“Now, tell me, Katrina…

“You will be at Rose Cottage until you start work again in September?”

“Oh, yes. Do you want to send another patient to stay with me?”

“No. I want you to be there, and free, so that whenever I can manage it, I can come and see you.”

“See me? Why?”

“I’ve fallen in love with you, but you don’t feel the same about me yet.”

When she would have spoken, Simon said, “No, don’t say anything, just bear it in mind.” He spoke in a casual voice, then he added, “You won’t mind if I just turn up from time to time?”

Katrina drew a steadying breath. “No, I shan’t mind.”

About the Author

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.

An Innocent Bride
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE road was narrow, high-hedged and overshadowed by trees, and, like so many English country lanes, it wound its way in a series of haphazard curves through the quiet countryside, free of traffic and pleasantly warm in the sunshine of a spring morning.

The man behind the wheel of the dark grey Bentley drove unhurriedly, enjoying the peace and quiet, reflecting that there were still quiet corners of rural England which one came upon by chance. There had been no village for some miles, and the last of the solitary cottages along the road he had passed a mile back; there had been no cars… As he thought that a motorbike came round the next curve, travelling fast and in the middle of the road, flashing past the Bentley with inches to spare, just missing it.

The driver of the Bentley swore quietly as he took the next bend in the road, to slide to a halt and get out of his car. The contents of a shopping basket were strewn across the road, a bicycle, no longer recognisable as such, was tossed to one side of the verge, and sitting near it was a girl.

She appeared unhurt but in a fine temper.

‘That idiot—did you see him? On the wrong side of the road, driving like a maniac.’

The man, walking towards her, thought what a splendid creature she was: a big girl, with quantities of dark brown hair and a face whose beauty wasn’t easily forgotten.

He reached her side, a giant of a man, no longer young, his pale hair grey at the temples, but handsome, with a high-bridged nose and a thin, mobile mouth.

‘Yes. I saw him. Are you hurt?’

He bent to look at her and saw the blood oozing from a cut on her leg.

‘Stay still for a moment; I’ll fetch my bag.’

When he returned she said, ‘You’re a doctor? A fortunate meeting.’

He was gently cleaning the wound. ‘Indeed, yes, but in hardly fortunate circumstances. This will need your doctor’s attention. Where else are you hurt? You weren’t knocked out?’

‘No. I’m a bit sore here and there.’

‘The best thing is for me to drive you to your home and get your own doctor to see you. You live near here?’

‘About a mile down the road. Rose Cottage—it’s on the left-hand side, and another half-mile or so to the village.’

He had bandaged her leg, cleaned the scratches on her arms and legs and brushed the bits and pieces from her hair. ‘You will have some nasty bruises,’ he told her. He closed his bag, bent and picked her up without apparent effort, and carried her across to his car.

As he settled her in the seat she said worriedly, ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I’m heavy.’

She wasn’t altogether pleased when he said casually, ‘But you’re a big girl, aren’t you?’

He smiled at her. He had a nice smile, kind and at the same time impersonal. And it was quite true; she was a big girl. She sat, on the edge of tears now, watching him gather up the contents of her shopping basket and then pick up the mangled wreck of her bike and put it tidily on the grass verge. The sight of it was too much, and tears were trickling down her dirty cheeks when he got into the car beside her.

He took a quick look, offered a very large, very white handkerchief, and said in a voice as kind and impersonal as his smile, ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had a good cry. There’s nothing like it for relieving the feelings.’

He sat patiently while she sobbed and snuffled, then finally mopped her face, blew her nose and muttered, ‘I’ll wash your hanky and send it to you.’ She looked at him from a blotchy and still beautiful face. ‘My name’s Gibbs—Katrina Gibbs.’

He shook the hand she held out. ‘Simon Glenville. Is there anyone at home to look after you?’

‘Well, no, but there will be soon—around one o’clock.’

He picked up the car phone. ‘I’ll ring the police and your doctor. You shouldn’t be alone until there is someone to keep an eye on you.’

He was already talking into the phone. ‘The police will be along shortly. Now, your doctor’s name—do you know his number?’

‘Yes. He has a morning surgery in the village; he’s there three days a week. He’ll be there today.’

She hardly listened when he phoned again, for she was suddenly tired and sleepy. Shock, she supposed; she would be all right once she was home—a cup of tea and perhaps half an hour’s nap on her bed…

Rose Cottage was no more than a few minutes’ drive. It was small, with red brick walls and a rather shabby thatched roof. It stood sideways on to the road, and a wooden gate opened onto a brick path leading to its front door, solid under the thatch of the porch.

Dr Glenville stopped the car and got out. He said briefly, ‘Stay there—have you a key to the door?’

‘On the left-hand side there’s a narrow ledge above the door…’

The key was large and heavy; Dr Glenville reflected that it was certainly too cumbersome to carry around in a woman’s handbag as he opened the door. It gave directly onto the living room, which was small and rather overcrowded with furniture. A half-open door ahead of him gave him a glimpse of the kitchen beyond. There were two other doors too, so he opened the one nearest to him—another small room, the dining room presumably—and when he lifted the latch of the other door he found a narrow curved stair.

He went back to the car, opened Katrina’s door and lifted her out.

‘I can walk.’

‘Better not until your doctor has had a look at you.’ As he thrust back the stairs door with a foot Katrina said urgently, ‘You can’t carry me up.’

She could have saved her breath. He didn’t reply, and on the tiny landing above, still breathing easily, he asked, ‘Which door?’

‘On the right.’ She added sharply, ‘Do put me down…’ He didn’t reply to that either, but laid her tidily on the narrow bed in the little room, took off her sandals and covered her with the patchwork quilt folded across its foot.

‘Lie still and close your eyes,’ he said, and at the thump on the door knocker he said, ‘That will be the police or your doctor. I’ll be back.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Katrina peevishly, but she closed her eyes and was asleep before he had reached the bottom of the stairs.

It was the police—at least, a constable, who was rather stout, with a cheerful round face, his bike leaning against the hedge by the gate. ‘Had a message,’ he observed, eyeing the doctor. ‘I live in the village. I’m to have a look and see what’s amiss. Miss Katrina’s not hurt?’

The doctor held out a hand. ‘Dr Glenville. I found Miss—er—Katrina in the road. A motorbike knocked her over, smashed her bicycle to bits, I’m afraid. I’ve phoned her doctor—she’s resting on her bed. I expect you need a statement, but could it wait until she’s been examined? She’s rather shocked, and has been bruised and cut.’

‘You saw the accident, sir?’

‘No, but the motorbike missed me by inches coming round the bend, and I found the young lady sitting in the road. A mile back.’

‘I’d best go and take a look. You didn’t get the number, I suppose?’

‘No. He was going at speed. I had to move the bike to the side of the road in case it caused a further accident.’

‘You’ll be here, sir?’

‘Yes, I’ll stay until her doctor gets here. You’ll want a statement from me, won’t you?’

‘I’ll go and take a look right away and send in a report.’

The doctor went to his car, unlocked the boot, took his case into the cottage and went into the kitchen. He supposed that he had better stay until whoever it was who would be back at one o’clock returned. He was in no great hurry to get home, and the girl shouldn’t be left alone.

He prowled around the kitchen, which was almost as large as the living room, with a tiled floor and cheerful wallpaper. There was a door leading to a long garden with a small window beside it. It was open and sitting beside it, composed and dignified, was a small black and white cat.

The doctor tickled it under its chin and, rightly interpreting its fixed stare, he found a saucer, the milk in the slip of a pantry, and offered it.

The cat scoffed it daintily, got down from the window and walked out of the kitchen and through the open door to the stairs, and the doctor, raised by a loving mother and an old-fashioned nanny, put the milk back where he had found it, washed the saucer and folded the teacloth tidily over its rail. Childhood teachings don’t die easily.

Footsteps coming up the garden path sent him to the door. The man about to enter was middle-aged, grey-haired, with a long thin face and a stoop. He said at once, ‘Dr Glenville?’ He held out a hand. ‘Peters—thank heaven you were able to help Katrina. Is she upstairs?’

‘Yes. The village constable came; he’s gone to take a look round. I’ll wait here for a bit, shall I?’

‘I’d be obliged if you could. Did you form any opinion? Nothing serious?’

‘It seems not, but I haven’t examined her—just bandaged a cut on her leg and made sure that she hadn’t been knocked out.’

Dr Peters nodded. ‘I’ll go on up.’

Presently he came downstairs again and joined Dr Glenville sitting on the wooden bench outside the door. ‘I can’t find much wrong—she tells me that she didn’t lose consciousness at all. She’s a healthy young woman; I don’t think there’s much harm done. All the same, I don’t like to leave her on her own. She needs to rest for an hour or so, don’t you agree? Knowing Katrina, she is quite capable, once our backs are turned, of coming downstairs to dig the garden or Hoover the house. She lives with her aunt, Miss Thirza Gibbs, who has gone into Warminster to see her dentist. Won’t be back until the bus gets in round one o’clock.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder if the vicar’s wife would pop over?’

‘If it is of any help, I will stay,’ said Dr Glenville, and wondered as he said it why on earth he had suggested it. ‘I’m on my way back to town, but the rest of the day is my own.’ He added, ‘I have beds at St Aldrick’s, so I have rooms in town, but I live at Wherwell.’

Dr Peters said, ‘St Aldrick’s’s—you’re the chap who wrote that article in the Lancet—the haematologist. I’m delighted to have met you, though I would wish for a more sociable occasion. But can you spare the time?’

‘Certainly I can. Do you wish me to say anything to the young lady’s aunt?’

‘Miss Thirza? Would you? And tell her that I’ll call in later today or tomorrow morning.’ He smiled a little. ‘She is a very forthright person—so, for that matter, is Katrina.’

Left on his own, the doctor trod upstairs, paused at the open door to ask if he might go in and crossed to the bed.

‘Dr Peters has gone, but I’ll stay until your aunt gets back. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Katrina sat up in bed and regretted it; she had the beginnings of a headache. Not surprising, really, with all the fuss… ‘I can’t think why you’re still here,’ she said rudely. ‘There’s no need. I’m not a baby and there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Do please go away. You’ve been most helpful, thank you.’

The doctor studied her face. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked again, in the mildest of voices.

She nodded, her eyes closed. She was behaving badly; she opened her eyes, anxious to apologise, but he had gone.

The doctor pottered round the kitchen looking for things while the kettle boiled. It was a pleasant little room, with cheerful curtains at the window, a small table against one wall and two chairs. The cooking stove was old but immaculate, and the cupboards were models of tidiness. But there wasn’t a great deal in them—the basic necessities, no tins or packets—and no fridge, although there was an old-fashioned pantry with stone shelves, which was very cool.

He made tea, and since the cat was staring at him in an anxious manner he looked around for its food. There were no tins, but there was a covered saucepan on the stove with what looked like some kind of stew in it. He filled a saucer and offered it, found a mug and went back upstairs. A pity that Mrs Peach couldn’t see him now, he reflected—a housekeeper of the old-fashioned school, she considered that no one who employed her should lift a finger while she or Peach, her husband and his house-man, were within reach.

Katrina sat up as he went in. He put the mug down, tucked a cushion behind her and offered the tea. This time he didn’t go away, but sat on the edge of the bed, steadying the mug in her hands, which were shaking.

‘Headache getting better?’ he asked, and when she carefully nodded he added, ‘Is there anything I can do while I’m here? Phone someone?’

She said bleakly, ‘We haven’t got a phone.’ She finished the tea and felt better. ‘I’m sorry to have been so rude and ungrateful.’

‘It’s of no consequence.’

He sounded so casual she wished she hadn’t said anything. I don’t like him, she reflected crossly. He’s being kind and helpful and all that, but that’s because he’s a doctor, and it wouldn’t do if he were to jump into that great car of his and drive off.

The doctor, aware of her edginess towards him, decided that, although she was one of the prettiest girls he had seen for a long time, she had a decidedly sharp tongue and had all the obstinacy of the proverbial mule. Probably had an unhappy love affair, he thought idly, and it’s soured her. A pity.

He went back downstairs and poured himself a mug of tea, and sat drinking it with the little cat curled up on his knee. What might have been the beginnings of a friendly relationship between them had become indifference on both their parts. Now and again, going through life, one met someone with whom one was incompatible, he reflected, allowing his thoughts to wander to the work waiting for him.

Presently he went quietly upstairs again and found her asleep, her hair an untidy cloud all over the pillow, her mouth a little open. There were scratches on her cheek and there was a bruise developing on one arm. She was a big girl, but now she looked like a child. The doctor studied her at some length, wondering why she chose to live so remotely. But that was none of his business.

He went back to the kitchen and later, when he heard the gate being opened, he went to open the front door.

The lady walking briskly up the path was of an indeterminable age, very tall and thin, with a narrow face and a sharp nose, wearing a no-nonsense hat and a dateless beige coat and skirt. When she was within a yard of the doctor she asked briskly, ‘And who are you, young man? I don’t expect to find strangers on my doorstep. You’re surely not a friend of Katrina’s?’

If that was a compliment it was surely a left-handed one, thought the doctor, and he stood aside to allow Miss Thirza Gibbs to enter her home.

‘No, no such thing. Your niece has had a slight accident and I happened to be the person to find her. Nothing alarming…’

‘I am not easily alarmed,’ said Miss Thirza Gibbs tartly. ‘Kindly get to the point. Presumably she is here?’

‘In her bed.’ The doctor had assumed the armour plating of his profession: an impersonal courtesy leavened with a touch of bracing sympathy. ‘Your niece was knocked off her bicycle by a motorcyclist who didn’t stop. She has a cut on her leg, is scratched and bruised and shocked. Dr Peters has been to see her and will call again. She didn’t lose consciousness.’

‘Why are you here, in my house?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Your niece is hardly in a fit condition to be left alone, Miss Gibbs. I trust that she will make a speedy recovery. Good day to you.’

Miss Gibbs went an unbecoming red. ‘I’m sure it was very kind of you,’ she began stiffly.

But she was stopped gently by his ‘Not at all, Miss Gibbs. Please give my best wishes to your niece.’

He got into his car and drove away, and she went into the house and then slowly climbed the stairs.

Katrina was still sound asleep and, despite her scratches and bruises, looked her usual healthy self. Her aunt went down to the kitchen, made herself a sandwich, laid a tray with bowl, plate and spoon, set soup to warm and sat down to wait. She had had a tiring morning, and her meeting with the strange man had upset her; she had always been in the habit of speaking her mind even at the expense of other people’s feelings, but the man had been kind. She dozed off, and when she woke, half an hour later, Katrina was sitting at the table, polishing off the last of the soup.

When her aunt opened her eyes she asked, ‘Has he gone? That man—he brought me home. I didn’t thank him properly. You saw him?’

Miss Gibbs got up and put the kettle on, for she felt the need for a cup of tea. ‘Tell me what happened, and, yes, I saw him, but only for a few minutes.’

‘Well, this motorcyclist was on the wrong side of the road—on that bend by the turnip field, you know?’ Katrina gave a matter-of-fact account of the whole business, because her aunt had no patience with emotional outpourings or embellished facts, and when she had finished she said, ‘It must have been a great nuisance for him.’

‘He is a doctor?’ Miss Thirza Gibbs frowned. ‘I’m afraid that I was a little brisk with him. Perhaps he gave his name to Peters, in which case it would be quite correct for us to write him a letter of thanks for his help.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Katrina. ‘I should think he’s forgotten all about it by now—besides, he didn’t like me.’

‘Did he say so?’

‘No, of course not, Aunt, but he was—’ she paused, seeking the right word ‘—forebearing. As though he was doing his duty and found it all a bit of a bore. I didn’t like him.’

‘In that case,’ said Miss Gibbs, ‘it is fortunate that we are unlikely to see him again.’

Katrina agreed, ignoring a sneaking feeling that even if she didn’t like him it might be nice to know a bit more about him.

But even if she were never to meet him again, at least she was to know more about him, for later that day Dr Peters came. Evening surgery was over, and he was on his way home, but he sat down for ten minutes, drank the tea Katrina offered him, and expressed the view that she was perfectly fit again although she would look a bit unsightly for a few days.

‘This man,’ said Miss Gibbs. ‘Katrina tells me that he is a doctor.’

‘A specialist. He’s a consultant at St Aldrick’s—a haematologist—a well-known one, too. He didn’t tell you? Well, he’s not a man to blow his own trumpet, I should imagine. Stayed for lunch, did he?’

Miss Thirza Gibbs looked awkward. ‘Well, no. We exchanged a few words and he drove away.’

Dr Peters shook his head at her. ‘Thirza, I suspect that you bit the man’s head off. We’re all used to you in the village, but a stranger might be taken aback.’

‘Perhaps I was a bit sharp. But now we know who he is we can write to him and express our gratitude.’ She gave Katrina an enquiring look as she spoke.

Katrina said, with a bit of a snap, ‘Aunt Thirza, we agreed that he would have forgotten us.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Dr Peters, ‘seeing that his whole day was disorganised.’

‘Well, I think we’re making a lot of fuss about nothing. I’ll write a letter if you want me to, Aunt, but I doubt if he’ll read it—he’ll have a secretary to deal with his letters—or his wife,’ she added slowly. He would be married, of course, with two children, a comfortable house in a good area of town and probably a country cottage or a villa on the Algarve. Even if she didn’t like him, that was no reason to grudge him success in life.

Dr Peters said, ‘I think a letter would be civil, don’t you? And by the way, he’s a professor—I looked him up in my medical directory. Simon Glenville—you could send it to the hospital. He’s got consulting rooms but I haven’t the address.’

He went presently, and as he and Miss Gibbs walked to the gate he said, ‘Katrina’s been a bit shaken; make her go gently for a couple of days. It isn’t like her to be snappy.’

Which was true enough, for she was a warm-natured and kind girl, liked by everyone in the village, always ready to give a hand where it was wanted, and, unlike her aunt, prepared to like everyone who crossed her path. All except, for some reason, the man who had come to her aid that morning. But that was no reason to be ungrateful to him. That evening Katrina sat down and composed a polite note to him. It took several attempts to get it right but, pleased with the final result, she posted it the next day and told herself that was the end of the affair.

Of course, she had to make a statement to the police, and then scour Warminster for a second-hand bike; a new one was out of the question and the pity of it was that she hadn’t been insured. But there had to be some means of transport. A bus went into Warminster each day, but bus fares were costly and she had long ago taken over the shopping, loading up once a week and going to the village stores for day-to-day needs. And they weren’t many, for she and her aunt lived frugally, growing vegetables in the garden behind the cottage, getting eggs from Lovegrove’s Farm along the road. It was amazing what a number of meals one could conjure from eggs.

Katrina wondered during the next few days about Professor Glenville; she might not have liked him, but she so seldom left the village that anyone not connected with it was of interest, however slight. But she didn’t speak of him to her aunt, and neither did that lady mention him. Her accident had been a small disruption in their quiet life, and neither she nor her aunt were given to dwelling on any mishap they might encounter.

Katrina made light of her bruises and cuts, did the bulk of the household chores, dug the garden and, once she had her new bike, shopped. The event had caused something of a stir in the village, which was so small and out of the way that anything outside its normal gentle routine was a subject for talk for several days. The people living there liked her and were vaguely sorry for her. It was no life for a pretty girl, living in that poky cottage with an elderly aunt, never meeting any young men. Several of them had hinted as much to her face, but she had fobbed them off, saying that she was very happy and had no wish for the bright lights.

‘But you’d have money to buy lovely clothes, and meet people,’ one well-wisher had reminded her.

‘But there are people here,’ Katrina had pointed out, ‘and when would I wear lovely clothes?’ And she had added in a voice which had effectively closed the conversation, ‘I’m happy here.’

Which wasn’t quite true. She wasn’t unhappy, but she was young and pretty and full of life; pretty clothes, visits to the theatre, dining out, dancing—she wished that she could sample them all, while at the same time knowing that it was most unlikely.

She had lived with Aunt Thirza since her parents had been killed in a plane crash when she was twelve years old. She had no brothers or sisters; there were numerous aunts and uncles and cousins, but Aunt Thirza was the only one of the family who had given her a home. That had been twelve years ago, before she had retired as headmistress of a girls’ school—a privately run establishment where Katrina had been educated. When Aunt Thirza had retired Katrina had been seventeen, and hopeful of going on to university. But it seemed that that wouldn’t be possible. Aunt Thirza had pointed out in her forthright way that she had only her pension, which would not stretch to it.

‘But something may turn up,’ she had said. ‘I suggest that you stay at home with me. You’re still young; a year or two won’t matter at your age. I shall write to your uncles and aunts and enlist their help. After all, they were your father’s brothers and sisters.’

However, offers of help had not been forthcoming. Did Thirza not realise that Katrina’s cousins were a constant drain on parental purses? Had she any idea what it cost to give them a start in life?

Vague offers of help in a year or two had been made, and so she had stifled her disappointment and agreed with her aunt that a year or so living at the cottage would be delightful. She had made a tentative offer to find work of some sort; she had her A levels, and she was quick and intelligent—a job in Warminster, perhaps? In a shop or as a dental assistant…

Aunt Thirza had been disapproving. ‘No niece of mine will waste her talents in a shop,’ she had said vigorously. ‘If your cousins can go to university, then so shall you. It is merely a question of waiting for a year or two.’

But the years had slipped by, and the cousins, no longer at university had still been a constant expense to their parents. The girls became engaged, and expected splendid weddings, the young men naturally needed allowances while they found their feet earning their living in something suitable.

After a few years Aunt Thirza had given up talking about university, and Katrina’s pleas to get a job had also been swept aside. She had plenty to keep her busy. She had taken over most of the household chores now that Aunt Thirza was getting on a bit, and besides, there was the garden, the Youth Club in the village, the church flowers, the various bazaars and fêtes—regular events. And she had friends, as Aunt Thirza had pointed out. Her aunt had ended by asking her if she wasn’t happy, in a voice which shook a little, and Katrina, seeing the unhappiness in the elderly face, had assured her that she was very happy.

And after that she gave up talking about jobs or university; her aunt had given her a home and affection when no one else was willing to do so, and she was deeply grateful for that. Besides, she was fond of the old lady.

Professor Glenville drove himself home, cutting across country along narrow, less used roads to Wherwell, a village tucked away in Hampshire but near enough to the motorway for him to travel to and fro to London each day, where he had consulting rooms as well as beds at St Aldrick’s. His friends and colleagues thought him crazy, living away from London, but he found the early-morning drive to his rooms a pleasant start to his day, even in bad weather, and, however late at night, he made a point of returning to Wherwell; only in an emergency would he spend the night at the small flat above his consulting rooms.

As he drove he decided what he would do with the rest of his day. He had been in Bristol for several days, for he was an examiner for several hospitals, but now he was free until the morning—he could do some writing, catch up on his reading, potter in his garden and take the dogs for a walk, and Mrs Peach, who ran his home with Peach, would give him a splendid tea…

He allowed his thoughts to dwell on Miss Thirza Gibbs and her niece, but only briefly, thinking it a pity, though, that Katrina had been so tart. Even making allowances for shock she need not have been quite so frosty. As for her aunt, he had been in his profession long enough to recognise her type—sharp-tongued, never looking for sympathy, and hiding a soft heart beneath a brisk manner. He decided that he rather liked her.

Wherwell was a delightful village, most of its houses thatched, the country around it peaceful. He drove down its main street and turned into a narrow lane, and then through open gates to his home, which was black and white timber-framed with its thatched roof curling round the upstairs windows. It was a fair size, and the garden around it was sheltered by trees. He drove round the side, parked the car, and went in through the side door, along a flag-stoned passage and into the kitchen. Peach and his wife were there. She sat at the table rolling out pastry, Peach at the other end of the table, cleaning the silver.

Peach got up at once. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said mildly. ‘You’ll be wanting lunch…’

‘No, no, Peach. One of Mrs Peach’s magnificent teas in half an hour would be fine. Everything all right?’

‘Right as rain, sir. Barker and Jones are in the garden. Tea in half an hour, sir.’

The professor picked up his bag and went through a door into the hall, which was long and narrow with a door at each end. He opened his study door, put his bag on the desk and went out of the end door into the garden. Two dogs were waiting for him, uttering pleased barks, running to him as he bent to fondle them: a coal-black Alsatian and a small dog of no known parentage, with a foxy face, heavy whiskers and a feathery tail. The three of them made their way down a path bordered by flowerbeds already full of colour, skirted a large lawn with a small pond at its end and went through a gate into the fields beyond. The dogs raced on ahead now, and the professor sauntered along, his thoughts idle, vaguely irritated that they turned every so often to the events of the other morning.

He went indoors presently, to Mrs Peach’s tea, and then spent an hour or so in his study with his dogs for company. He went back there after his dinner too, making notes for the book he was writing concerning his work. He was a clever man, wrapped up in his profession but by no means a hermit; he had friends, close friends he had known for years, and a host of acquaintances and family scattered throughout the country, but as yet he had found no one whom he wished to make his wife. And that was a pity, Peach had confided to his wife. A good man like the master ought to have been married years ago, with a handful of children. ‘Knocking forty,’ Peach had grumbled. ‘And dear knows he meets enough ladies to pick and choose.’

‘She’ll turn up,’ said Mrs Peach. ‘Just you let Fate take its course.’ Fate must have been listening.

It was a week or so after Katrina’s accident that she noticed that Aunt Thirza didn’t look well. Indeed, now she thought about it, she hadn’t looked well for some weeks. But Aunt Thirza wasn’t a woman to angle for sympathy for herself, and when once or twice Katrina had asked her if she felt all right, she had responded in her usual blunt manner. All the same, there was no denying that she was paler than usual, and lacked energy. And when one morning Katrina found her sitting in the living room with her eyes shut, instead of turning out the sideboard drawers which she had intended to do, Katrina took matters into her own hands.

Despite her aunt’s protests, she got on her bike and went to Dr Peters’ surgery and left a message with his receptionist. It wasn’t a day on which the surgery was open, but she knew that he would come and see her aunt as soon as he could; they had been friends for years and, however brusque Aunt Thirza was feeling, she would listen to his advice.

He came that evening, examined his old friend, taking no notice of her waspish replies to his questions and, despite her protests, taking a sample of her blood.

‘Well, what’s wrong with me?’ demanded Aunt Thirza.

‘You’ve been doing too much,’ he told her, and Katrina thought that she detected the impersonal cheerfulness with which the medical profession conceal their true opinion. ‘I’ll get this blood tested—it will take a day or two. I’ll let you know when I’ve the result and give you something to put you back on your feet. In the meantime, just take things easily. You won’t, of course!’

Three days later he called again. ‘Anaemia,’ he told her. ‘Nothing which can’t be put right with treatment. But I want you to see a specialist, just to endorse my opinion.’ And when Miss Gibbs began an indignant refusal, he said, ‘No, Thirza, my dear. We want the quickest solution, don’t we? So we’ll get expert advice.’

Katrina, walking with him to the gate, said, ‘Is it serious, Dr Peters?’

‘Perhaps, my dear. We must see what the specialist says. I’ll get an appointment for your aunt. You’ll go with her, of course.’

When he got back to his surgery he lifted the phone and asked to speak to Professor Glenville.

CHAPTER TWO

AUNT THIRZA was surprised to receive a letter within the next few days, bidding her to attend a clinic at St Aldrick’s on the following Monday. She was inclined to grumble about this—such short notice and the awkward journey to the hospital. ‘A waste of time,’ she declared. ‘I think I shall not go.’

Katrina waited for her first annoyance to subside before saying mildly, ‘Well, since Dr Peters had taken the trouble to arrange for someone to see you it would be rather unkind to refuse to go. The appointment’s for eleven o’clock—we can catch an early train from Warminster and probably be home again by teatime.’

Bob from the garage drove them to the station—an unavoidable extravagance which for once Miss Gibbs ignored. It was a lovely morning, warm for the time of year, so that Katrina was able to wear the jersey dress and matching jacket which she kept for special occasions. And this was a special occasion—a day out in London, even if most of it would be spent on a bench in the hospital waiting room. The unbidden thought that she might see Professor Glenville again she squashed instantly; he would have for gotten about her, and even if he hadn’t he would hardly wish to renew their acquaintance…

The waiting room was large and crowded, and although they were in good time a nurse told them that they would probably have to wait for half an hour or so.

Aunt Thirza was tired, and had no objection to sitting quietly, and Katrina found plenty to interest her. Moreover, there was always the chance that Professor Glenville might appear. Unlikely, she thought. She didn’t know much about hospitals, but she thought that a well-known man such as Dr Peters had described would have consulting rooms, and only go to the hospital for some emergency or consultation.

It was almost noon by the time Miss Gibbs’ name was called.

‘I prefer to go by myself, Katrina,’ she said firmly. ‘No doubt if you are needed someone will come and tell you.’

She went off with a nurse, her back as stiff as a poker, and was ushered into one of the consulting rooms where she was asked to sit down while a sister took her blood pressure, her temperature, and asked her if she took medicine of any sort, and, if so, what?

‘I do not believe in pills and potions,’ said Aunt Thirza severely. ‘I am a healthy woman and do not need such things.’

Sister murmured in a non-committal manner and ushered her into the inner room, going to stand by the desk facing the door. Miss Gibbs fetched up by it. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she declared sharply. ‘I do hope you understand that I have only agreed to come because Dr Peters and I are old friends and I wished to oblige him.’

The professor stood up and offered a hand. ‘Miss Gibbs. This is tiresome for you, I feel sure. Please sit down and tell me how I can help you.’

Miss Gibbs sat, still very erect. ‘I owe you an apology, Professor. I was much at fault not to express my gratitude for your help.’

‘Most understandable in the circumstances, Miss Gibbs.’ He had become politely remote. ‘And now, if you would answer a few questions? This shouldn’t take long.’

Aunt Thirza gave succinct replies to his quiet questions, watching him write them down. He looked very reassuring sitting there, and very handsome, too, and his manner was calming, although she told herself that she had no reason to be alarmed. He looked up presently.

‘If you would go with Sister, she will help you to undress. I shall need to examine you.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Yes, Miss Gibbs.’ He glanced at Sister, who whisked Aunt Thirza into another small room, peeled her clothes off her with a practised hand, wrapped her in a shapeless white garment and helped her onto the couch. And when the professor came she took possession of an elderly hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze so that Aunt Thirza, with nothing more than an annoyed snort, relaxed under his gentle hands.

Presently, once more dressed, her sensible hat firmly on her head again, she sat facing him at his desk. ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘are you going to tell me what is wrong? If there is anything wrong…’

‘You have anaemia, Miss Gibbs, something which we can deal with. I shall write to Dr Peters with my suggestions for your treatment and I should like to see you again. Shall we say in two weeks’ time?’

‘If you think it is necessary,’ Aunt Thirza said grumpily. ‘It is quite a long journey.’

He said smoothly, ‘You have someone with you today? Your niece?’

‘Katrina, yes.’ She gave him a sharp look, but he only smiled blandly.

‘I’m sorry I have no time in which to meet her again. Please thank her for her letter.’

The letter, so stiff and written with obvious reluctance, had made him smile.

He stood up and shook hands, and when Sister came back from ushering Aunt Thirza out, he said, ‘A pity. It’s lymphatic leukaemia, and I suspect she has had it for some time. We’ll treat it, of course. There is always a chance that she will live for a number of years. Luckily it isn’t rapid. But it is fatal…’

‘A nice old thing, too,’ said Sister. ‘There’s a very pretty girl with her.’

‘That will be her niece.’ He made a mental note to talk to Katrina and explain about her aunt. Miss Gibbs was a strong-minded old lady, but he had no intention of telling her the truth until necessary.

He sat writing at his desk and found himself wondering what would happen to Katrina if Miss Gibbs were to die. He wished he had seen her again. The temptation had been great to send a nurse with a message asking her to see him, but then Aunt Thirza would have smelled a rat. He must arrange to go to Dr Peters’ surgery so that he could explain about her aunt’s illness.

He asked for his next patient and forgot Katrina.

But he remembered again as he drove himself home that evening. Katrina would have to be told the true state of affairs—something which Dr Peters was quite able to do, but which for some reason he felt obliged to do himself.

Life, for the next few days, returned to normal for Aunt Thirza and Katrina. Dr Peters came, prescribed pills, advised rest, no excitement and a suitable diet, offered reassurance and went away again, with the suggestion that Katrina should collect the pills the next morning at the surgery.

‘Such a fuss,’ said Aunt Thirza, but for once did what she had been told to do, sitting down with her knitting and allowing Katrina to get on with the household chores.

While she hung out the washing and pulled radishes and lettuce for their lunch Katrina allowed her faint suspicions to surface. Dr Peters had been almost too reassuring. She would ask him to tell her exactly what was wrong in the morning…

There was no need, for when she went into the surgery he told her. ‘We do not need to give up hope,’ he said. ‘Your aunt’s illness is almost always slow in its progress, and she is elderly.’ He glanced at her to see if she had understood and she nodded. ‘There is no reason to tell her at the moment, but if at any time she should ask then Professor Glenville will explain it to her. By the way, he is coming here on Sunday; he thinks it advisable that he should talk to you so that you understand fully and know what to expect.’

She said rather tartly, ‘Is there any need for that? Surely you can tell me anything I need to know.’

Dr Peters said mildly, ‘My dear, Professor Glenville is at the very top of his profession. If there is a way by which your aunt can be helped he will do that, but he would need co-operation, and you are the one to give that. He suggests that I invite your aunt to spend Sunday with us. She and Mary are old friends; there is plenty for them to gossip about. And when she is safely out of the house the professor will call on you.’

‘He won’t expect lunch?’

Dr Peters hid a smile. ‘Most unlikely! A cup of coffee should suffice. You don’t like him, Katrina?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘But you trust him?’

‘Yes, and I’ll do anything to help Aunt Thirza.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose you don’t know how long?’

‘No, my dear, I don’t. That is a question for Professor Glenville; he will be better able to answer than I.’

So Katrina went back home with a note from Mrs Peters, and Aunt Thirza agreed with pleasure to spend the day with her friends. ‘You won’t be lonely, Katrina? I know it wouldn’t be very interesting for you to accompany me, but it might be preferable to sitting here on your own.’

‘I shan’t sit,’ said Katrina promptly. ‘There’s heaps of work in the garden, and I can get on with it without being interrupted. I’ve all those lettuces to transplant, and the rhubarb to pull, and I want to dig that empty patch at the bottom of the garden. Remember those seedlings I got from the farm? If I don’t get them in there won’t be any peas later on.’

Dr Peters was coming for her aunt soon after ten o’clock on Sunday, so Katrina was up early, tidying the little house, getting breakfast, and making sure that her aunt had all she needed for her day out. As she herself was going to work in the garden she had got into an elderly cotton jersey dress, faded to a gentle blue and, had she but known it, very flattering to her shapely curves. She had no intention of dressing up just because Professor Glenville chose to call. She tied her hair back with a ribbon and dug her feet into sandals. Digging was hot work, and now that it was May the days were warmer.

Her aunt safely away, Katrina put the coffee pot on the stove, cups and saucers on a tray with a tin of biscuits, and went down the garden to the shed at the bottom. She found her fork and spade, a trug for the rhubarb, and set to work. First the rhubarb…

She had the trug half full when the professor drew up silently, opened the gate, mindful of its creaking, and trod up the path to the open door of the house. There was no answer to his knock, naturally enough, and after a few moments he wandered down the garden to be rewarded by the sight of Katrina, bent double over the rhubarb.

His quiet, ‘Good morning, Katrina,’ brought her upright, clutching an armful of pink stalks.

‘Oh, Lord…I didn’t expect you so soon.’

He kept a straight face. ‘Shall I go for a drive around while you finish your gardening?’

‘I’m not gardening, only pulling rhubarb. I was going to dig that patch over there.’ She pointed with a stick of the fruit. ‘I told Aunt Thirza I would and she’ll wonder why if it isn’t done.’

‘The pair of us should be able to get that done later on…’ At her look of surprise, he added, ‘I like gardening.’ ‘You do? All right. I don’t suppose it will take long, whatever it is that you have to tell me.’ She dusted off her grubby hands. ‘Come and have a cup of coffee first.’ She added belatedly, ‘This must be spoiling your Sunday?’

The professor, beginning to enjoy himself, assured her that it was still early and he had the whole day before him.

‘I expect you are glad to be out of London for the day,’ said Katrina, leading the way into the house.

They had their coffee in the little living room, with the sun shining in on the rather shabby chairs and the polished sofa table and old-fashioned chiffonnier, both old and valuable. It shone on Katrina’s wealth of hair, too, and the professor admired it silently. A strikingly lovely girl, he had to admit, who made no effort to engage his attention.

When she had refilled their cups, Katrina said, ‘What was it you wanted to tell me? It’s about Aunt Thirza, of course. Dr Peters said he would prefer you to explain in more detail.’ For a moment she faltered.

‘Your aunt has lymphatic leukaemia, which is incurable, although there is a great deal to be done which can prolong her life. But one must consider the fact that she is no longer young. It is a slow-moving illness. Indeed it can be compatible with a normal lifespan.’

Katrina didn’t look at him; she was staring out of the window. ‘You mean that Aunt Thirza might—might live until her death without knowing?’

‘Yes, that is exactly what I do mean. Unless she asks me to tell her chapter and verse, in which case I should do so. I hope that will not happen, and I suggest that she is allowed to believe that she has a simple anaemia which we shall treat in the prescribed way. She is a sensible lady, is she not? And she will go along with any treatment we suggest—pills, of course, diet, rest.’ He added abruptly, ‘You can cope with that?’

‘Yes, of course I can.’ She looked at him then, and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I owe everything to Aunt Thirza. She gave me a home when no one else wanted me.’

A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek, and for a moment he had a vision of a small sad girl whom no one had wanted. He offered a beautifully laundered handkerchief and said nothing; he sensed that if he did speak she would dislike him even more. He had been the bearer of bad news, and now he had seen her in tears. He sat quietly until she had mopped her face and mumbled that she would launder his handkerchief and send it to him.

‘I never cry,’ she told him fiercely.

‘How old were you when you came to live here?’ He sounded friendly, and she responded to the sound of his quiet voice.

‘Twelve. Mother and Father died in an air crash on their way back from the Middle East. Father built bridges and sometimes Mother went with him.’

‘No brothers or sisters? No family other than your aunt?’

‘No, but several other aunts and uncles, and cousins…’ She broke off. ‘This is boring for you. Will you tell me what you intend to do for Aunt Thirza and advise me as to the best way to look after her?’

‘Certainly I will.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘It’s a lovely morning. Would you come back with me to my home and have lunch? We can discuss every small detail at our leisure.’

‘Lunch?’ said Katrina. ‘Lunch with you?’ Her unflatter ing surprise caused his thin mouth to twitch with sudden amusement. ‘But I can’t; I’ve got that digging to do.’ She added belatedly, ‘Thank you.’

Over the years the professor had cultivated a bedside manner second to none: courteous and matter-of-fact, nicely laced with sympathy.

‘How would it be if I do the digging while you do whatever you need to do? Don’t dress up; it will only be the two of us.’

Just as though he couldn’t care less what I look like, thought Katrina peevishly. She said loudly, ‘You can’t dig in those clothes…’

He wore beautifully cut trousers, an open-necked shirt and a cashmere sweater, not to mention the shoes on his large feet.

He didn’t answer her but got to his feet. ‘Fifteen minutes be long enough?’ he wanted to know, and went unhurriedly into the garden.

‘The nerve of him,’ said Katrina to herself, clashing cups and saucers together, and then spun round.

‘Nerve is something which the medical profession have to employ from time to time, Katrina. You don’t mind if I call you Katrina?’ he said mildly. ‘You don’t look like a Miss Gibbs. I came back to ask if there is a bigger spade?’

‘In the shed.’

He went away again, and she put everything in the sink and went up to her room. She wasn’t going to change her dress, for it was apparent to her that he couldn’t care less what she wore, but she changed her old sandals for a better pair and attacked her mane of hair, subduing it to tidiness and a neat coil in the nape of her neck. She powdered her face too, and used lipstick, took a quick look at herself in the little mirror on the dressing table and went downstairs.

She was spooning cat food into a bowl for the little cat when the professor joined her. He noted the lipstick, and the tidy head of hair, but all he said was, ‘What is your cat’s name?’

‘Betsy.’

She put the saucer on the floor for the small creature and said, ‘Had I better come and look?’

He had made a very good job of it. Moreover he had managed to remain as elegant as he had been when he arrived. She thanked him warmly, forgetting how much he vexed her for the moment, and when he asked her if she was ready to leave said that she was, quite meekly. ‘Only I must just open the window in the kitchen so that Betsy can get in and out.’

They went out together, and he locked the door and put the key above it out of sight. ‘At what time shall your aunt return?’

‘She is to spend the day with the Peterses, so soon after tea, I suppose. Supposing she comes back earlier and I am not here?’

‘We will worry about that when it happens.’

Getting into the car, she asked, ‘Where do you live? In London? We’ll never get there and back…’

‘I live in Wherwell—a village south of Andover. I go to and fro to town; it’s an easy drive.’

It was a matter of thirty-five miles or so, and the big car swallowed them effortlessly. Beyond a casual remark from time to time the professor didn’t speak, and Katrina was glad of that as she tried to look into the future.

Of course she had always known that Aunt Thirza wouldn’t live for ever, but she had dismissed such thoughts from her mind as morbid. Her aunt had always seemed the same to her: brisk and matter-of-fact, full of energy, with a finger in every village pie. And as to her own future she had taught herself not to dwell too much on that. She was twenty-four, and the years she might have spent at university and later in some worthwhile job had slipped away, just as her chances of meeting a man who would want to marry her were slipping away.

Indeed, she knew very few young men, and they were either on the verge of marriage or already married. There had been men who had shown an interest in her, of course, but Aunt Thirza had frightened them off, though not intentionally.

She was roused from her thoughts by the professor observing that Wherwell was round the next bend in the country road, and she looked around her.

She fell in love with it immediately. There was no one around and the place drowsed in Sunday calm, the charming houses lining the street grouped round the church like a chocolate box picture.

When he stopped outside his own front door she got out slowly and stood looking around her.

‘You live here?’ she asked, and blushed because it was such a silly question. ‘Such a beautiful house. You’re married, of course, and have children?’

He didn’t speak for a moment, looking down his splendid nose at her, and the blush, which had been fading, returned with a vengeance.

‘I am not married, nor do I have children. There is, of course, always that possibility in the future.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. It’s none of my business.’

‘No. It isn’t. You feel that the house is wasted on me?’

‘No, no. It’s so beautiful—and the garden…’

‘Yes. I enjoy the garden; the house has been in the family for a long time.’

Peach had opened the door, gravely welcoming his master and then, when he was introduced to Katrina, shaking the hand she offered. A nice young lady, he thought, a sight nicer than that Mrs Carew. Widow she might be, and handsome enough, but never so much as wished him good day. If ever she managed to marry the professor Peach felt in his bones that he and Mrs Peach would be in for a rough time.

He said now, ‘The dogs are in the garden, sir.’ And indeed their barks made that evident enough. ‘Would you and Miss Gibbs like coffee?’

‘No, thanks, Peach, we’ve had it. May we have lunch in half an hour or so?We have to go back in a couple of hours.’

‘I’ll tell Mrs Peach. Would the young lady like to refresh herself?’

The professor eyed Katrina. ‘She looks all right to me.’

He lifted eyebrows at Katrina, who said coldly, ‘Thank you, not at the moment.’

‘Good. We’ll be in the garden, Peach.’

He walked her down the hall and out of the door at its end, to be met by Barker and Jones. Katrina offered a fist to Barker. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said, and scratched the top of his sleek head, and then bent down to do the same for Jones.

‘Why Jones?’ she asked.

‘We are not quite sure, but we suspect that there may be Welsh blood in him. A trace of Corgi.’

‘They’re friends?’

‘Oh, yes. Jones is Barker’s faithful follower!’

He led the way along a garden path to a gazebo over looking a pool fed by a small rivulet emerging from a clump of trees at the end of the garden. Katrina sat down and looked about her. The garden wasn’t formal; it was like a large cottage garden. In full summer, she supposed, it would be full of old-fashioned flowers. One side sloped downhill to the kitchen garden, with high walls, thatched like the house, and on the other side there was a wide green path bordered by flowerbeds. She gave a sigh of content.

‘Will you tell me what I must do to help Aunt Thirza? And what sort of treatment she is to have.’

‘That is my intention. Bad news is never as bad if it is given in the right surroundings, is it? Now sit still and don’t interrupt…’

He didn’t try to make light of the matter, but neither was he full of gloomy forebodings. ‘We must take each day as it comes. Your aunt may fail so slowly that it is barely noticeable; on the other hand she may die without any warning. If you can accept that, it will help you. Don’t stop her from doing what she wishes to do. I think that she is someone who would dislike being an invalid, but try and discreetly curb her activities as much as possible. Dr Peters will be keeping an eye on her and will keep you up to date. Now, as to diet…’

Katrina listened carefully, and the thought crossed her mind that perhaps she didn’t dislike him after all. She didn’t like him, but only because she knew nothing about him, and she was grateful to him…

The professor glanced at his watch, whistled the dogs, and they went back to the house to have lunch. Aunt Thirza wasn’t mentioned again. Instead he led the talk to Katrina’s own interests, slipping in questions about her life so that by the time they left the table he had a very good idea of it. And pretty dull too, he reflected, watching her pour coffee into the delicate porcelain coffee cups. She might be buried alive in the country, but she had the potential for a career of some sort. He asked abruptly, ‘How old are you, Katrina?’

‘Twenty-four. Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a girl how old she is?’

‘I stand corrected. Unfortunately it is a question I have to ask all my patients—it has become a bad habit.’

‘Oh, well, I don’t mind. How old are you, Professor?’

He laughed, and she thought that he looked ten years younger. ‘Thirty-nine. Middle-aged.’

‘Rubbish, no one is middle-aged these days. You were fifteen when I was born…’

‘You had a happy childhood, Katrina, for those first twelve years?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’She wanted to ask him if he had been happy as a boy, but she didn’t dare. She mustn’t allow herself to get too friendly with him, although she didn’t think that there was much fear of that. He would never allow it.

Presently he said, ‘We should be going,’ and she got to her feet at once, anxious not to outstay her welcome.

‘It was kind of you to ask me to come here,’ she told him. ‘I hope I haven’t spoilt your day.’ And, when Peach came into the hall, she said, ‘Will you tell Mrs Peach that lunch was lovely? I wish I could cook like that.’

Indeed it had been lovely. Potted shrimps and brown bread and butter, cut wafer-thin, rack of lamb with tiny new potatoes, and rhubarb fool to follow with clotted cream. The professor certainly lived well. Sitting beside him in the car, she wondered if he earned a great deal of money, and thought he probably did. Dr Peters had said that he was highly regarded, and of course it must cost a great deal to train as a doctor. She voiced her thoughts out loud.

‘Does it cost a lot of money to train as a doctor?’

If he was surprised by her question he didn’t show it.

‘Yes, but it isn’t only the money; it’s the years of hard work.’

‘Have you been a doctor for a long time?’

‘I qualified when I was twenty-three…’

‘But you took more exams, I expect?’

‘Any number.’

‘But you’ve got there, haven’t you? I mean, to the top of your particular tree?’

‘Perhaps, but there is always something more to learn.’ He glanced at her. ‘Have you ever wished to train for a profession, Katrina?’

‘Oh, yes. You know how it is when you leave school; you’re full of ideas. But I’m happy with Aunt Thirza, and I’d hate to live in a town—a big town.’

He drew up outside the cottage, got out and opened her door. The little house looked charming in the afternoon sun, and Betsy was sitting by the door, waiting for them. He took the key from its hiding place, unlocked the door and they all went in.

Katrina let out a breath. ‘How awful if Aunt Thirza had been here. Whatever would I have told her?’

‘Oh, I would have thought of something feasible before you had a chance to blurt out the truth. Shall we have tea?’

‘Is there time?’She was putting the kettle on the gas ring as she spoke. She suddenly didn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts.

They drank their tea presently, not saying much and not mentioning Aunt Thirza either, and soon the professor got into his car and drove away. Katrina had thanked him for her lunch, for digging the garden, for his advice, and he had put up a large hand and begged her to say no more, so that she had the lowering feeling that she had been too effusive.

But she had other things to think about. While she got the supper ready she went over everything that the professor had told her; she mustn’t forget a word of it…

Aunt Thirza returned, full of good spirits, and Dr Peters stayed for a while, chatting about their day. ‘We must do it more often,’ he observed. ‘You and Mary have much in common, and she’s absolutely delighted that you’ve agreed to help with the church bazaar.’ He glanced at Katrina. ‘I suppose you’ll be expected to give a hand, Katrina?’

‘I’m behind the scenes this year, cutting sandwiches and serving teas.’

Over supper Aunt Thirza was full of plans. ‘I do so enjoy the summer months,’she explained. ‘Such a lot going on—fêtes and bazaars and tennis tournaments, and I hear that the church school is putting on a play at the end of term. More than enough to keep us busy.’

She put down her knife and fork. ‘I had such a splendid lunch I’m really not hungry. Did you get the digging done?’

Katrina said that yes, she had. Well, it wasn’t quite a fib put that way. ‘There’s still a lot to do. Everything’s growing nicely, though. We need some rain.’

It was surprising how difficult it was to talk about mundane things when what she really wanted to do was to fling her arms round her aunt and have a good howl.

The days slipped away in the orderly routine which Aunt Thirza had established when she retired and had no intention of altering. Katrina did her best to check the old lady’s more active interests, but it wasn’t easy. Indeed, Aunt Thirza had remarked once or twice that anyone would think that she was ill.

‘Those pills I take will soon put me back on my feet,’ she observed. ‘There are any number of things which I wish to do this summer.’

Since there was no gainsaying her, Katrina gave up urging her to eat the tasty meals she cooked, and drink the milk Dr Peters had told her would improve her condition, although she managed in a dozen ways to take over more of the household chores, pointing out that her aunt was busy enough with the various functions being organised.

But Aunt Thirza wasn’t getting better. Katrina could see that she was paler and easily tired, although she would never admit it, and Dr Peters had told her that her latest blood test showed no improvement.

‘But it’s not worse?’

He said cautiously, ‘Let us say that it is no better.’Which to Katrina’s ears didn’t sound like an answer at all.

They were to go to St Aldrick’s very shortly. Aunt Thirza had had a letter from the professor’s secretary, asking her to attend his clinic.

‘You’ll come with me,’ said Aunt Thirza, ‘and if he doesn’t keep me hanging around for too long we will have a look at the shops. I need some new teatowels—John Lewis will do nicely.’

It was already warm by the time they set out, and when they reached the hospital Aunt Thirza was tired and ill tempered.

‘This is nonsense,’ she told Katrina. ‘I’m sure there is no need for Professor Glenville to see me again. I feel perfectly well except for this tiredness, and that’s to be expected when you are as old as I am.’

‘You’re only seventy-something,’Katrina reminded her. ‘I dare say this will be the last time, just to check that everything is going according to plan.’

She sat quietly and wondered if she would see the professor. It seemed unlikely, for it wasn’t a social call and there were rows of patients for him to see. Her aunt was one of many, and she wondered again just how eminent he was. What did he do in his free time? He had hinted that he might marry, so he would spend his evenings with whoever it was he intended to marry. Did they go dancing, she wondered, or dine at some marvellous restaurant? Or did she go home with him and spend the evening eating Mrs Peach’s delicious dinners?

A nurse called her aunt’s name and Katrina watched her disappear down the short corridor lined with doors. The professor’s room was the nearest. She glanced at her watch. They had been waiting for more than half an hour and her aunt would be fifteen minutes or so. If they were to go to the shops they would have to catch a later train.

Aunt Thirza came back, some twenty minutes later, her back poker-straight, looking annoyed. She marched out with Katrina hurrying to keep up with her.

Outside, on the pavement of the busy street, Katrina said, ‘What has he told you,Aunt, something to upset you?’

Her heart gave a sickening thump. Surely her aunt hadn’t asked an outright question, demanded the truth?

‘He says I must come here again in three weeks’time. It seems the anaemia isn’t responding to treatment. It sometimes happens, he told me, and I must have patience. It may take a little longer than he had hoped. I have to get more pills from Dr Peters.’She smiled suddenly. ‘Last time I was here we mentioned the garden, and he said he had noticed that there was a small moss rose under the window, not doing too well. He has to come our way on Sunday and he asked if I would accept a rose bush—he has several in his garden and will need to discard a few. He’ll come for coffee.’

‘How kind,’ said Katrina, wondering just why he was doing that, and planning to bake a batch of her almond biscuits which sold so well at village functions. The news wasn’t good, but hopefully she would get the chance to ask him what exactly was happening. Surely there was something, some treatment—a blood transfusion—to halt her aunt’s illness.

‘Well, don’t look so glum,’said Aunt Thirza, once more her brisk self. ‘He’s rather nice. Now, let’s get a bus to Oxford Street.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE teatowels were bought, and furnished a splendid excuse to roam around John Lewis, looking at the latest goods on show.

‘What a good thing that we live in the country and don’t need to dress up,’ said Aunt Thirza, leading the way to the restaurant. And Katrina, with a last lingering look at the pretty clothes she was never likely to possess, followed her. They didn’t mention the professor over their sandwiches and coffee, and Katrina, seeing her aunt’s tired face, declared that she had a splitting headache and would Aunt Thirza mind awfully if they caught the earlier train home?

On Sunday morning Katrina got up early to make the almond biscuits, set a tray with the best china and the silver spoons, fed Betsy, and then took a cup of tea to her aunt. Her suggestion that her aunt might like her breakfast in bed called forth a snappy response. Breakfast in bed was only for those too lazy to get up, who should be ashamed of themselves, or in case of necessity—illness, or a broken leg or something similar. ‘And I’m not hungry—just tea and toast. I’ll be down in half an hour.’

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