‘You would make a good doctor’s wife.’

Deborah blushed. Dr Wright was a nice young chap and Deborah had blushed twice at his name. Sir James wasn’t sure why he felt a vague regret. As for Deborah, the blush hadn’t been for Dr Wright; she had at that very moment made the discovery that if she were to be a doctor’s wife she would want Sir James Marlow to be that doctor. Just for the moment nothing and nobody else mattered while she digested this exciting fact before she suppressed it sternly as a load of nonsense.

Dear Reader

With the worst of winter now over, are your thoughts turning to your summer holiday? But for those months in between, why not let Mills & Boon transport you to another world? This month, there’s so much to choose from—bask in the magic of Mauritius or perhaps you’d prefer Paris … an ideal city for lovers! Alternatively, maybe you’d enjoy a seductive Spanish hero—featured in one of our latest Euromances and sure to set every heart pounding just that little bit faster!

The Editor

BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

Waiting for Deborah
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE man standing in front of the empty fireplace was short and stockily built with a long thin face and light brown hair already receding from his forehead. He was dressed in a pin-striped suit, a coloured shirt and a perfectly dreadful tie, and he was obviously pleased both with his appearance and his attire. When he spoke it was with a pomposity which was quite unsuited to his age and his appearance.

There were two other persons in the room, a young woman, elegantly dressed and faultlessly made up, her dark hair brushed into a carefully careless cloud around her good looks, who was lounging on a sofa, and another girl, considerably younger, sitting on a small chair by the window. Unlike her companion, she had carroty hair which was straight and pinned rather carelessly into a knot at the back of her neck. She had no looks to speak of and she was far too thin; only her eyes, when she glanced at the man, were beautiful: vividly blue, large and fringed with curling lashes several shades darker than her hair. She sat composedly, her hands clasped in the lap of her tweed skirt, and listened to the man as he talked.

‘Of course I shall sell this place and the furniture. I may have to wait for my money but I have my flat and you, Barbara, have yours.’

‘I haven’t a flat,’ observed the girl with the carroty hair in a matter-of-fact voice.

They both looked at her. ‘My father was good enough to allow you to live here in comfort with him while he was alone, very generous of him considering that you are no relation …’

‘My mother married him.’

Her stepbrother waved that away with a podgy hand. ‘And since her death he gave you a home—a very comfortable home too—you have lived at your ease, Deborah, and I consider that I owe you nothing.’

‘Yes, well—I thought you might think that.’ She added in a small calm voice, ‘You and Barbara have never liked me.’

‘Well, you have no need to wallow in self-pity,’ said Barbara nastily. ‘You’ve had plenty of experience running a household, you get yourself a job—a mother’s help or something. Anyway this is all very boring. Walter, I’ll leave it all to you; just let me have my share when you’ve got rid of this place.’ She got up gracefully and went to rearrange her hair in front of the old-fashioned mirror above the fireplace.

‘Very well, it may take some time. I suppose Deborah can stay here and caretake until the house is sold.’ He didn’t ask her if she were willing but went on, ‘I’ll see that you have money for food and so on.’

He joined his sister on the way to the door. ‘And don’t think that you can throw my money around; I shall want accounts kept of every penny you spend.’

‘There won’t be any accounts,’ said Deborah reasonably, ‘because I have no money; you took the chequebooks as soon as my stepfather died and probably any cash there was in the house as well.’

Walter went an unbecoming puce and gobbled. ‘Don’t be impertinent, you know nothing about such things.’ He took his wallet from a pocket and counted out some notes. ‘You will need very little money; this should be sufficient for some weeks.’

He bustled Barbara out of the room and banged the door after him only to open it again. ‘And kindly remember that this house and its contents are now mine.’

She sat quietly until she heard the bang of the front door—banging doors was Walter’s way of expressing his annoyance. She got to her feet then, picked up the money and put it in her handbag and went along to the kitchen to make herself some lunch. She was alone in the house; there had been a cook and a housemaid when her stepfather had been alive but Walter had dismissed them with a month’s wages the moment the funeral was over. Unnecessary mouths to feed, he had told Barbara; he wouldn’t need to pay Deborah anything if she stayed at the house until he had sold it. She had nowhere to go, no family living near by, and her only friends were elderly ones of her mother. She had lost touch with them anyway, for his father had discouraged any social life which she might have had; her place, he had told her frequently, was at home, looking after him. It was, Walter had observed in a satisfied voice, a most satisfactory arrangement.

Deborah ate her lunch, got her outdoor things and left the house, walking briskly in the chill March wind. The bus stop was some minutes away, for her stepfather’s house was in one of the secluded roads in Hampstead, but she enjoyed the short walk, her head full of plans. She was free; never mind what Walter had said, she would find a job as quickly as possible and leave the house. She could leave the keys with the house agent …

In Oxford Street, off the bus, she bought an evening paper and scanned its columns for agents’ addresses. There was any number. She chose the nearest, stated her wish to work as a mother’s help, paid her fee, and made her way to the second address she had marked on the newspaper. She visited four agencies and the fees made a considerable hole in Walter’s money. Set a sprat to catch a mackerel, Deborah told herself, getting on the bus again to go back to Hampstead and the large unfriendly house she had called home for some years.

She had tea and supper together for it was already early evening, sitting in the kitchen, pencil and paper on the table beside her, doing optimistic sums. She had given her telephone number to the agencies; they would ring if there was anything suitable. In the meanwhile she would pack her clothes and—since it hadn’t entered her head to do otherwise—clean and dust and Hoover the gloomy rooms until she was able to leave. She locked up presently and went upstairs to her room and got ready for bed. She didn’t like being alone in the house but, since she had no choice, she tried to ignore the small noises and creaks which somehow only sounded at night. Tonight, however, she was too excited at the thought of her future to worry about that.

She didn’t expect to hear anything the next day but by the end of the fourth day she was getting worried. A man from the house agent had been, inspected the house and told her that he would be in touch with her stepbrother, and it seemed to her highly likely that Walter would pay a visit in the very near future. She phoned the agencies the next morning and the first three had nothing for her but the fourth was more hopeful; if she would go along to the office perhaps she would like to consider a post which might suit her.

Deborah lost no time. The rush-hour was over, the bus made good time, and she found herself in Oxford Street, five minutes’ walk from the side-street and the agency.

She was at its door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Debby—it is Debby? My dear, such a long time since I saw you last—your stepfather died recently, did he not? Two weeks ago, wasn’t it? Are you living with your stepbrother?’

The speaker was elderly, well dressed and still pretty and her smile was warm.

‘Mrs Dexter, how lovely to see you—it’s years …’

‘So it is,’ said her companion and reflected that Deborah’s looks hadn’t improved with the passing of time and surely she had been wearing that jacket and skirt when they had met last. ‘You must have lunch with me and tell me your news, but first I must go and see that tiresome woman in the agency. You remember old Mrs Vernon? A friend of your dear mother’s and of your grandmother’s too. She had a stroke some months ago and now she is living with her niece who simply can’t cope with her and has begged me to find someone to live in and look after her—a light post, she tells me, with a little housework and ironing and so forth. There’s help in the house anyway but Clara—the niece, you know—tells me that she herself isn’t too strong.’

Mrs Dexter drew breath and Deborah said quickly, ‘Mrs Dexter, I need a job badly, as soon as possible—would I do?’

‘You? My dear—but surely … did your stepfather not leave you provided for?’ And when Deborah shook her head, ‘And your stepbrother—I’ve forgotten his name—there must be plenty of money?’

‘I believe there is, but Walter is settling things. He’s selling the house—I’m staying there until it’s sold and then I am to find work. Only I thought I wouldn’t wait for that so I’ve got my name down at several agencies for mother’s help or something similar. I’m used to running a house and looking after invalids.’

She spoke without bitterness and Mrs Dexter patted her arm. ‘You have had more than your fair share of that, my dear. I believe that you would do very well for Mrs Vernon, especially as she has known you and your mother. We will go and see the woman inside and settle things.’

They mounted the stairs together and at the top Mrs Dexter said, ‘I forgot to tell you, they live in the depths of the country—the Cotswolds, would you mind?’

‘Mind? I shall love it, and Walter won’t know where I am …’

Mrs Dexter paused on the landing. ‘You had a stepsister too—a very pretty girl.’

‘Barbara, yes, she has a boutique somewhere near Harrods.’

‘She wouldn’t like you to live with her?’ ventured Mrs Dexter.

‘She doesn’t like me either,’ said Deborah in a voice quite empty of self-pity.

Mrs Dexter said no more but swept into the agency office, dealt briskly with the stony-eyed woman behind the desk and swept out again, Deborah in tow. ‘That’s settled,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I shall drive you down myself the day after tomorrow. Clara will be both relieved and delighted. Did I mention your salary? No?’ She thought for a moment and mentioned a sum which Deborah, quite without money of her own for a long time, found unbelievably generous. They had coffee together in a chic little café and parted company the best of friends, Mrs Dexter to go into Liberty’s and Deborah to scour BHS for the replenishment of her meagre wardrobe. Something suitable for the companion of a bedridden old lady and some decent undies—a dressing-gown too in case she had to get up in the night and sensible shoes, for presumably if her new job was in the country she would walk in her free time. Pleased with her purchases, she took herself back to Hampstead, and over her tea counted her remaining money. There wasn’t a great deal left, but she wouldn’t need any for the first week or so. Walter would be furious when he discovered that she had used his money in such a fashion but, after all, he had given it to her … She went to bed happy for the first time in years.

She spent the next day finishing her packing and making sure that the house was as clean and tidy as she could make it. She had thought a lot about writing a note to Walter and finally composed a stiff little letter telling him that she had found work for herself, left the keys with the house agent and turned off the water. He would be annoyed, of course, but it was unlikely that he would bother to look for her. She left the note on the hall table and went to bed for the last time in the house in the plainly furnished room her stepfather had considered good enough for her. Before she went to sleep she wondered what her room would be like in Mrs Vernon’s house. Speculating happily about her future, she went to sleep.

She was to be fetched in the morning and Mrs Dexter’s chauffeur-driven car drew up before the door shortly after nine o’clock. Sitting in the back with her mother’s friend, Deborah was invited to ask any questions she wished.

‘Mrs Vernon—is she Mrs Vernon’s aunt?’

‘No, no—Robert Vernon is her nephew. He and Clara have three children: two boys and a girl—let me see, they must be between ten and fourteen years old now, Robin, Ruth and Laurie. Clara has a busy life; Robert is a successful solicitor and has his office in the nearest town but they live near a small village four miles or so north of there. Eastleach—it’s really two hamlets on either side of the road.’

‘Is Mrs Vernon completely bedridden?’

‘I believe so. From what Clara told me she remains in bed. The local nurse has been coming each day to attend to her but Clara has found it impossible to get her out of bed which is what the doctor recommends.’ Mrs Dexter cast a rather worried look at Deborah. ‘I hope that you will be strong enough, dear …’

‘I nursed Mother for almost a year and when my stepfather became ill I nursed him too. He was a difficult patient,’ added Deborah without rancour, remembering the disturbed nights, the constant complaining and the lack of freedom. She had tackled Walter once about getting someone to relieve her occassionally so that she might have a few hours to herself and had been lectured at length on the subject of her ingratitude. What did she expect? Had she not a cook and a housemaid to do everything for her? Was she not fed and clothed? Had she not a comfortable roof over her head?

She had allowed his tirade to flow over her head and thought her own thoughts.

Since they travelled for a good part of the way on the M4, turning off at Swindon and going north to Lechlade, the journey took little more than two and a half hours. As they left the town behind them and took a narrow country road Deborah felt the first pangs of doubt. Supposing the old lady didn’t like her? Or her niece for that matter? Well, she had burnt her boats now and there was no turning back. Her spirits lifted a little at Mrs Dexter’s kind, ‘You will be so welcome, my dear, and I am sure that you will be happy here.’

The car turned into a short drive and drew up before a lovely old Cotswold house, its walls and roof of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, its windows with stone mullions and leaded panes. Deborah got out of the car and looked around her with delight; there were daffodils massed in beds on either side of the house and clumps of them dotted around the well-kept lawns surrounding the house. It seemed like heaven after the house at Hampstead.

In answer to Mrs Dexter’s tug on the bell-pull the door was opened by a stout little woman with a round smiling face and twinkling eyes, enveloped in a print overall. She wished them good day in a soft country voice and stood aside for them to go on ahead.

‘It’s Mrs Dexter and the young lady, isn’t it?’ She beamed at them both. ‘Mrs Vernon’s in the drawing-room—this way.’

The hall was pleasant and immaculate and so was the room into which they were shown, flowers everywhere, cushions well shaken, silver photo frames gleaming, and the woman crossing the room to greet them was as immaculate. Dressed in a well cut tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater and just the right amount of gold jewellery, she looked less than her years, her face skilfully made-up and her golden hair cut by a masterly hand. She was good-looking but she wore a discontented air as she kissed the air by Mrs Dexter’s cheek.

‘Aunt Phyllis, you have no idea how delighted I am to see you!’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘And this is Miss Everett?’

She smiled at Deborah but didn’t shake hands and her blue eyes held no warmth. Deborah’s heart sank. She doesn’t like me, she reflected, and then decided that she had been mistaken when Mrs Vernon said, ‘It is such a relief to me that I shall have help with my aunt. It is a light post and you will have plenty of time to yourself, but I lead a busy life with the children and various social commitments and I rely upon you to take good care of her at all times.’ She smiled, though again the smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do leave your things in the cloakroom and we will have lunch, then I can take you to my aunt.’

The dining-room was as pristine as the drawing-room and rather chilly. A grumpy-looking maid served lamb chops and vegetables and then jellied fruit and custard and Mrs Vernon and Mrs Dexter chatted lightly, careful to include Deborah in the conversation. They had their coffee at the table and presently Mrs Dexter said that she must go again. ‘I must be back in town in good time,’ she explained. ‘I’m dining early, for I’m going to the theatre with friends.’ She smiled kindly at Deborah. ‘My dear, I’m sure that you will be happy here—do write and tell me how you are getting on, won’t you? I am so glad that we met at such a fortuitous time.’

Mrs Vernon went with her to the car and Deborah sat where she was in the hall. Her case had been taken upstairs; she supposed that she would be shown her room and given time to unpack.

Mrs Vernon came back into the house, brisk and businesslike. ‘We will go to my aunt now,’ she said. ‘You can unpack later.’

Deborah followed her up the carpeted staircase, along a corridor and then up another flight of stairs at the back of the house. Here the thick carpeting had given way to a serviceable matting and the windows overlooking the country beyond were curtained in a useful beige material. The passage they were in was narrow and had several doors, the end one of which Mrs Vernon opened.

‘Well, here is your charge,’ she told Deborah.

The room was large, low-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. There was a long latticed window and facing it a narrow bed, its occupant lying flat under its blankets; an old lady, her eyes open, watching them.

Mrs Vernon spoke rather loudly. ‘Aunt Emma, here is your companion. Her name is Deborah; she will wash you and feed you and make your bed and make sure that you are comfortable. I shall show her her room now and then she will come back here to you.’

The old lady closed her eyes and Mrs Vernon said impatiently, ‘Of course, we aren’t sure if she understands what we are saying. Now come and see your room.’

It was separated from the old lady’s by a bathroom, a small room, its narrow bed against a wall. There was a small table beneath the window, a chair by it and a basket chair by the bed beside a side-table with a lamp upon it. The bedspread was candlewick in the same serviceable shade of beige. A depressing little room, but Deborah reminded herself that it was hers, that she had a job and, if she saved her money, security for the foreseeable future.

‘You can unpack later,’ said Mrs Vernon carelessly. ‘Go down to the kitchen at four o’clock and Cook will give you a tray. Aunt Emma has a drink then and you can have your tea at the same time.’

‘Am I to have my meals here?’ asked Deborah.

‘She doesn’t wake early; you can go down to the dining-room at half-past seven and have your breakfast then; I’ll get Florrie—the housemaid—to keep an eye on Aunt Emma while you have your lunch and supper. You will have to arrange whatever free time you want but please don’t expect me to relieve you. I’m completely worn out after weeks of looking after my aunt.’

‘Is she to be left at all?’

‘If she’s sleeping there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get out for a time, I suppose; you’ll discover when is best for yourself.’

Mrs Vernon went away and Deborah went back into the room. The old lady’s eyes were still closed. She crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains and the pale sunshine lighted the room. ‘A few flowers,’ said Deborah, talking to herself, ‘and surely Mrs Vernon would be more comfortable with another pillow.’

She went to the bed and studied the elderly face, one side drawn down a little by reason of the stroke. It must have been good-looking in earlier years and the untidy white hair curled prettily around it. Mrs Vernon opened her eyes, staring up at Deborah, who picked up one of the flaccid hands on the counterpane and held it gently.

‘Hello,’ she said in her pretty voice, ‘I’m Deborah, come to look after you. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable and I’m sure we’ll get on well together. You niece wasn’t sure if you understood her. If you understand me, will you wink?’

It was a nice surprise when the old lady winked. ‘Oh, good,’ said Deborah, ‘that’s an excellent start. I can ask you things and you can wink your answers. One wink for yes and two for no …’

It was a slow business but it worked. Within the next half-hour Deborah had turned her patient over on to her other side, peered into the other rooms along the passage until she found a soft pillow and settled the elderly head upon it and then, armed with a basin and water from the bathroom, freshened her face and hands.

The old eyes stared at her and Mrs Vernon’s mouth made tiny movements although there was no sound.

Deborah pulled up a chair and took a hand in hers. ‘Look, I don’t know much about it, but I’m quite sure that you will be able to move and speak again, but you have to wait for your head to get better. I’ll do all that I can to help you; we’ll think up a routine for you and really work at it.’

She was heartened by the emphatic wink she had in answer.

She unpacked presently while the old lady dozed and then went down to the kitchen for the tray. She went down the way she had come up and as she reached the last tread of the staircase Mrs Vernon came out of the drawing-room with another woman, laughing and talking. She stopped when she saw Deborah and said sharply, ‘You can use the back stairs, Deborah, but, since you’re here, go through the baize door.’ She nodded towards the back of the hall and went into the drawing-room with her companion.

The kitchen was large and comfortably warm and the cheerful soul who had admitted them said at once, ‘You’ve come for your tray, love? I’ve got it ready, there’s a feeder for Mrs Vernon and a jug of warm milk and a nice pot of tea for you and some sandwiches and cake. And if there is anything you need you just ask me or Cook. We’re that glad you’ve come for we’ve been fair run off our feet since the old lady was took bad. We said to young Mrs Vernon, “You get someone to look after Mrs Vernon or we’ll give in our notice”.’ She added sympathetically, ‘You’ll have your hands full, miss. Me and Cook’ll take over for an hour in the afternoons so’s you can get a breath of air.’

‘You’re very kind. I didn’t know that you had had to look after Mrs Vernon; I thought young Mrs Vernon had been doing that.’

‘Lor’ love you, dearie, she never goes near the poor old thing, only when the doctor comes. She’d have been better off in an hospital but they want to keep her here so’s if she gets to move a hand a bit she can sign her name so’s they can take care of her money.’

She made the tea and put the teapot on the tray. ‘Not that I should be gossiping with you, and you only just here but it’s only right you should know which way the cat’s jumping.’

‘It’s kind of you to tell me,’ said Deborah. ‘I’ll take good care of the old lady.’

She bore the tray upstairs, gave Mrs Vernon the milk, a slow business but successfully achieved, and then sat down near the bed and had her own tea. Mrs Vernon was dozing again and she was able to consider what Mrs Dodd had told her—it was a quite different picture from that which Mrs Dexter had painted although she was sure that that lady had no idea of the true state of things. That her own position in the household wasn’t quite as Mrs Dexter had pictured it didn’t worry her; she was fired with the ambition to get the old lady better although she had very little idea of how to set about it. All she knew was that people recovered from strokes sooner or later and to a greater or lesser degree, provided that the stroke hadn’t been a massive one. The local nurse had been coming in to see her and she might be a useful source of information … Deborah drained the teapot, ate everything on the tea tray and carried it back to the kitchen.

When she finally got into her bed that night she was tired. Mrs Vernon was hard work and she found that she was expected to manage by herself. It meant rolling the patient to and fro while she saw to the bed and washed her, heaved her up on to her pillows, fed her the milky drink which, it seemed, was all that she was allowed, and then sat quietly by the bed until she slept. The job, she reflected, wasn’t quite what she had expected, but never mind that, it was a job and she was free …

She got up early and since the old lady was still asleep she bathed and dressed and crept down the back stairs. Mrs Dodd was in the kitchen and greeted her in a friendly fashion and offered a cup of tea.

‘If you come down in half an hour your breakfast would be ready. You don’t mind eating it here? The mistress has hers in bed and Mr Vernon likes to be on his own …’

Deborah didn’t mind and said so and Mrs Dodd went on, ‘You’ll need to have the old lady spick and span by ten o’clock: the doctor comes twice a week—today and on Friday—just takes a look at her and has a chat with the mistress.’

Old Mrs Vernon was awake when Deborah went back upstairs and there was time to bathe her face and smooth her hair and make her comfortable. Deborah talked while she worked, heaved the old lady up the bed and turned her pillows and then offered her a drink. She drank thirstily and Deborah, offering more water, resolved to ask for something more interesting. Surely if Mrs Vernon could manage to swallow water she could do the same with orange juice or barley water or even Bovril and chicken broth?

Eating the breakfast the cook put before her presently, she broached the subject. ‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t help yourself to anything you would think she might fancy. Fluids, the doctor said, and they’re all fluids, aren’t they?’ She pointed to the big dresser which took up all one wall. ‘You’ll find everything that you want in there and no need to ask.’

So Deborah went back to the old lady’s room with a jug of orange juice and a small tea tray. She hoped she was doing the right thing but she couldn’t see any reason for not doing it and besides the doctor would come presently and she could ask him and find out too just how much movement the patient could tolerate.

The tea was taken with obvious pleasure, judging by the flurry of winks from the mask-like face. Deborah bore the tray back to the kitchen, put the orange juice in the bathroom to keep cool, and set about readying her patient for the day. Mrs Vernon, although helpless, was small and very thin, which was a good thing, for Deborah had a good deal of heaving and turning to do before she was satisfied with her efforts and knew that her patient was comfortable. It seemed that she was, for, when asked, she winked several times.

Dr Benson was a disappointment; he came into the room accompanied by young Mrs Vernon, accorded Deborah a nod and went to look at his patient.

‘Looks comfortable enough,’ he observed jovially. ‘Let us hope that this young woman will look after her as well as you have done, my dear. I only hope that you have not overtaxed your strength; you must take things easy.’

Deborah, standing by the bed, saw the pent-up rage in the old eyes staring up at him. There was something wrong and she wasn’t sure what it was but of one thing she was sure: it wouldn’t be of any use asking Dr Benson’s advice. He hadn’t spoken to her at all, addressing all his remarks to Mrs Vernon, but she took heart when she heard him telling her that since she was so anxious about her aunt he had arranged for a specialist to come and see the old lady. ‘I’ll bring him with me on Friday,’ he promised. ‘He’s one of the best men in the medical world.’

‘You’re doing very nicely.’ He bent over his patient and spoke rather loudly. ‘We must be patient.’ He patted her hand, nodded to Deborah and went away with Mrs Vernon.

Deborah skipped to the bathroom and filled a feeder with some orange juice. Rest was all very well but some extra nourishment might do no harm. Her gentle heart was shaken to see tears oozing from under the old lady’s eyelids. She put an arm round the elderly head and lifted it gently. ‘You’re going to get better,’ she said, ‘I’m quite sure of that. You’re going to have nourishing drinks and I’m going to rub your legs and arms so that when you can move again you won’t feel weak. I’m not a nurse but if you’ll trust me I’ll do my very best to get you better. Just don’t lose heart, because it will take the two of us.’

Florrie came presently so that Deborah might go down to her lunch. It surprised her very much to discover that she was having it with young Mrs Vernon, but only for that day it seemed, so that that lady could make her wishes known to Deborah.

‘Normally you may have your lunch in the morning-room at the back of the house and your supper too of course. Tea you can have upstairs and someone will sit with my aunt each afternoon for an hour or so. The village has a shop if you should need anything and when it can be arranged you may take a half-day—there’s a bus once or twice a week into Lechlade.’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘It’s an easy post—there’s really nothing to do but keep my aunt comfortable. She needs very little and has no appetite.’

Deborah murmured politely, not believing a word of it.

She walked to the village and back while Mrs Dodd sat with Mrs Vernon. It was a brisk spring day and her spirits rose in the open air. It was nice to have an aim in life; it would be marvellous if she could get the old lady a little better—well enough to sit in a chair perhaps and eat a little and have visitors. Deborah went back to the unwelcoming room armed with a bunch of late snowdrops she had picked and, since there was no one to see, a few daffodils from the garden.

She showed them to her patient and thought that she saw pleasure in the staring eyes. She put them where they could be seen from the bed and went to fetch the tea tray.

The next day followed the pattern of the last with no sign of the old lady’s niece and so did the day after that, but on Friday morning Deborah was surprised to see young Mrs Vernon come into the room.

‘See that my aunt is in a clean nightgown,’ she told Deborah after a meaningless ‘Good morning’. ‘Dr Benson will be here at half-past eleven with that specialist. Get the room tidied up too and remember to stand still and keep quiet while they’re here; you have no need to answer any questions, for I will be here.’

She went away again, leaving Deborah to finish brushing the silvery hair and to tie it back out of the way. She smiled at the old lady as she did so and was taken aback by the look in her eyes. ‘You can hear, can’t you?’ she asked gently, and when one eye winked, ‘I’m going to try and see the doctor—this specialist who is coming to see you; I don’t know how yet but I’ll manage something—I’m sure there’s more to be done than we’re doing. Shall I do that?’

She had another wink in answer.

She heard Mrs Vernon’s tinkling laugh before the door opened and they came in; she was talking vivaciously to Dr Benson and smiling charmingly at him and the man with him. He paused in the doorway and studied the room, its sparse furniture, the drab curtains, its lack of comfort; his eyes lingered for a moment on the bright splashes of colour afforded by the daffodils and snowdrops and last of all he looked at Deborah, neat as a new pin, her carroty hair severely pinned back, its colour vying with the flowers. He joined the others then and turned with a slight lift of his eyebrows to Mrs Vernon, then glancing at Deborah.

‘Oh, this is my aunt’s companion, or should I say attendant? She is quite a help to me—it is exhausting work, you know.’

The specialist crossed the room and held out a hand. ‘But very worthwhile work,’ he said and smiled down at her. ‘Miss …?’

‘Everett, Deborah Everett …’

Young Mrs Vernon broke in quickly, ‘This is Sir James Marlow, Deborah.’

Deborah held out a hand and had it engulfed in his large cool one. He was a giant of a man, nearer forty than thirty, she thought, and handsome with it, his fair hair already silvered, his eyes a clear blue half hidden under heavy lids. She smiled—here was someone she could talk to …

CHAPTER TWO

DEBORAH quickly discovered that there was to be no chance of saying anything. Young Mrs Vernon had a smooth answer for Sir James’s questions. Oh, yes, she assured him earnestly, her aunt had a varied liquid diet and she herself had massaged the flaccid arms and legs just as the nurse had told her to do. ‘Quite exhausting,’ she added, the very picture of patient effort.

Sir James had little to say; he nodded courteously and indicated that he would like to examine his patient. Deborah, waved away by Mrs Vernon’s imperious hand, stepped back and watched while that lady turned back the bed covers, observing, ‘Of course my aunt doesn’t understand anything, does she? There is absolutely no response …’

Sir James didn’t speak, but bent his vast bulk over the bed and began a leisurely examination of his patient. He was very thorough and when it was necessary to turn the patient from one side to the other it was Deborah who did it. ‘For,’ declared young Mrs Vernon, ‘I simply haven’t the strength.’ Dr Benson patted her hand in a sympathetic manner but Sir James took no notice, intent as he was on noting reactions from his patient’s feet. Not that there were any. Deborah replaced the bedclothes, squeezed one of the quiet hands on them and efficiently retired to her corner.

Sir James straightened his enormous back. He said clearly, looking at the old lady as he spoke, ‘I see no reason why Mrs Vernon should not recover at least two-thirds of her normal capacity. Perhaps we might discuss what is to be done …’

‘How splendid,’ observed young Mrs Vernon, not meaning a word of it, and Dr Benson looked doubtful.

‘It would mean treatment of some sort, presumably? But Mrs Vernon simply couldn’t allow her aunt to go into hospital—here she has all the care she needs.’

‘Perhaps if we talk about this downstairs?’ suggested Sir James and smiled at Deborah as he left the room.

Deborah whisked herself over to the bed. ‘He’s on our side,’ she said to the mask-like face on its pillows. ‘He said that you would get better, you heard him, didn’t you?’ She received a wink, and went on, ‘I must see him—if only he would stay for lunch I might see him when he leaves.’

Fate was, for once, being helpful. Cook told her that Sir James was staying to lunch although Dr Benson had had to go, ‘Though he did say that he would have to be back in London later this afternoon. I’m to have lunch ready for one o’clock sharp so’s he can leave by half-past two.’

Deborah, about to leave the kitchen with a jug of the delicious nourishing bouillon purloined from the dining-room lunch, paused to ask, ‘Could Florrie come punctually, do you think? If she could come before two o’clock—I’ll come back early to make up for it.’

‘Don’t you worry, miss,’ said Cook, polishing the glasses at the table, ‘I’ll see she’s there. Come down for your lunch as soon as you can. Old Mrs Vernon’ll enjoy that bouillon—real tasty it is.’

Deborah talked while she fed the old lady, making plans about what they could do once Mrs Vernon was on her feet again. ‘What you really need is a room on the ground floor so that I can put you in a wheelchair and take you for walks. But first we have to get you out of bed …’

She went down to her own lunch presently and took her tray into the morning-room and closed the door carefully to shut out the sound of young Mrs Vernon’s laugh. Deborah, a gentle soul by nature, really hated her. However, she had other things to think about; if Florrie was punctual she could be out of the house soon after two o’clock and since there was only one road to the village and the main road beyond it, Sir James would have to go that way. She would lie in wait for him, she decided, gobbling up the little dish of profiteroles Cook had saved from the dessert destined for the dining-room.

She had just finished settling Mrs Vernon for the afternoon when Florrie came and settled herself with a magazine near the bed.

‘I’ll be back by half-past three,’ promised Deborah, and added, ‘thank you, Florrie.’

‘Meeting your boyfriend?’ asked Florrie.

‘With my plain face?’ Deborah spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t got one—never had, not had the time nor the chance.’

‘Well, I never, miss, and you’re not all that plain, if you’d do your hair different like for a start—it’s a lovely colour and I bet it curls a bit if only you’d give it a chance.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ promised Deborah. She took a last look at the old lady and hurried off to get on her outdoor things; she had wasted time talking to Florrie.

It was the end of March and the month was going out like a lamb, true to the old adage. It was pleasant walking along the narrow country road but she didn’t loiter; she wanted to be at least halfway to the village, well away from the house. If she remembered rightly there was a layby there; it would do nicely. All she had to do was to get him to stop.

She reached the spot and found it highly satisfactory for the road stretched on either side of it in a more or less straight line so that she would see him coming. It was merely a question of waiting.

She didn’t have to wait long. The grey Bentley came rushing towards her in dignified silence and she stepped into the middle of the road and held up an arm. The great car stopped smoothly and Sir James opened the door.

‘Do get in,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We can talk more easily.’

He waited while she got in and sat down and then leaned across her and closed the door.

‘Did you know I’d be here?’

‘I rather expected to see you …’

‘Why?’

‘You have an expressive face, Miss Everett.’ He turned to look at her. ‘What is worrying you?’

She studied his face before she replied; he wasn’t only a very handsome man, he looked—she sought for a word—safe; besides, he was a doctor and one could say things to doctors and they listened and never told anyone …

‘I haven’t much time and I don’t suppose you have either. I’ve only been here four days and I don’t know anything about old Mrs Vernon. I was told that she was on a fluid diet and that she just needed to be kept comfortable but she had been having endless milk and water and—and she wasn’t very clean. And somehow I couldn’t get Dr Benson alone to ask him. I’ve started giving her some orange juice and Bovril and weak tea and she likes that—I know because she winks once if she thinks something is all right and twice if something is wrong. I turn her in bed as often as possible but couldn’t I massage her arms and legs? You see, I’d like to help her to get better and not just lie there, but perhaps I shouldn’t be doing any of these things. So would you tell me what to do and could you ask Dr Benson to write out a diet for her?’ She heaved a gusty sigh. ‘I sound like a prig, don’t I? But I don’t mean to be.’

He smiled very kindly. ‘Not in the least like a prig, but why didn’t you ask Dr Benson all this? He’s a very kind man; it is hardly …’

‘Oh, dear—it’s something called medical ethics, isn’t it? Silly of me not to think of that, but thank you for listening and I’ll try to get him alone.’ She put a hand on the door and he leaned across and took it off again and put it back in her lap.

‘Not so fast. Leave it to me, will you? And in the meantime there is no reason why Mrs Vernon should not have variety in her fluid diet. No coffee, of course … you are familiar with the rudiments of nursing?’

‘I nursed my mother for a year before she died and then my stepfather for more than two years.’

His voice was casual. ‘You have no family?’

‘Not really—a stepbrother and a stepsister.’

He nodded. ‘There is no reason why Mrs Vernon should not improve considerably. By all means massage her legs and arms, and talk to her—you do already, do you not? Her hearing as far as I could judge is good.’

She heard the note of finality in his voice and put her hand on the door once more but before she could open it he had got out and come round the car to open it for her. She hadn’t expected that and, much to her annoyance, blushed.

Sir James’s firm mouth twitched but all he said was, ‘Now do exactly as Dr Benson says, won’t you? Goodbye, Miss Everett.’

She watched the car until it was out of sight before turning round and going back to the house. She was unlikely to see him again, she reflected, but she couldn’t forget him; it wasn’t just the magnificent size of him or his good looks—he had listened to her, something Walter hadn’t done for years. Nor, for the matter, had her stepfather.

‘A very nice man,’ said Deborah, talking to herself since there was no one else to talk to. ‘I should very much like to meet him again but of course I shan’t.’

Florrie was deep in her magazine when Deborah got home. ‘She’s been as good as gold,’ she told Deborah, ‘sleeping like a baby.’

But when she went over to the bed the old lady’s eyes were open. ‘Good, have you been awake for a long time?’

An eye winked. ‘Then we’ll have tea early, shall we? I’ll tell you about my walk …’

She described the primroses and violets she had found, the lambs she had seen in the fields bordering the road, the hedges and the catkins and a squirrel she had seen up a tree, but she didn’t say a word about Sir James.

It was several days before Dr Benson came again and this time he wished her good morning. ‘I have received a letter from Sir James,’ he told her. ‘I have already told Mrs Vernon of its contents but since you are looking after my patient it is necessary that I tell you too. He is of the opinion that the diet may be increased—broth, Bovril, weak tea, fruit juices—and he suggests that she might tolerate a nourishing milky food: Complan. You know of it?’

Deborah said that yes, she did, reflecting on the countless times she had prepared it for her stepfather.

‘He also agrees with me that gentle massage would be of great benefit. Five minutes or so each day on the limbs.’

Young Mrs Vernon spoke, ‘Of course none of this is going to cure her—but it might make her more comfortable, I suppose.’ She peered down at her aunt, who lay with her eyes shut. ‘She must be very weak by now.’ She added quickly, ‘Poor dear old thing.’ Then gave Dr Benson a sad smile.

‘You have done all—more than enough for her,’ he told her. ‘You are quite worn out—you need a few weeks’ rest.’ He glanced at Deborah. ‘I should suppose that this young lady—Deborah?—is capable of taking over your duties as well as her own for a short period?’

Deborah, assuming her most capable expression, pondered the fact that Dr Benson, who was probably a nice man, clever enough and kind to his patients, should have been taken in so completely by Mrs Vernon. Probably Sir James felt the same way; she was by no means beautiful but she was skilfully made up and wore beautiful clothes; besides, she had mastered the art of being charming …

Dr Benson rambled on. ‘You husband is still away? In London? What could be better? Allow yourself to relax, Mrs Vernon, enjoy yourself, go and join him, go out and about; you will return refreshed.’

Any woman, thought Deborah, listening to this, would be refreshed by a few theatres, dinners out and the kind of shopping Mrs Vernon would do. She wondered about Mr Vernon, apparently away on business. His wife spoke of him in capital letters so presumably he was her loving slave …

She caught the tail-end of what Mrs Vernon was saying. ‘To leave my dear aunt with servants … I should never forgive myself if anything should happen while I was away.’

‘My dear lady, your aunt may linger for some time; on the other hand she may die very shortly—she is very weak as you can see. Even with this diet which Sir James has suggested and massage … they are merely a means of bringing your aunt more comfort.’

‘You think so?’ Mrs Vernon sounded eager. ‘Then perhaps I will go away for a week or so. But supposing she should die while I am away …?’

‘My dear Mrs Vernon, no one is going to question your absolute devotion to your aunt and, in any case, she is unaware of anyone or anything.’

Deborah was standing where she could see her patient’s face. She winked at it and had an answering wink. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Dr Benson that his patient was listening to every word. She had her mouth open to utter when she received two winks and such a glare from the elderly eyes that she could only close her mouth again.

Dr Benson and Mrs Vernon went away presently and Deborah perched on the side of the bed so that the old lady could see her clearly.

‘Nothing could be better,’ she observed in her practical way. ‘We shall have a week or more … I’ll massage you and feed you up with chicken broth and beef tea and anything else that will go down. And don’t take any notice of what they say. I know you are going to get better.’ She added to clinch the matter, ‘Sir James told me so.’

Mrs Vernon didn’t go at once; she came every morning now to enquire as to her aunt’s condition and Deborah told her each time that her patient had had a quiet night and was taking her feeds. What she didn’t tell was that she had seen old Mrs Vernon’s toes twitch when she had been washing her in bed. It was exciting and she was bursting to tell someone, preferably Sir James, but that wouldn’t be possible; it would have to be Dr Benson and then only after she had made sure that she hadn’t fancied it or given way to wishful thinking.

Young Mrs Vernon went at last, driven away in a taxi loaded with enough luggage for a month although she had told Deborah that she would return in a week, or ten days at the latest. She had also told Deborah not to force her aunt to take her feeds. ‘We must allow the dear old thing to die peacefully,’ she told Deborah. ‘You are to let me know if you think that she is failing. Dr Benson will be away for a week or so, by the way, but really it is not necessary for the doctor to call. In an emergency you may telephone Dr Ferguson at Lechlade who understands the situation.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘You will be paid at the end of the month with the servants.’

A remark which Deborah found it unnecessary to reply to—just as well for rage at such rudeness was choking her.

For the first few days Mrs Vernon telephoned each evening. Then, since Deborah’s report was always the same, she decided to telephone less often. ‘Dr Benson will contact me immediately should I be needed,’ she said and Deborah forbore from reminding her that Dr Benson was away …

It was four days after young Mrs Vernon had left that her aunt’s fragile foot moved. Deborah watched it and tried not to get over-excited.

‘Your foot—it’s moving, can you feel it doing that? You can? Oh, Mrs Vernon, splendid. Look, I’m going to prop you up a little and then I’m going to let the doctor know. He’ll tell me what to do. Dr Benson is still away but I can phone this other man—he’ll want to see you.’

She went downstairs and shut herself in the drawing-room and phoned Dr Ferguson. Who wasn’t there. ‘He is on his rounds; no idea when he’ll be back.’ The voice was impatient.

‘Has he a car phone? Will you try it please; it’s urgent.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ said the voice. ‘Hang on.’

Deborah hung on, bursting with impatience until the voice told her that there wasn’t an answer. ‘He’s not in his car, is he, then? Lord knows where he is. You’re wasting your time. Try somewhere else or ring 999.’

Deborah replaced the receiver and stood thinking for a moment. Mrs Vernon had a desk in the sitting-room; perhaps there might be a telephone book on it, even a directory. Both were there amidst a litter of letters, bills and catalogues and right on the top was a small pad with a phone number scribbled on it and underneath the words ‘Sir James Marlow’.

Deborah didn’t wait; she made up her mind what to do and dialled the London number and almost at once an elderly voice said, ‘Sir James Marlow’s residence.’

‘Can I speak to him, please? It’s urgent—tell him it’s about Mrs Vernon.’ She added, ‘Tell him it’s Miss Everett.’

His quiet voice sounded in her ear. ‘Miss Everett, how can I help?’

‘Look,’ said Deborah not bothering with the niceties of polite manners, ‘Mrs Vernon’s moving her foot—it began with a twitch but now it’s actually moving and Dr Benson is away and the doctor I’m supposed to get if I need one is out on his rounds—they tried his car phone but of course he’s not in his car. What shall I do?’

‘Are you alone in the house?’

‘No, no—I mean Mrs Dodd is here and so is Cook. Mrs Vernon—young Mrs Vernon—is in London and I don’t know quite where, she said she would telephone. She’s gone for a week or ten days so I expect she’ll ring soon; she’s been there four days.’

‘Go back to your patient, Miss Everett. I will be with you in rather less than three hours. Don’t get too excited.’

‘Of course I’m excited,’ snapped Deborah. ‘Wouldn’t you be if you could move your foot?’

A silly remark and rather rude and deserving of his quelling, ‘Goodbye, Miss Everett.’

She had no time to bother about that now; she sped back to Mrs Vernon, pausing at the door to regain her calm before telling her that Sir James Marlow was coming to see her and since it would be lunchtime by then Mrs Vernon should have her chicken broth a little earlier. ‘And I suppose I should warn Cook—do you think he’ll want lunch?’

She received a wink and, obedient to it, went down to the kitchen and explained to Cook, although she didn’t say why Sir James was coming; time enough for that when he had done.

‘That’ll be nice, Deborah,’ said Cook. ‘You’ll have some company for once. I’ll sit with Mrs Vernon so’s there’s no reason to hurry—you can have a chat with him.’

‘He may prefer to lunch by himself,’ said Deborah doubtfully. ‘I’ll ask him.’

She went back upstairs, armed with more flowers from the garden and, anxious to make a good impression, tied Mrs Vernon’s hair back with a pink ribbon before brushing her own carroty locks.

Mrs Vernon, strengthened by the broth and nicely scented with lavender water, stared up at Sir James’s face as he bent over her. He had arrived quietly, bade Deborah a civil good morning and gone at once to the bedside.

He took the old lady’s hand in his and felt its faint movement. ‘You’re much better,’ he told her, and received a flurry of winks in reply. ‘I’m going to take a look at you if I may, since Dr Benson isn’t here.’

He made an unhurried examination, spending a long time with the foot, testing its reflexes before doing the same with the other foot. Presently he said, ‘Mrs Vernon, it is too early to be certain of anything but I believe that you will regain a good deal of your normal movement, but you must go very slowly. Your hearing is excellent, is it not? Have you tried to speak?’

The old lady grunted.

‘Splendid—your voice is there; it will return. Don’t try and force it. Miss Everett …’ he changed that to Deborah at the two urgent winks ‘… Deborah will continue to massage your arms and legs and you must drink everything which she offers you. If you were in hospital there is a good deal more which could be done for you, but your niece told me that you would be unhappy there so we must do the best we can here.’

He waited until Deborah arranged the bedclothes tidily. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Deborah, ‘there’s a fire in the dining-room—in case you would like to stay for lunch?’

She went over to the bed and told its occupant that they were going downstairs then and that Mrs Dodd would come up at once. ‘I’ll be up to settle you for your nap presently.’

She led the way downstairs, ushered him into the dining-room and went to the kitchen. ‘If Mrs Dodd wouldn’t mind going up for a little while? Sir James wants to give me some instructions.’

‘What about his lunch?’ asked Cook.

‘I’ll ask him and come and tell you …’

He was at a window looking out on to the garden beyond but he turned round as she went into the room. ‘You were kind enough to invite me to lunch—perhaps we could talk at the same time?’

‘Me too? You want me to have lunch with you? I usually have mine on a tray …’

‘I very much hope that you will keep me company.’

‘Yes, well, if you say so—I’ll tell Cook.’ She whisked herself back to the kitchen to tell her and then rejoined him.

‘I’m so sorry but I don’t know where Mrs Vernon keeps her sherry—and I’m not sure if she would want me to—what I mean is, I’m a servant …’ She went pink under his amused look.

‘I have to drive back to London presently …’

‘Oh, then you won’t mind drinking lemonade or something like that.’

Sir James, who hadn’t drunk lemonade for very many years, agreed that that would be an excellent choice.

Cook, without young Mrs Vernon’s sharp eye upon her, had conjured up a splendid meal: soup, chicken pie with a winter salad, and a steamed pudding, as light as a feather with jam sauce and cream. Deborah enjoyed every morsel, aware that young Mrs Vernon would have been highly indignant at the idea of her aunt’s attendant sitting at the same table as Sir James and eating such an excellent meal.

Over the chicken pie she judged it the time to ask a few questions. ‘Is Mrs Vernon going to get quite better again? And will it take a long time?’

‘Not quite better, I’m afraid, but possibly able to walk with a Zimmer frame, sit in a chair, get around in a wheelchair and have the use of her hands. Probably the left hand will be weaker than the right. As to her speech, it may be indistinct and slow. I see no reason why she should not enjoy life once more, though. When is Mrs Vernon returning?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And Dr Benson?’

‘I wasn’t told precisely.’ She took a breath, ‘I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing phoning you, Sir James, but I didn’t know what to do.’

He accepted a second helping of pie. ‘You did the right thing, Miss Everett. I shall contact Dr Benson at the earliest opportunity and suggest further treatment. How long are you to remain here?’

‘I’ve no idea. Someone I know is young Mrs Vernon’s aunt, and Mrs Vernon was finding it hard work coping with her aunt—there was only the district nurse coming in each day.’ She hesitated, ‘I needed work and so I came here.’

‘You have no plans at the moment? No intention of marrying?’

‘No, none at all.’ She gave him a questioning look.

‘I do not ask out of idle curiosity,’ he told her with a smile. ‘I was anticipating Mrs Vernon’s partial recovery and her need for a companion.’

‘Oh, I see. But I think that if she got better Mrs Vernon might want to look after her again.’

‘Perhaps. We shall see. You have no need to say anything to Mrs Vernon or Dr Benson. I will find the means of communicating with them at the first opportunity.’

They ate their pudding while he talked casually about this and that, interposing a gentle question here and there so that Deborah, off her guard and relaxed, told him a great deal more than she would have wished.

He left presently after another brief visit to the old lady and Deborah, her hand in his large reassuring grasp, wished that they could meet again.

‘You must be daft, my girl,’ she told herself, watching the car disappear down the drive. ‘He’ll not even remember my name in a month’s time.’

Three days went by in which Mrs Vernon’s twitchings and movements became most satisfactorily more frequent. Deborah, eager to tell someone about it, was delighted to see Dr Benson’s car coming up the drive on the fourth morning. He entered the room with a jovial good morning and said, ‘What’s all this I hear from Sir James? He has asked me to go up to London and discuss things with him. Very surprising, I must say, and most gratifying.’

Who for? wondered Deborah under her breath and, at his request, gave a succinct account of Mrs Vernon’s improvement.

‘How delighted your niece will be.’ He addressed himself to his patient, who stared back at him. ‘It is most unfortunate that I do not know exactly where she is staying but Sir James has undertaken to find her. I only trust that she is sufficiently improved in health to come home and resume her special responsibilities.’

Neither of his companions had anything to say to this, Mrs Vernon because she wasn’t capable of doing so, Deborah because she could think of no suitable reply. Instead she asked if she should rearrange the bedclothes so that he might examine his patient.

‘Most satisfactory,’ he remarked when he had finished. ‘Of course we shall know more in a week or so and in the meantime I will go and see Sir James. He finds it a most interesting case.’ He glanced at Deborah. ‘And this is due largely to your care and sharp eyes, Deborah. Mrs Vernon will be delighted when she hears the news.’

She didn’t contradict him but escorted him down to the drawing-room and gave him coffee while she wondered just how Sir James was going to find young Mrs Vernon; perhaps they moved in the same social circle, whatever that meant. She conjured up a picture of Sir James, magnificent in black tie and escorting some elegant beauty to dine at the Savoy or the Ritz and seeing Mrs Vernon, presumably with her husband, seated close by. What would be easier than passing on the good news? She was forced to abandon this colourful fantasy in order to give her full attention to Dr Benson who was reiterating what she must and must not do.

It was three days before young Mrs Vernon, accompanied by her husband, returned home. Deborah had just finished making Mrs Vernon comfortable for the morning when Mrs Dodd came to fetch her. ‘I’m to stay,’ she said breathlessly because she had hurried up the stairs. ‘Mrs Vernon wants to see you. Got here not ten minutes ago. Cook’s in a fine temper, I can tell you, not having been told and nothing much in the house.

She went over to the elderly lady and looked at her. ‘Morning, Mrs Vernon, love. Getting better, are you?’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ said Deborah and hurried down the back stairs and into the hall.

The drawing-room door was open and young Mrs Vernon was standing in the centre of the room. She turned round as Deborah went in, exclaiming peevishly, ‘What’s all this I hear? I saw Sir James in London; he tells me that my aunt is recovering from her stroke. I must say this is quite unexpected …’

‘Mrs Vernon is moving quite a lot—she is unable to talk but she makes sounds and seems to enjoy her diet. She really is getting better.’

‘What’s this I hear about you telephoning Sir James? The very idea—you appear to have overreached yourself.’

‘Dr Benson was away and his deputy couldn’t be reached; I thought it urgent enough to telephone Sir James who had seen Mrs Vernon and would tell me what to do.’

‘There was absolutely no need for that. My aunt’s improvement is probably a flash in the pan—all this excitement is so bad for me and just as I was beginning to relax. I shall have to speak to my husband. He agrees with me that this is all very upsetting for my aunt …’ She turned sharply as Florrie opened the door. ‘Sir James Marlow, ma’am,’ and stood aside to let him pass.

He glanced from Mrs Vernon’s angry face to Deborah’s pallor. ‘Mrs Vernon, I am on my way to Bristol and have taken the opportunity of calling to see you. I believe that Dr Benson is on his way here? We might perhaps take another look at your aunt together and discuss her future, for, most happily, I believe her to have one.’

He had shaken hands as he spoke and then turned to Deborah. ‘Miss Everett behaved with great good sense in calling me; she is to be commended …’

He smiled at Deborah and added suavely, ‘Your husband is here? We might have a talk presently.’

Mrs Vernon had pulled herself together. ‘How very good of you to call, Sir James. We should be most grateful if you would take a look at my aunt.’ She smiled at Deborah, her eyes like flint. ‘And of course we are indebted to Deborah for her splendid care.’

Mr Vernon and Dr Benson came in together and Mrs Vernon said, ‘You may go, Deborah. Send Mrs Dodd downstairs at once and tell her to bring the coffee.’

Deborah went without saying anything, her quiet face showing nothing of her feelings, only her eyes were quite startlingly blue; Sir James, opening the door for her, noticed that.

Later they all came upstairs and young Mrs Vernon fluttered around the bed, tugging the bedclothes and twitching the pillow under her aunt’s head until Sir James asked her quietly if she would allow him to examine her aunt. Mr Vernon went away then and his wife stayed only long enough to watch the return of mobility in her aunt. One side, Sir James pointed out, had much stronger reflexes than the other but that was to be expected; only time would tell how great the improvement would be.

‘Yes, well—perhaps you will join us downstairs when you are ready, Sir James.’ She went away leaving the two doctors to nod and murmur and move their wise heads while Deborah moved quite quietly out of earshot. She would dearly have loved to know what they were saying.

Presently Sir James addressed himself to his patient. ‘Dr Benson and I are of the opinion that a period of rest is all that is required for you, Mrs Vernon, preferably somewhere where you can sit out of doors whenever possible. You will need the services of the physiotherapist and someone to look after you but life must be quiet and without worry of any kind. Dr Benson and I are going downstairs now to discuss this with your niece and her husband so I will wish you goodbye. Dr Benson will inform you if I am needed again.’

He smiled at Deborah as he went and she watched his enormous back disappear out of the door with a feeling of despair. They would send the old lady to some kind of home and she would be out of a job but, more than that, she would never know if old Mrs Vernon fulfilled the doctor’s hopes. Her niece didn’t like her and would take the first opportunity to dismiss her. She composed her troubled face into serenity and went to sit by the old lady to gossip brightly about the future.

In the drawing-room Sir James, with guile, charm and an iron determination, was getting his own way. On their way downstairs Dr Benson had mentioned that the old lady owned a cottage: ‘A charming place but rather far away on the estuary near Kingsbridge—secluded but near enough for the usual medical services.’

An ideal solution to the problem of Mrs Vernon’s future, said Sir James blandly, a few months in peaceful surroundings and she stood a good chance of taking up some kind of life again. And in the meantime Mrs Vernon would be able to have the chance to recover from her weeks of nursing and anxiety. Her present attendant could continue with her since she was accustomed to her and arrangements could be made for the local doctor to attend her and for her to have physiotherapy.

Mrs Vernon opened her mouth to refuse, caught her husband’s eye and closed it again. ‘It could be arranged,’ said Mr Vernon, middle-aged and anxious to have the tiresome affair settled. His aunt had money of her own, a substantial fortune which he would inherit, and since it seemed likely that she wouldn’t live for many more years it would be very convenient to have her out of the house. Her will was safely in the hands of his solicitor and since she was unable to write he saw no danger there. The girl Deborah might prove a nuisance, coaxing money from the old lady, but he could soon put a stop to that …

Sir James watched his face and guessed what he was thinking. ‘Of course, your aunt could remain here; it would mean moving her to a downstairs room so that later on she could be wheeled into the garden.’ A remark which served to make up Mrs Vernon’s mind for her.

‘She shall go to the cottage,’ she declared. ‘It will be a great nuisance arranging her removal but if it is for my aunt’s benefit then nothing is too much trouble.’

Sir James’s eyes gleamed beneath their lids but all he said was, ‘I shall be glad to consult with Dr Benson when he considers Mrs Vernon fit to be moved.’ He then made his goodbyes gravely and drove himself away. He had done what he could for Mrs Vernon and for the carroty-haired girl; he had no doubt that they would both be a great deal happier in the cottage than they were shut away in that upstairs room.

CHAPTER THREE

A MONTH passed before Dr Benson judged it was time to consult Sir James again. Mrs Vernon was sitting propped up in bed now with quite a lot of movement in her arms and hands and dangling her legs over the side of the bed under Deborah’s anxious eye. There had been talk of a physiotherapist coming twice a week, but it had come to nothing, so she had followed Dr Benson’s instructions and massaged and rubbed and encouraged the old lady. Her speech was returning too, slurred and almost unintelligible, and each day she laboriously wrote little messages in a shaky hand, and all these little miracles were ignored by her niece, who visited her each morning, asked how she was and went away again.

Deborah, asking for a half-day so that she might go to Lechlade and do some necessary shopping, had been treated to a tirade concerning the pleasant life she led with almost nothing to do, her tiresome habit of asking for this and that that the old lady needed when everyone knew that they were quite unnecessary, but she stuck to her guns in her quiet way and got her afternoon off.

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