An Old-Fashioned Girl
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE two men stood at the window, contemplating the dreary January afternoon outside, and then by common consent turned to look at the room in which they were.

‘Of course,’ observed the elder of the two, a short, stout man with a thatch of grey hair and a craggy face, ‘Norfolk—this part of rural Norfolk—during the winter months is hardly welcoming.’ Despite his words he sounded hopefully questioning.

‘I do not require a welcome.’ His companion’s deep voice had the trace of an accent. ‘I require peace and quiet.’ He glanced around him at the pleasant, rather shabby room, apparently impervious to the chill consequence to the house’s having lain empty for some weeks. ‘Today is the sixth—I should like to come in four days’ time. I shall have my housekeeper with me, but perhaps you can advise me as to the best means of getting help for the house.’

‘That should be no difficulty, Mr van der Beek. There are several women in the village only too willing to oblige and should you require someone to keep the garden in order there is old Ned Groom who was the gardener here …’

‘Excellent.’ Mr van der Beek turned to look out of the window again. He was an extremely tall man, heavily built and still in his thirties, with a commanding nose in a handsome face, a firm mouth and light clear blue eyes. His hair was so fair that it was difficult to see where it was already silvered with grey. ‘I will take the house for six months—perhaps you would undertake the paperwork.’

‘Of course.’ The older man hesitated. ‘You mentioned that you required peace and quiet above all else. Might I suggest that you should employ someone: a general factotum, as it were, to relieve you of the tiresome interruptions which are bound to occur—the telephone, the tradespeople, bills to be paid, the tactful handling of unwelcome visitors, the care of your house should you wish to go away for a few days …’

‘A paragon, in fact.’ Mr van der Beek’s voice was dry.

His companion chose to take him literally. ‘Indeed, yes. A local person well known in the village and therefore someone who would not be resented and is the soul of discretion. Your housekeeper need have no fear that her authority will be undermined.’

Mr van der Beek took his time to consider that. ‘It is probably a good idea, but it must be made clear to this person that she—it is a she, I presume?—will come on a month’s trial. I will leave you to make that clear and also to deal with the wages and so forth.’

‘What wages had you in mind?’

Mr van der Beek waved a large impatient hand. ‘My dear fellow, I leave that to your discretion.’ He went to the door. ‘Can I give you a lift back to Aylsham?’

His companion accepted eagerly and they left together, locking the door carefully behind them before getting into the dark blue Bentley parked in the drive before the house. Aylsham was something under twenty miles away and they had little to say to each other but, as Mr van der Beek drew up before the estate agent’s office in the main street, he asked, ‘You have my solicitor’s number? Presumably the owner of the house has a solicitor of her own?’

‘Of course. I shall contact them immediately. Rest assured that the house will be ready for you when you return in four days’ time.’

They bade each other goodbye and Mr van der Beek drove himself on to Norwich and on down the A140 before cutting across country to Sudbury and Saffron Walden, and, still keeping to the smaller roads, to London. It would have been quicker to have taken the A11 but he had time to spare and he wanted to go over his plans. It had taken careful planning to arrange for six months away from his work as a consultant surgeon; his meticulous notes had reached the stage when they could be transformed into a textbook on surgery and he had spent some weeks searching for a suitable place in which to live while he wrote it. He was fairly sure that he had found it—at least, he profoundly hoped so.

The house agent watched him go and then hurried into his office and picked up the phone, dialled a number and waited impatiently for someone to answer. He didn’t give the dry-as-dust voice time to say more than his name. ‘George? Dr van der Beek has taken the Martins’ house for six months. He wants to move in in four days’ time. I’m to engage daily help and when I suggested he might need someone to help the housekeeper he’s bringing with him he agreed. Will you see Patience as soon as possible? I didn’t tell him that she was the niece of the owners, but in any case I don’t think he will notice her; he wants complete quiet while he writes a book. Provided she can keep out of sight and get along with the housekeeper the job’s hers …’

Mr George Bennett coughed. ‘It is very short notice—the paperwork …’

‘Yes, yes, I know, but the Martins need the money very badly, and besides, Patience can add something to that miserable pension of theirs. It’s a godsend.’

Mr Bennett coughed again. ‘I will go and see Patience this afternoon. It is getting a little late; however I do agree with you that this is a chance not to be missed. Was the question of salary raised?’

‘No, but he drives a Bentley and didn’t quibble over the rent. I think it might be a good idea if she were to call and see the housekeeper—she’s coming with Mr van der Beek. I rather fancy that he will leave the running of the house to her.’

‘Very well. I shall go and see Patience now and make sure that everything is in order by the tenth. Shall we leave it to her to engage the help needed?’

‘I should think so. She is well known here and liked. There should be no difficulty.’

Patience Martin, standing at her bedroom window with a pile of freshly ironed linen in her arms, watched Mr Bennett coming along the street, his elderly person sheltering under an umbrella. The street was narrow and quiet, lined with small flat-fronted houses, all exactly alike, and he was obviously making for her aunts’ front door. She put down the linen and ran downstairs in time to prevent him thumping the knocker; her aunts were dozing before their tea and they were too old and frail to be wakened to listen to bad news. For that was what it would be, she reflected; ever since they had lost almost all their capital in a company which had gone bankrupt her aunts regarded old Mr Bennett as the harbinger of bad news … it was he who had warned them that they would have to leave their home—sell it or rent it and live on the proceeds, and that frugally. Having lived in moderate comfort for all their lives they had been quite bewildered but uncomplaining, moving to the poky little house he had found for them, quite unable to appreciate the situation. It was Patience who had coped with the difficulties, paid bills and shopped with an economical eye, contriving to give them their glass of sherry before lunch and Earl Grey tea, extravagances offset by the cheaper cuts of meat skilfully disguised and cod instead of halibut …

She reached the door in time to open it before Mr Bennett could knock, and she ushered him inside. In the narrow hall she took his umbrella, helped him off with his coat, informed him in her quiet voice that her aunts were asleep and ushered him into the sitting-room. It was a small room, overfurnished with her aunts’ most treasured pieces but cheaply carpeted and curtained. Mr Bennett took an outsize armchair upholstered in worn brocade and put his briefcase down beside it.

‘If it’s bad news perhaps you’ll tell me first,’ suggested Patience in a matter-of-fact voice.

Mr Bennett, not to be hurried, studied her as she sat down opposite him. A pity that she was possessed of such unassuming features, he thought; lovely grey eyes fringed with black lashes, long and thick, were the only asset in her face with its too short nose, wide mouth and hair brushed firmly back into a careless bun. Very abundant hair, and silky, but most definitely mouse.

‘My dear Patience, for once I bring good news. Your aunts’ house has been let at a very good rent for six months, payable monthly in advance, which should allow you to live without worries for the time being.’

Patience, thinking of the small pile of bills waiting to be settled, sighed with relief. ‘When does the new tenant come?’

‘In four days’ time. A Mr van der Beek, a surgeon who needs time to write a book of reference. He emphasises that he must have complete quiet while he is working and has chosen your aunts’ house for that reason. He is bringing his housekeeper with him but he has asked Mr Tomkins to find help in the village for the household and, since he was so emphatic about being left undisturbed while he writes, Mr Tomkins suggested that he might like to employ someone to act as a buffer between him and any hindrances—the telephone, tradespeople, unwelcome callers and so forth. He agreed to this and Mr Tomkins told him that he knew of just such a person—yourself, Patience, although he made no mention of your name or of the fact that you had lived in the house. It is suggested that, if you are agreeable, you might call on the housekeeper and introduce yourself—I feel that her goodwill is important—so that you may allay any fears she may have concerning her position as head of the domestic staff. Presumably you will come under that category. Your working hours have yet to be arranged, also your pay, but, from what I hear, Mr van der Beek is not a mean man. I shall be seeing him when he comes for the keys and will make sure that you are fairly treated.’ Mr Bennett held his hands before him as if in prayer. ‘I do not need to advise you to keep a low profile, Patience—to be neither seen nor heard should be your aim.’

‘Well, I’ll do my best, Mr Bennett, and thank you and Mr Tomkins for all your kindness. I am most grateful and a paid job will be more than welcome—I must get some money saved to tide us over until we can let the house or sell it after this Mr van der Beek has gone.’ She smiled widely at him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, my dear, I must get back and deal with various matters. I should like to call on your aunts tomorrow—there will be papers to sign—which is the best time of day?’

‘About eleven o’clock, if you can manage that? May I tell them what you have told me or should you wish to do that yourself tomorrow?’

‘Tell them by all means, my dear.’ He got to his feet and presently left the house and Patience skipped upstairs on light feet and put away the laundry, humming cheerfully. Now the small outstanding bills could be paid and she could order more coal. She fell to wondering how much money she could expect for her services and then sobered a little at the thought that the housekeeper might take a dislike to her.

She went to the kitchen presently and got a tea-tray ready and, when she heard her aunts’ slow progress down the stairs, made the tray ready and carried it in to the sitting-room.

The two old ladies were sitting one each side of the small fire, turning serene faces to her as she went in. They were a handsome pair, upright in their chairs, with identical hairstyles and dressed in similar dark brown dresses which conceded nothing to fashion. They were in fact Patience’s great-aunts and her only living relations and she loved them dearly. She poured tea, offered the scones they enjoyed with it and sat down between them. As they always did, they asked her if she had had a pleasant afternoon, the opening which she had been waiting for.

They received her news with dignified delight, although they were both doubtful as to her accepting the job Mr Bennett had offered.

‘It seems most unsuitable,’ observed Aunt Bessy, the elder of the two ladies. ‘Little better than domestic service.’

Patience hastened to reassure her. ‘More a secretarial post,’ she fibbed boldly, and Aunt Polly, a mere eighty years old and four years her sister’s junior, agreed with her in her gentle way.

‘It would be nice for Patience to have an outside interest,’ she pointed out, ‘and money of her own.’

Aunt Bessy, after due thought, conceded this, both old ladies happily unaware that any money their great-niece would earn would probably be swallowed up in the housekeeping purse. Over second cups of tea they pronounced themselves satisfied with the arrangements and willing to receive Mr Bennett when he called on the following day. This settled, they fell to speculating as to their tenant.

‘Oh, probably elderly and set in his ways,’ said Patience. ‘Mr Bennett said that he was very emphatic about having complete quiet in the house while he works. Probably an old despot,’ she added, ‘but who cares, since he’s paying quite a handsome rent and didn’t quibble at the idea of hiring me as well?’

Mr Bennett was closeted with her aunts when she got back from the shops on the following morning. She made coffee and was leaving the room when he asked her to stay for a moment …

‘I have been in touch with Mr van der Beek’s secretary,’ he told her, ‘concerning your employment. He has left the arrangements to her, it seems, and she suggests that you work from ten o’clock until four o’clock with Sundays free—the wages seem generous …’ He mentioned a sum which made Patience gasp.

‘Heavens, there must be some mistake …’

‘No, no. I assure you that it is a fair offer. Cooks earn a great deal nowadays, as do children’s nurses and home helps, added to which they have their keep. You will live out, of course, and she suggested that you have three-quarters of an hour for lunch.’

Patience was allowing several pleasant thoughts to race round her sensible head. With money like that she could get Mrs Dodge, who had worked at the house when she and her aunts lived there, to come in for a couple of hours each day and prepare a meal and start to cook it. There would be time enough to do the housework before she went up to the house in the mornings and the whole of a long evening to catch up on the washing and the ironing.

She heard Mr Bennett say, ‘I have been asked to telephone back and agree to these terms. References will be required. I will supply one and I will get the Reverend Mr Cuthbertson to supply a second letter. I will see that they are posted this evening and this secretary suggests that you should call and see the housekeeper on the afternoon of her employer’s arrival. She emphasises that it is the housekeeper you are to see; on no account is Mr van der Beek to be disturbed. She implied that his household runs on oiled wheels. His housekeeper is called Miss Murch. I have engaged two ladies from here to work daily and old Ned Groom is only too delighted to have work in the garden.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘You have no objection to returning to your old home as a member of the household staff?’ he asked delicately.

‘None whatever,’ declared Patience, a girl of common sense, not giving way to regrets over events which couldn’t have been helped anyway once they had occurred. Leaving the nice old house had been a bitter blow but she had never allowed the aunts to see how much she had minded that. They had been marvellous about it, adjusting with dignity to living in the small terraced house they had rented, never complaining. Their one worry had been Patience; they had left the house and their capital to her and now there was nothing. Much though they loved her, they had agreed privately that her chances of marrying were small. For one thing there were few eligible young men in the district, and since she seldom went further afield than Norwich, and that infrequently, there was small chance of there being an opportunity for her to meet a young man, eligible or otherwise. Besides, the dear girl had no looks to speak of; charm and a pretty voice and a nice little figure, if a trifle plump; but men, in the aunts’ opinion, liked beauty in a woman, and, failing that, prettiness. They shook their white heads sadly; the dear child tended to be a little too forthright in her talk sometimes, and gentlemen liked to be right about everything even if they weren’t, a supposition to which Patience had never subscribed. Her future was a constant worry to them. It was a constant worry to Patience too, although she never said so.

Patience, ready to leave the house for her interview with Miss Murch, stood before the pier-glass in Aunt Bessy’s bedroom and studied her reflection. She looked suitable, she considered, in a pleated tweed skirt, white blouse and her short woollen jacket, all garments she had worn for longer than she cared to remember although of excellent quality, well brushed and pressed. She never wore much make-up; her skin was creamy and as smooth as a child’s but she added discreet lipstick and smoothed her hair into even greater neatness. She had left the aunts dozing by the fire, both still a little unsettled at the idea of a Martin going to work in a menial capacity in her own home; it had taken her the intervening days to coax them into fully accepting the idea. She peeped into the sitting-room now, made sure that the fireguard was in place and that they were soundly asleep, and let herself out of the house.

It was ten minutes’ walk to her old home, standing as it did half a mile along a narrow lane leading from the village. It should suit the new tenant, she reflected as she stepped out briskly and turned in through the gateposts and up the curved drive. It gave her a pang to see the house again; she had lived there for eleven years, ever since her parents had died in a car accident, and she loved the rather shabby place, timber-framed, its plaster walls pargeted. Its beginnings were some time during the late sixteenth century and it had been added to and altered until it presented a somewhat higgledy-piggledy appearance. The aunts had been born there, for it had been in the Martin family for the last hundred and fifty years; Patience wondered if they would ever live in it again. It seemed unlikely; Mr Bennett had warned them that, if a buyer should take a fancy to it, it would be wise to sell it. It was only after the ladylike battle they had fought with him that he had agreed to try and let it. Patience sighed and went round the side of the house to the tradesmen’s entrance. There were lights already in some of the windows and a Bentley before the front door, and when she rang the bell it was opened by Mrs Croft from the village, who welcomed her warmly. ‘Me and Mrs Perch ‘as been ‘ere all day, Miss Patience, putting things to rights, as you might say. You’re expected. I’m to take you straight away to Miss Murch.’ She added in a warning whisper, ‘Proper ol’ tartar, she is, too.’

Patience followed her along the flagged passage leading to the kitchen, passing the boot-room, the pantry, the stillroom and a vast broom-cupboard on the way. The kitchen was large, rather dark and old-fashioned. There was a vast porcelain sink, a dresser taking up most of one wall and any number of cupboards. The scrubbed table in the centre of the room was capable of seating a dozen persons and there were Windsor chairs on either side of the Aga—one of the first models, Aunt Bessy had proudly declared, and still in fine working order.

The housekeeper’s room led off the kitchen and Mrs Croft pushed open the half-open door. ‘Here’s Miss Martin to see you, Miss Murch.’ She stood back to allow Patience to go past her, winked and nodded and trotted off. She and indeed most of the village had been warned not to mention the fact that Patience had lived in the house where she was to be employed, something they readily agreed to—after all, the Martins owned the house, didn’t they? And the new tenant was a foreigner, wasn’t he? And that Miss Murch, from what they could see of her as the car swept through the village, looked an old cross-patch.

Certainly the frowning face turned to her as she went into the room did nothing to raise Patience’s hopes. Miss Murch was tall and angular, dressed severely in black, her pepper and salt hair plaited and secured on the top of her head by pins. She had a thin sharp nose, dark eyes and a thin mouth. Patience thought, Oh, dear, and she said, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Murch.’

‘You are the young woman recommended by the solicitors?’ She glanced at the letters on the desk before her; Mr Bennett and the Reverend Mr Cuthbertson had no doubt written suitably. ‘Your references are good—I see that you have the same name as the owners of the house.’ She paused and looked at Patience.

‘It is a common name in these parts, Miss Murch.’

‘I believe that Mr van der Beek’s secretary has already outlined your duties. It must be understood that you will come to me for instructions; I have kept house for Mr van der Beek for some years and I know exactly how he wishes his home to be run. Any deviation from that will not be tolerated. You will work from ten o’clock until four o’clock with the exception of Sunday, you will have three-quarters of an hour for your midday meal, you may have a cup of coffee during the morning and a cup of tea during the afternoon, and I expect you to work hard. You are already aware of what your wages will be and they will be paid weekly.’ She paused but Patience prudently held her tongue and Miss Murch continued, ‘You are to answer the telephone, prevent disturbances of any kind at the door and deal with the local tradespeople. It may be necessary from time to time for you to undertake some household tasks. Even in the short time in which we have been here I have become aware that there are very few modern appliances in the house; the bathrooms are old-fashioned and the kitchen quarters are ill equipped.’

Patience bit back rude words. ‘I believe the Aga is old, but—but I’m told that it is quite satisfactory.’

Miss Murch gave a ladylike snort. ‘I hope that you may be right. Well, that is settled—I shall expect you on Monday morning. Use the side-door; Mr van der Beek is not to be disturbed. Good day to you, Miss Martin.’

I shall hate it, thought Patience, going back to the little terraced house, but it was only for six months, she reflected, and her wages were generous. She would be able to save enough to keep them going while Mr Tomkins looked for a buyer or tenant. She gave the aunts a version of her interview which she knew would satisfy them and went to the kitchen to get the tea.

The aunts went to church in the morning, but Patience for once excused herself. There was a pile of ironing to be done as well as Sunday lunch to cook; she would be busy enough in the morning leaving everything ready for the aunts’ lunch and tidying the house.

It was a wild, blustery day. She saw the old ladies safely to the end of the street and into the churchyard and nipped smartly back to get on with the chores uninterrupted. By the time her aunts were back from church she had done everything she needed to do, lunch was ready and the afternoon was hers to do as she wished.

It was barely two o’clock by the time she had washed up the dishes, set the tea ready and made sure that her aunts were settled comfortably. It was raining now and the wind was as strong as ever. A walk, she decided, a good long walk away from the village, along the bridle paths, seldom used these days. She got into her Burberry, a relic of better days and still waterproof, tied a scarf over her head, found a pair of woolly gloves and let herself out of the house. There was no one about but then there wouldn’t be—the village would be sitting before the television sets or snoring comfortably before the fire.

She walked briskly, blown along by the wind, past her old home until, half a mile or so along the path, she turned down a bridle path which would lead eventually to the neighbouring village some miles away. She didn’t intend to go as far as that, though; there was a short cut after a mile or so which would bring her out on to another path leading back to the village, enabling her to get home before it was dark and her aunts wanted their tea. She squelched along in her wellies, happily engrossed in mental arithmetic which for once was satisfactory, and, that dealt with, she fell to wondering about her job. At least the house would be properly taken care of; Miss Murch didn’t look as though she would tolerate slovenly housework and she supposed that since Mr van der Beek was so engrossed in his work it was a good thing he had such an eagle-eyed housekeeper. She amused herself deciding what he would look like. Stout, probably bald, wearing glasses, middle-aged and speaking with a thick accent. A pity she wasn’t likely to see him; Miss Murch had seemed determined about that …

She turned off the bridle path, climbed a gate and, keeping to the hedge because of the winter wheat showing green, began to walk its length. The open country stretched all around her, desolate under a leaden sky with only farm buildings in the distance to break the emtpy vastness. Not that Patience thought of it like that; she loved every stick and stone of it, just as she knew the names of every person who lived in Themelswick. Before the death of her parents she had lived with them at Sheringham where her father had been a doctor in general practice but in the school holidays they had often stayed with the aunts at Themelswick and since there were no other relations she had been given a home by them when her parents were killed. They had been kind to her and loving and had managed, even while their capital dwindled, to send her to a good boarding-school. When she left school she stayed at home with the old ladies and ran the house for them with help from the village and when they found themselves without money she had seen to all the tiresome details concerning the renting of a small house and the letting of their home, assuring them that matters were bound to get back to normal and that they would be able to return to their old home as soon as things improved. She wasn’t sure how this would come about but it had made it easier for them to bear leaving the house. Not that they complained; elderly and forgetful they might be, but they had a pride which wouldn’t allow them to complain.

Patience was almost at the end of the hedge with another smaller gate in sight when there was a rustling in the hedge and a smallish dog wormed his way through it. He was very wet and of no known breed as far as she could see, but his rough coat gleamed with good health as well as rain and he was obviously happy. He pranced around her, uttering little yelps of pleasure and she stooped to look at the tag on his collar.

‘“Basil”,’ she read. ‘What a handsome name for a handsome dog.’ The beast licked her rain-wet face and she stroked his damp head. But he had gone again, obedient to a whistle from the other side of the gate, and a moment later the owner of the whistle appeared, not bothering to open the gate but vaulting it lightly despite his size and weight—a giant of a man in a Barbour jacket and cords stuffed into wellington boots. Patience got to her feet as he came towards her. ‘Good day. That’s a nice dog you’ve got,’ she said. The man might be a stranger but the habit of speaking to everyone she met—as everyone did thereabouts—died hard. He would be one of the guests at the manor, she supposed.

He had drawn level with her now—a handsome man, she noted, but unsmiling. His ‘good day’ was civil but that was all. He passed her without a second look, striding along the hedge with the dog frisking around his heels. Patience watched him go and, mindful of the time, went on her own way, becoming once more immersed in pleasant speculations as to how best to lay out her wages when she got them, and when she got back to the little terraced house it was to find that her aunts were awake and anxious for their tea. She didn’t give the stranger another thought until she was curled up in her bed hours later. ‘If he didn’t look so cross, he might be a very nice man,’ she muttered as she dropped off.

It was strange the following morning, going in through the side-door of her old home, presenting herself in the housekeeper’s room exactly on time and waiting to be told what she was to do. If she had had any ideas about not having enough to keep her occupied she was quickly disillusioned; the coal hadn’t been delivered, the milkman had got his order wrong and someone was needed to put in extra points to boost what Miss Murch described as woefully inadequate lighting. Patience spent her first hour sorting out these problems, drank her coffee—rather to her surprise—with Miss Murch and then settled down to make a list of the local tradesmen. This done, she was sent to the kitchen garden to find old Ned Groom and ask why he hadn’t brought the vegetables up to the house.

‘Tiresome ol’ woman,’ said Ned when she tracked him down in the dilapidated greenhouse, brooding over his cuttings. ‘Now these ‘ere should do all right—got ‘em in just in time.’

‘Splendid,’ said Patience soothingly. ‘Look, Ned, you go on with the cuttings and tell me what I can take. When we left the cabbages were going on well and there must be masses of sprouts unless someone helped themselves— after all, the place has been empty for quite a while.’

‘Sprouts enough; take what you want, Miss Patience, and there’s carrots ready for pulling and plenty of kale and leeks. It’s all a bit untidy like but what do you expect with no one to tend the place?’

She left him grumbling to himself, pulled carrots, leeks and cut a couple of cabbages and bore them back to the kitchen.

‘And about time too,’ said Miss Murch.

‘Well, it will take a little while for Ned to get the garden going again,’ Patience pointed out. ‘There’ll be sprouts tomorrow.’

The day went quickly. Her lunchtime wasn’t long enough; as soon as she was paid she would get Mrs Dodge to go for an extra hour each day and get the midday meal for her aunts. They had been waiting placidly for her to get a meal and she had barely had the time to cook omelettes and lay the table before it was time to go back to the house. She hurried back, still hungry, and spent the afternoon trailing Miss Murch round the house, noting down all the things that lady found it essential to replace or add to what she considered to be a woefully ill-equipped household. Patience, who had lived most of her life using wooden spoons and pudding basins and old-fashioned egg whisks, couldn’t for the life of her see the sense of all the electrical equipment Miss Murch needed. Mr van der Beek was going to be very out of pocket by the time he had paid for everything, but that of course was his business.

There had been no sign of him; the study door on the other side of the hall had remained shut although of course he could easily have gone in and out several times without her seeing him—her duties carried her all over the house as well as down to the village on an errand for Miss Murch.

She was glad to go home at four o’clock. At Miss Murch’s instruction she had laid a tea-tray, presumably for Mr van der Beek, before she went, cut sandwiches of Gentleman’s Relish, arranged a fruit cake on a cake stand, and warmed the teapot. Miss Murch nodded approval. ‘The electrician will be here tomorrow morning; be sure that you are not late, Patience.’

Patience raced back to the village, got tea for her aunts and herself and sat down thankfully to tell them about her day, making light of the more menial tasks she had been given. She suspected that she was being tried out by Miss Murch and that that lady, formidable in appearance though she was, wasn’t as awe-inspiring as she had at first thought.

By the middle of the week she had found her bearings. There was plenty for her to do; the phone, after the first day, rang a great deal, and she had got quite good at telling whoever it was at the other end that Mr van der Beek was either not at home, in his bath, or closeted with his publisher. She varied her fibs according to the time of day, but took careful note of the caller’s name. She had had strict instructions to fob off any callers but, all the same, each afternoon before she went home she left a neat list on the tea-tray.

Mr van der Beek, his notes carefully sorted and the bare bones of the first chapter of his learned volume lying before him on his desk after four days’ hard work, laid down his pen and strolled out of the study. Each morning before his household was stirring he had let himself out of the house with his dog and walked until breakfast-time; he walked again in the evening but so far he hadn’t taken much interest in the house. Miss Murch cooked delicious meals for him, kept the house quiet and disturbed him not at all but now he had an urge to look around him.

It was a chilly morning; he would find his way to the kitchen and ask for his coffee. He stood in the hall, looking around him, and his eye lighted on the bowl of winter jasmine set on the wall table. It was a splash of colour and he wondered who had put it there. Miss Murch, splendid housekeeper that she was, wasn’t one to waste time arranging flowers. A faint sound behind him made him turn his head, in time to see a grey skirt disappearing through the dining-room door, with such swiftness that he wondered if he had imagined it. He shrugged huge shoulders, went to the kitchen and had his coffee sitting on the kitchen table while Miss Murch made pastry and then made his way back to the study. He was in the hall when he came face to face with Patience.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS Basil who made the first move; he trotted forward and jumped up at Patience, recognising someone he had already met and liked. She bent to pat him, glad of something to do, for Mr van der Beek’s stare was disconcerting.

‘Ah, yes,’ his voice was cool, ‘Basil remembers you.’ His tone implied that he himself did not. ‘I take it you are the—er—general factotum whom Mr Bennett urged me to employ.’

She didn’t allow herself to be disconcerted by his cold eyes. ‘Yes, Mr van der Beek, I’m Patience Martin.’ She added, wishing to be friendly, ‘We met out walking on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Did we?’ He turned away. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your work.’

She put away the table silver she had been cleaning and went back to the kitchen to make a neat list of the groceries Miss Murch wanted delivered on the following day. ‘Tell that butcher that I want the best Scotch beef; if he hasn’t got it, he need not bother to send anything else.’

Patience called in on her way home that afternoon to warn the butcher. ‘I know you have excellent meat, but the housekeeper is determined to find fault with everything. I don’t think she likes living out of London.’

Mr Crouch leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘She’s going to like it even less—there’s bad weather on the way, Miss Patience; snow and a nasty east wind. Like as not she’ll be holed up there in the house for days on end.’

Mr Crouch was noted for his weather predictions. ‘I might get holed up too,’ said Patience. ‘Just to be on the safe side I think I’ll talk to Mrs Dodge … she might have to keep an eye on the aunts.’

‘Yes, do that, love. Got plenty of stores up at the house, have they?’

‘Enough for a week, but not bread or milk, and there might be power cuts.’

‘Well, you bear it in mind. Remember that winter four years back—you was all cut off for days—us as well—real blizzard that were and no mistake.’

‘It’s only half a mile away from the village,’ observed Patience.

‘Might just as well be ten miles when there’s drifts.’ Mr Crouch wiped down the counter. ‘I’ve a tasty pair of chops if you fancy them to give Miss Martin and her sister …’

Patience took the chops and herself off home to the aunts, waiting with ladylike patience for their tea.

She broached the subject of possible bad weather to Miss Murch on the next day.

‘There’s nothing on the weather forecast,’ said Miss Murch. ‘I shall want some carrots from the garden; Mr van der Beek likes a carrot.’

Patience didn’t think that Mr van der Beek would enjoy anything as homely as a carrot but she went and found old Ned, who filled her trug and remarked gloomily that there was bad weather on the way and how was he supposed to get at the cabbages and leeks if they got snowed up?

‘Miss Murch says there’s nothing on the weather forecast …’

Old Ned’s snort dismissed Miss Murch. ‘And what do she know about it, eh?’ He patted a string of splendid onions with a loving hand. ‘You mark my words …’

Patience, who had more faith in old Ned and Mr Crouch than the weathermen, had another go at Miss Murch. ‘This house has been cut off during bad weather,’ she volunteered, not mentioning that she and her aunts had been cut off too. ‘The snow drifts badly here—it’s rather flat, you see.’

‘Then what are the snowploughs for?’ asked Miss Murch witheringly. ‘This may be the back of beyond but presumably it is entitled to the same public services as those enjoyed by more civilised parts.’

Patience gave up and went away to answer the doorbell. Someone from a firm in Norwich wanting to know if the owner of the house would like double glazing.

‘Well, he’s not here—away for a few days.’ Patience, hardened to telling fibs, after a little pause added, ‘If you want to come again it would save a lot of time if you phoned first. He’s not often at home.’

She smiled kindly at the man, who looked as though he could have done with a warm drink. On her own she would undoubtedly have given him one. ‘You could try the vicarage if you haven’t called there already …’

He went away quite cheerful; she was sure the vicar couldn’t afford double glazing but she was just as sure that the man would be given a cup of tea. Selling double glazing in January was no way to earn a living; she thought of Mr van der Beek, secure in the cosy fastness of his study, having regular meals and earning fabulous sums just by sitting at a desk and writing.

Mr van der Beek was indeed sitting at his desk, but he wasn’t writing. To his annoyance his powerful brain was refusing to concentrate upon transcribing his notes into plain English—interlarded with Latin medical terms of course—instead, he found his thoughts wandering towards his general factotum. A mouse-like creature if ever there was one, he reflected, and surely with that ordinary face and mouse-like hair she didn’t need to dress like a mouse? Her eyes were beautiful, though; he reflected for a few moments on the length and curl of her eyelashes. She had a charming voice too … He picked up his pen and summarily dismissed her from his mind.

The following morning when Patience went down to the kitchen garden she found old Ned stacking carrots, leeks and turnips in neat piles in the greenhouse. ‘Them turnips will be tough,’ he pointed out, ‘seeing as ‘ow there weren’t no one to dig ‘em up at the proper time. They’ll bake, though, and likely keep you going while the snow lasts.’

Patience didn’t argue with him; she could see that the weather was changing with sullen clouds creeping in from the sea and a nasty cold wind.

‘It’ll be snowing by the morning,’ said old Ned.

He was right; there was already a light covering when she got up and the still dark sky had a nasty yellow tinge to it. She was glad that she had seen Mrs Dodge, who lived close by and even in very bad weather would be able to get to the aunts. She had stocked up the kitchen cupboard too. She made sure that the house was warm and her aunts suitably clad and fed before setting out for the house; the weather report had mentioned light snow in East Anglia and for the moment, at any rate, it was quite right; the snow drifted down, occasionally blown into a flurry by a gust of east wind, cold enough to take her breath. It was pleasant to enter the warm house and sniff the fragrance of bacon, still lingering in the kitchen after Miss Murch had cooked Mr van der Beek’s breakfast.

‘You’d better fetch the vegetables while you’ve got your outdoor things on,’ said Miss Murch, adding grudgingly that it wasn’t a nice morning.

Old Ned in mittens and an overcoat was in the greenhouse. ‘No good me staying ‘ere,’ he told Patience. ‘I’ve picked some sprouts; you’d better take ‘em with you. What’s it to be today?’

‘Onions and carrots, but I’ll take the sprouts and a cabbage, in case I can’t get down tomorrow.’ She added hopefully, ‘Perhaps the snow won’t last.’

To which remark her companion gave a derisive cackle of laughter.

It snowed gently all day but not alarmingly so, Mrs Croft and Mrs Perch came and went, and the house, polished and hoovered and delightfully warm, made nonsense of the chilly weather outside. Patience went home at four o’clock and, being country born and bred, sniffed the air with a knowledgeable little nose—there was more snow on the way. She called at Mr Crouch’s shop and bought braising steak and plenty of bacon; a really large casserole would last them two days and only need warming up …

As she went out of the shop the Bentley whispered past with Mr van der Beek at the wheel—so he’d been away all day. She frowned, thinking of the care with which she and Mrs Croft and Mrs Perch had moved silently around the house so that he shouldn’t be disturbed—and all for nothing. She stood looking after the car and Mr van der Beek watched her in his side-mirror. She was wearing the old Burberry again and a woolly cap in some useful colour pulled down over her hair. Really, he thought irritably, the girl had no dress sense.

It was still snowing when she left the little house in the morning and the sky was ominously dark. She had left a substantial casserole cooked and ready, peeled potatoes for two days, and left everything as ready as possible for her aunts just in case she wouldn’t be able to get home at midday. Mrs Dodge would go in, of course, and almost everyone in the village knew where she was; all the same she felt a faint unease, for the wind was getting strong, blowing the snow into spirals going in every direction.

The worsening weather seemed to have no effect upon the occupants of the house. Patience, unaware that Mr van der Beek had been out early with Basil, thought that probably he had no idea how wintry it could be in Norfolk at that time of the year, and, as for Miss Murch, she had no interest in the outside world; she was already in the kitchen making marmalade.

The weather became steadily worse as the morning wore on and Mrs Croft and Mrs Perch left earlier than usual, declaring that the school would surely close early because of the weather and the children would be sent home. Patience, taking a look out of the window, decided not to try and struggle home and back again—in less than an hour it wouldn’t be possible and, as if to underline her decision, the wind increased with a quite frightening suddenness.

By mid-afternoon it was dark and the wind was howling around the house. Patience, bidden by Miss Murch to draw the curtains, could see nothing but a curtain of snowflakes outside and when the lights began to flicker and the wind increased she went round the house, setting candlesticks and matches at strategic points.

Miss Murch, coming upon her setting an old-fashioned candelabrum on the hall table, remarked tartly that anyone would think that she had done it all before, to which Patience made no reply.

Wrapped in the Burberry and the woolly cap, she knew before she had reached the end of the drive that getting back to the village would be impossible. There was a hollow in the lane a hundred yards from the house and she could see that the drifts were already head-high. Almost blown off her feet, she was half blinded by the snow and so she went back to the house.

Miss Murch eyed her sopping figure. ‘You’ll have to stay the night,’ she pronounced. ‘You can telephone to your home.’

‘We aren’t on the phone, but it’s all right, my aunts won’t worry; they would know that once the snow started drifting there wouldn’t be a way back.’

‘This Godforsaken place,’ declared Miss Murch crossly. ‘Get those wet things off; since you’re here you can help me with Mr van der Beek’s dinner.’

The kitchen was warm and smelled deliciously of something roasting in the Aga. ‘You had better have the room opposite mine,’ said Miss Murch. ‘You can have one of my nightgowns and then we can make up the bed presently. We’ll have our supper once Mr van der Beek has had his dinner.’

The electricity wavered for another half-hour and then went out. Patience went around lighting candles and the oil-lamps her aunts had always kept handy. The dining-room looked quite cosy when she had set candles on the table, but she didn’t linger; she had heard the subdued roar from Mr van der Beek when the power was cut, and he might not be in the best of tempers. She went to the lamp-room behind the kitchen and found another oil-lamp; the moment he went into the dining-room she would nip into the study and light it.

Miss Murch took the dinner in, tapping discreetly on the study door to let him know that it was served. Patience heard his voice, coldly annoyed, as she slid out of the kitchen and into the study. There was a splendid fire burning; by its light she lit the lamp and set it on his desk.

She itched to tidy the piles of papers strewn around. How, she wondered, did he ever find anything in all that muddle?

She had her supper with Miss Murch later that evening, listening politely to that lady’s accounts of the convenience and comfort of Mr van der Beek’s house in London. ‘He has a house in Holland as well,’ she told Patience. ‘He visits there from time to time. He is, as you doubtless know, very well thought of throughout the medical profession.’

Patience murmured politely, and helped with the washing-up while Miss Murch sang the praises of the dish-washing machine at the London house, and retired to her room. It was close to Miss Murch’s at the back of the house and the wind howled against the window, its glass peppered with snowflakes. Patience pulled the curtains, had a very hot bath in the rather antiquated bathroom and jumped into bed. She had experienced weather like this several times and it was unlikely to disturb her sleep. She set the alarm clock Miss Murch had thoughtfully given her for seven o’clock and went to sleep.

It was the dead of night when she woke and she knew at once what it was that had awakened her. One of the shutters in the unused scullery beyond the kitchen had broken loose and was banging against the wall. Then she lay and listened to it for a few minutes and decided to go down and see if she could close it. She lighted her candle and crept along the passage, pausing at Miss Murch’s door. Judging by the snores coming from her room, Miss Murch hadn’t been bothered by the noise. Patience remembered uneasily that Mr van der Beek’s bedroom, at the other side of the house, while not above the kitchen wing, was on the same side. She pattered silently on bare feet down the stairs, across the hall and through the baize door to the kitchen.

Mr van der Beek’s sleep, untroubled by the violence of the wind, was disturbed by the regular banging of the shutter, the kind of noise which would prevent even the most placid person from dozing off. He got into his dressing-gown and slippers by the light of his torch and went to the head of the stairs, just in time to see the faint glow of Patience’s candle dwindle from the hall. Following it quietly, he was in time to see Patience, shrouded in one of Miss Murch’s winceyette nighties, cross the kitchen and open the door leading to the various rooms beyond … She paused on her way to stoop and pat Basil curled up before the Aga. Mr van der Beek, standing in the kitchen doorway, watched her, the corners of his thin mouth twitching. Miss Murch’s nightie covered her from just under her chin to her heels and beyond for there was a good deal of surplus trailing behind her, the full sleeves she had rolled up to allow her hands to emerge and her hair hung in a mousy cloud halfway down her back.

Mr van der Beek coughed politely and hushed Basil who had got up to greet him, delighted to have some company.

Patience nearly dropped the candle. She turned slowly and said severely, ‘I might have screamed, Mr van der Beek.’

‘Oh, no, you’re not the screaming kind,’ he told her. ‘If you were you would be upstairs now with your head under the bedclothes. Is it a loose shutter somewhere?’

‘In the pantry, I think, or the scullery. Through here …’ She led the way, much too concerned about the noise to think about the strange appearance she presented. It was a loose shutter in the scullery. Mr van der Beek secured it and looked around him.

‘What an extremely dreary place,’ he remarked, and without looking at her added, ‘I am chilled to the bone; let us have a hot drink before we return to our beds.’

‘Well, that would be nice,’ said Patience, ‘but I’m not sure—I mean, I haven’t got a dressingg-gown …’ She had gone rather red but she gave him a steady look.

‘My dear young lady, no dressing-gown could cover you as adequately as the garment in which you presently appear to be smothered. Miss Murch’s, I gather?’

He had led the way back to the kitchen and opened up the Aga and filled a kettle. ‘Tea?’ he asked.

Patience thrust back her sleeves once more and crossed to the dresser, collecting cups and saucers, spoons, the tea caddy and a tray with the ease of long custom. As she came back with the milk jug and sugar bowl Mr van der Beek, watching the kettle come to the boil, remarked quietly, ‘You are familiar with this house, are you not, Miss Martin? Was it your home?’

‘Oh, how did you know?’ She paused on her way to the table. ‘I didn’t—I didn’t mean to deceive you, you know, only Mr Bennett thought you might need someone to give a hand and as I knew where everything was and the tradespeople …’

‘You have no need to apologise. I am sure you are worth your weight in gold. Do I have to call you Miss Martin?’

‘Oh, no, no. That wouldn’t do at all. My name’s Patience.’

He nodded. ‘And the two ladies who come each day to work here? They know who you are?’

‘Oh, yes. They used to work here while my aunts lived in this house, only not for some time now; for the last few months we managed very nicely without anyone.’

He poured water into the teapot. ‘Your aunts are elderly?’ He knew the answer to that but all the same he waited to hear what she would say.

‘We closed up most of the rooms.’ She spoke with a touch of defiance and he smiled.

‘Come and drink your tea. Are we likely to be snowed in?’

‘Oh, yes. The ploughs will come, of course, but they clear the main roads first so it will be a day or two.’

‘Will we be able to get through to the village?’ he asked idly.

‘Not until the wind dies down and we can dig our way out. The lane dips and there is always a drift every time there. Well,’ she added fairly, ‘there are drifts all over the place but the one in the lane is particularly deep.’

‘So we may be isolated for several days?’

‘I expect so.’ She added kindly, ‘But that will be nice for you; you wanted to be very quiet, didn’t you? And no one is likely to call; the phone will be down, it always is, and of course the postman can’t get here.’

‘An interesting prospect. I trust there is enough coal and wood to keep us warm?’

She nodded and said in her practical way, ‘Yes, I got old Ned to bring some logs up to the boot-room and there is plenty of coal, and if we run short we can live in the kitchen.’

Mr van der Beek sighed; living in the kitchen was something he would prefer not to do, and besides he would be hindered from his writing. He drank the last of his tea and watched her stifle a yawn. ‘Go back to bed, Patience, and get some sleep. I’ll blow out the candles.’

She wished him goodnight and, clutching the surplus folds of her nightgown, made her way back to her room. It was cold there after the kitchen but she was too tired to mind that. She was already asleep within minutes.

It was still dark when she got up and the snow had faltered to occasional flurries driven by the wind. She dressed, wound her hair into a neat bun and went downstairs to the kitchen. The Aga might be old but it still worked; she added coal, turned up the heat and set a kettle on to boil. Miss Murch would be down presently and both she and Mr van der Beek would expect tea. There was no sign of Basil, but presently she heard him barking. Perhaps he had got shut out—she went through the scullery and past the boot-room and opened the old door which led to the garden. Here it had been somewhat sheltered from the wind so that the snow hadn’t drifted although it was several inches deep. She poked her head out cautiously, her breath taken by the icy air, and was rewarded by the sight of Mr van der Beek shovelling snow, making a narrow path towards the woodshed. He appeared to be enjoying himself, tossing great shovelfuls to one side as though they were feathers. He had a splendid pair of shoulders, thought Patience, watching him, and, dressed as he was in a great baggy sweater with trousers stuffed into his boots, he didn’t look at all like the austere man whom she spent her days avoiding.

It was Basil who saw her and came romping back to say hello and although Mr van der Beek didn’t look up he called over one shoulder, ‘I should like a cup of tea …’

‘Well, you shall have one if you come into the kitchen now,’ said Patience tartly, ‘and wipe your boots and leave them on the mat.’

She didn’t wait for an answer but went back to the kitchen, made the tea and set out a small tray ready to carry to the study. As soon as he had had it and gone upstairs to make himself presentable for his breakfast she would nip in and get the fire raked out and lighted.

Basil came prancing in, delighted with the weather, and his master with him, looking meek in his socks. ‘I’ll take the tray through to the study,’ said Patience.

‘Indeed you will not. It’s freezing there. I’ll have it here. Where’s Miss Murch?’

‘I expect she will be down presently to cook your breakfast.’ She picked up the teapot and he put three mugs down on the table.

‘Let’s not be dainty. I like two lumps of sugar. Is there a towel I can use to rub Basil dry?’

‘Behind the door. I’ll fetch a clean one for us to use.’

Miss Murch, coming into the kitchen, paused in the doorway. Her, ‘Good morning, Mr van der Beek,’ was glacial, but he didn’t appear to notice that.

‘I’m going to shave,’ he told her cheerfully, ‘and I’ll have my breakfast here where it’s warm—twenty minutes?’ He gave her a charming smile, whistled to Basil and went out of the room.

‘I made a pot of tea,’ said Patience. ‘Would you like a cup, Miss Murch? The Aga’s going nicely and Mr van der Beek has cleared a path to the woodshed so there’ll be plenty of coal and logs. Would you like me to see to the fire in the study first?’

‘Well, since there’s no one else. We had better have our breakfast when Mr van der Beek has finished his. If you could light the study fire it would soon be warm enough for him.’ She sounded almost apologetic.

Patience got into the apron Mrs Perch used when she came to work, collected bucket, shovel, paper and kindling, and went off to the study. It was getting light now; she drew back the curtains to find that the snow had heaped itself up against the windows so that she had to stand firmly on tiptoe in order to see out; really she might just as well have left the curtains drawn …

She had a nice fire going and was sitting back on her heels admiring it when Mr van der Beek came in.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he wanted to know, and she glanced up in surprise; it didn’t sound like him at all.

She said in the kind of voice she might have used to a child who needed something explained, ‘I’m making sure that the fire is going to burn.’

‘I can see that for myself. In future, until this crisis is over, I shall light the fires, fetch the wood and the coals and dispose of the ashes.’

Patience looked at him with interest. ‘Do you know how?’ she asked, and at his icy look added, ‘Oh, don’t look like that, I don’t mean to be rude but I dare say in your home you don’t need to lift a finger.’

‘You consider that I am a man of leisure?’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I’ve got eyes—you drive a lovely car and Miss Murch says you are very successful—I dare say you lead a very pleasant life with lots of friends and theatres and so on.’

Mr van der Beek, slavishly revered by those students lucky enough to be under his tuition, tirelessly devoted to his work and his patients, so generous with both his time and his money, agreed meekly.

Patience laid another piece of coal exactly where it was most needed and got up. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer,’ she told him gratefully, ‘but if you aren’t used to doing it, lighting a fire can be very tiresome.’

‘And you’re good at it?’ His voice was bland. ‘What else are you good at, Patience?’

‘Me?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Why—nothing much—I can cook and mend things—sew and knit—change plugs, mend fuses, that kind of thing.’

‘You have no wish to do anything else?’ He spoke casually with just the right amount of interest.

‘I’m not clever and I’m plain—Aunt Bessy says I’m the plainest girl she has ever seen, but if I could be clever and charming and pretty I’d like to spend a week in London going to the theatres and the kind of restaurants where there are candles on the tables and waiters and the menu is in French—and shopping of course … Your breakfast will be ready, Mr van der Beek.’ Her voice was all of a sudden brisk. ‘Now there’s a fire I can bring a tray in here …’

‘I actually said I would have my breakfast in the kitchen,’ he reminded her, and now he didn’t sound friendly any more.

He was adamant that Miss Murch and Patience should have breakfast with him too but he was no longer casually friendly; the conversation was strictly businesslike and concerned the possibility of being snowed in for a further day or so and how to make the best of it. ‘Close the rooms we don’t need,’ he told Miss Murch. ‘This kitchen is the warmest place in the house; we can eat here—the study and the small sitting-room will be all right with fires. Are there enough candles and lamps?’

Miss Murch looked at Patience. ‘Plenty of candles but there’s not a great deal of oil left,’ said Patience. ‘We could keep the lamps for the study and take the candles with us when we go from room to room; they’ll last ages that way.’

‘Food?’

Miss Murch replied with dignity. ‘I trust I am a sufficiently good housekeeper to ensure a fully adequate supply of food for several days at least, and that of course over and above my normal store of groceries.’

‘There’s plenty of greenstuff in the greenhouse,’ said Patience. ‘If Mr van der Beek could dig a path I can go and collect as much as we’re likely to need before it’s frozen solid.’

‘Mr van der Beek has better ways of employing his time,’ observed Miss Murch sharply.

Mr van der Beek took another slice of toast and buttered it lavishly. ‘Indeed I have,’ he agreed. ‘On the other hand can you, in all fairness, conceive of Patience digging her way through a snowdrift? There’s not enough of her.’

Patience bore the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes with equanimity. ‘I am very strong,’ she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘The exercise will do me good,’ said Mr van der Beek in the kind of voice with which one couldn’t argue.

It took him the whole morning with the briefest of intervals while he drank the hot coffee which Patience, wrapped in one of Miss Murch’s cardigans on top of her own woolly, took to the garden door.

‘You’re doing very nicely, Mr van der Beek,’ she said encouragingly. ‘There’s a little dip just before you get to the greenhouse; take care you don’t trip up.’

A giant of a man, rock-steady on his large feet, he nevertheless thanked her politely for the warning.

It was very cold and the wind, which had died down, started up again with renewed ferocity. Patience, scuttling around the house, stoking the study fire, making beds and cleaning vegetables at Miss Murch’s bidding, worried about the aunts. True, the little house was easy to keep warm and Mrs Dodge had promised to keep an eye on them. The news, on Miss Murch’s portable radio in the kitchen, held out little hope of the weather improving for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps longer.

‘Really, I do not know what the world is coming to,’ observed Miss Murch crossly. ‘How am I to get fresh meat in this weather?’

It wasn’t worth answering. ‘As soon as I can get to the village I shall need to go and see if my aunts are all right, Miss Murch …’

‘At the same time you can call at the butcher.’

There was no point in telling her that Mr Crouch got his meat for the most part from local markets and farms and transport would be difficult for several days.

Miss Murch, despite her ill humour, contrived a delicious soup, cheese and onion pasties and a large pot of coffee. Mr van der Beek, glowing with good health and a certain smugness, ate hugely and went away to his study. ‘A cup of tea at four o’clock,’ he asked, ‘and on no account am I to be disturbed until dinner—at half-past seven if that is possible, Miss Murch?’

He walked away without waiting for an answer.

Patience cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. ‘It is ridiculous that there is no dishwasher,’ remarked Miss Murch, making no effort to give a hand. ‘I shall lie down for a time, Patience; I have a headache.’

‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea just before four o’clock?’

‘Yes, thank you. I find this snow very trying.’

Left to herself, Patience saw to the Aga, cast an eye on the fire in the sitting-room and looked out of the window. It was snowing again.

She laid a tray for Mr van der Beek’s tea and another for Miss Murch and herself and took herself off to the sitting-room, to curl up before the fire with the only book she could find—Beeton’s Household Management. It made interesting reading and was profusely illustrated with coloured plates of mouth-watering food.

Miss Murch didn’t look very well when she took her a cup of tea but she came down to the kitchen presently and cut delicate sandwiches of Gentleman’s Relish to add to the pot of tea on Mr van der Beek’s tray.

‘Don’t go in before you’re told to,’ she admonished Patience, ‘and don’t stop and talk either. Just put the tray down and come away at once.’

Patience’s gentle tap was answered by an impatient voice bidding her enter and when she did so he snapped, ‘You may look like a mouse, but you don’t have to behave like one—I don’t bite.’

‘I should hope not, indeed,’ said Patience briskly. ‘I was told to make no noise and not to come in until I was told …’ She added kindly, ‘I dare say you’re busy with your book—is it about surgery?’

‘Er—some aspects of it, yes—a reference book …’

‘Like Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, I dare say, full of instructions about the best way to cook food, written by an expert.’

Mr van der Beek’s eyelids drooped over an amused gleam. ‘If that is a compliment, Patience, thank you. I cannot compete with Mrs Beeton in her own field, but I venture to admit to being moderately well known in my own.’

Miss Murch’s headache had returned; Patience, taking care not to usurp that lady’s authority, did as much as she could to help her so that by the time dinner was ready there was an appetising meal on the table.

Mr van der Beek was in the sitting-room by the fire, with Basil at his feet. He had taken the trouble to change into a collar and tie and a good tweed jacket, and Patience, sent to fetch him to the kitchen, was made aware of her own appearance. With an eye to the weather she had come to work in a thick tweed skirt and an equally thick sweater over a shirt blouse and she had nothing with her to make this prosaic outfit more becoming, but at least her hair, strained back into a large bun, was tidy, and she had powdered her nose.

Miss Murch had done them proud, there were leeks in a french dressing, boeuf bourguignon and sautéd potatoes and an egg custard with a variety of cheeses to round off this heartening fare. Mr van der Beek made polite conversation and made no comment at Miss Murch’s lack of appetite; only when the meal was finished did he ask casually, ‘You’ve got a headache, Miss Murch?’

‘A slight one, sir.’

‘May I suggest a bed, a warm hot-water bottle and a hot drink? I’ll let you have some paracetamol. If you don’t feel better in the morning, stay in bed—there’s nothing like a day in bed to discourage a cold.’

He smiled kindly at her and bade her goodnight before turning to Patience. ‘Will you see that Miss Murch does just that?’ He glanced at the table. ‘These can wait for the time being.’

So Patience filled a hot-water bottle, urged Miss Murch upstairs to her cold bedroom and went away to get her a hot drink. It would have to be tea; the milk was running low. Miss Murch was in bed by the time she got back; she handed the pills, fetched a glass of water for the night and waited while the hot drink was swallowed. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well; a good night’s sleep will probably put it right.’

When she got back to the kitchen it was to find the dishes washed and the kitchen more or less tidy. She was standing rather aimlessly when Mr van der Beek put his head round the door. ‘Go to bed, Patience. I’ll see to the Aga. Good night.’

It didn’t turn out to be a good night, though.

CHAPTER THREE

PATIENCE was awakened just after one o’clock by Miss Murch, standing by her bed and thumping her on the shoulder. She held a lighted candle and in its meagre light her appearance to the sleepy Patience was alarming.

‘I am cold,’ snarled Miss Murch. ‘Get me a hot drink and refill my bottle, this house will be my death …’

Patience nipped out of bed and put a comforting arm around the housekeeper. It was startling to feel how hot she was despite her shivers. ‘Come back to bed,’ she coaxed. ‘I’ll be back in no time with a drink and a hot-water bottle; I’ll bring a spare blanket too …’

She was creeping down the stairs when Mr van der Beek loomed on the landing.

‘Now what?’ He sounded resigned. ‘Miss Murch?’

‘Yes. She says she’s cold but she feels very hot. I’m going to get her a hot drink and fill a bottle …’

‘You have nothing on your feet.’

‘Well, I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me, did I?’ She spoke reasonably, not waiting for an answer as she skimmed along to the kitchen.

When she got back to Miss Murch’s room, Mr van der Beek was there, sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the thermometer in his hand. His expression told her nothing and he said cheerfully, ‘Well, Miss Murch, you have a touch of flu. You will stay in bed for a few days until you feel more the thing and we will nurse you. I am going to give you some tablets which you will take but first I am going to give you an injection—an antibiotic which will give the tablets a boost.’ He looked at Patience. ‘More pillows and another blanket?’ he asked.

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