The Chain of Destiny
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. He was the last man…Suzannah Lightfoot was alone in the world, without a job or the means to support herself. So when Guy Bowers-Bentinck came to the rescue, she had to accept his help. Guy was hardly a knight in shining armour. He was arrogant, infuriating and bad tempered! He was also difficult to avoid.Even worse, he seemed to have assumed that Suzannah was about to join the ranks of all those females wanting to marry him. What was a girl to do?
“We say goodbye rather frequently, don’t we?”
With a touch of impatience, he added, “Let me know if you need help. Have you sufficient money to keep you until you find a job?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He eyed her narrowly and was about to speak when the study door was pushed wide and a dachshund trotted out and sat down beside the professor. “You haven’t met Henry—come and say hello to him.”
She crossed the space between them and stooped to pat the little dog. “Hello and goodbye, Henry,” she said, and rubbed a silky ear.
She stood up and offered a hand to the professor. “Goodbye, Professor.”
He took her hand and bent and kissed her. She had been kissed before, but this was different. The thought flashed through her mind that it would be delightful to be kissed like that every day…. But she would have to be content with once in a lifetime.
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.
The Chain of Destiny
Betty Neels
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE ROSE BRICKS of the gracious old manor house shone warmly in the late August sunshine, and the small groups of people walking towards it paused to admire the pleasant sight; it wasn’t one of the great country houses but it was early Tudor, still occupied by the descendants of the man who had built it and well worth a pleasant drive through the Wiltshire countryside on a bright afternoon.
There were still ten minutes before the door, solid wood in its stone archway, would be opened, and the visitors strolled around, studying the latticed windows and black and white plasterwork which presented a picture of enduring peace.
Appearances could be deceptive; behind its serene front there was a good deal of activity. The family had retired to their private wing, leaving a number of people to organise the afternoon. Mr Toms, the estate steward, was in charge; a small wiry man, familiar with the house down to its last creaking floorboard, he was counting small change into a box on the table just inside the door, ready for the vicar’s wife, who would be issuing tickets. And disposed around the large square entrance hall stood the guides: Miss Smythe, the church school teacher, tall and thin with a ringing voice which allowed no tourist to dawdle or lose interest; Mrs Coffin, who ran the village stores and post office, and lastly Suzannah Lightfoot, whose aunt lived in the front lodge, offered to her for her lifetime after years of devoted duty to the family’s great-aunt, who had lived to a great age and been something of a trial to them all. The family were seldom all there any more; the house was lived in by a peppery old uncle and his niece, a young woman of twenty-five or so, whose parents were living in America where her father had a diplomatic post. In the meantime the house was kept in good shape—helped by the modest number of visitors who came at weekends—ready for when the younger members of the family should return.
Mr Toms was frowning and tut-tutting. He had omitted to bring a spare roll of tickets with him, and there were barely five minutes before the door would be opened. He beckoned to Suzannah, gave her hurried directions and sent her off with an urgent wave of the hand.
She knew the old house well; two years ago she had been taken on as one of the house guides and, since she couldn’t leave her aunt for any length of time, the small job suited her well enough. True, there was little money to be had from it, but what there was served to pay for her scant wardrobe and a few extras for her aunt, and she was a girl who made the best of what she had. Not that that was much.
She nipped up the worn treads of the oak staircase and along a wide corridor leading to the wing where the family lived and where Mr Toms had his office. It meant going through the picture gallery with its rows of paintings and dark oak wall tables and beautifully carved Jacobean chairs, isolated by crimson ropes, which she dusted twice a week. It was a gallery she loved, but she didn’t waste time on it now, opening a little door in the panelled wall and hurrying along a small passage to Mr Toms’ office. The roll of tickets was on his desk, so she picked it up closed the door behind her and started back again, a rather small girl with no pretentions to beauty, although her grey eyes were large and clear and her mouth, rather on the large side, curved up at its corners very sweetly. Her figure was pretty, but hardly showed to its best advantage in the checked cotton blouse and plain dark skirt; all the same, she was as neat as a new pin and her hair, richly red and shining, was tied back in a ponytail. She whisked through the door in the wall, closing it behind her, and then stopped short. Halfway down the gallery a man stood studying one of the portraits on the wall, and as she looked he began to stroll towards her. He was a large man, and tall, and certainly not in his first youth, for his hair was silvered at the temples and he had an air of assurance; he was also well-dressed in a casual way.
Probably sneaked in ahead of the rest, decided Suzannah, advancing towards him. She said politely, ‘I’m sure you aren’t aware that this part of the house is private? If you will come with me, I’ll show you where the entrance is and you can join up with a guided party.’
He had come to a halt before her, studying her down his high-bridged nose with eyes as cold as blue ice. She bore this scrutiny with equanimity, although she went rather pink under it, especially when he asked indifferently, ‘And what makes you think that I wish to be guided?’
She answered with tart politeness, ‘It says very clearly at the door that visitors must take a guided tour, so perhaps you would come with me?’
‘Are you a guide?’
‘Yes.’ She led the way through the gallery, paused at the end of the corridor to make sure that he was still behind her, and went down the staircase, where she left him with a firm, ‘You may join any of the guided groups—you’ll need a ticket.’
She turned away, but he put out a large, well-kept hand and took her gently by the elbow. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘are you the local schoolteacher, or, if not that, the vicar’s daughter?’
Suzannah lifted his hand off her arm and said with dignity, ‘You are a very rude man.’ She added with a tolerant matter-of-factness, ‘Such a pity.’
The first of the visitors were being admitted; she handed over the tickets to the vicar’s wife and went to stand in her appointed place to the left of the massive carved table in the centre of the hall. One by one she was joined by sightseers; each guide took from six to twelve visitors at a time, and today, with the summer holidays nearly over, there were fewer tourists; another month and the house would be closed for the winter. Suzannah, waiting patiently for the last of her group, allowed herself to worry about getting a job to take her through the months until the house opened again at Easter.
The guides were setting off, each on her own itinerary, and Suzannah counted heads, wished everyone a good afternoon and led the way out of the hall into the panelled dining-room, closely followed by an elderly couple, a stout man in a cloth cap, a thin lady in a hard felt hat, a pair of teenagers carrying a transistor radio and, last but by no means least, a tired-looking young woman carrying a fretful baby. Suzannah smelled trouble ahead, either from the baby or the transistor radio, but they had paid their money and they expected value for it. She exchanged a sympathetic smile with the young woman and took her stand by the table in the centre of the room. She laid a loving hand on its age-old patina. ‘Elizabethan,’ she began in her lovely clear voice, ‘the carving is beautiful, and you will notice the bulbous legs, reflecting the clothes of that period; the oak cupboard is a court cupboard of the same period…’ Her listeners crowded around as she pointed out the great silver salt-cellar, the engraved silver tankards and the silver sweetmeat boxes arranged on it. By the time they had reached the two-tiered chimneypiece they were beginning to show a faint interest and, much encouraged, she urged them to view the ceiling. ‘Strapwork,’ she recited, ‘with a central motif of the ship of the Jacobean period. The same ship is carved above the door we are about to go through.’
Heads were lowered obediently as she led the way to the door, opened it and stood beside it to make sure that everyone went through. The last one was the man from the picture gallery, who despite his great size had managed to join the tail end of the group without her seeing him.
She gave him a chilly look as he went past her.
The dining-room led into the drawing-room, rather more William and Mary than Elizabethan, and here there was a good deal more to see. Suzannah went from the side-table with barley-sugar legs—these called forth a joke from the man in the cloth cap—to a Charles the Second armchair in walnut and cane, and a Gibbons chimneypiece. She loved the room and would have lingered in it, but her group were only vaguely interested, although they obediently followed her from one portrait to the next, commenting upon the opulent charms of the ladies in them and making outspoken remarks about the gentlemen’s wigs, and all the while the man from the gallery wandered around on his own, but never so far that she felt that she must beg him to keep up with everyone else. A tiresome person, she reflected, leading her party across a handsome inner hall and into the ballroom.
It was here that the three guides met and passed each other and here, naturally enough, that the laggards wandered off with the wrong lot. Today there was the added complication of the baby beginning to cry. Its thin whimper gradually gathered strength until it was a piercing scream. Suzannah, gathering her little party together to move out of the ballroom and into the library, waited until the woman passed her.
‘Look, why don’t you sit down for a minute while I talk? We always allow a few extra minutes in the library, there’s a lot to see.’
The woman looked very tired and pale. ‘You don’t mind?’ she whispered and, rather to Suzannah’s astonishment, handed her the baby.
It stopped crying at once, stared up at her with large blue eyes and sank into instant sleep. No one seemed to have noticed; she tucked the infant firmly against her shoulder and made her way from one visitor to the next, answering questions and pointing out the massive bookcases, the library steps and the enormous painting on one wall depicting the ancestor of the present owner, sitting on his charger, and staring in a noble fashion into the middle distance.
An eye on her watch told her that she was a little behind schedule; she nipped smartly to where the woman was sitting and handed back the baby and turned away to collect up the others. The man from the gallery was leaning nonchalantly against one wall, his hands in his pockets, watching her and smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile, she thought, and to her annoyance she blushed.
There was only the inner staircase, the state bedroom and the boudoir to visit now. They straggled up the staircase, not really listening to her careful description of its wrought-iron balustrade, nor were they interested in the coffered ceiling, but the bedroom they enjoyed, admiring the great four-poster with its brocade hangings, and the silver jug and ewer on the little oak table with the silver mirror hanging above it. And the boudoir was admired as much and at even greater length, for it was furnished at a later period, with hanging cabinets, a chaise-longue, and some pretty shield-back armchairs. But at length she was able to collect everyone and lead them back down the main staircase to the hall, trying to ignore the man who, most annoyingly, wandered along at his own pace and, when they reached the hall, disappeared completely.
‘And good riddance,’ muttered Suzannah, wishing everyone goodbye.
The next group was already forming, a quite different kettle of fish, she saw at once: a donnish-looking elderly gentleman accompanied by a staid wife, and two stout ladies carrying books on antiques. It was nice to have an attentive audience, and she enjoyed herself, although just once or twice she found herself wishing that the strange man had been there too. But there was no sign of him. She escorted two more groups round the house before the door was finally shut and, after doing a round to make sure that everything was as it should be, and checking the takings with the vicar’s wife, she walked down the drive, took a short-cut through the dense shrubbery half-way down its length, and reached the small grass clearing enclosed by a plain iron fence. She stood alongside the gate, a handsome edifice of wrought iron between two stone pillars, lichen-encrusted and topped by griffons. The lodge was a picturesque cottage, built for outward effect, and quite charming with its small latticed windows, miniature gabled roof and tall, twisted chimneys. Inside, the rooms were poky and dark, and the plumbing was in need of modernisation. All the same, it had been home to Suzannah for several years now, ever since her parents had died in a motoring accident while she was at boarding-school. Aunt Mabel had just retired and had offered her a home at once, and Suzannah had left the school and her hopes of a university and gone to live with her. Any vague ideas she had had about her future were squashed within a few months when her aunt became ill and it was found that she had a cerebral tumour. Inoperable, they had said, and sent her home again under the care of her doctor and with instructions to Suzannah not to tell her aunt what ailed her.
There was a small pension, plus Suzannah’s small earnings to live on, and the cottage was rent-free; they managed very well, and the tumour, slow-growing, seemed quiescent except for the headaches it caused. Suzannah, now twenty-two, had accepted her life sensibly, thankful that her aunt was still able to potter around and take pleasure from their quiet way of living, and if sometimes she regretted the future she had planned for herself, she never gave a sign that it was so. Only now, as she opened the door, she was wondering how she could best find a job which would allow her to be with her aunt for most of the day. But nothing of her worries showed as she went inside. The door opened directly on to the sitting-room, simply furnished but comfortable with a door leading to the small kitchen beyond. Another door in the wall opened on to the narrow stairs which led to the two bedrooms above; a narrow shower-room and toilet had been built on behind the kitchen when her aunt had gone there to live, and beyond that there was the garden where between them they grew vegetables and flowers, which Suzannah heaped into buckets and boxes and left at the gate in the hope that the visitors might buy them. Which they very often did, but now the summer was beginning to fade there was little to sell.
Her aunt was sitting in her chair with her cat, Horace, on her lap. She turned her head and smiled at Suzannah as she went in; she had a nice smile, which made her lined face looked years younger.
‘There you are, dear. Did you have a busy afternoon?’
‘Just busy enough to make it interesting,’ said Suzannah cheerfully. Her eye fell on the table. ‘You haven’t had tea?’
Her aunt looked apologetic. ‘Well, dear, I did get up to make a cup, but I had to sit down again. It’s so silly, but I’m a little dizzy…’
Suzannah whisked across to her chair. ‘Only dizzy?’ she asked gently. ‘No headache?’
‘No, dear, just a dull, heavy feeling. I’d love a cup of tea.’
They had their tea and presently her aunt dozed off, which left Suzannah free to get their supper, feed Horace and shut up the few hens at the end of the garden. Supper was cooked and the table laid before her aunt awoke and sat down at the table. But she ate very little and presently said that she would go to bed.
‘You’re still dizzy?’ asked Suzannah. ‘I’ll come up with you, Aunty, and if you’re not better in the morning I’ll get Dr Warren to call. Perhaps your tablets are too strong.’
She stayed upstairs until her aunt had fallen asleep and then cleared away their supper, laid the table for breakfast, settled Horace for the night and took herself off to bed, worried about her aunt. True, she had been known to have dizzy spells before, but they were over quickly, and this evening her aunt had looked ill and pale.
She crossed the tiny landing and made sure that her aunt was asleep before she got into bed herself. It took her a long time to go to sleep, and when she did she dreamed of her aunt and, inexplicably, of the man in the picture gallery.
It was a crisp, bright morning when she got up. She hung out of her small window to admire the trees beyond the meadow at the back of the cottage. She put on her dressing-gown and crossed the landing, to find her aunt wide awake.
She was still very pale, Suzannah saw uneasily, but all the same she said cheerfully, ‘Did you have a good night, Aunty? I’ll get you a cup of tea…’
Her aunt peered at her. ‘Not tea, dear, I don’t feel quite the thing—it’s so silly to feel giddy when I’m lying in bed, isn’t it?’
She began to sit up in bed and then with a muttered, ‘Oh, dear’, slid back against her pillows. ‘Such a bad headache,’ she whispered, ‘and I feel so sick.’
Suzannah fetched a bowl, made her aunt comfortable and murmured in a reassuring way and when, surprisingly, her aunt went suddenly to sleep, she leapt down the stairs to the phone, a modern blessing which had been installed when her aunt had first become ill. It was barely seven o’clock, but she had no hesitation in ringing Dr Warren; he had told her to do just that if he was needed, and she wasn’t a girl to panic and call him for something trivial.
His quiet voice assured her that he would be with her in ten minutes before he hung up.
He was as good as his word, and by then her aunt was deeply asleep. ‘More than sleep,’ he told her, ‘a coma, but not very deep as yet.’ He looked at the small figure standing before him. ‘Your aunt is too ill to move. Do you think you can manage?’
‘Yes, of course—if you’ll tell me what I have to do?’
‘Very little.’ He explained what needed to be done. ‘And I’ll get the district nurse to pop in later on.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve an old friend staying with me for a couple of days—he’s a friend of the Davinishes at the manor, too—he’s a brain surgeon—I’d like him to take a look at your aunt, there might be something…’
‘Oh, please—if there’s anything at all… You see, she’s been quite well for months and it’s been hard to remember that she’s ill. She’s been getting slower and more tired, but never like this.’ She shivered and the doctor patted her shoulder.
‘Get yourself dressed and have some breakfast, I’ll be back in an hour or two and see what can be done.’
He was as good as his word; she barely had the time to dress, bathe her sleeping aunt’s face and hands and straighten the bed, feed a disgruntled Horace and make herself some tea before he was back, this time with his friend and colleague. The man from the picture gallery, coming quietly into the cottage, greeting her gravely and giving no sign at all that he had already met her.
But in any case Suzannah was too worried to give much thought to that; she led the way upstairs and stood quietly by while he examined her aunt with unhurried care and then trod downstairs again where he conferred quietly with Dr Warren. When they had finished Dr Warren called Suzannah from the kitchen, where she had been making coffee.
‘Professor Bowers-Bentinck thinks that the wisest course for us to follow is to let your aunt remain here. There is no point in taking her to hospital; she is gravely ill—you do understand that, don’t you? There is nothing to be done, my dear, and let us be thankful that she has slipped into a coma and will remain so…’
Suzannah gave a gulp. ‘Until she dies?’
‘Yes, Suzannah. Believe me, if there was the faintest hope of saving her by surgery, the professor would operate. I’m sorry.’
‘How long?’
‘A day—a few hours. I shall ask the district nurse to come here as soon as she has done her round. You will need help.’
All this while the professor had stood quietly by the window, looking out on to the little strip of grass and the flower border which separated the lodge from the drive. Now he turned to face her.
‘I am so sorry, Miss Lightfoot, I wish that I could help, but Dr Warren is quite right, there is nothing to be done.’
He sounded so kind that she felt tears prick her eyes. It was hard to equate this calm, impersonal man with the hard-eyed, tiresome creature who had been in the picture gallery. She said in a small voice which she strove to keep steady, ‘Thank you, I quite understand. It was good of you to come.’ After a moment added, ‘Aunty will sleep? She won’t wake and feel frightened?’
‘She won’t wake again,’ he told her gently.
She nodded her untidy red head. ‘I’ll fetch the coffee.’
They drank it, sitting in the small room, the two men talking about nothing in particular, covering her silence, and presently the professor got to his feet and went back upstairs. When he came down again, the two men went away, getting into Dr Warren’s elderly car with a final warning that she was to telephone and that Nurse Bennett would be with her directly.
Nurse Bennett had been the district nurse for years; the very sight of her comfortable form getting out of her little car was reassuring. She had known Miss Lightfoot for a long time and Suzannah for almost as long. She put her bag down on the sitting-room table and said cheerfully, ‘Well, love, we’ve known this would happen—it doesn’t make it any easier for you, but it’s a gentle passing for your aunty, and we’d all wish for that, wouldn’t we, after all she’s done for others.’
Suzannah had a good cry on to her companion’s plump shoulder and felt better for it. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea while you go upstairs,’ she said in a watery voice, and managed a smile.
Miss Lightfoot slipped away as she slept, and by then it was late in the evening and Dr Warren had been once more. He had liked his patient and felt sorry for her niece. ‘Nurse Bennett will stay here tonight,’ he told Suzannah, ‘and I’ll deal with everything.’
He went back home and his wife asked him what would happen to Suzannah. ‘She’s a sensible girl’, he observed. ‘That’s a nice little house and I dare say she’ll find work; she’s a clever girl, you know, should have gone to a university by rights. I dare say they’ll give her a helping hand at the manor house.’
The professor had already left to keep an appointment; Dr Warren picked up the phone and left a message for him.
Almost the entire village went to the funeral. Miss Lightfoot had been liked by everyone, and Suzannah, going home to an empty little house, felt comforted by their kindness. She had refused several offers of hospitality; it would only be putting off the moment when she would be alone with Horace. She had been unhappy before when her parents had died, and she knew that the unhappiness would pass, and pass more quickly if she faced up to it and carried on with her life as usual. She cooked her supper, fed Horace, saw to the hens and went to bed, and if she cried a little before she slept, she told herself it was only because she was tired after a long and trying day.
It was hard at first and time hung heavy on her hands, for she had been doing more and more for her aunt during the past few months. She turned out cupboards and drawers, gardened for hours at a stretch, and in the evenings sat at the table, pondering ways and means. Her aunt had left only a very little money, for she had been supplementing her pension from her small capital. Suzannah had a few pounds saved, but she would have to find work as soon as possible. There had been a rumour in the village that Miss Smythe had asked for an assistant to help her in the school; Suzannah had had a good education, a clutch of A-levels and could have had a place in a university. Much cheered with the idea, she went to bed a week or so after her aunt’s death, determined to go and see Miss Smythe in the morning.
She was up early to find that the postman had already been—several letters which she skimmed through and laid on one side to answer later; the last one was from the manor house and rather surprised her—a formal note asking her to call there that morning.
She read it a second time; perhaps there was a job for her there? She got dressed and had breakfast, tidied the little house and walked up the drive and round the side of the house to the door which the staff used. She met Mr Toms as she was going through the flagstoned passage which would lead her to the stairs and the private wing. She had always got on well with him, but now he showed no wish to stop and pass the time of day; indeed, he muttered that he was already late and barely paused to wish her good morning, which surprised her very much.
Grimm the butler answered the door when she pressed the discreetly hidden bell by the door at the top of the staircase. He bade her good morning, ushering her into a small ante-room, and then he went away, to return in a few minutes and ask her to go with him.
She had expected to see old Sir William, but there was no sign of him in the study into which she was ushered. Only his niece, a girl a little older than Suzannah, sat behind the desk. Suzannah had met her on several occasions and hadn’t liked her; she liked her even less now as she went on writing, leaving Suzannah to stand in the middle of the room. She looked up finally and Suzannah thought what a pretty girl she was, tall and dark with regular features and blue eyes and always beautifully dressed. She said now, ‘Oh, hello. Uncle isn’t well enough to see anyone, so I’ve taken over for a time. I won’t keep you long. I expect you’ve heard that there is an assistant teacher coming to live here to give Miss Smythe a hand. She’ll start after half-term, in a couple of weeks’ time, so we shall want the lodge for her to live in.’
It was the very last thing Suzannah had expected to hear. She was sensible enough to know that sooner or later she would have to leave the lodge unless she could get a job connected with the manor house, and somehow she had believed that old Sir William would have agreed to her applying for the post of teacher or at least allowed her to have stayed on and continued to work as a guide.
She said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘I had hoped to apply for that post…’
‘Well, it’s been filled, and don’t expect to find a job here. Sir William has been far too easygoing; I’m cutting down on the staff. But you’re able to shift for yourself, I suppose?’ She gave Suzannah a cold smile. ‘I consider that we’ve more than paid our debt to your aunt; there’s no reason why we should have to go on paying it to you.’ She pulled some papers towards her. ‘Well, that’s settled, isn’t it? I don’t know what you intend doing with your aunt’s furniture—sell it to the schoolteacher if you like, only the lodge must be empty of your possessions in two weeks. Goodbye, Suzannah.’
Suzannah didn’t answer, she walked out of the room and closed the door very gently behind her. It was like a bad dream, only it wasn’t a dream, it was reality, and presently when she could think straight she would come to terms with it. Without thinking, she took the long way round to the front door, through the picture gallery, and half-way along it found herself face to face with Professor Bowers-Bentinck. She would have walked past him, but he put out a hand and stopped her, staring down at her pale, pinched face.
‘Well, well, Miss Lightfoot, so we meet once more—there must be a magnet which draws us…’ He had spoken lightly, but when she looked up at him with her lovely grey eyes full of hurt and puzzlement, he asked, ‘What’s wrong? You’re not ill?’
She didn’t answer, only pulled her arm away and ran from him, out of the gallery and down the staircase, through the front door and down the drive. She would have to be alone for a while to pull herself together and then think what was best to do. Fleetingly she wondered why the professor was at the manor house, and then she remembered that old Sir William wasn’t well. And anyway, what did it matter?
Back at the lodge, she sat down at the kitchen table with Horace on her lap and tried to think clearly. Two weeks wasn’t long, but if she was sensible it would be time enough. She fetched pencil and paper and began to write down all the things which would have to be done.
The professor stood for a moment, watching Suzannah’s flying figure, then he shrugged his huge shoulders and went back to the private wing, opened the door of the study and strolled in.
The girl at the desk looked up and smiled charmingly at him.
‘Phoebe, I have just met that small red-haired girl who works as a guide here, with a face like skimmed milk and tragic eyes…’
The girl shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s that woman’s niece—the one who died and lived at the lodge. The new assistant teacher will have to live there, so I’ve arranged for the girl to move out.’
He leaned against the wall, looking at her without expression. ‘Oh? Has she somewhere to go?’
‘How should I know, Guy? She’s young and quite clever, so I’ve heard; she’ll find something to do.’
‘No family, no money?’
‘How on earth should I know? Uncle William has been far too soft with these people.’
‘So you have turned her loose into the world?’
The girl frowned. ‘Well, why not? I want that lodge and there’s no work for her as a guide—I’ve got rid of that woman from the post office, too. Miss Smythe can manage on her own, and if we get more visitors in the summer I’ll get casual help.’
‘Does your uncle know about this?’ he spoke casually.
‘Good heavens, no! He’s too old to be bothered. I’ll write to Father and let him know when I’ve got time.’
‘And he will approve?’
She shrugged and laughed. ‘It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t—he’s on the other side of the world.’ She pushed back her chair and smiled charmingly. ‘Let’s talk about something else, Guy—how about driving me over to Hungerford and giving me lunch?’
‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Phoebe. I have to be back in town this afternoon.’ He strolled back to the door. ‘I came to see your uncle before I left.’
‘You’re not going? I counted on you staying for a few days…’ She got up and crossed the room to him. ‘You don’t mean that?’
He had opened the door. ‘My dear girl, you tend to forget that I work for a living.’
‘You don’t need to,’ she retorted.
‘Agreed, but it’s my life.’ He made no move to respond when she kissed his cheek.
‘We’ll see each other?’ she asked.
‘Undoubtedly, my dear.’ He had gone, shutting the door behind him.
He went back to Dr Warren’s house, made his farewells, threw his bag into the boot of the Bentley and drove away. But not very far. At the main gates of the manor house he stopped, got out and knocked on the lodge door. There was no answer, so he lifted the latch and walked in.
Suzannah was sitting at the table, neatly writing down what needed to be done if she were to leave in two weeks—the list was long and when she had finished it she began on another list of possible jobs she might be able to do. It seemed to her, looking at it, that all she was fit for was to be a governess—and were there such people nowadays? Or a mother’s help, or find work in a hotel or large house as a domestic worker. Whichever way she looked at it, the list was depressing.
She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, and for some reason she wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him. She said in a slightly thickened voice, ‘Oh, do go away…’
Despite her best efforts, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ he told her coolly, ‘and don’t, for pity’s sake, start weeping. It’s a waste of time.’
She glared at him and wiped a hand across her cheeks like a child. She wasn’t sure why he seemed to be part and parcel of the morning’s miserable happening; she only knew that at that moment she didn’t like him.
He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs before him. ‘You have to leave here?’
‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Now, if you would go away, I have a great deal to do.’
He sat looking at her for a few moments, frowning a little, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miss Davinish tells me that you have no job. Perhaps I could have helped in some way,’ his blue eyes were cold, ‘but it seems that I was mistaken.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good day, young lady.’
He went away as quietly as he had come, and she heard his car drive away.
CHAPTER TWO
SUZANNAH DID her best to shake off the feeling that the not very solid ground beneath her had been cut from under her feet. She might not like the professor, but he had offered to help her and she badly needed help, and like a fool she had turned his offer down; she hadn’t even thanked him for it, either. A pity he hadn’t had the patience to stay a little longer until her good sense had taken over from her stupid bout of weeping. She winced at the thought of the cold scorn in his eyes. And yet he had been so kind when Aunt Mabel had been ill…
As for the professor, he drove back to London, saw a handful of patients at his consulting rooms, performed a delicate and difficult brain operation at the hospital and returned to his elegant home in a backwater of Belgravia to eat his dinner and then go to his study to catch up on his post. But he made slow work of it. Suzannah’s red hair, crowning her white, cross face, kept superimposing itself upon his letters. He cast them down at length and reached for the telephone as it began to ring. It was Phoebe at her most charming, and she had the knack of making him laugh. They talked at some length and he half promised to spend the next weekend at the manor house. As he put the phone down, he told himself that it was to be hoped that Suzannah would be gone.
He spoke so forcefully that Henry, his long-haired dachshund, sitting under his desk, half asleep, came out to see what was the matter.
He had a long list the next day, and when it was over he sat in sister’s office, drinking coffee and taking great bites out of the sandwiches she had sent for, listening courteously to her rather tart observations on lack of staff, not enough money and when was she to have the instruments she had ordered weeks ago?
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘We need another staff nurse, don’t we? We didn’t get a replacement for Mrs Webb when she left. You’re working at full stretch, aren’t you, Sister?’
She gave him a grateful look. Sister Ash was in her fifties, a splendid theatre sister and, although she had a junior sister to take over when she was off duty, she was hard-pressed. Just like Professor Bowers-Bentinck to think of that, she reflected; such a nice man, always calm, almost placid when he was operating, and with such lovely manners. She thanked him and presently he went off to the intensive care unit to take a look at his patient. It was as he was strolling to the entrance, giving last minute instructions to his registrar, Ned Blake, that he stopped dead.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’
‘A change in treatment?’ asked Ned.
‘No, no, my dear chap—nothing to do with our patient. Keep on as I suggest, will you? I’ll be in the earliest I can in the morning, and give me a ring if you’re worried.’ He nodded goodbye and went out to his car and drove home, where he went straight to his study, sat in his chair for five minutes or more, deep in thought, and then picked up the phone.
The voice which answered him was elderly but brisk. ‘Guy, dear boy, how nice to hear your voice; it would be nicer still to see you…’
He talked for a few minutes and the voice said cosily, ‘Well, dear, what exactly do you want us to do?’
The Professor told her.
Suzannah spent several days packing up the contents of the cottage. There was little of value: a few pieces of jewellery which her aunt had possessed, one or two pieces of silver, a nice Coalport tea service… She put them into cardboard boxes and carried them down to the post office, where Mrs Coffin stowed them away safely in an attic. The new assistant teacher had called to see her too, and had been delighted to buy the furniture, which was old-fashioned but well-kept. Everything else Suzannah had promised to various people in the village. And, this done, she set to, writing replies to every likely job she could find advertised which could offer her a roof over her head. Several of her letters weren’t answered, and those who did stated categorically that no pets were allowed. It was a blow, but she had no intention of abandoning Horace, so she wrote out an advertisement offering her services in any domestic capacity provided she might have a room of her own and Horace might be with her, and took it down to the post office.
Mrs Coffin, behind the counter, weighing out oatmeal for a beady-eyed old lady, greeted her with some excitement. ‘Don’t you go posting that letter, m’dear, not if it’s a job—there’s something in the local paper this morning…’ She dealt with the old lady and then invited Suzannah to join her behind the counter. ‘Just you look at that, love.’ She folded the paper and pointed at the situations vacant column. ‘Just up your street.’
Suzannah, with Mrs Coffin breathing gustily down her neck, obediently read. A competent, educated person was required for a period of two or three months to sort and index old family documents. An adequate salary would be paid and there was the use of a small flatlet. Pets not objected to. Good references were essential. Application in the first instance to be made in own handwriting. A box number followed.
‘Well,’ declared Suzannah and drew a great breath. ‘Do you suppose it’s real?’
‘Course it is, m’dear. Now you just go into the room at the back and write a letter, and it’ll go with the noon post.’ Mrs Coffin rummaged through a shelf of stationery behind her. ‘Here, take this paper, it’s best quality and it will help to make a good impression.’
‘References…’
‘You can nip round to the vicar and Dr Warren when you’ve written it. You just sit yourself down and write.’
The dear soul pushed Suzannah into the little room at the back of the shop and pulled out a chair, and, since she had nothing to lose, she wrote.
Three days went by and, though she had made up her mind not to depend too much on a reply, she was disappointed to hear nothing. She got up early on the fourth morning and wrote out her own advertisement once more, and was putting it into an envelope when the postman pushed several letters through the letterbox. There were still outstanding matters arising from her aunt’s death and, trivial though they were, she had dealt with them carefully; she leafed through the little bundle to discover most of them were receipts of the small debts she had paid, but the last letter was addressed in a spidery hand on thick notepaper and bore the Marlborough postmark.
Suzannah opened it slowly. The letter inside was brief and written in the same spidery hand, informing her that her application had been received and, since her references were satisfactory, would she be good enough to go to the above address for an interview in two days time? Her expenses would be paid. The letter was signed by Editha Manbrook, an elderly lady from the look of her handwriting, which, while elegant in style, was decidedly wavery.
Suzannah studied the address on the letter: Ramsbourne House, Ramsbourne St Michael. A village, if she remembered rightly, between Marlborough and Avebury. She could get a bus to Marlborough and probably a local bus to the village, which was only a few miles further on.
She went to Mrs Coffin’s shop after breakfast, told her the good news and posted her reply, and then hurried back to the lodge to worry over her wardrobe. There wasn’t all that much to worry about. It would have to be her tweed suit, no longer new, but with a good press it would pass muster; it was grey herringbone and did nothing to improve her looks, but on the other hand she considered that it made her look sober and serious, two attributes which would surely count when it came to selecting a candidate for the job? There was a grey beret to go with the suit, and a pair of wellbrushed black shoes and her good leather handbag and gloves. She tried them all on to make sure that they looked all right, with Horace for an audience.
The appointment was for two o’clock; she had an early lunch, told Horace to be good while she was away, and caught the bus to Marlborough. There was a local bus going to Avebury several times a day and she caught it without trouble, arriving at Ramsbourne St Michael with time enough to enquire where Ramsbourne House was and then walk for ten minutes or so to the big gates at the end of a country lane.
The drive was a short one, running in a semicircle between shrubs, and it opened out before a pleasant Regency house, painted white and with wide sash-windows. The drive disappeared round one side, but Suzannah went to the canopied porch and rang the bell.
An elderly maid opened the door and Suzannah said, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come to this door—I’ve come for an appointment about a job…’
The woman smiled and ushered her inside. ‘That’s right, miss, I’ll show you where you can wait.’
She opened a door to one side of the entrance hall and Suzannah went past her into a pleasant room with wide windows overlooking the side of the house. She paused only for a moment, and then sat down in the nearest chair.
She hoped that her surprise hadn’t shown too clearly upon her face; it had been foolish of her to suppose that she would be the only person after the job. She murmured a rather belated good afternoon and took a surreptitious stock of the other occupants of the room. There were four of them, and each of them had the look of a woman who was skilled at her work and knew it. One of them said loudly now, ‘There is no mention of shorthand and typing, but I imagine it will be an absolute must for this kind of job.’ The others agreed and Suzannah’s heart sank into her shoes. Her journey was a waste of time; she could have put her advertisement in the paper three days ago and perhaps by now she would have had some replies; time was running out… She checked her thoughts; fussing wasn’t going to help. She watched the other young women go in one after another until she sat alone, and presently the last one came out and gave her a cursory nod. ‘You can go in.’
So Suzannah knocked on the door at the end of the room and went in. The room was large, opulently furnished in an old-fashioned style and very warm. Two old ladies sat on either side of a bright fire and neither spoke as she crossed the room over the polished wood floor towards them. When she was near enough she wished them a good afternoon in her quiet voice and stood patiently while they took a good look at her.
One of the old ladies took up her letter and read it. ‘Suzannah Lightfoot? A pretty name. What do you know about cataloguing and indexing documents?’
‘Nothing—that is, I have never done it before, but I think it must be largely a matter of common sense and patience. I’m interested in old books and papers, and I know I would very much like the work, but I can’t do shorthand nor can I type.’
The second old lady said thoughtfully. ‘From your references I see that you had a place offered you at Bristol University reading English Literature. You didn’t mention that in your reply to my advertisement.’ And when Suzannah didn’t answer, ‘Modesty is always refreshing. We think that you will be very suitable for the post. The salary we offer is by no means large; indeed, we were left with the impression that it is quite inadequate when it was mentioned to our other applicants. But there is a small flatlet where you may live while you are here.’
‘I have a well-behaved cat,’ said Suzannah.
‘We have no objection to your pet, but perhaps you may object to the salary we offer.’ She mentioned a sum which, while modest, was a good deal more than Suzannah had hoped for.
She said quickly, ‘I’m quite satisfied with that, thank you, Miss Manbrook.’
‘Then we shall expect you—let me see—in four days’time? I think it best if we send the car for you, since you will have luggage and your cat. We have your address, have we not?’ She glanced at the other lady. ‘You agree, Amelia?’ and when that lady nodded, ‘Then you will be good enough to press the bell; you will wish to see the flat.’
The same elderly maid answered it and led Suzannah away, back across the hall down a passage and out of a side door. The small courtyard outside was encircled with outbuildings: a garage with a flat above it, storerooms and what could have been a stable, now empty. At the end of these there was a small door which her companion opened. There was a tiny hall leading to a quite large room with a cooking alcove in one corner and an open door leading to a small bathroom. There were windows back and front and a small Victorian fireplace. It was nicely furnished and carpeted and, although the front window looked out upon the courtyard and the side of the house, the view from the back window was delightful.
‘Oh, how very nice,’ said Suzannah, and beamed at her companion. ‘Would you tell me your name?’
‘Parsons, miss. And you’ve no call to be nervous; there’s the cook’s flat over the garage and the rest of us have got rooms on this side of the house.’
Her rather severe face broke into a smile. ‘I was hoping it would be you, miss—didn’t take a fancy to any of the other young women.’
‘Why, thank you, Parsons. I’m quite sure I’m going to be very happy here. When I come in four days’time will you tell me where to go for meals and at what time?’
‘It’ll be Mr Snow to tell you that, miss—the butler, it’s his day off but he’ll be here when you come.’
‘You’ve been very kind. Now I must go back and pack my things. Miss Manbrook…’
‘Lady Manbrook, Miss.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. She didn’t mention when I would be fetched.’
‘Mr Snow will let you know.’
‘Oh, good.’ At the door, on the point of leaving, she asked, ‘And the other lady?’
‘That’s Lady Manbrook’s sister, miss, Mrs van Beuck; they’re both widowed.’
‘Thank you, Parsons.’ Suzannah glanced at her watch. ‘I must catch my bus.’ They wished each other goodbye and she went off down the drive and along the lane and found that she would have to wait ten minutes or so for a bus, which gave her the chance to think over her afternoon and dwell on the delights of the little flat.
Her friends in the village were glad when she told them her news. Mrs Coffin gave her an old cat basket for Horace, Dr Warren and his wife gave her a pretty eiderdown, and Miss Smythe presented her with a red geranium in a pot. Suzannah bade them all goodbye, cleaned the lodge ready for its new occupant, packed the last of her possessions and, obedient to Mr Snow’s letter, stood ready and waiting by ten o’clock in the morning, Horace restless but resigned beside her in his basket.
It was a pity there was no one to see her leave, thought Suzannah, for the car which arrived was an elderly, beautifully maintained Daimler. The driver was a short, thick-set man, with grey hair, very smart in his dark grey uniform.
He replied in a friendly way to her good morning and added, ‘Croft’s the name, miss. I’ll just put everything in the boot.’ He eyed Horace, peering at him through the little window of his basket. ‘You’ve got a cat there? He can go on the back seat.’
His wife was housekeeper for Lady Manbrook, he informed Suzannah as they drove; they had been there for twenty-five years and most of the staff had been there almost as long. ‘I hope you like a quiet life, miss,’ he observed, ‘for there’s nothing to do of an evening. Got a telly, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t, but I have got a little radio and I like reading. I’ll be quite happy; I’ve lived in the country for some time and I like it.’
‘Of course, there’s guests from time to time, but mostly it’s just the two ladies.’
She had been a little nervous of meeting Mr Snow, but she need not have been. True, he was very dignified and smiled seldom, but she felt that he approved of her. She was handed the key of her new home, her luggage and Horace were deposited in it and she was requested to present herself in half an hour in the front hall, when she would be taken to Lady Manbrook.
Half an hour wasn’t long in which to get settled in; Horace, set free and allowed to roam round the room, ate the snack she got for him and settled down on the window-sill beside the geranium, and she made herself a cup of coffee, tidied her already neat person and went across to the house.
The two old ladies didn’t look as though they had moved since she had last seen them, only they wore different dresses. The butler ushered her in and Lady Manbrook said, ‘Come and sit down, Miss Lightfoot. Snow, please bring coffee; we will lunch half an hour later than usual, that will give Miss Lightfoot time to unpack her things.’
Snow trod quietly away and Suzannah waited to see what was to happen next.
‘When we have had coffee Snow will show you to the room where you will work,’ said Lady Manbrook. ‘The papers and diaries are in one of the attics; he will accompany you there and you may decide which of them you wish to begin work upon.’
‘Some of them are most interesting, so I am told,’ remarked Mrs van Beuck.
‘Do you want to see any of them before I start?’ asked Suzannah. ‘There is nothing private…?’
‘I think not; if there is, I feel sure that you will inform me. All I require is that they should be put in some kind of order, and when that is done, I should like you to read them carefully and index them.’
‘Are there many papers?’
‘I have been told that there are two or three trunks. These things do tend to accumulate,’ added Lady Manbrook vaguely. ‘Ah, here is coffee. Be good enough to pour, Miss Lightfoot. We lunch at half-past one; you will, of course, join us.’
Suzannah thanked her nicely, drank her coffee and excused herself. If she looked sharp about it, she could unpack and get settled in, feed Horace properly and introduce him to his surroundings before then. And in the afternoon she would make a start on the contents of the attic. She found Snow waiting for her in the hall and they climbed the staircase at the back of the hall to the floor above, opened a door in a wall and climbed to the next floor and then once more mounted a very narrow, twisting staircase to the attics. Snow opened a door with a flourish and she went in. There were several attics, running the length of the house, connected by open archways, all well lit by dormer windows. The trunks were in the second, large and old-fashioned, made of leather and strapped tightly. They undid one of them between them and Suzannah got down on her knees to inspect the contents. There was no sort of order: bundles of letters, foolscap sheets tied with string, a number of what appeared to be diaries all jostled themselves together. It would be hard to know where to begin, she decided.
‘Lady Manbrook said that you would show me where I could work, Mr Snow, but I think I shall have to do the sorting here. There’s plenty of room and the light’s good. When I’ve got things in a bit of order I can carry them to wherever I’ve to work and start the indexing.’
‘Just as you say, miss. I will arrange for a small table and chair to be brought here, and anything else that you may require. I must say there appears to be a good deal of work involved.’
‘Yes, I think so, too,’ said Suzannah cheerfully, ‘but I’m sure it will be interesting.’ They went back down the little stairs and he showed her a room, very light and airy with a wide table and comfortable chair and an open hearth, in which, he pointed out, a fire would be lit while she was working there.
Her own little room seemed very small when she reached it, but decidedly cosy; it already looked like home, too, with the geranium on the window-sill and Horace curled up on one of the chairs. She unpacked her few things, fed him and took him outside for a short time and then tidied herself and went back to the house for lunch—a meal eaten in some state in a large, heavily furnished dining-room with a great deal of white damask and silver. After an initial shyness Suzannah began to enjoy herself; the two old ladies were charming, keeping up a gentle flow of conversation calculated to put her at her ease. She left them after they had had their coffee, took a quick look to see if Horace was comfortable, and then repaired to the attics.
It seemed at first glance a formidable task, but not a dull one. She opened the first trunk…
She was completely absorbed when Snow tapped on the door and brought her a tea-tray. She sat back on her heels and said apologetically, ‘Oh, Mr Snow, I could have come down—I didn’t know.’ She smiled at him. ‘I got rather carried away.’
He surveyed the neat rows of piled-up papers, old dance programmes, newspaper cuttings and the like. ‘Indeed, miss, I can well understand that. It is no trouble to bring you a tea-tray. Dinner is at eight o’clock; the ladies go to dress just after seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, but surely I’m not to dine with them?’
‘Indeed you are, miss. They quite understand that you would not wish to join them for tea and interrupt your work, and breakfast is taken by the ladies in their beds. Your breakfast will be served in the morning-room at eight o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Mr Snow.’
‘And if you will not find it presumptuous, miss, you should address me as Snow.’
‘Oh, but the maid who showed me to my room called you Mr Snow.’
‘And quite rightly; I am in charge of the staff here and head of the domestics, but you, miss, are employed by Lady Manbrook.’
She said in her sensible way, ‘Oh, I see, thank you for telling me. I’ll try not to give any of you any extra work.’
‘If I may say so, miss, it is a pleasure to have some one young in the house.’
He made his stately way out of the room, leaving her to enjoy tiny sandwiches, hot buttered toast and fairy cakes as light as air.
By seven o’clock she had the trunk empty, its contents extending in piles half-way across the attic floor. Tomorrow she would go through each pile and arrange the contents according to the dates, dealing with the newspaper cuttings first, for it seemed to her that they would be the easiest. There were two more trunks; she would have to sort them in the same way and then add the piles together. Weeks of work, if she was to index them too.
She went downstairs and through the side door to her flat, fed Horace and took him for a brief stroll, then came back to switch on the lights and draw the curtains. A fire had been laid ready to light in the small grate and she put a match to it, put the fireguard in front of it and went to take a bath and dress. She had nothing really suitable for dinner, only a dark brown dress in fine wool, very plain and at least two years old, or a grey pinafore dress with a white silk blouse. She got into the brown, promising herself that with her first pay packet she would buy something suitable for dining in the splendour of Lady Manbrook’s dining-room. She took pains with her face, brushed her tawny head until it shone like copper, and went back to the house to be met by Snow.
‘The ladies expect you to join them in the drawing-room,’ he offered, and led the way.
Suzannah saw at a glance that her brown dress was woefully inadequate, but she didn’t allow it to worry her; she sat down to enjoy her sherry and take her sensible part in the conversation. And dinner, although somewhat more lengthy than lunch, was just as pleasant. She excused herself shortly afterwards, wished the two ladies goodnight and went back to her room. The fire was burning nicely and Horace was sitting before it, the picture of a contented cat. Suzannah too uttered a sigh of contentment, made a cup of tea from the selection of beverages she had found in the tiny cupboard in the kitchen corner, and went to bed. The room was warm and the firelight comforting, and she curled up and went to sleep within minutes, with Horace beside her.
Within a few days she had found her feet. She had little time to herself but that didn’t matter overmuch; no one had suggested the hours she should work, so she arranged her own; from nine o’clock in the morning until lunchtime, and then work again without a pause until the seven o’clock gong. Horace, that most amenable of cats, was quite happy to have a walk in the morning after breakfast, another few minutes after lunch and then a more leisurely stroll in the evening. Snow had offered scraps from the kitchen: tasty morsels of chicken, ends off the joints and fish; and she had arranged to have milk left at her door from the local farm. Life might be busy, but it was pleasant, and she had no idle moments in which to repine. When the opportunity occurred, she would have to ask about having a half-day a week so that she could shop in Marlborough for her bits and pieces.
She thought that probably she was going about her task in a very unprofessional way but, be that as it may, she had made headway. The piles of letters, cuttings and old photographs were beginning to take shape and make sense.
Some of them were very old indeed; letters written in spidery hands, crossed and recrossed, invoices and bills, dressmaker’s accounts and any number of receipts and recipes. She began to deal with these, getting them roughly into date order, separating them into heaps. It was slow work but she was methodical and very patient. She was able to tell Lady Manbrook that the last of the trunks had been emptied by the end of her first week; it had seemed a good opportunity to ask about her working hours, but before she could touch on the subject Mrs van Beuck observed, ‘You will accompany us to church, my dear? The rector preaches an excellent sermon. You will come in the car with us, of course; it will be at the front door at half-past ten precisely.’
She looked across at her sister, who smiled and nodded. ‘We have discussed the matter,’ she said, ‘and we would prefer to call you by your Christian name if you have no objection?’
‘Oh, I’d like you to. No one calls me Miss Lightfoot—well, almost no one.’ She had a brief memory of Professor Bowers-Bentinck’s cold voice uttering her name with what seemed to her to be mocking deliberation. And after that it hardly seemed the moment to bring up the matter of her free time. It was, after all, only a week since she had started work, and she was happy in her little flat and everyone was kind to her; even Snow, who could look so austere, had unbent sufficiently to save the best morsels for Horace. There was, of course, the little matter of when she would be paid. She had a little money, but it wouldn’t last for ever. Perhaps Lady Manbrook intended to pay her when she had finished her work, but that would be a month or six weeks away, or even longer. There was no use worrying about it; she went back to the attic with the careful notes she had made to show Lady Manbrook and then made her way back to the flat to get ready for dinner.
She would have enjoyed the walk to church in the morning but, since she had been expected to accompany the ladies, she got into the old-fashioned car with them and was borne in some state to the village church. The family pew was at the front and the church was comfortably full; she was conscious of curious glances as she followed the two ladies down the aisle. After the service, as they made their stately progress to the church porch, she was introduced to the rector and a number of elderly people who made vague, kind enquiries about her without really wanting to know, so that she was able to murmur politely without telling them anything.
At lunch she made another effort to talk about her free time; indeed, she got as far as, ‘I was wondering about my hours of work…’ only to be interrupted by Lady Manbrook with a kindly,
‘We have no intention of interfering, Suzannah. It is, I’m sure, most interesting and you enjoy it, do you not? And I must say that what you have told us about it, has whetted our appetites to know more about your finds. Perhaps you would take tea with us this afternoon and bring down those old dance programmes you were telling us about? We have tea at four o’clock, and it would be most amusing to go through them.’
‘I haven’t got them in order yet, Lady Manbrook…’
‘You are so quick and efficient that I’m sure you can get them sorted out before tea.’ The old lady smiled at her very kindly, so that Suzannah stifled a sigh and agreed.
So when she had fed Horace and taken him for his short trot, she went back to the attic once more. It was a lovely day, and a walk would have been very satisfying; she made up her mind to talk to Lady Manbrook when she went downstairs for tea.
She was on her knees, carefully sorting the old-fashioned dance programmes with their little pencils attached into tidy piles; most of them were late nineteenth century and charming, and she lingered over some of them, trying to imagine the owners, picturing the quadrilles and polkas and waltzes they must have danced and their elaborate dresses. She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear the door open, but a slight sound made her turn her head.
Professor Bowers-Bentinck was standing there, leaning against the wall watching her.
‘Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ His voice had a silkiness she didn’t much like.
‘A surprise,’ she amended in her sensible way, ‘but I don’t know about it being pleasant.’
‘An outspoken young lady,’ he commented, ‘but I should feel flattered that you remember me.’
She was still kneeling, a handful of programmes in her hand, looking at him. She said matter-of-factly, ‘Well, I’d be silly if I didn’t—you’re much larger than most men, for a start, and you must know you’re good-looking; besides that, you came to see Aunt Mabel.’
‘Such an abundance of compliments,’ he murmured.
‘They’re not meant to be,’ said Suzannah prosaically, ‘just facts.’ She had a sudden alarming thought. ‘Lady Manbrook—she’s not ill? Or Mrs van Beuck? They were all right at lunch.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Is that why you are here?’
‘Both ladies are in splendid health’, he assured her. He eyed her coldly. ‘You are very untidy and dusty.’
‘Of course I am, it’s dusty work, and I have to get down on to the floor—there’s more room, and anyway, I can’t see that it matters to you.’
‘It doesn’t. Tell me, why do I find you here? How did you find this job?’
‘It was advertised. I’ve been here a week, and I’m very happy.’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’re here?’
‘I’ve come to tea.’
Her lovely eyes grew round. ‘Have you really? How extraordinary that we should meet again…’
‘Yes, isn’t it? You don’t object?’
‘Object? Why should I? I mean, one is always bumping into people in unexpected places.’
‘How true.’ He eyed her frowningly. ‘Had you not better finish and wash your hands and tidy your hair? It’s almost four o’clock.’
She dusted her skirt and gave him a tolerant glance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make myself presentable. I usually have my tea up here on a tray.’ She added kindly, ‘You don’t need to fuss.’
His voice was as cold as his eyes. ‘I’m not in the habit of fussing—what a tiresome girl you are.’ He went through the door, closing it behind him, leaving her to gather up the programmes and then leave the attic after him. Undoubtedly a bad-tempered man, she reflected, and because of that to be pitied.
She told Horace all about him while she brushed her bright hair into smoothness, ready for tea.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DRAWING ROOM looked charming as she went in; the lamps were lit and the firelight flickered on the walls and twinkled on the silver muffin dish on the tea-table. The two ladies were sitting in their usual chairs, and lounging in an outsize armchair was the professor, looking very much at home.
An old friend, she wondered, or the family doctor? Quite obviously someone who knew the old ladies well.
He got to his feet as she crossed the room and drew forward a small armchair for her, and Lady Manbrook said, ‘Our nephew tells us that he has met you previously, Suzannah, so there is no need to introduce you. I see that you have the dance programmes we were discussing with you; when we have had tea you must show them to us.’
Suzannah murmured a reply. Of course, now that she saw the three of them together there was no mistaking the relationship—those high-bridged, self assured noses, the cool blue stare from heavy-lidded eyes. She sat composedly, drinking tea from paper-thin china and nibbling at minuscule cucumber sandwiches, and allowed her imagination to have full rein. The professor would live in London, because undoubtedly that was where a man of his ability would work, but he was friends—close friends, probably—with Phoebe Davinish. He would be spending the weekend with her, and had dropped in to say hello to his aunts.
She was brought up short by his voice, rather too smooth for her liking, wanting to know if she was enjoying her work.
‘Very much, thank you,’ she told him.
‘And how long do you suppose it will take you to finish it?’ he continued.
‘I’m not sure. Everything is sorted into dated piles, but I think that is the easiest part; you see, the letters and cuttings are about a great many people—they’ll have to be sorted out.’
‘There is no hurry,’ declared Mrs van Beuck. ‘You seem to have accomplished a great deal in a week…’
‘Even on a Sunday,’ murmured the professor. ‘Do you prefer to have a free day in the week?’
‘Me?’ Suzannah spoke sharply, with a fine disregard for grammar. ‘I’m very happy—’
He cut her short. ‘I’m sure you are; nevertheless, you should have time to yourself. I cannot imagine that my aunts will mind if you take a week or so longer with your sorting and indexing; I am equally sure that they would wish you to enjoy a certain amount of time to yourself.’
Lady Manbrook was looking quite upset. ‘My dear child, how thoughtless of us—of course you must have some hours to yourself. What do you suggest, Guy?’
He didn’t even look at Suzannah to see what she thought about it, which annoyed her. ‘Oh, a day off each week—most office workers and shop assistants have two days—and set hours of work each day; nine until lunchtime, and then four hours’ work between two o’clock and dinnertime, to suit herself.’
Just as though I’m not here, thought Suzannah crossly. She shot him a speaking glance and met his cold eyes. ‘You are agreeable to that?’ he wanted to know.
It was tempting to tell him that she wasn’t agreeable at all, but Lady Manbrook was still looking upset so she said in a colourless voice. ‘Thank you, Professor, yes, that will do very well,’ and then, because she felt peevish, ‘So kind of you to bother,’ she added waspishly.
‘I’m not a particularly kind man,’ he observed, ‘but I hope that I am a just one.’
Maybe he was; he was also rude. She picked up the dance programmes and asked if the ladies would like to see them.
The next hour passed quickly, with the ladies exclaiming over the charming little cards with their coloured pencils attached by still bright cords, most of them filled by scrawled initials, one or two woefully half-empty. ‘That would be Emily Wolferton,’ declared Lady Manbrook. ‘Such a haughty piece.’ She tossed the card down and added with satisfaction, ‘I always had partners,’ and her sister echoed,
‘And so did I. Here’s one—Phoebe’s grandmother—a nasty, ill-tempered girl she was too, always wanting something she hadn’t.’ She looked across at the professor, sitting impassively doing nothing. ‘I hope Phoebe isn’t ill-tempered, Guy?’
‘Oh, never, just as long as she gets what she wants,’ he replied idly.
‘And of course, she gets it,’ observed Mrs van Beuck. ‘William Davinish is too old to want any more than peace and quiet at all costs.’
He made no reply to this, but said presently, ‘Perhaps Suzannah would like an hour or two to herself before dinner.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must go presently…’
‘So soon, dear?’ asked Lady Manbrook.
He looked at Suzannah. ‘I’m dining with Phoebe.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/betti-nils/the-chain-of-destiny/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.