house renovations that seem to belong to Julia Fortescue, and I was wondering if you had any idea where I could forward them?”

  Mr. Hemmings’ face clouded, as Mrs. Wallace’s had done. What was it about Julia that her memory caused such sorrow?

  “She married one of those American aviators during the war, I believe, and moved to the States with him. I’m not certain anyone around here would know where she is now, or even what her married name might be.” A thoughtful look crossed his face, and Rosalie watched with interest as he debated with himself before casting aside whatever thought had occurred to him. Interesting.

  “She was the last of her family,” he said. She didn’t think it was what he’d meant to say.

  “Mrs. Wallace said I look a lot like her.” Rosalie didn’t know why she said it, but she was glad she did. A startled expression sparked in the depths of his eyes, and he peered at her through his owlish glasses.

  “Yes, I suppose you do. She’d have been a little older than you, of course, but there’s a remarkable resemblance.” He sighed. “There are some things, Miss Stanton, that belong in the past. Julia Fortescue is one of them. He...”

  Rosalie’s skin prickled. When Mrs. Wallace had said ‘he’ she’d thought the older woman meant the vicar. But perhaps there was someone else in the village, someone who had been intimately tied to the Fortescues? Someone neither Mrs. Wallace nor the vicar wanted to mention. Her curiosity spiked.

  The vicar pulled his shoulders up, his expression shuttered now. “I suggest you throw those items away, Miss Stanton. If Julia did not value them enough to take them with her when she left, then she wouldn’t care for them now.”

  She wanted to tell him that Julia most likely never knew of the letter’s existence, but she bit her tongue. There was a finality in the vicar’s words she wasn’t about to argue with.

  Not when she had a new idea growing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hemmings.” She rose from the seat. “I will see you in church on Sunday.”

  “Feel free to visit any time, Miss Stanton.”

  She might, at that. There were so few people in the neighbourhood she could pay social calls to.

  She returned home through the woods, walking slowly and thinking deeply. Who was this mystery man both Mrs. Wallace and the vicar had alluded to, and why all the secrecy? And more importantly, how could she find him without starting the village gossiping?

  Chapter Two

  “What am I to do now, Anna?” Rosalie asked her closest friend and confidante over a breakfast of toast and tea in the draughty kitchen.

  “I don’t suppose you’d heed if I say you should do nothing at all and let it be?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then my advice would be to discuss it with your father.”

  Rosalie frowned. “He’s all wrapped up in writing this book. He wouldn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “What you mean is, he’d tell you to let it be, too, and you’ve already made up your mind not to.” Anna sighed, resigned. “Mrs. Wallace told you the Fortescues were gentry. Perhaps then Julia Fortescue would have made her debut in London, and if she’s only a few years older than you, someone there is sure to remember her.”

  Rosalie clapped her hands in excitement and rose from the chair to circle the table and drop a kiss on Anna’s brow. “You’re a gem. And you’re so right. Aunt Frances would know. She’s like a walking Debrett’s. I’m going upstairs to write to her right now.” She paused on the threshold. “You’ll let me know when the workmen arrive?”

  “I doubt you’ll miss them,” Anna grumbled. “Stomping all over the house in their great big boots, with the master trying to work in the study.”

  “He’ll survive.” Rosalie sent her a cheeky grin. “When he’s writing, he doesn’t notice a thing that happens around him.”

  The letter from Aunt Frances arrived less than a week later. Rosalie carried it out into the sunshine of the garden, where she sat on the old stone bench at the edge of the lawn to read. A week of sun had wrought a miracle in the garden. While the workers stripped and sanded the hardwood floors indoors, she and Anna had cleared the tangled flower beds, and a lad from the village had cut the knee-high grass. Now
it was a blank canvas, ready and waiting for her to paint it with her beloved bold strokes.

  She slit open the envelope, and sighed at the pages and pages in her aunt’s large, loopy scrawl. With gathering impatience she skimmed through the letter, searching for a name. It was on the third page.

  I remember Julia Fortescue well, Aunt Frances wrote. A pretty girl, but flighty, with dozens of suitors to choose from.

  No wonder Mrs. Wallace and the vicar thought she resembled Julia. She’d been accused of being flighty often enough. Usually by people who didn’t know her well enough to have met her stubborn streak.

  I remember she surprised us all by settling for a rather serious young man she’d grown up with. Can’t remember his name but he was in the navy. That was before the war and seems so terribly long ago now.

  Then her aunt moved on to more current news: a late season garden party, unsolicited fashion advice, and the scandalous gossip that Frances had seen the Prince of Wales out dining with Freda Ward. With my very own eyes! In public, and she a married woman with two children!!

  Rosalie set the letter down and stared unseeing at the garden before her.

  So Julia had been betrothed to a local Somerset man, a man who’d been in the navy. The marriage clearly hadn’t taken place since she’d ended up married to an American aviator soon after. Had the war intervened, as it had for far too many?

  No. Rosalie shook her head. He had survived the war, of that she was certain. She knew without a doubt now who that mysterious ‘he’ was. All she needed was a name. And the answer to the burning question of why Julia hadn’t, after all, married the man she’d grown up with.

  Later that afternoon Rosalie popped her head into her father’s study. “I’m off to the Women’s Institute meeting. Is there anything I can get you from the village?”