“I’m sorry I was rude, Professor Culver. You must come whenever you want.”

“Of course,” the professor responded. “Be good enough to ring me if you’re worried—and thank you for my supper. Not quite the evening I had intended, but nonetheless a good deal more interesting. And I leave my mother in good hands.”

He stood towering over Meg, staring down at her upturned face. Probably a very nice man, she thought illogically…if one happened to like him. And then he did the last thing she would have expected—he swooped down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Thank you, little Meg,” he said softly, and let himself out of the house.

Meg was left with a head full of mixed emotions.

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Stormy Springtime
Betty Neels

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE JANUARY afternoon was already darkening and a mean wind was driving rain against the windows of a room which, in its cheerful comfort, defied the evil weather outside. It was of a fair size, with a log fire blazing in its old-fashioned chimney-piece, lighted by several table lamps and furnished tastefully if somewhat shabbily. Its three occupants were seated close to the fire: three girls, sisters, deep in discussion.

‘It’s absolutely certain that the house will sell at once—it’s got everything the estate agents like to boast about—modernised Georgian, adequate bathrooms, a tennis court—you name it, we’ve got it. It should fetch a good price.’

The speaker was a handsome young woman, older than the other two but still worth a second and third glance. She was very fair, with hair cut short and meticulous make-up. She was dressed expensively but without much imagination. She glanced at her two companions and went on, ‘Charles says it would be downright foolish not to sell. We should each get a share…we shall invest ours, of course, so that James and Henry will have the proper schooling…’

The girl sitting opposite her stretched her long legs and yawned. ‘Thank heaven I can please myself! I shall buy a flat near the hospital and give myself a super holiday.’ She added smugly, ‘I’ve been promised a Sister’s post in a couple of months.’ She was sunk in pleased thought for a few moments. ‘Where will you send the boys?’

The third girl sat between them, curled up in an easy chair. She hadn’t contributed to the conversation so far, but no one had expected her to. Ever since she could remember, she, the middle sister, had been ignored in a kindly fashion. As a child she had been very much in their shadows; that they were fond of her there was no doubt, the fondness strongly mixed with kindly indifference, but from earliest childhood she had been the one who had needed to be helped over hedges and gates, who fell out of trees, who hung back behind her sisters when people called. And the ease with which she passed her O and A levels at school was quite eclipsed by their brilliance at sports and theatricals. Besides, she was small and plump, with a face which was only redeemed from plainness by large grey eyes, heavily fringed, and a wide, gentle mouth. And now, with Cora married to a young accountant with ambition and the mother of two small sons, and Doreen embarked on a career in hospital—but only until such time as she could catch the eye of some eminent doctor—she had to admit to herself that she had nothing much to show for the last few years. True, she had stayed at home, largely because everyone took it for granted that she wanted to do so, and she had looked after her mother and after a year, she had taken over the housekeeping as well. She had, of necessity, become an excellent cook and a splendid housewife, helped by Betsy, who should have retired years ago but stubbornly refused, and by Mrs Griffiths, who popped in three times a week to do the rough work.

But now their mother was dead, her pension no longer paid, and there was precious little money save what their home would fetch. Cora and Doreen had never bothered overmuch about the pension—they had taken it for granted that it was enough for their mother and Meg to live on and pay their way. In their fashion they had been generous—dressing gowns and slippers and hampers at Christmas—but neither of them had suggested that Meg might like a holiday or even an evening out at a theatre… Meg bore them no grudge; Cora had her own life to lead and her own home and family, and besides, she lived in Kent and came home but rarely. And as for Doreen, everyone who knew her said what a splendid nurse she was and what a brilliant future she had before her. Besides, being such a handsome young woman, she could pick and choose from among her men friends and their invitations to dine and dance and go to the theatre, which left her little time to go to Hertfordshire.

Meg had been content enough; Hertingfordbury, where they had lived all their lives, was a charming village, the main roads bypassing it so that it was left in comparative peace with its church standing in the steep churchyard, its pub, the White Horse, still doing good business since the sixteenth century, and the equally ancient cottages. There were larger houses too— Georgian, built of rose brick, standing in roomy grounds, well cared for, handed on from one generation to the next. Meg’s home was perhaps not as well cared for as other similar houses—there hadn’t been the money during the last few years—but she had kept the garden in good order, and even if the outside paintwork wasn’t as fresh as she might wish, she had done wonders with the lofty, well-proportioned rooms. Her sisters had good-naturedly dismissed her hours of careful painting and wallpapering as a pleasant little hobby to keep her occupied—to their credit, they had never realised that she had enough to occupy her without any hobbies. Their mother had had a worsening heart condition which, for the last few months of her life, had confined her to bed and couch, which meant a good deal of running to and fro and disturbed nights for Meg. And Meg, being Meg, had never complained. Not that she had ever felt downtrodden or put upon; she was a girl of common sense, and it was obvious to her that, since Cora had a home and family to look after, and Doreen had set her ambitious sights on becoming the wife of some eminent doctor, it was perfectly natural for them to pursue their own interests, since she had never exhibited any ambitions of her own.

She had those, of course, hidden away deep inside her—to marry and have a home of her own, a clutch of children, animals around the place and a garden—and a husband, of course. She was a little vague about him, but he would have to love her dearly for ever… At the moment, at any rate, there was no likelihood of meeting him. She had friends enough in the village, mostly elderly, and the young men she had grown up with had either got married or were engaged; besides, she had had very little time for the leisurely pursuits of her friends, and now that she was alone with time on her hands, she felt disinclined to join the activities in the village. Mrs Collins had died two months previously and Meg missed her sorely, more so because she had nursed her so devotedly for so long. She had gone on living alone save for Betsy, polishing the furniture, doing the flowers, tending the garden, taking it for granted that she would go on doing that for the foreseeable future. After all, it was her home, somewhere for Doreen to come when she wanted to, somewhere for Cora to send the boys to during the school holidays. She had a small annuity from her grandmother, just enough to live on and to pay Betsy and Mrs Griffiths.

She sat quietly now, filled with cold surprise and uncertainty. When Cora had finished explaining where the boys were to go to school, she asked, ‘What about me—and Betsy?’

They turned to look at her, smiling reassuringly. ‘Why, darling, you’ll have your share, enough to buy a little flat somewhere—you could get a job—you’d like that after the quiet life you’ve been leading.’

It would be a waste of breath to ask what job; she wasn’t trained for anything and it was a bit late to start at twenty-three. ‘And Betsy?’

‘Remember there was something in the will about those shares Mother had? They were for Betsy. They’ll top up her state pension nicely.’

‘Where will she live?’

Doreen said lightly, ‘There must be any number of people in the village who’d be glad to let her have a room—she knows everyone for miles around.’

She got up and sat on the edge of Meg’s chair and flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll get everyone looking for a flat for you, darling. You’ll love London, and you’ll make heaps of friends. You must be lonely here in this big place.’

Meg said in a wooden voice, ‘No. I miss Mother, but it’s still home, and there’s plenty to keep me busy—and the garden even in winter.’

‘We’ll find you a basement flat with a paved area; you can fill it with pot plants.’

Meg let that pass. She said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘I’ll have to train for something,’ and then, ‘I suppose I have to leave here?’ Neither of her sisters heard the wistfulness in her voice.

‘Shorthand and typing,’ said Cora, ‘—jobs going all the time for shorthand typists…’

‘Receptionist?’ suggested Doreen vaguely. She didn’t say what for. ‘Anyway, that’s settled, isn’t it? Let’s get the estate agents on to it, Cora—there’s a flat near the hospital which I rather like. There is no point in waiting, is there?’

‘What about the furniture?’ Meg had a quiet voice, but it brought them up short.

‘Sell it?’ essayed Cora.

‘Put it in store? I could use it—some of it—in my new flat when I get it.’

Meg said slowly, ‘Why not sell it with the house?’ At the back of her mind there was an idea taking slow shape. She wasn’t quite sure of it at the moment, but it would need thinking about later.

Cora looked at her approvingly. ‘That’s not a bad idea. We’ll see what the agents say. I must fly—the boys will be back and Natasha—the au pair—is no good at all. I’ll have to find someone else.’

They kissed Meg goodbye, went out to their cars, and got in and drove away, and Meg went back into the house and sat down in the gathering gloom to think. If it were humanly possible, she didn’t intend to leave her home, and certainly not to leave old Betsy to live out her days in a poky bedsitter. Presently Betsy came in with the teatray and Silky, the rather battered tomcat Meg had found skulking round the back door, had fed and sheltered and, since he had obviously made up his mind to become one of the family, had adopted. He got on to Meg’s lap now, and Betsy put the tray down and said, ‘Well, they’ve gone, then?’ There was a question mark behind the words which couldn’t be ignored.

‘Cora and Doreen want to sell the house,’ said Meg. ‘And everything in it. But don’t worry, Betsy, I’ve an idea…so that we can stay here.’

‘Marry a millionaire, like as not, Miss Meg.’ Betsy’s cockney voice sounded cheerfully derisive. ‘What’s to happen to us, then?’

Meg said hearteningly, ‘It takes weeks—months—to sell a house. I’ll do something about it, I promise you.’

Betsy was only too willingly reassured; she trotted back to the kitchen and Meg sat drinking her tea, thinking about the future. Of course it would be marvellous if a very rich man came along and bought the house and fell in love with her at the same time, but that only happened in books… What was needed was someone elderly who needed a housekeeper or companion and a good plain cook and who didn’t object to an elderly tomcat. Meg, who was a practical girl, thought it unlikely, though there was no harm in hoping.

Her sisters wasted no time. Within a week a pleasant young man from a London estate agent came to inspect the property. He walked round, with Meg beside him explaining about the old-fashioned bathrooms, the central heating, the Aga stove and why the large drawing-room was icy cold.

‘There’s only me,’ she pointed out, ‘there’s no point in having a fire there just for one—my sisters are seldom here. We switch on the central heating twice a week, though, because of the furniture—Hepplewhite, you know.’

He nodded, rather at sea; he knew a lot about houses but not much about furniture. He felt vaguely sorry for the rather mouselike girl who was showing him round with such a self-possessed air. He spared a moment to wonder where she would go when the house was sold, for sold it would be, he could see that. Fine old Georgian houses with a generous spread of garden were much sought after. He accepted the coffee she offered him, agreed with her that people wishing to view the house might do so only with an appointment, and took his leave.

The first couple came within three days. In the morning, because Meg was on the committee which organised the Church Bazaar and that would take the whole afternoon.

Mr and Mrs Thorngood arrived in a splendid Mercedes and Meg, rarely given to criticising anyone, disliked them on sight. She led them round her home, listening with a calm face to their loud-voiced remarks about old-fashioned bathrooms, no fitted cupboards and a kitchen which must have come out of the Ark. They didn’t like the garden, either: no swimming pool, all those trees and outbuildings which were of no use to anyone…

‘We use the end one as a garage,’ Meg pointed out.

‘Well, that wouldn’t do for us—we’ve three cars—we’d need to build a decent garage.’ The man looked at her angrily as though it were her fault, and presently the pair of them drove away.

The next day a middle-aged woman with an overbearing manner came. She was looking for suitable premises for a school, she explained, but it took her only a short time to decide that the house wouldn’t do at all. ‘Most unsuitable,’ she observed to Meg, who was politely standing on the doorstep to see her off. ‘All those plastered ceilings, and none of the bedrooms would take more than five beds.’

Meg liked the next couple. They were young and friendly and admired everything wholeheartedly. It wasn’t until they were drinking coffee with her in the sitting-room that the girl said suddenly, ‘We can’t possibly buy this place; actually we live in a poky little flat in Fulham, but when Mike’s between jobs, we go around inspecting houses—it’s fun, seeing how the other half live. I hope you don’t mind.’ She sighed. ‘It must be nice to be rich and live in a lovely old house like this one.’

‘Well’, began Meg and decided not to go on. ‘I’m glad you like it, anyway. It’s been in the family for a fairly long time.’

There were quite a few viewers during the next week, but none of them came back a second time, although one man made an offer of slightly less than the price the agents had set. Instantly rejected, of course.

Then no one came at all for four days. Meg breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps no one would want to live in her home and she would be able to stay on there. She knew it was silly to think that; she would have to go sooner or later to some tiny basement flat unless she could find something to do locally. That wouldn’t be easy, since she had no skills.

As each day passed she felt more and more lulled into false hopes; she ceased listening for the phone, put in hours of work in the garden and went for long walks. The weather had turned nasty—perhaps that was why no one came, but it made no difference to her. On the afternoon of the fourth day she came home from a muddy wet walk, kicked her sensible boots off at the back door and was met by an agitated Betsy.

‘There’s a gentleman,’ said the old lady, all agog. ‘The estate agent rang just after you’d gone and said he was on his way. I had to let him in… He’s in the drawing-room.’

‘Is he now? Well, he’ll have to wait a bit longer, won’t he, while I get tidied up? Bother the man!’

She had sat down on the floor of the back lobby, the better to pull off the old socks she wore inside her boots, and at a kind of gulping sound from Betsy, she turned her head. There was a man standing in the lobby doorway. A towering, wide-shouldered giant with black hair and even blacker eyes. Very good-looking too, thought Meg, and frowned fiercely at him. He had her at a disadvantage, and the nasty little smile on his thin mouth made that apparent.

‘I must apologise,’ he said in a voice which held no apology at all, and waited for her to speak. She sat there looking up at him. There was not much point in getting up until she had the socks off; for one thing she guessed that he must be over six feet and she was a mere five foot three; he would still look down on her. She disposed of the socks, stood up and pushed her feet into a shabby pair of slippers and flung off her wet raincoat, dragged off the scarf she had tied round her hair and addressed him coolly. ‘No need,’ she told him. ‘You weren’t to know that I wasn’t at home.’ She tossed back her damp hair, hanging untidily round her damp face, rosy from the wind and rain. ‘You would like to see round the house?’

‘You are right, that was my object in coming,’ he informed her.

Oh, very stuffy, decided Meg, and led the way to the front hall which was, after all, the starting point. She had the patter off by heart now: the Adam fireplace in the drawing-room, the strap work on the dining-room ceiling, the rather special Serpentine scroll balustrade on the staircase, and as they wandered in and out of the bedrooms on the first floor she pointed out the quite ugly cast-iron fireplace—writhing forms, a mid-Victorian addition which her companion pronounced in a cold voice as frankly hideous. But other than that, he had little to say. She thought it very likely that the sight of the old-fashioned bathrooms with pipes all over the place and great cast-iron baths sitting on clawed feet in the middle of the rooms left him bereft of words. She was quite sure that it was a waste of time taking him round; she took his final comment— ‘A most interesting house’—as a polite way of getting himself out of the door. Not that she considered him a polite man; he should have stayed where Betsy put him, in the drawing-room, until he could have been fetched at the proper time and with suitable dignity.

She stood with him on the steps outside the front door, waiting for him to go. Only he didn’t. ‘You live here alone?’ he asked.

‘No—Betsy lives here with me.’

He glanced at her ringless, rather grubby hands. For a moment she thought that he was going to say something more, but he didn’t. His, ‘Thank you, Miss Collins,’ was brisk and impersonal as he trod down the steps and got into the dark grey Rolls-Royce parked on the sweep before the house. He didn’t look round either, but drove away without so much as a backward glance.

‘’ andsome man,’ remarked Betsy, coming into the hall as Meg closed the door. ‘Nicely spoken, too. P’raps ‘e’ll buy…’

Meg said quite vehemently, ‘I found him a rude man, and I hope never to see him again, Betsy.’ Whereupon she flew upstairs and took a good look at herself in the pier glass in what had been her mother’s room. Her reflection hardly reassured her; her nose shone, her hair was still damp and wispy and the serviceable guernsey and elderly tweed skirt she wore when she was gardening hardly enhanced her appearance. The slippers completed a decidedly unfashionable appearance. She wondered what he had thought of her, and then forgot him; he had joined all the house-hunters whom she would never see again. She wasn’t even sure of his name—he had given it to her, but she hadn’t paid attention. She could, of course, have asked Betsy, but she didn’t; for some reason she wanted to forget him.

January slipped away into February and it turned cold and snowed. Cora and Doreen phoned each week, wanting to know if anyone had made a bid for the house and giving excellent reasons why they couldn’t get down to see her. Meg, accepting them without rancour, none the less wished for more sisterly support. She was happy as things were, but there all the time at the back of her mind was the thought that sooner or later she would have to give up her home and live in some poky flat in an endless row of equally poky flats… Indeed, Doreen had told her only the evening before that she had heard of a semi-basement on the fringes of Highgate; two rooms and bathroom and kitchen—there wouldn’t be much money over by the time Meg had bought it with her share, but then Meg would get a job easily enough.

‘What at?’ asked Meg of Betsy, who shook her head and said nothing at all.

No one could come until the snow had gone. Meg pottered round the house, polished the silver and got in Betsy’s way in the kitchen. It was something of a shock when the estate agents phoned to say that there was a Mrs Culver on her way.

Meg, who had been in the kitchen making marmalade with Betsy, went to her room and tidied herself, re-did her hair, ran a powder puff over her face, changed into the cashmere sweater she kept for special occasions, and went downstairs just in time to watch an elderly but beautifully kept Daimler draw up before the door. She skipped into the drawing-room and picked up a book; it would never do to be caught snooping.

The doorbell rang and Betsy, in a clean apron, but smelling delightfully of marmalade on the boil, answered it and presently ushered Mrs Culver into the room.

‘You’re making marmalade,’ observed that lady as she advanced across the wide expanse of Moorfields carpet. ‘One of the most delightful aromas there is.’ She smiled at Meg. ‘How do you do? You will be Miss Collins? You must forgive me for coming at such an awkward time and at such short notice; I am only just back in England.’

Meg murmured politely; she hadn’t met anyone like Mrs Culver before. She was a small, rather plump woman, well into middle age, but so well dressed and exquisitely made-up that she gave the lie to that. Not pretty but with a delightful smile and twinkling eyes so that one was forced to smile back at her.

‘It’s quite convenient,’ Meg assured her. ‘Would you like to sit and rest for a few minutes or would you like to look round now?’

‘May I look round?’ Mrs Culver studied her surroundings. ‘This is a charming room.’

Meg found herself liking the little lady. She led the way back into the hall and started her tour, and found for once an appreciative companion. What was more, Mrs Culver didn’t seem at all put off by the bathroom pipes, and remarked upon the elegance of the Adam fireplace before Meg could even mention it.

‘I like this house,’ observed Mrs Culver as they returned to the drawing-room. ‘I shall buy it.’

Meg said rather faintly, ‘Oh, will you? Would you like some coffee?’

‘Indeed I would,’ and when Meg returned from the kitchen, ‘Tell me, has it been in your family for a long time?’

‘Ages. It was built in 1810, but of course it’s had things done to it since then.’

‘But not very recently,’ remarked Mrs Culver drily, ‘therein lies its charm. I promise you that if I do do anything at all it will be done so well that you wouldn’t even notice it.’

Meg poured the coffee, wrestling with a variety of feelings. It was splendid news for Cora and Doreen, of course, but not for her and Betsy. The poky flat loomed large, and how was she going to bear leaving her home? She stifled these feelings with the common sense she had cultivated since she was a child; the house had to be sold, and who better to buy it than this nice elderly lady who liked the making of marmalade and knew an Adam fireplace when she saw one? She said, ‘You’ll be very happy here,’ and meant it. ‘Do you want the name of our solicitor or would you like to think about it first?’

‘I’ve thought, my dear. I shall go straight to the estate agents and then instruct my solicitor.’ She paused and frowned. ‘There is just one thing.’

Meg waited for Mrs Culver to go on. Problems sometimes turned into insurmountable snags—it would be the bathrooms and those pipes. She herself had grown up with them, but every single person who had inspected the house had remarked upon them. She assumed a sympathetically listening face and looked across at her companion.

‘My housekeeper,’ began that lady, ‘has been waiting for some months for an operation—something to do with her toes—and only this morning she told me that there was a bed for her at last. She offered to put the whole thing off, bless her, until it was convenient for me, but I can’t have that—it isn’t an emergency, you understand, but it will take time before she can come back to me—nasty little pins in her toes to straighten them, so I’m told, and when she does return she must have someone to do the lion’s share of the work until she can cope once again. I’m told that when she has got over whatever it is that they intend to do to her, her feet will be like new. She has been with me for more than twenty years and is a treasure as well as a friend.’ She stopped to take a breath. ‘Very like that nice woman who opened the door to me.’

‘Betsy—she’s been with me since I was a baby.’

Mrs Culver eyed Meg thoughtfully. ‘It’s scarcely my business to ask, but when you leave here, will she go with you? If not, would she consider staying on until my Kate is well enough again? Two months at least…and I suppose you wouldn’t know of a good cook? Someone to work with her—it’s a big house and I’m not allowed to be energetic. I dare say I could get someone from the village to help with the rough work.’ She smiled at Meg. ‘I’m an impertinent old woman, aren’t I? And you’re at liberty to say so if you wish.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, and I don’t think you are anyway,’ declared Meg. ‘It’s a most sensible idea. As a matter of fact, my sisters want me to go and live in London in a flat and find a job, and they thought Betsy could find a room in the village.’ She felt a strong urge to tell Mrs Culver all about her sisters’ arrangements and plans, but of course that was out of the question.

Mrs Culver nodded and gave Meg a sharp glance, sensing that there was a lot left unsaid. ‘What work will you do?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea. I’m not trained for anything; our mother was ill for a long time so I took over the housekeeping, and Betsy taught me to cook…’ She stopped suddenly and stared at her companion, who stared back.

‘It’s as plain as the nose on my face,’ said Mrs Culver. ‘I suspect that we’re being unbusinesslike and impulsive, but I’ve always relied on my female intuition, and it tells me that I can’t go wrong. Will you stay on as housekeeper and have your Betsy to help you? It would give you time to settle your future; I dare say you’re in no hurry to go and live in a London flat. And dear old Kate can have her feet put right without worrying about getting back to me until she’s quite fit and well. Would you mind being a housekeeper, my dear?’

Meg hadn’t felt so happy for months; the dreaded London flat could be abrogated at least for a month or two, she could stay in her home, doing exactly what she had been doing for some years, and Betsy would have time to get used to changes. Her vague idea had become reality.

‘I wouldn’t mind at all, Mrs Culver. I’d like it very much and I know Betsy would too, and if you want someone for the rough work, Mrs Griffiths, the postman’s wife, has been coming here for years.’

They beamed at each other, and Mrs Culver asked, ‘The garden? Is there a man…?’

‘Well, no, I’ve been doing the gardening, though you could do with someone for the hedges and the digging—I’ve had to leave a good bit.’

‘Well, you find someone, my dear; I’m sure I can safely leave it to you—and more help in the house if you need it. I suppose it will take the solicitors weeks to get things settled— I’ve been mystified as to why. But in the meantime, will you go on as you have been doing? I’ll write to you as soon as things are settled, and we must have a talk before I move in.’ She looked round the pleasant room. ‘Would you consider selling the furniture? There must be treasured pieces you would want to keep so that you can furnish your flat eventually, but the rest?’

‘I’ll have to ask my sisters,’ said Meg. ‘They did suggest that I had some of it and my younger sister might want some things—she hopes to buy a flat near the hospital and live out.’

‘And you have another sister?’

‘Yes, older than me—she’s married and doesn’t want anything here.’

Mrs Culver got up to go. ‘Well, we can settle that when you have seen them, can’t we? You’re sure that you are happy about our little arrangement?’

Meg smiled widely. ‘Oh, yes—very happy. I—I really am not too keen on living in London.’ They walked unhurriedly to the door, pleased with each other’s company. ‘Would you like a word with Betsy?’

‘A very good idea. Shall we go to the kitchen, if she’s there?’

Betsy’s elderly face crumpled into dozens of wrinkles at the news; she looked as though she might cry, but she chuckled instead. ‘There, Miss Meg—yer never know, do yer? What’s round the corner, I mean. I’m sure I’ll bide ‘ere and ‘appy ter do so just as long as I’m needed.’

‘I’m so glad,’ said Mrs Culver, and shook Betsy’s hand. ‘I look forward to living here in this nice old house.’

Meg saw her out to the car and gave the solid-looking man who opened the car door a guilty look. He understood at once. ‘Your cook kindly gave me a coffee, miss,’ he told her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, good—I’m sorry I forgot—as long as Betsy saw to your comfort.’

She put her head through the still-open door. ‘I’m glad it’s you,’ she told Mrs Culver, who was being cosily tucked in with rugs by the chauffeur. ‘Mother and Father would have liked to have met you.’

‘Why, thank you, my dear—what a nice thing to say. You shall hear from me very shortly. Goodbye.’

Over their midday snack Meg and Betsy talked over the morning. They found it difficult to believe that it had all happened. ‘It’s like a fairy tale,’ said Meg. ‘I can’t believe it…I know it’s not going to last, but it does give us another month or so. We’ll be here when the daffodils are out.’ She cut a wedge of cheese. ‘You’re to have your wages, Betsy, and so am I—nice to be paid for something I’ve been doing for nothing for years!’

She fell silent, her busy mind exploring the chances of getting a job as housekeeper when she finally left—if Mrs Culver would give her a reference she might be lucky—then there would be no need to live in London. Presently she said, ‘I must let Cora and Doreen know,’ and went to the telephone in what had been her father’s study.

Of course they were both delighted.

‘Now we can get the boys’ names down for school,’ said Cora.

‘I’ll make a firm offer for that flat,’ Doreen decided and added as an afterthought, ‘once it’s all dealt with, Meg, I’ll look out for something for you—you’d better take a course in shorthand and typing.’

It seemed hardly the time to tell them that Mrs Culver had plans of her own; Meg put down the receiver without having said a word about herself and Betsy, but then, neither of them had asked.

There was purpose in the days now: the house to clean and polish, cupboards to turn out, the silver to polish, wrap up and stow away, curtains to be cleaned… Mrs Griffiths, when approached, was glad enough to continue coming three times a week, and what was more, she had an out-of-work nephew who would be glad to see to the garden.

There were letters too, learned ones from the solicitor, triumphant ones from the estate agents and a steady flow of instructions from Cora and Doreen. What was more important was that there was a letter from Mrs Culver, stating that she would be glad to employ both Meg and Betsy, and setting out their wages in black and white. She had urged the solicitors to make haste, she had written, and hoped to move in in about three weeks’ time.

‘A nice letter,’ said Meg, putting it back neatly into its envelope. ‘I wonder where I’ve heard the name Culver before?’

She discovered the very next day. It was a lovely day, clear and frosty and with a brief sunshine which held no warmth but gave the illusion of spring. She was perched on a window-seat in the drawing-room, carefully mending one of the old, but still beautiful, brocade curtains, when a car drew up and a man got out. She remembered him at once—who could forget him, being the size and height he was anyway? She watched him walk unhurriedly to the door and pull the old-fashioned bell, and then listened to Betsy’s feet trotting across the hall to open the door.

If he had had second thoughts, decided Meg with satisfaction, he was going to be disappointed. She remembered the look he had given the bathroom pipes and the Victorian fireplace; he would make an offer, perhaps, far below the one asked, and she would find great satisfaction in refusing it.

It wasn’t like that at all. Betsy ushered him in. ‘Mr Culver to see you, Miss Meg.’ She winked as she went out.

Meg got up and said uncertainly, ‘Have you come about the house? It’s sold—’ and at the same instant said, ‘Culver—you aren’t by any chance related to Mrs Culver?’

‘Her son. I suggested that she should come and see the place; I knew she’d like it.’ He raised dark eyebrows. ‘You’re disconcerted, Miss Collins?’

Meg eyed him cautiously, for he sounded cross. ‘Not that,’ she explained politely, ‘just surprised. I’d forgotten your name, you see.’

‘You’re to remain here as my mother’s housekeeper? Oh, don’t look alarmed—I have no intention of interfering with her plans. It seems a most suitable arrangement. But you do understand that when Kate, her own housekeeper, returns, you and your servant will have to go.’

‘Betsy isn’t a servant,’ said Meg clearly, ‘she’s been with my family for a very long time. She’s our friend and helper.’

The eyebrows rose once more. ‘I stand corrected! May I sit down?’

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, please do. Why have you come, Mr Culver? And you had no need to remind me that we’re only here temporarily.’

‘I came to tell you that within the week there will be some furniture delivered, and to ask you to remove whatever you wish to keep for yourself. Presumably there are attics?’

‘Three large ones, and yes, I’ll do that.’

‘A cheque for the furniture, which will be valued, will be paid to your solicitor in due course. Tell me, Miss Collins, don’t your sisters want to discuss this with you?’

‘No—my elder sister is married and my younger sister is too busy—she’s a staff nurse in London…’

‘And you?’ For once his voice was friendly, and she responded to it without thinking.

‘Me? I can’t do anything except look after a house and cook; that’s why I’m so happy to stay on here for a little while.’

She studied his bland face for a while. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.

‘Why should I mind?’ He got to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Let your solicitor know if there’s anything which worries you.’

Meg went with him to the door, and because he looked somehow put out about something, she said gently, ‘I’m sorry you don’t like me staying here, Mr Culver, but it won’t be for long.’

He took her hand in his. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Miss Collins,’ he told her gravely. ‘Goodbye.’

CHAPTER TWO

MEG SHUT THE DOOR firmly behind Mr Culver and then stood looking at the painted panelling in the hall. She wondered what he had meant; it was a strange remark to make, and it made no sense. She dismissed it from her mind and wandered off to the kitchen to tell Betsy about the furniture. ‘So we’d better go round the house and pick out what we want,’ she ended. ‘I’ll try and get Doreen to come down and sort out what she wants.’

Doreen came two days later, full of plans for herself and for Meg. ‘You’ll have to go into a bedsitter or digs for a while,’ she told her. ‘I’ll ask around…’

‘There’s no need; I’m staying on here as housekeeper, and Betsy’s staying too,’ she said, and before an astonished Doreen could utter a word, added, ‘I’ll explain.’

When she had finished, Doreen said, ‘Well, I don’t know—housekeeper in your own home—it’s a bit demeaning, and such hard work!’

‘But I’ve been housekeeping for years,’ Meg pointed out, ‘and besides, I’m going to be paid for it now.’

Doreen was a bit huffy; she had been telling Meg what to do and how to do it since they were children, and until now Meg had meekly followed her lead. ‘Oh, well,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I suppose you know your own mind best, though I think it’s a mistake. Cora won’t like it…’

‘Why not?’ asked Meg placidly. ‘I should have thought you’d have both been pleased that I’m settled for a month or two.’ She added cunningly, ‘You’ll be able to concentrate on your new flat.’

A remark which caused her sister to subside, still grumbling but resigned. Moreover, she declared that she would be down the following weekend to choose furniture. ‘I don’t want much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to buy very simple modern stuff.’ She added, ‘Cora doesn’t want anything, only those paintings of the ancestors in the hall and the silver tea and coffee sets.’

As she got into her car she asked carelessly, ‘What’s this son like?’

Meg paused to think. ‘Well, he’s very tall—about six feet four inches—and broad. He’s dark and his eyes look black, though I don’t suppose they are…he’s—he’s arrogant and—off-hand.’

Doreen gave her a kindly, pitying look. ‘Out of your depth, were you?’ she asked. ‘He sounds quite a dish.’ She started the engine. ‘What does he do?’

Meg stared at her. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We only talked about the house and the furniture.’

Doreen grinned. ‘I can well believe that! When I’ve settled you in that semi-basement, Meg, I’m going to find you an unambitious curate.’

She shot away, and instead of going indoors Meg wandered along the path which circumvented the house. She had no wish to marry a curate, she was certain on that point, nor did she want to marry a man like her brother-in-law—something in the city and rising fast, and already pompous. She would like to marry, of course, but although she had a very clear idea of the home she would like and the children in it, not to mention dogs and cats and a donkey and perhaps a pony, the man who would provide her with all this was a vague nonentity. But she wanted to be loved and cherished, she was sure of that.

She went back into the house and sat at the kitchen table eating the little cakes Betsy had made for tea and which Doreen hadn’t eaten because of her figure. ‘Do you suppose I could have the furniture in my room, Betsy?’ she asked at length. ‘I could put a few chairs and tables in there before Mrs Culver comes, then it would be easy when we move out. I won’t need much in a small flat…’

Betsy was beating eggs. ‘Likely not,’ she agreed. ‘Poky places they are, them semi-basements—lived in one myself ‘fore I came to yer ma. Can’t see why yer ‘ave ter live in one, meself.’

Meg ate another cake. ‘No—well, I’ve been thinking. If I can get Mrs Culver to give us good references we might try for jobs in some large country house, the pair of us. I was looking through the advertisements in The Lady, Betsy, and there are dozens of jobs.’

‘Yer ma and pa would turn in their graves if yer was ter to do that, Miss Meg—housework indeed—and you a lady born and bred. I never ‘eard such nonsense!’

Meg got up and flung an arm round her old friend’s shoulders. ‘I think I’d rather do anything than live in a basement flat in London,’ she declared. ‘Let’s go round the house and choose what I’ll take with me.’

Small pieces for the most part: her mother’s papier mâché work table, encrusted with mother-of-pearl and inlaid with metal foil, a serpentine table in mahogany with a pierced gallery, and a Martha Washington chair reputed to be Chippendale and lastly a little rosewood desk where her mother had been in the habit of writing her letters. She added two standard chairs with sabre legs, very early nineteenth century, and a sofa table on capstan base with splayed feet which went very well with the chairs and wouldn’t take up too much room.

They went back to the kitchen and Meg made a neat list. ‘And now you, Betsy; of course you’ll have the furniture which is already in your room, but you’ll need some bits and pieces.’

So they went round again, adding a rather shabby armchair Betsy had always liked, and the small, stoutly built wooden table in the scullery with its two equally stout chairs. Meg added a bookcase standing neglected in one of the many small rooms at the back of the house, and a standard lamp which had been by the bookcase for as long as she could remember. No one was going to miss it, and it would please Betsy mightily.

She got the butcher’s boy from the village to come up to the house and move the furniture into her and Betsy’s rooms. Doreen would see to her own things once she had chosen them.

This was something which she did at the end of the week, arriving at the house a bare five minutes after Mr Culver’s second totally unexpected visit. Getting no answer from the front doorbell, he had wandered round the house and found Meg in an old sweater and slacks covered by a sacking apron, intent on arranging seed potatoes on the shelves of the potting shed. She turned to see who it was as he trod towards her, and said, rather crossly, ‘Oh, it’s you—you didn’t say you were coming!’

He ignored that. ‘It’s careless of you to leave your front door open when you’re not in the house, Miss Collins. You should be more careful.’

She gave him a long, considered look. He doubtless meant to be helpful, but it seemed that each time they met he said something to annoy her.

‘This isn’t London,’ she said with some asperity, and then added in a kindly tone, ‘though I dare say you mean well.’

He stood looking down his handsome nose at her. ‘Naturally I have an interest in this house…’

‘Premature,’ Meg observed matter-of-factly. ‘I haven’t—that is, we haven’t sold it to your mother yet.’

She wished the words unsaid at once: supposing that he took umbrage and advised his mother to withdraw from the sale? What would her sisters say? And she would have to start all over again, and next time she might not be as lucky as regards her future. She met his eyes and saw that he was smiling nastily.

‘Exactly, Miss Collins, it behoves you to mind your words, does it not?’ He added unwillingly, ‘Your face is like an open book—you must learn to conceal your thoughts before you embark on a career in London!’

He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, in time to see Doreen coming towards them, and Meg, watching him saw that he was impressed. Her sister was looking particularly pretty in a wide tweed coat, draped dramatically over her shoulders, allowing a glimpse of a narrow cashmere dress in a blue to match her eyes. She fetched up beside him, cast him a smiling glance and said, ‘Hello, Meg—darling, must you root around like a farm labourer?’ She peered at the potatoes. ‘Such a dirty job!’

Meg said ‘Hello,’ and waved a grubby hand at Mr Culver. ‘This is Mr Culver, Mrs Culver’s son—my sister, Doreen; she’s come to choose her furniture before the valuers get here.’

Mr Culver, it seemed, could make himself very agreeable if he so wished, and Doreen, of course, had always been considered a charming girl. They fell at once into the kind of light talk which Meg had never learnt to master. She carefully arranged another row of potatoes, listening admiringly to Doreen’s witty chatter, and when there was a pause asked, ‘Why did you come, Mr Culver?’

Not the happiest way of putting it—Doreen’s look told her that—so she added, ‘Is there anything we can do.’

He glanced between the pair of them, and Meg caught the glance. Wondering how on earth we could possibly be sisters, she thought, and suddenly wished that she wasn’t plain and could talk like Doreen.

‘My mother asked me to call in—I’m on my way home and it isn’t out of my way. She wants you to order coal and logs—a ton of each, I would suggest—and also, if you know of a young boy who would do odd jobs, would you hire him?’

‘What to do?’ asked Meg, ever practical. ‘Not full time, I imagine?’

‘I believe she was thinking of someone to carry in coal and so on. Perhaps on his way to school, or in the afternoon…’

‘Well, there’s Willy Wright—he’s fifteen and looking for work. He goes to school still, but I dare say he’d be glad of the money.’

Mr Culver nodded carelessly. ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

‘Oh, she’s capable all right, our Meg,’ put in Doreen. ‘Always has been. You live near here, Mr Culver?’ She was at her most charming.

He gave the kind of answer Meg would have expected of him. ‘I work in London for most of the time. And you?’

Doreen told him, making the telling amusing and self-effacing at the same time. ‘Come into the house and have a cup of tea—I know Meg is dying for us to go so that she can finish her potatoes.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘Finished in ten minutes or so, Meg? I’ll have the tea made.’

She led the way back to the house, leaving Meg in the potting shed, quite happy to be left on her own once more. Doreen had never made a secret of the fact that she intended to marry and marry well. She thought it very likely that before Mr Culver left Doreen would have found out what he did, whether he was engaged or even married, and where he lived. She chuckled as she started on the last row of potatoes; Mr Culver had met his match.

It was half an hour before she joined them in the sitting-room, wearing a neat shirt blouse and a pleated skirt, her small waist cinched by a wide soft leather belt. Mr Culver was on the point of going, which was what she had been hoping; anyway, she wished him a coolly polite goodbye, leaving Doreen to see him to the door, assuring him that she would do as Mrs Culver asked. The moment they were in the hall, she picked up the tea-tray and whisked herself off to the kitchen to make a fresh pot. Doreen would want another cup before she started on the furniture.

‘What a man!’ observed that young lady as she sank into a chair. ‘Is that fresh tea? I could do with a cup. Believe it or not, Meg, I couldn’t get a thing out of him—he’s a real charmer, no doubt of that, but as close as an oyster. I bet he’s not married.’ She took the cup Meg was offering. ‘I wonder what he does? Perhaps you can find out…?’

‘Why?’ Meg sounded reasonable. ‘He’s nothing to do with us; we’re not likely to see him—he only called with a message.’

Doreen looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, well, we’ll see. That’s a nice car, and unless I’m very mistaken, his shoes are hand-made…’

‘Perhaps he’s got awkward feet,’ suggested Meg, quite seriously.

Doreen looked at her to see if she was joking and saw that she wasn’t, so she didn’t reply. ‘When’s Mrs Culver due to arrive?’ she asked instead. ‘I’d better decide on the things I want and get them away. Have you got yours?’

Meg nodded. ‘Yes, I got Willy to come up and move them. Most of it’s in my room; the rest is in the attic. Betsy’s got some bits and pieces, too—in her room and some in the attic.’

‘Well, I’ll get it over with and have it taken up to town and stored until I want it. Does Mrs Culver want everything else? How much will she pay for it?’

‘I’ve no idea. There’s a valuer coming…I’ll let you know as soon as he’s been and she’s agreed to his estimate.’

Doreen wandered off and came back presently with a scribbled list. Mostly portraits, a rent table which wouldn’t really be missed in the drawing-room, a little button-backed Victorian chair from one of the bedrooms and a corner cupboard. ‘Not much,’ she commented. ‘I’d rather have the money, anyway. Cora and I don’t really like the idea of you staying on here as housekeeper, you know. It’s only for a few weeks, isn’t it? Let me know in good time so that I can find somewhere for you, Meg.’

It seemed as good a time as any to talk about her future. Meg said quietly, ‘Doreen, I’d like to go on housekeeping; if Mrs Culver will give me a reference I could get a job in some country house—and take Betsy with me—I’d probably get a cottage or a flat, and I’d much rather do that than live in London…’

Doreen looked at her with kindly tolerance. ‘Don’t be daft, love. Just you leave everything to Cora and me—we really know what’s best for you. You’ve lived here too long; it’s time you went into the world and had a look around.’

‘I don’t think it’s my sort of world,’ protested Meg doggedly. ‘I like the country and keeping house and looking after people…’

‘Nonsense,’ said Doreen firmly. ‘How can you be certain of that before you’ve lived somewhere else?’ She added coaxingly, ‘Cora and I do want you to be happy, darling; I know there wasn’t much we could do about it while Mother was alive, but now we intend to see that you have some fun.’

There had been a lot they could have done, but Meg didn’t say so; she loved her two pretty sisters and she wasn’t a girl to bear a grudge.

All she said was, mildly, ‘Well, Betsy and I will be here for two months—plenty of time to make plans.’

Doreen nodded her pretty head; she was looking thoughtful again. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Culver will mind if I pop down to see you now and again?’ And at Meg’s look of surprise, ‘Just to make sure that everything is OK…’ She gave herself away completely by adding, ‘I wonder where he lives and what he does? I might be able to find out…’

‘Did you like him?’ asked Meg.

‘My dear Meg—grow up, do! He’s got everything: looks—my goodness, he’s got those all right—obviously a good job—probably chairman of something or other—and money. He’s every girl’s dream, ducky.’

‘Oh, is he? I don’t much care for him. Besides, he may be married.’

‘But it’s worth finding out. I must be off. I’ll let you know when to expect the carrier to collect my furniture.’ Doreen dropped a kiss on Meg’s cheek. ‘Be seeing you, darling. Has Cora phoned?’

‘Last week. I expect she’s busy; the boys have half term.’

Getting into the car, Doreen said, ‘I’m broke—this cashmere dress, but it’s worth every penny. You must get yourself some decent clothes, love. You look—well—dowdy!’

She sped away with a wave and Meg stood in the porch, shivering a little in the cold wind, aware that her sister was quite right. A housekeeper should be decently but soberly dressed, and she would need a couple of overalls.

She would go into Hertford in the morning; she had a little money she had been hanging on to for emergencies, and since she was to be paid, she could safely spend it.

It took her some time to find what she wanted. Sober dresses suitable for a housekeeper seemed to be made for very large, tall women and she was size ten. She found something at last: dark grey with white collars and a little black bow; it did nothing for her whatsoever, but then it wasn’t supposed to. She bought overalls too, blue and white checks with a white collar and neat belts, and since she had a little money over she bought Betsy two new aprons, old-fashioned with bibs which crossed over at the back and fastened with giant safety pins. Nothing would convince Betsy that nylon overalls saved time and labour; she had never fancied them, and she wasn’t prepared to change her ideas at her time of life.

Another week went by. The solicitors, at last satisfied that all the parties concerned were not up to something unlawful, cautiously exchanged contracts and then, doubtless egged on by Mrs Culver, allowed them to be signed. The house was Mrs Culver’s. All three of them had had to sign; Doreen had fetched Meg and had driven into Hertford, annoyed at what she called the waste of her precious time, but excited too, and Cora had driven herself from Kent, excited in a controlled way, anxious to get the business over and get back to her modern, split-level house with its well-kept garden and the double garage.

The whole business took only a very few minutes; they stood on the pavement outside the solicitor’s office and looked at each other. ‘I’d better come back to the house and get the pictures and silver,’ said Cora. ‘You heard what Mr Dutton said, Meg? The money will be paid into my account and I’ll send you a cheque for your share, and Doreen, of course.’ She looked at her younger sister. ‘I expect you want to get back to the hospital. I’ll take Meg back, collect my things and go home—I’ve a bridge party this afternoon.’

She tucked her arm into Meg’s. ‘Lovely to have it all settled. What a difference it’s going to make.’

Meg said nothing at all. Doreen and Cora might be over the moon but she had just lost her home. She would rather have gone on living there until it fell in ruins about her ears; what use was the money to her if she had to use it to buy some ghastly basement flat? She swallowed back tears and got into Cora’s car.

A week later Mrs Culver moved in. There had been a small van load of furniture first with instructions as to where it was to be put and at ten o’clock in the morning the Rolls-Royce had come to a quiet halt in front of the door and the new owner had stepped out, helped, Meg was annoyed to see, by her son, massive and calm and for some reason faintly amused. That the amusement had been engendered by her own sober appearance never entered her head. She welcomed Mrs Culver with shy dignity, and led the way to the drawing-room.

‘I expect you’d like coffee. I’ll bring it.’ She glanced at Mr Culver. ‘You’ll have a cup, Mr Culver?’

‘Thank you, yes.’ He glanced round the room. ‘I see you’ve had the time to arrange my mother’s things.’

And when she said yes, he asked, ‘The valuer has been?’

‘Yes. He’ll write to Mrs Culver.’

That lady was sitting back comfortably, taking no part in the conversation. Meg suspected that she was in the habit of leaving business matters to her son. She got herself out of the room and hurried to the kitchen to get the coffee tray.

‘They’re ‘ere,’ said Betsy, unnecessarily. ‘E’s ‘ere too. A proper gent.’

Meg had her own ideas about that, but there was no time to discuss the man. She whipped up the tray and went back with it, and set it down on the lamp table by Mrs Culver’s chair.

‘Where’s your cup?’ asked the older woman.

‘My cup?’ Meg echoed.

‘Yes, dear. Go and fetch it. Ralph hasn’t much time, and he wants to be sure that there are no loose ends.’

Meg fetched another cup and saucer and sat down on a little chair as far from Mr Culver as she dared without being rude. He gave her a hooded glance.

‘I wish merely to thank you for the help you’ve given my mother. Without you, she would have been unable to settle in so quickly. We’re grateful. Do we owe you anything? Are there any outstanding bills?’

Meg said that, no, there weren’t. ‘Willy will be up tomorrow morning on his way to school and will fill the coal scuttles, and he’ll come again in the afternoon on his way back home. The gardener starts on Monday.’

Mr Culver finished his coffee and got up. ‘I think you’ll be happy here, Mother. You know where I am if you need me, my dear.’ He crossed the room and kissed her cheek, and nodded austerely to Meg. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Meg poured more coffee, and Mrs Culver said, ‘Such a good son—never interferes, you know, but always there when I want him. So convenient. He’s just like his father.’

Meg looked at her companion with something like respect. If his father had been like him, then she must have had her work cut out—but perhaps he had loved her very much and never let her see the cold mockery and impatience—or perhaps it was Meg herself who induced those. She thought that probably it was; she had had no practice in turning a man up sweet. She murmured suitably and asked what Mrs Culver would like for lunch.

It took only a few days to settle into a routine. Mrs Culver liked her breakfast in bed, which meant that Meg and Betsy could eat their own meal and get on with the household chores. Even with Mrs Griffith’s help there was plenty of work to be got through, and they did the bulk of it in the early mornings. Mrs Culver’s own car had arrived with her chauffeur and she was out a good deal, which gave Meg time to see to the washing and ironing and help Betsy with the meals, so that tasks such as arranging the flowers and setting the table for meals could be done when that lady was at home, tasks which Meg concluded were quite suitable for a housekeeper. She had no doubt that Mrs Culver had little idea of what went on behind the scenes; she was charming, easy and very kind, and had very likely grown up and lived all her life with people to do her bidding.

But it had been a surprise to Meg when Mrs Culver had insisted on her taking her meals with her. And when she had demurred, she had insisted, ‘Nonsense, child. You’ve sat at this table all your life; you will continue to do so or upset me very much.’

So Meg sat at the table she had laid so carefully, getting up to clear the dishes and fetch the food from the kitchen, for Betsy had enough to do and her legs hurt in any case, and she entirely approved of the arrangement. The dear soul still thought of her as the lady of the house. Mrs Culver was a nice enough lady, indeed, one couldn’t wish for a better, but there had been Collinses living there for a long time, and she didn’t take easily to change.

Meg was happy; she was still in her own home, she enjoyed the work even though her days were long and there was little time to get into the garden. Cora had phoned to say that her share of the money was paid into her account and to ask, rather casually, if she were happy. And when she had a satisfactory answer, ‘Then I’ll not bother you, Meg; let me know when you leave and I’ll help in any way I can.’

She had a much longer call from Doreen, who wasted little time on questions but plunged at once into her news. She had discovered who Mr Culver was—a Professor, a consultant radiologist, based at one of the big teaching hospitals but with a large area to cover. ‘He’s well known,’ said Doreen, ‘goes to any number of hospitals for consultations—one of the best men in his field—Europe too. When is he going to visit his mother, Meg?’

‘I’ve no idea. Did you want to see him about something? Shall I ask Mrs Culver?’

‘I wish you’d grow up, Meg! Of course I want to see him, but only to get to know him. He’s not married…’

Meg tried to imagine him as a future brother-in-law. ‘He’s quite old,’ she pointed out in her practical manner.

‘Rubbish—thirty-eight at the most. Quite brilliant at his work, too—he’ll end up with a knighthood.’

‘I thought you were keen on that registrar…’

‘Oh, him! Listen, darling, if you hear that he’s coming down to see his mother, give me a ring, will you?’

‘Why?’ asked Meg, being deliberately dim. She heard her sister’s exasperated sigh as she hung up.

As it happened she had no chance to do that, and she was glad, for it smacked of disloyalty to Mrs Culver and to him. After all, she was in Mrs Culver’s employ. The Professor walked in as they sat at lunch a day or two later. He had a dirty, half-starved dog under one arm which was cringing away from the sight of them, and Meg got up at once and said, ‘Oh, the poor beast, let me have him. Have you come to lunch? There’s plenty…’

It was a quiche Lorraine and she had just begun to cut it.

‘Take it back to keep warm, Meg,’ said Mrs Culver, ‘it won’t spoil for ten minutes or so. Bring a towel or something with you to put that dog on.’

The Professor stood, the animal still in his arms, waiting for Meg to come back. ‘Found him in the road—been knocked down and left. Not hurt, I fancy, and, by the look of him, lost or abandoned.’

His mother rose to the occasion. ‘Just what we could do with here—a guard dog. What is he?’

‘Difficult to say. Ah, there you are—if you will put the towel on that table I’ll take a look at him. A little warm milk perhaps?’ Meg went off to the kitchen again and came back with a bowl of milk, standing patiently while he examined the beast with gentle hands. ‘Nothing broken.’ He glanced at her and smiled. ‘Just worn out, hungry and frightened. He’ll be a splendid addition to the household.’

Meg proffered the milk; it disappeared with the speed of dust into a vacuum cleaner. ‘There’s a big box and some old blankets. I’ll fetch them.’

‘A nice child,’ observed Mrs Culver when she had gone, ‘and so sensible.’

‘And a good housekeeper, I hope?’

‘Excellent. I’ve been to visit Kate; she’s doing well, but it will be a month at least…’

‘No need to hurry her,’ said the Professor easily, ‘since Meg suits you so well. No problems?’

‘None, my dear. And she is so happy to be here. It must be dreadful for her having to give up her home to strangers.’

‘Do you see anything of her sisters?’ He glanced at his mother. ‘I met her younger sister—a very pretty girl; she’s at the Royal—staff nurse hoping to be made a Sister. She had no regrets leaving here, nor, I understand, had her elder sister.’

‘The married one—I believe she’s just as handsome. Are you on your way home, dear, or are you going back to town?’

‘Back to town. I’ve a dinner date. But may I have lunch?’

Meg came back with the box and blankets and the dog was laid gently down and promptly went to sleep. Which left her free to fetch the quiche back and lay another place. She put the plates before Mrs Culver and said in her calm way, ‘If you wanted to talk together I’ll go away…’

‘No need,’ said the Professor before his mother could speak. ‘Besides, we have to plan this animal’s future. I’ll phone the vet if I may, Mother, and if he’s not injured, presumably he may stay?’

‘Of course, my dear.’ Mrs Culver turned to Meg. ‘You know about dogs, Meg?’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs Culver.’ Nothing in her quiet voice betrayed the fact that she would have to get up earlier than ever to take him for a walk, that he would have to be groomed, fed and generally looked after. Not that she minded; she liked animals, and he would be company for Silky.

‘Then that settles the matter. If you’re not already engaged, Mother, I’ll come over after church on Sunday and take you back for lunch.’

So he can’t live far away, thought Meg, collecting plates and piling them tidily on a tray and carrying it out to the kitchen, where she loaded it up again with light-as-air castle puddings and hot jam sauce.

‘Your cook is excellent,’ observed the Professor, accepting a second helping.

‘Oh, but Meg made these, didn’t you, dear?’

His look of polite astonishment annoyed Meg; he could have no opinion of her at all! She said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,’ in a tart voice and went to fetch the coffee.

‘Don’t you like her, dear?’ asked his mother.

The look on his face gave her food for thought. ‘I hardly know her,’ he said at length. ‘I dare say she might grow on one—missed when she’s no longer there…’

‘Such a waste,’ said Mrs Culver vaguely, watching him. ‘And so easily overlooked, especially when her sisters are with her.’

As Meg came back in with the tray the Professor got up to close the door behind her and watched her pour the coffee. She was wearing the severe grey dress and she had pinned up her pale brown hair into a tidy bun, under the impression that it made her look like a housekeeper. She was really nothing to look at; he was at a loss to understand why the thought of her crossed his mind from time to time. She handed him his cup and looked at him with her lovely grey eyes. They were cool and clear, like a child’s. She said, ‘It was kind of you to rescue the dog. I’ll take great care of him.’

‘Yes, I know. That’s why I brought him here.’ He smiled, and his severe expression melted into a charm which took her by surprise. She didn’t like him, but just for a moment she glimpsed another man entirely.

She slipped away presently, pleading some household duty which kept her occupied until she heard the Rolls sigh its way down the drive. By then she had helped Betsy with the washing up, rubbed up the silver and got the tea tray ready. It was Betsy’s hour or so of peace and quiet, and Mrs Culver would doubtless be dozing. Meg went to look at the dog and found him awake, cringing in his box. She fed him, bathed some of the dirt and dust from him, tended his pathetically cracked paws and went to let the vet in.

They knew each other vaguely; years ago when her father had been alive there had been dogs and cats and ponies. He was a grouchy old man but a splendid vet. He examined the dog carefully, pronounced him half starved, in need of rest and bruised from his accident. ‘But he’ll live,’ he said. ‘God alone knows what breed he is, but he’s a nice enough beast. You’re looking after him?’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘Professor Culver said that he would be here with you… He would have taken him to his home but he’s only there at the weekends; a London flat is no place for dogs.’

Meg longed to ask where the Professor lived, but she didn’t. At least she had learned something; that he had a flat in London. She listened carefully to the vet’s instructions, offered him tea, which he refused, and saw him out to his car. By the time she had settled the dog again it was tea time.

A busy day, she reflected, getting ready for bed at the end of the day. It struck her that she earned every penny of the money Mrs Culver paid her, for she had little time to call her own. She set her alarm clock half an hour earlier than usual because she would have to take the dog out and feed him before starting on the morning’s chores, and she found herself wondering what the Professor was doing. Lolling in an easy chair in a comfortable sitting-room, waited on hand and foot, she decided. Despite his kindness over the dog, her opinion of him was low.

He arrived on Sunday, expressed satisfaction at the dog’s appearance, refused refreshment and ushered his mother out to the car. He settled her in the front seat and then turned back to speak to Meg, who was standing sedately by the front door. ‘What will you call him?’ he asked.

‘Well, nothing at the moment. I thought that Mrs Culver or you…’

‘We leave it to you.’ He smiled his charming smile once more. ‘Enjoy your afternoon, Meg.’

Meg, indeed! she thought indignantly, though of course she was employed by his mother and he had every right to address her in such a fashion. Perhaps he thought it might keep her in her place. She went indoors and made up the fire in the sitting-room, gave the dog a meal, took him for a short run in the garden, and went along to the kitchen. She and Betsy had their afternoon planned; lunch on a tray for Meg and a peaceful hour or so for Betsy in her chair by the Aga. They would have an early tea too, and there might even be time to potter in the garden. It was a miserably grey day, but Meg never let the weather bother her.

The afternoon was all that she had hoped for; accompanied by the now devoted animal, she repaired to the potting shed and, tied in her sacking apron, pricked out seedlings and transplanted wallflowers. Then she went to her tea, sitting at the kitchen table with Betsy opposite her and Silky and the dog sitting in a guarded friendship on the rug before the Aga. Betsy had made a cake that morning; the mixture had been too much for the cake tin, she explained guilelessly, so that there was a plate of little cakes as well as hot buttered toast and Meg’s strawberry jam and strong tea in the brown earthenware pot which Betsy favoured.

They cleared away together; Meg fed the animals and then got into her old duffle coat and took the dog for a gentle walk. ‘You’ll have to have a name,’ she told him, suiting her pace to his still painful paws. ‘How about Lucky? Because that’s what you are, you know!’

Then she stopped to rub the rough fur on the top of his head, and he gave her a devoted look. He was beginning to look happy and he had stopped cringing. Back in the house, she settled him in the kitchen with a bone and went to tidy herself. It was time to be the housekeeper again.

The sitting-room looked charming as she went into it; she had made a good fire, there were flowers and pot plants scattered around the tables, and shaded lamps. She began to draw the curtains and saw the lights of the Rolls-Royce sweep up the drive, and she went into the hall and opened the door.

‘Oh, how nice it all looks!’ declared Mrs Culver. ‘Meg, you have no idea how happy I am to be living here—to have found such a delightful home, and you with it, too!’

She slid off her fur coat and Meg took it from her, thinking that she had done just that so many times for her mother when she had been alive and well. She glanced up and found Professor Culver’s dark eyes on her, his thoughtful look disturbing. She turned away and suggested coffee, and, ‘There’s a fire in the sitting-room,’ she pointed out.

‘No coffee, Meg—we’ll have a drink. You’ll stay a few minutes, Ralph?’

He had taken off his car coat and thrown it on to the oak settle against a wall. ‘Yes, of course.’ His eyes were still on Meg. He asked, ‘Have you named the dog?’

‘Yes, I’d like to call him Lucky. It was lucky for him when you met him…’

‘An appropriate name. I’ve never believed in luck, but I think that perhaps I have been mistaken about that. You’ve had a pleasant afternoon?’

She looked surprised. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She sought feverishly for an excuse to get away from his stare. ‘I must take Lucky out… Unless you need me for anything, Mrs Culver?’

‘No, my dear, off you go. Wrap up warmly; it’s a chilly evening.’

Meg nipped off to the kitchen, thinking that sometimes her employer talked to her as though she were her daughter. She put on the duffle coat again and encountered Betsy’s surprised look. ‘You’ve just been out with the beast,’ she pointed out, ‘’ad yer forgotten, Miss Meg?’

Meg opened the kitchen door and started off down the stone passage leading to the garden. Lucky, anxious to please, even if reluctant, trotted beside her.

‘No—it’s all right, Betsy, it’s only until the Professor’s gone.’

The remark puzzled Betsy; it puzzled Meg too. Just because one didn’t like a person it didn’t mean to say that one had to run away from them, and wasn’t she being a bit silly, trudging round the garden on such a beastly evening just because Professor Culver was ill-mannered enough to stare so?

CHAPTER THREE

TWO OR THREE DAYS passed. The weather was what was to be expected for the time of year: rain and a flurry of snow, and then a lovely day with a blue sky and an icy wind; Mrs Culver kept to the house for the first two days and then decided to accept a lunch invitation with friends in Ware. Meg phoned Noakes, the chauffeur, who now lived in the village with his wife, and watched her employer borne away before calling to Lucky and taking him for a brisk walk. It had certainly turned cold; she settled him with Silky before the kitchen fire, had bread and cheese and a great pot of tea with Betsy sitting at the kitchen table, and then went away to make up the fires and get the tea tray ready; Mrs Culver would probably be cold and tired when she got back, and a few scones might be a good idea. She returned to the kitchen and made a batch while Betsy sat by the Aga, having what she called a bit of a shut-eye.

Mrs Culver arrived back rather sooner than Meg had expected, and she didn’t look very well.

‘I’m cold,’ she complained. ‘I mean cold inside; I’d like a cup of tea…’

‘It’s quite ready, Mrs Culver,’ said Meg soothingly, ‘and there’s a lovely fire in the drawing-room. I’ll bring the tray in there.’ She drew a chair to the fire. ‘I made some scones—you’ll enjoy those.’

Only Mrs Culver didn’t; she drank several cups of tea, her nice face becoming more and more flushed, and when Meg suggested that she might like to go to her bed, she agreed without a fuss.

‘Well, you stay there for a few minutes; I’ll see to the electric blanket and warm your nightie. I won’t be long.’

She was barely ten minutes, and when she got back it was to find Mrs Culver shivering and reluctant to leave her chair. It took a good deal of coaxing to get her up the stairs and into her room, and once there Meg helped her undress and tucked her up in bed, and then proceeded to sponge off Mrs Culver’s carefully applied make-up and comb her hair.

‘I feel awful,’ said Mrs Culver.

Meg refrained from telling her that she looked awful and worse every minute. ‘A chill,’ she said bracingly. ‘I’m going to get you a warm drink and phone Doctor Woods. He’ll give you something to make you feel better.’

She had known Doctor Woods all her life, and he had been in and out of the house for weeks before her mother died. She liked his forthright, gruff manner, and he for his part knew that she wasn’t a girl to panic.

By the time he arrived, some twenty minutes later, Mrs Culver was looking decidedly worse.

‘’Flu,’ said Doctor Woods. ‘There’s a lot of it about. Got anyone to fetch a prescription?’

‘No. Willy has gone and there’s only Betsy. I’ll have to phone Noakes; he’s the chauffeur and lives in the village. He’ll have to come here and get the car…’

‘Tell you what, I’ll leave enough of these to last until tomorrow; let the chauffeur get the rest in the morning. I’ll be in again tomorrow some time; you’re sensible enough to let me know if you get worried.’

He closed his bag and started getting into his coat. ‘Any family?’

‘A son—Professor Culver…’

‘You don’t say? Brilliant man in his field. You’d better let him know. No danger as far as I can see, but all the same…’

‘I’ll go and do it right away,’ promised Meg.

‘You look a bit peaked yourself, Meg. Working too hard, are you? You could do with a holiday. Where are those sisters of yours?’

‘Well, Cora has her own home and family, as you know, and Doreen’s at the hospital still.’

He grunted, which could have meant anything, patted her on the shoulder and went out to his car, muttering.

Mrs Culver was dozing; she looked ill, but no worse. Meg went downstairs and went to the study and picked up the telephone. The Professor’s number was written neatly on a card beside it, and she dialled it. A London number—and a rather severe voice told her that it was Professor Culver’s residence. ‘Is the Professor there?’ Meg asked. ‘And if he is, will you tell him it’s his mother’s housekeeper?’

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