“You are at perfect liberty to go on disliking me if you wish, and you may disagree with me as much as you like.”

“I’ve never said…” began Cressida. “Er—no, not in so many words, but I am a lazy, thoughtless man who has to be reminded of his duty to his partners and has far too easy a life….”

“I never…” started Cressida once more, bristling with indignation even while she had to admit that was exactly what she had thought of him—but not anymore. She looked him in the eye and said soberly, “You’re quite right, I did think something like that, but I don’t now. You’ve been super, working around the clock and never complaining. I daresay you only needed someone to remind you….”

He let out a tired roar of laughter and she asked snappily, “Now what have I said?”

“Oh, my dear girl, you’re a dozen women rolled into one! Go to bed before I say something I shouldn’t.”

She had got to her feet, but now she paused. “What?”

“Never mind what—disregard anything I’ve said. I’m tired. Disregard this, too.” He had come around the table and caught her close. Even with a bristly chin his kiss was something to remember.

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.

A Matter of Chance
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

CRESSIDA BINGLEY stood at the corner of narrow, dingy street in the heart of Amsterdam and knew that she was lost—temporarily at least. She peered at the map she was holding without much success; the October afternoon was darkening, so that to study it was fruitless. She tried to remember in which direction she had walked from the Dam Square, but the city was built like a spider’s web with canals for its threads, and she had wandered aimlessly, looking around her without noting her whereabouts. She bent her head and peered down once more, but the long, foreign names, only half seen in the gathering dusk, eluded her; she was frowning over them when someone spoke behind her and she almost dropped the map. Presumably she had been addressed in Dutch, for she hadn’t understood a word. She sighed, for this was the third time that afternoon that a man had stopped and spoken to her; she had been polite with the first one, a little impatient with the second, but now she was vexed. She turned sharply and said in a cold voice, ‘I can’t understand you, so do go way!’

Her voice died as she saw him; he towered over her own five feet eight inches by at least another eight inches. But it wasn’t only his height, he was large, too, blocking her way, and even in the poor light she could see that he was handsome, with a nose which dominated his face, its flared nostrils giving it an air of arrogance. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but the brows above them were winged and as pale as his hair. He wasn’t quite smiling, his mouth had a mocking quirk, that was all.

‘English,’ he observed, ‘and telling me to go away when you’re lost.’ His deep voice mocked her, just as his smile did, and it annoyed her.

‘I am not lost,’ she protested untruthfully. ‘I stopped to look at the map…there is no need for you…’

A large, gloved hand took the map from her grasp and turned it right side up. ‘Try it that way,’ he suggested, ‘and unless you are quite sure where you are, even in the dark, I suggest you put your pride in your pocket and let me show you the way—it will be night in another ten minutes, and,’ he added blandly, ‘this isn’t a part of Amsterdam which tourists frequent—certainly not young women such as yourself, at any rate.’

She could hear the amusement behind the blandness and her annoyance sharpened even while she had to admit that she was lost. The street was empty too, and even if someone came along they might not understand her; she would be at a disadvantage. She said stiffly: ‘If you would direct me to the Rembrandt Plein—I can find my way from there.’

He looked down at her, smiling quite openly now. ‘Very well. Go to the end of this street on your left, turn right and take the second turning on the right—there’s a narrow lane half way down which will bring you out into a small square which has five streets leading from it—take the one with the tobacconist’s shop on the corner; you’ll find the Rembrandt Plein at the end of it.’

Cressida shot him a cold look. ‘I think I’ll do better if I find my own way, thank you, though I’m sure you mean to be kind…’

He shook his head. ‘I’m seldom that,’ he assured her placidly, ‘but I intend to take you as far as the Rembrandt Plein—it isn’t far and I know all the short cuts.’ He added silkily: ‘You can always scream.’

The thought had crossed her mind too, so that she said very emphatically: ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing; I’m very well able to look after myself.’

He smiled again and began to walk briskly down the street he had pointed out to her, and after a moment or so, made a few desultory remarks about Amsterdam and the weather, adding the kind of questions usually asked of tourists: had she seen the Dam Palace, Rembrandt’s House, the Rijksmuseum… She answered briefly, intent on keeping pace with his long stride, managing to steal a glance or two at him as they went. He was older than she had first supposed, well into his thirties, she would imagine, and dressed with a quiet elegance which, for some reason, reassured her. If they hadn’t started off on the wrong foot, she thought belatedly, she could have asked him where he lived—what he did…’ Am I taking you out of your way?’ she asked suddenly.

She got an uncompromising ‘Yes,’ and he added, ‘but it’s of no importance,’ and at that moment they turned a corner and she saw the Rembrandt Plein not many yards away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I must have taken up your time—I know where I am now.’ She came to a halt. ‘Good night, and thank you.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he spoke with amused impatience. ‘Where is your hotel?’

Rather to her own surprise, she told him quite meekly, and fell into step beside him again while he crossed the square, its cafés and clubs still half empty before the evening crowds arrived, and took another narrow street on its opposite side.

‘This isn’t the way,’ said Cressida, and stopped again.

‘A short cut. My dear good girl, when will you realise that I am merely seeing you to your hotel as quickly as possible, and am not bent on getting to know you—picking you up is the expression, I believe.’

If she had known where to go, she would have left him then and there, but she didn’t. She walked beside him, too furious to speak, until the street turned at right angles and opened into the broad street running beside a canal where her hotel was. At its door she wished him a chilly good night, offered even chillier thanks, and whisked herself in through its narrow door. The chilliness was wasted on him, though, for he laughed softly and didn’t say a word. He was detestable, she told herself, as she ran up the precipitous stairs to the top floor.

The hotel was small and narrow, supported on either side by equally small and narrow houses—hotels too—a dozen of them in a neat row, with immaculate curtains at their shining windows and semi-basement dining rooms where their guests breakfasted, and where they could, if they wished, have a snack in the evening. Cressida reached the top floor and went down the passage with its rows of doors. Her room was at the end, small, spotlessly clean and pleasantly warm. It was almost six o’clock. In half an hour she would go all the way downstairs again and have coffee and a broodje and then come back and pack her bag, but now she sat on the bed, still in her coat, suddenly doubtful about everything. If someone had told her two weeks ago that she would be staying in an Amsterdam hotel, en route for a job in Friesland, she would have laughed at the very idea, yet here she was—and looking back, she wondered at the quirk of fate which had hurried her along towards it, making everything so easy and giving her no time to think until she was here…she took off her coat and started to unpin her hair and then sat brushing it, while she brooded about her future.

Her hair was fine and silky and very dark, hanging down to her waist. Her brows were dark too, thick and well shaped above large brown eyes, generously lashed. Her nose was small and straight and her mouth curved delightfully—a beautiful face, and she had a figure to match it. But although she was staring at her reflection in the small wall mirror, she didn’t really see it. ‘I must be mad,’ she said out loud, and quite forgetful of her hair, put down the brush and did nothing at all while she looked back over the last week or so. Not too far back; she still couldn’t think of her father’s death and then her mother’s so soon after without a deep grief which threatened to engulf her. Her father had been ill for only a few days; visiting a parishioner with ‘flu, he had fallen a victim to it himself, and while the parishioner recovered, her father had died, and then, within a week, her mother, leaving her alone and desolate but with little time for grief, for the rectory had to be vacated, the furniture sold and a few modest debts paid, and when that was done, there was very little money over.

It had been a wrench to leave the village in Dorset where she had spent her childhood and all her holidays since she had taken up nursing; she had gathered together a few of her parents’ most loved bits and pieces, packed her clothes, and gone to stay with her mother’s elder sister, a small, bustling woman who lived alone in a minuscule thatched cottage on the edge of a village in the same county. It was while she was there that she decided to give up her job at the big London hospital where she was Sister of a medical ward, and until she could make up her mind about her future, take private cases. And Aunt Emily had agreed; change, she had observed wisely, was absolutely essential when one had been dealt such a severe blow—and time, time to think about the future and come to terms with it. She thought privately that Cressida would certainly marry later on, once the icy grief which held her fast had thawed a little and she could laugh again and enjoy meeting people. But that was something she couldn’t tell her niece; all she could do was to tell her to regard the overcrowded little cottage as her home and know that she was welcome there.

A couple of weeks’ peace and quiet had helped Cressida a great deal. Armed with excellent references and a resolve to make a new life for herself, she went up to London and presented herself at an agency highly recommended by her hospital. The temptation to take the first job offered to her was great, but she still had a little money, enough to stay in a rather seedy hotel for a week, until a case turned up which would appeal to her, so she rejected the first few offered to her; a child film star with tonsillitis, a young drug addict, a wealthy widow who really wanted a slave, not a nurse. After the third day she wondered if she was being unduly fussy; some of the girls she met there came in, accepted a case, and were away again in five minutes. But there was another girl who was choosy too—Molly, a small, fair creature with a sweet, rather weak face, who confided to Cressida that she was waiting for a job as far away as possible because she had quarrelled with her fiancé and never wanted to see him again. It was towards the end of the week when she told Cressida that she had got a job, and not through the agency. ‘My uncle got it for me; at least, this doctor asked him to find a nurse who could type, and I can. You see, he’s writing a book and he needs an English girl—a nurse who’ll understand the medical terms—so that she can help him with the English and type it too—and he lives in Holland, so I can get away from Jim.’

She skipped away in great good spirits, leaving Cressida to make the difficult choice between a case of delirium tremens and an elderly lady who wanted someone to see her through the brief trials of having all her teeth out. Cressida decided against them both, was treated to a brief homily by the agency clerk on being too fussy, and left in her turn, to walk in St James’s Park and wish that the months could roll back and she could be on her way home for her holidays. She walked on steadily; she wasn’t going to cry, she told herself firmly, not in the middle of a public park, at any rate. She had sat down on a bench and made a great business of feeding the birds with the sandwiches she had brought with her for lunch and didn’t want.

She hadn’t seen Molly on the following morning and hadn’t expected to; probably she was on her way to Holland already. Waiting her turn, she promised herself that she would take the first case she was offered, but when she got into the office the clerk said briskly: ‘Sorry, there’s nothing today—if you’d been here half an hour earlier I could have fixed you up… Better luck tomorrow.’

She smiled her bright, meaningless smile and Cressida smiled back, not sure if she was relieved or not. She was standing in the agency entrance, trying to make up her mind what to do with her empty day, when Molly came dashing towards her.

‘I hoped I’d find you,’ she cried breathlessly. ‘I’ve a whole lot to tell you and it’ll take a minute or two. There’s a café down the street, come and have some coffee.’

‘You’ve made it up with your Jim,’ declared Cressida.

Molly caught her by the arm. ‘Yes, I have, isn’t it super? But that isn’t all.’

She had dragged Cressida down the street towards the café. ‘That job—the one I said I’d take in Holland—well, I can’t go now, can I? I mean, Jim wants us to get married straight away—so I thought of you…’ She had paused maddeningly as they entered the café, found a table and ordered coffee. ‘You can type, you told me so—and the job is about the alimentary system and its disorders, and you’ve had a medical ward…don’t you see? It’s just made for you.’

‘But I can’t,’ said Cressida. ‘I don’t know this doctor and he doesn’t know me.’

Molly opened her handbag and dragged out a small pile of letters. ‘Here are all the letters so’s you can see that it really is a job—and my uncle says if you could go and see him—he lives in Hampstead, he’s got a practice there—this afternoon after surgery…’ She had sugared her coffee and continued: ‘Oh, you must! You wanted something interesting and different, didn’t you? Uncle says it would take about six or seven weeks, and the pay’s good. At least go and see my uncle.’

And Cressida had said yes quickly before she could change her mind.

Molly’s uncle had been nice; elderly and a little slow, and although he had asked her a great many questions, he had been so nice about it that she hadn’t minded answering them. ‘It seems to me,’ he told her finally, ‘that this job is just what you need. I appreciate your need to get away, Miss Bingley, and Doctor van Blom is most anxious to find someone who can type adequately as well as give him occasional help with the turn of a phrase and so on.’ He smiled kindly. ‘May I take it that you will help him out?’

Cressida had said that yes, she would like to very much, but she would have to get her passport renewed and pack a few things. He had nodded and said, ‘Quite—could you be ready in four or five days’ time?’

They had made their arrangements there and then, but it was Cressida who had decided to leave two days earlier and spend them in Amsterdam. One of her friends at the hospital gave her the name of the hotel and she had had no difficulty in getting a room.

She had spent her two days exploring the city, spending hours in the museums, walking endlessly beside the canals, looking at the old houses which lined their banks, eating frugally at lunch bars, and window-shopping. And now, in the morning, she would catch a train to Leeuwarden where she would be met.

She glanced at the clock and began to coil her hair rapidly; the dining room was only open for a short time each evening; the hotel guests were expected to dine out, the snacks were for those who had just arrived, or who, for some reason or other, were going to spend their evening in their rooms.

There was a very small room by the entrance where one could get a drink or coffee, but Cressida had never seen anyone in it. She did her face and washed her hands and went down the staircase once more, to the basement, where she sat down at a table for one, drank the coffee she ordered and ate two ham rolls. They were excellent, but she had very little appetite. Indeed, she had grown thin during the last few weeks; meals, like so many other things, had become just something to get through as best she might. She supposed that in time everything would be normal again, as the incoming rector had assured her when he had called to make himself known to her and arrange to move into the rectory. Time he had said, healed everything, and she hadn’t disputed that fact; only time, when it lay heavy, took a long time to pass.

She went back to her room presently and packed her case, had a shower in the cramped cabinet down the passage, and got into bed. She wasn’t sleepy, but bed gave an illusion of cosiness. She had a sudden, vivid memory of the sitting room in her old home, with a log fire blazing in the hearth and the shabby armchairs pulled close to it, and for a moment she couldn’t see the map she was studying for the tears in her eyes, but she brushed them away resolutely and applied herself once more to its perusal. Molly’s uncle had told her that Doctor van Blom lived in a village between Groningen and Leeuwarden, he had told her the name too, but the two cities were thirty miles apart and from the numerous villages between, not one of their peculiar-looking names rang a bell of recognition. She would have to wait and see.

The tram Cressida took to the station in the morning was packed with early morning workers, but the train, when she eventually found the right platform and caught it by the skin of her teeth, was almost empty. She sat in her corner seat, watching the small flat fields give way to the woods and heaths of the Veluwe and then fields again, but now they had become wide and rolling and the towns less frequent. She had chosen to go via Groningen, and that city, when the train reached it, looked invitingly picturesque as well as large and bustling. As the train pulled away from the station she craned her neck to see the last of its spires and towers and then turned to look at the countryside with some eagerness. Somewhere close by was the village where she was to spend the next few weeks. She stared at the strange names on the station boards as they passed, but both Dutch and Friesian names were quite incomprehensible to her. However, she had been told not to worry about the language; Doctor van Blom spoke excellent English and the people she would meet would have a sufficient knowledge of it to make her lack of Dutch no problem at all.

She got out at Leeuwarden station with much the same feeling as she experienced when she entered a dentist’s surgery; her future employer might be bad-tempered, impatient, a slave-driver… She stood under the clock on the platform as she had been told to do, and looked around her, and a great many people looked back at her, for she was quite eye-catching, her beautiful face pale with excitement and apprehension, her nicely cut tweed coat showing off her slenderness to perfection, the brown fur hat perched on top of her shining bun of hair highlighting its vivid darkness.

She didn’t have to wait long; from the people around her there emerged a short, stout man in his late middle years. He came straight at her, beaming all over his nice round face, beginning to talk to her long before he reached her. ‘Miss Bingley—Miss Cressida Bingley—what a charming name! I am delighted to welcome you; you see that I knew you at once.’ He was pumping her arm up and down as he spoke. ‘My old friend Doctor Mills described you so well…you have luggage with you? This case only? Then we will go to the car at once and return to my home as quickly as possible. We will drink coffee together and talk of my book which I am so anxious to complete.’

He walked as he talked, his hand on her arm, edging her towards the station entrance where a splendidly kept dark blue Chevrolet stood. He ushered her into the front seat, put her luggage in the boot and got into the driving seat. ‘Fifteen of your English miles,’ he observed, ‘we shall be there very shortly.’

But not as shortly as all that, Cressida discovered. They drove very slowly through the city, a busy, bustling place she wanted to explore, and she wondered if there was something about Dutch motoring laws she didn’t know—a twenty-mile speed limit in towns, for instance, and yet everyone else was travelling twice as fast. Perhaps her new employer was just a very cautious driver. On the outskirts of Leeuwarden he achieved a steady thirty, while cars flashed past at thrice that speed and Cressida, who in happier times had driven her father’s car rather well, longed to stretch out a neatly booted foot and slam it down on the accelerator, for it seemed to her a crying shame to own such a powerful car and not make use of it. She kept her itching foot still and watched the slowly passing scenery while she answered her companion’s stream of questions. Even if he was a shocking driver, he was rather an old dear.

They turned off the main road presently and trickled cautiously down a narrow lane. ‘Eestrum,’ the doctor informed her as they approached and passed through a smallish village. ‘We go to Augustinusga, that is where I live, so well placed between Leeuwarden and Groningen. It is convenient for me—and my partners—to travel to either place.’

‘Partners?’ asked Cressida. No one had mentioned them.

‘Doctor Herrima—we share a house and a housekeeper—and Doctor van der Teile, who is the senior partner and does not live in the village. We consult him, you understand; all the more difficult cases, but for the most of the time he is either at Leeuwarden or Groningen, for he has beds in both hospitals as well as consulting rooms. He is a distinguished physician and travels a good deal.’

Cressida murmured politely; he would be a very elderly man, she imagined, for Doctor van Blom was certainly in his sixties and this other partner was the senior…the third partner would be the youngest and the junior. The three bears; she suppressed a giggle.

Her companion had dropped the car’s speed to a smart walking pace and began pointing out local landmarks. A windmill, standing lonely in the wintry fields by a canal, a little wood on the other side of the water, bare and dull in the morning’s grey bleakness, but, she was assured, a charming place in the spring. An austere red brick church with plain glass windows came into view and a cosy little house beside it. ‘The dominee and his wife live there,’ explained Doctor van Blom. ‘A good friend of ours, and here, at the beginning of the village, is an excellent example of our Friesian farms.’

Cressida was still craning her neck to see the last of it as they entered the village itself, circled the square lined with houses and stopped cautiously outside one of them, a red brick house with its door exactly in the centre and its windows arranged across its face in mathematical rows. She hoped it wasn’t as plain inside as it was out, and had her hope realised; the front door opened on to a long, narrow hall, lofty-ceilinged and a little dark and from which numerous doors opened. Doctor van Blom threw open the first of these and ushered her in, at the same time raising his voice in a mild bellow. This was instantly answered in person by his housekeeper, a tall, thin woman, no longer young but with such a forceful air about her that one could have imagined her barely in her prime. She smiled at the doctor, smiled at Cressida, shook her hand and followed them into what was obviously the sitting-room, comfortably furnished, the leather chairs a little shabby perhaps, but there was some beautiful china and silver lying around on shelves and tables, rather as though someone had just been admiring the objects and set them down haphazardly. There were shelves of books, too, and an old-fashioned stove giving off a most welcome heat.

Cressida took the chair she was offered and surrendered her coat to the housekeeper, her unhappy heart much cheered by her kindly reception, and when Juffrouw Naald went away and came back a moment later with a tray laden with coffee-cups and biscuits, she partook of these refreshments with more pleasure than she had felt for some time.

They had been sitting for perhaps ten minutes when the door opened and a tall, thin man, about the same age as Doctor van Blom, came in. ‘My partner, Doctor Herrima,’ her employer told her, and after introductions had been made, Cressida found herself sitting between the two of them, filling their coffee-cups and answering their gentle questions.

‘A pretty girl,’ observed Doctor Herrima to no one in particular, ‘a very pretty girl.’ He looked keenly at her. ‘And you can type, I understand?’

She assured him that she could.

‘You are also a nurse?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she told him, ‘I’ve been trained for more than four years.’

He looked across at his partner. ‘A splendid choice.’ And when his partner nodded happily, ‘What do you think of our country, Miss Bingley?’

Cressida put down her cup. ‘Well, I haven’t seen a great deal of it. Two days in Amsterdam and then coming here by train…’

‘You must see Leeuwarden and Groningen—now there are two magnificent centuries-old cities. Do you drive?’ It was Doctor van Blom who spoke.

‘Yes—we had a rather elderly Morris.’

‘Ah.’ He pondered this for a minute. ‘My car is a powerful one, as you may have noticed, and Doctor Herrima runs a BMW. I do not know if you feel competent to drive either of them?’ He sounded doubtful.

Cressida thought of the snail-like pace at which they had driven from Leeuwarden and replied soberly that she thought she would be capable of driving either of the cars. Indeed, the idea of driving the Chev on one of the excellent motorways appealed to her very much: to drive and drive and drive, away from her grief and loneliness.

She shut her mind to the idea and made a suitably admiring remark about the car, to which Doctor van Blom responded with instant eagerness. They were two dears, she decided; unworldly and content in their rather cluttered, pleasant sitting-room.

She asked diffidently about their practice and was told at some length and sometimes twice over that it was a large one, covering a great number of outlying villages and farms; that they had a baby clinic once a week, a small surgery for emergencies, and dealt with a wide variety of patients.

‘There are quite a number of accidents,’ explained Doctor van Blom, ‘farms, you know—they have these modern machines, some of them are complicated and if a farm worker doesn’t understand what he is doing…’ He gave a little shrug. ‘And then of course there are those who live some way away, and they tend to delay sending for us or coming to the surgery, and sometimes the injury or illness is made much worse in consequence. We have splendid hospitals, of course, and our senior partner is always available for consultation.’ He wagged his balding head. ‘A very clever man,’ he stated, ‘as well as our great friend. He had an English godfather, and you will find his English excellent.’

Cressida dismissed this paragon with a nice smile and asked about the book. ‘When would you like me to start?’ she wanted to know.

‘You feel that you could start today? Splendid, Miss Bingley—perhaps after lunch?’

‘That would be fine, and please will you call me Cressida?’

They both beamed at her. ‘With pleasure. And now you would like to go to your room and unpack. We have lunch at noon—is that time enough for you to settle in?’

They escorted her to the door, cried in unison for Juffrouw Naald, and stood watching her as she trod up the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the floor above, with the housekeeper leading the way.

Her room was in the front of the house, a corner room with big windows so that she had a wide view of the square below and the houses around it. It was nicely furnished if a trifle heavily, with Second Empire mahogany bed, matching chest of drawers, a ponderous dressing table and an enormous clothes closet. There was a small easy chair by the window and a writing table and a little shelf of books. Leading from it was a well-appointed bathroom; after the tiny room in Aunt Emily’s cottage, it seemed like luxury to Cressida. Someone had put chrysanthemums in a vase by the bed too; she smiled and touched them and looked at Juffrouw Naald who smiled and nodded and said something Cressida couldn’t understand, but it sounded friendly.

When the housekeeper had gone, Cressida unpacked quickly, tidied her hair and did her face and repaired downstairs, to find both doctors waiting for her.

‘We drink Jenever, but for you we have sherry—shall we take a glass now before lunch? You are hungry?’

They both stood looking at her with eager kindness and she hastened to assure them that she was—a pleasant sensation after weeks of not bothering what she ate. She accompanied them into the dining-room, a lofty apartment, furnished with mahogany as solid as her bedroom was and with a crimson carpet underfoot and crimson curtains at its windows, a suitable background for the snow-white tablecloth and shining silver. The meal was a simple one; the doctors, they assured her, liked their dinner in the evening after surgery, but she found the soup, dish of cold meats and the basket of various breads more than sufficient. There was no surgery that afternoon, she was told, so that there was no need for them to hurry over their meal, and after it she and Doctor van Blom could retire to his study while Doctor Herrima did the afternoon round. If he explained his work, suggested the doctor, perhaps she might make a start on sorting out the manuscript and preparing it for typing? She could have the evening too, while he took surgery. He passed his cup for more coffee and while she was pouring it, the door opened and in walked the man who had taken her back to her hotel in Amsterdam the day before. Cressida put down the coffee-pot carefully, and with the cup and saucer still in her hand, sat staring at him, her pretty mouth very slightly open.

‘Giles,’ boomed Doctor van Blom, ‘what good fortune—now you can meet the young lady who is to help me with my book—Miss Cressida Bingley.’ He waved a hand. ‘Cressida, this is our senior partner, Doctor van der Teile.’

He closed the door after him and crossed over to her chair. ‘You look surprised,’ he observed blandly.

‘Well, I am…I didn’t expect…’

‘No? But my dear girl, it was inevitable.’ He took the cup and saucer from her, handed it across the table to his partner and pulled out a chair for himself. ‘Cressida and I have already met,’ he told his partners, and when the fresh coffee came, accepted a cup before asking her, in the politest manner possible, if she would forgive him if he discussed a case with his partners.

And if that isn’t a hint to make myself scarce, I don’t know what is, thought Cressida. She gave him a haughty look and got up at once. ‘I have my unpacking to finish,’ she assured him, and sailed to the door, only to find him there to open it for her.

‘I’ll be gone very shortly,’ he murmured as she went past him. ‘You can safely come down again in half an hour.’

CHAPTER TWO

DOCTOR VAN DER TEILE had gone by the time Cressida, rather uncertain as to what was expected of her, went downstairs again, but Doctor van Blom put his head round a door as she reached the hall, obviously on the lookout for her, and invited her to enter his study.

‘No time like the present,’ he assured her with the air of a man who had just thought up a clever remark, and ushered her in. Compared with the sitting-room it was quite small, furnished with a large desk with a leather chair behind it, a pair of similar chairs on either side of the stove, and a smaller desk against one wall with a typewriter on it. The walls were lined with vast quantities of books; Cressida, who liked reading, promised herself a good browse through them when the opportunity occurred, but now she sat down in the chair opposite the doctor’s and gave him her full attention.

Would she mind working early in the morning? he wanted to know anxiously—before surgery started at eight o’clock. He himself was an early riser and had formed the habit of putting in an hour’s work before breakfast, which was at half past seven each day except Sunday.

Cressida paled a little at the prospect of rising at six o’clock each morning; she had no objection to getting up early and it was a job, after all, which she was being paid for, but surely the hour was a bit much? She caught her companion’s eye fixed pleadingly on her, and heard herself say cheerfully that she didn’t mind in the least, wondering at the same time how long her working day was to be.

She was enlightened almost at once. ‘If you could work on your own during surgery,’ went on the doctor. ‘We have coffee about ten o’clock, before we do our rounds; if you would like to take an hour’s break then and afterwards continue working until we have our lunch? The afternoon surgery is at half past one—if you would work until we go on our afternoon visits. You could be free then until we have a cup of tea on our return—about half past four. We might do another hour’s work together until evening surgery starts. We dine at half past seven…’ He cast her a look which she rightly interpreted.

‘After dinner?’ she prompted, and he brightened visibly.

‘I am not a slave-driver? Just a short spell perhaps—not every evening, of course. I am so anxious to get the book finished.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ agreed Cressida bracingly, ‘and I can see no reason why we shouldn’t go ahead like wildfire. You have the manuscript here? Have the publishers given you a date?’

The doctor settled back in his chair. ‘The manuscript is almost finished—just the final chapter and of course the whole thing to be given a final correction. It’s in longhand, I’m afraid, and my writing…’

Cressida nodded. Doctors were notoriously bad writers; she had become adept at deciphering their almost unreadable scrawls. ‘And the date for the publisher?’ she reminded him.

He shuffled the pile of papers before him into thorough disorder until he unearthed a letter. ‘Let me see, today is October the twenty-sixth and they ask for the completed typescript by December the twelfth.’

‘Is it a long book?’ asked Cressida faintly, with visions of getting to bed at three o’clock in the morning and getting up again at six. She was a good typist, but rusty, and she had only two hands—besides, he had hinted himself that his writing was awful.

‘Oh, no—eight chapters, about nine thousand words in each, and I believe you will be able to reduce those, for I tend to write with too much elaboration, especially in English.’

‘You would like me to check that? But I don’t know anything about…’

He lifted a podgy hand. ‘My dear young lady, I am sure that I can rely on your judgment—it is merely a question of simplifying my English where it is necessary.’

I shall have to take the wretched manuscript to bed, thought Cressida gloomily, and check every word of it. Well, she had wanted something different; it looked as though she had got it, and yet she had the feeling that she had found exactly what she needed; a job which would keep her on her toes and help her to forget the last sad weeks. And when it was finished and she returned to England, perhaps she would be able to settle down to another job in hospital—another ward to run, surgery this time, perhaps. She sighed without knowing it and Doctor van Blom said quickly: ‘You are tired—I have no right to expect you to start work so soon after your arrival.’

It took her a minute or two to assure him that she wasn’t tired at all and only too willing to start then and there.

They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, and Cressida, glad to have something to occupy her mind, sorted pages, skimmed through the first chapters and then arranged her desk to her satisfaction before typing the first few pages. She had learned to type years ago, before she had trained as a nurse, and she had kept her hand in ever since, typing her father’s sermons, the parish magazine and quite a number of his letters when she had been home for holidays or days off; she was pleased and surprised to find that she hadn’t lost her skill, and moreover, Doctor van Blom’s book was going to be interesting, although she could see that his English was indeed on the elaborate side. She made one or two tentative suggestions which he accepted immediately, saying happily: ‘This is just what I needed—someone to check my errors. You will prove yourself to be of the greatest help, Cressida.’ He beamed at her. ‘You are the answer to a prayer, my dear young lady.’

She hadn’t been called anyone’s young lady for quite some time, although her father’s friends had frequently addressed her as such—elderly gentlemen who had known her since she was a little girl—but now she was very nearly twenty-seven. Doctor van der Teile had called her young woman, which hadn’t sounded nice at all—perhaps it was the way he had said it. It was strange that they should have met again and still more strange that he should have made that remark about their meeting being inevitable… She frowned and her companion said instantly: ‘You have difficulty? My writing, perhaps?’

She hastened to reassure him; she mustn’t allow her thoughts to wander; a month was hardly time enough to get the book ready for the publisher and certainly didn’t allow for any other thoughts than those concerned with it.

The day passed pleasantly; her elderly companions absorbed her into their household with kindly speed, so that she felt at once at ease with them—indeed, they kept her talking so long after dinner that Juffrouw Naald came in, addressed them in severe tones and bore her off to her room, where she pointed to the bed, turned on the bath and produced a glass of hot milk for Cressida to drink—not that she needed any inducement to sleep; her head had no sooner touched the pillow than she was in deep slumber.

It was after breakfast on the third morning, while she was typing out a chapter which Doctor van Blom had decided was now complete, that Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida, her fingers arrested above the keys, wished him a cool good morning and wondered why she should feel so pleased to see him. After all, he hadn’t shown any particular liking for her; indeed, he appeared to dismiss her as a necessary nuisance in his partners’ household. Perhaps it was only because she had been wondering about him—his work, where he lived… She sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, waiting for him to speak.

‘Nose to the grindstone, I see,’ he observed without bothering to return her good morning or ask her how she fared. Instead he turned back to open the door for Juffrouw Naald, who steamed in with a coffee tray, set it on the desk, glanced at them in turn with coy speculation, and went away again.

There were two cups on the tray, and: ‘You pour,’ said Doctor van der Teile.

‘I have my coffee at ten o’clock with the doctors, thank you,’ Cressida told him a little crossly; he was interrupting her work and disturbing her mind too, and why shouldn’t he pour his own coffee?

‘It’s only nine o’clock, and I missed my breakfast,’ and he managed, despite his size and obvious splendid health, to look and sound wistful and half starved. ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘be a dear kind girl.’ He lifted the lid of the dish on the tray. ‘Buttered toast—bless old Naaldtje!’

Cressida picked up the coffee-pot, a handsome silver one of a size made for giants. ‘She is extremely kind,’ she observed primly.

He took his cup from her, sat down behind his partner’s desk and began on the toast. ‘She is also very romantic; she has been trying to find me a suitable wife for the last ten years. She contrives to bring to my notice every likely female she happens to approve of and offer them for my inspection. I rather fancy that you are the latest.’

Cressida choked into her coffee. ‘What utter rubbish! I have no intention—it’s too silly…’

‘Well, there’s no need to get worked up about it. She means well, bless her, and it isn’t as though I’ve shown any interest in you.’

His voice was bland, and so reasonable that she had to swallow the furious retort she longed to utter, although she did allow herself the comfort of an indignant snort. He took no notice of this but went on: ‘In any case, she’s wasting her time—I’ve found the girl for myself and I intend to marry her.’

Cressida nibbled at a biscuit and wondered at the disappointment she was feeling; only a few minutes ago she had wished him married; he needed a wife, for he had by far too big an opinion of himself.

‘If she’ll have you,’ she observed severely.

‘Ah, yes. A moot point, although I’m not sure what moot means—we can always deal with that when the time comes.’ He passed his cup. ‘And how is the book going? Not too much for you, I hope?’

There was silky amusement in his voice and she pinkened. ‘The book goes very well, and as I am here merely to type it and make a few small adjustments, I believe that it won’t be too much for me.’

‘You’re a touchy young woman, aren’t you? Ready to swallow me alive, given half a chance.’ He passed his cup yet again. ‘Any plans to marry?’

Really, the cheek of the man! She said haughtily: ‘No.’

The haughtiness went unnoticed or he had a thick skin. ‘Boy friend?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Ah—I apologise, I shouldn’t have asked such a silly question.’

Cressida fired up immediately. ‘And why not, pray?’

‘Because you are as good as you are beautiful, Cressida.’ He smiled at her across the desk, his eyes very bright. ‘You are also sad. Why is that?’

She made a great business of putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. The unexpected urge to tell him took her by surprise so that she had to keep a tight hold on her tongue. He didn’t even like her, and she was almost sure that she didn’t like him, with his easy self-assurance. She shook her head and said nothing at all, and after a moment he said quietly: ‘Ah, well, you shall tell me some time—it’s good to talk about one’s sorrow. It eases it—you must know that from your patients.’

‘Yes, oh yes—but listening isn’t the same as telling someone…’

He got up and wandered to the door. ‘We all do it at some time,’ he pointed out. ‘Any messages?’

‘Who for?’ Her lovely eyes opened in surprise.

‘I’m on my way to London, I shall be at the Royal General tomorrow.’

Cressida stared at him; he would ask anyone there and they would tell him why she had left; that her parents had died; that she had had to get away. She said: ‘No, thanks,’ in a doubtful voice, and he said at once: ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t try to find out anything about you—you’ll tell me yourself sooner or later.’

He left her sitting there, staring down at the sheet of typewriting in front of her, the only thought in her head that he would keep his word.

He was back in two days and this time she saw him arrive, for she had been for a brisk walk after lunch, well wrapped up in her good tweed coat against the cold and damp. The sky had been sullen all day and now it was rapidly darkening, the little village looked sombre and bleak and there were already lights in some of the small houses. An afternoon for tea round the fire… She sighed involuntarily and quickened her step. The book was going very well, but she would have to keep at it. The next day was Sunday and she would be free, but she already had plans to work for a large part of the day. She had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She would go to church in the morning and then browse through the bookshelves until she found something to her liking. She had her knitting, and any number of letters to write too, but still she felt sure that there would be time and to spare for her typing.

She started round the square towards the doctor’s house and then turned her head at the sound of the car coming from the other end—a Bentley, silver grey and sleek, whispering powerfully to a halt. She stood and watched while Doctor van der Teile got out and took the shallow steps two at a time to the front door of her employer’s home. Even at that distance she could see that he was elegantly turned out, his car coat making him appear even larger than he was. When the door opened and he had gone inside, she walked on, but instead of using the great brass knocker on the front door, she went past it to the surgery entrance and so to Doctor van Blom’s study, where she took off her outdoor things, warmed her chilly hands by the stove and then sat down at her desk. It wasn’t time for tea yet, she might as well get another page done.

She had typed just three lines when the door opened and Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida jumped a little at the suddenness of his appearance and made a muddle of the work she was typing—he was a disquieting person. She erased the mistake, said ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ and gave him an inquiring look.

‘Hullo.’ He sounded friendly. ‘You weren’t here just now. Do you use a secret passage or something?’

‘I came in through the surgery.’

His eyes rested briefly on her coat. ‘Ah—you didn’t want to be seen, was that it? Probably you saw me arrive… All right, you don’t have to say anything; your face is an open book. What are you doing tomorrow?’

Really it was no business of his, and yet she found herself giving him a brief resumé of her plans.

‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock,’ he told her. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Go?’ repeated Cressida.

‘Come, come, girl, you must have some preference. Leeuwarden? Groningen? the Afsluitdijk? Amsterdam?’

‘Are you asking me out?’ And before he could reply: ‘I was going to church.’

‘We will go to Groningen, there is a very beautiful church there, then we might go back to Leeuwarden and then Alkmaar.’

She said stiffly: ‘You’ve very kind, but I can’t impose on your free time.’

‘You won’t be; I have to see a friend of mine who lives close to Leeuwarden. He has an English wife who asked me for lunch, and when I told her about you being here she asked me to bring you.’ He paused and went on persuasively: ‘They have a baby and two toddlers and three dogs.’

Cressida had to laugh. ‘Are those an inducement?’

‘Yes. I think you like babies and children and dogs. Am I right?’

‘How on earth…’

‘Did I not tell you that your face was easy to read? Will you come?’

‘Thank you, I should like to—you’re sure your friends won’t mind?’

‘No, they’ll be delighted.’ He straightened up from leaning against the door and opened it. ‘Shall we have tea?’

‘I was going to type…’

‘After tea.’ He waited while she joined him. ‘Doctor van Blom is delighted with your work; he’s a clever man and this book has been his pleasure and study for some time. I fancy it will be well received when it is published.’

Surgery was over for the afternoon and both doctors were back from their rounds. They all had tea together, talking about nothing in particular, and presently Cressida excused herself and went back to her desk. She worked hard until bedtime, spurred on by the thought of her day out on the morrow. She hadn’t seen Doctor van der Teile again, although she had heard the Bentley’s quiet engine as he drove away later in the afternoon. It struck her that she still had no idea where he lived; it couldn’t be far away if he worked in both Leeuwarden and Groningen, and besides, Doctor van Blom had told her that as a general rule he took a surgery with them at least twice a week, but of course he had been in England…

It would be super to have a day out, seeing something of Holland. She frowned; it would be vexing if they annoyed each other, though. She would have to be careful and frightfully polite whatever he said. After all, he would be giving up quite a lot of his day too, even though they were going to visit his friends. The happy thought that she might be able to glean some information about him from his friend’s wife popped into her head as she got into bed and turned out the light. It would be interesting to know—she wasn’t being curious, or was she? She fell asleep wondering.

The sky was still sullen when she woke up the next morning and there was more than a hint of rain in the air; she put on a dark green woollen dress she had been saving for some special occasion and brushed her hair into shining smoothness before going down to breakfast. The two doctors were already at table, deeply immersed in some medical argument which Cressida begged them to continue while she drank her coffee and gobbled her roll and cheese. She was putting on her coat when she heard the car draw up in the square below, and pausing just long enough to tug on her round fur hat, snatch up her handbag and gloves and take one last look at herself in the looking glass, she hurried downstairs. At least she hurried until the thought struck her that Doctor van der Teile might be amused to see her rushing to meet him like an enthusiastic schoolgirl. She slowed her impatient feet to a dignified walk, greeted him with pleasant coolness, accepted with a charming smile the two older doctors’ good wishes for an enjoyable day, and allowed herself to be ushered out of the house and into the cold morning outside. But the car was warm, deliciously so, with a faint smell of leather. Cressida wrinkled her lovely nose with pleasure at it.

‘If you’re not warm enough there’s a rug in the back,’ her companion said laconically as he got in beside her. ‘A pity it isn’t a better day.’

She murmured something about it being November, feeling suddenly shy; she didn’t know this man beside her at all, and on the occasions when they had met they had hardly been on the best of terms. Now the whole day stretched before them. In all likelihood they would fall out within the first hour of it. But long before the hour was up she knew that she had been wrong about that; he had no intention of giving her cause to dislike him, even argue with him. His conversation was confined to the countryside around them until they reached Groningen, and after that they were in St Martin’s Church, a splendid edifice about which he seemed to know a great deal. During the service he confined himself to whispered directions as to what came next, finding the hymns for her, and even though she couldn’t understand a word of it, opening the prayer book at all the right places.

They lingered on after the service was over, so that she might take a closer look at the dim, lofty interior, and then went outside, where she craned her neck to see the five-storied spire. When she had had her fill, they didn’t go back to the car right away, but walked across the vast square and into a wide main street, to drink coffee in one of the cafés there. He was a nice companion, Cressida decided, restful and gently amusing and always ready to answer her questions. The day was going to be fun after all and she started to relax, so that by the time they were in the car once more, speeding towards Leeuwarden, she had lost her shyness and was talking away as though she had known him for years.

The people they were to lunch with lived in a small village west of Leeuwarden and close to Franeker, so that her view of Leeuwarden was confined to a drive round its streets, with the doctor pointing out everything of interest before they drove on, to reach the village, turn in through a great pair of wrought iron gates, and stop finally before a pleasant old house, square and solid and peaceful. But only for a moment; its doors was flung wide and a large, comfortably plump woman stood waiting for them to enter.

‘Anna, the housekeeper,’ said Doctor van der Teile, and paused on the step while everyone shook hands. ‘Ah, here is Harriet.’

His hostess was a year or so older than Cressida, small and dainty and pretty. She came dancing down the staircase to meet them and flung herself at the doctor. He gave her a kiss and a hug and said: ‘Harry, this is Cressida, working for Doctor van Blom as I told you.’ He left the two girls together and went on into the hall. ‘Friso, how’s life?’

Friso was large too, and very dark and good-looking. He shook Cressida’s hand and exclaimed cheerfully, ‘Hullo, how nice to meet you. Giles, this house is filled with women and children—Harry may be only one woman, but she seems like half a dozen—which is delightful, mind you, and the children get into and on to everything.’ He smiled at Cressida. ‘I hope you like children?’

She said that she did and was borne away to remove her outdoor things and take a quick peep at the baby. ‘Ducky, isn’t she?’ asked Harriet, looking down at her very small daughter in her cot. ‘Little Friso is four and Toby’s two and she’s almost three months. We’re so pleased to have a girl.’

She led the way downstairs again and into the sitting-room, a large, comfortable well-lived-in apartment with easy chairs grouped around a great fire. The two men were standing before it with the three dogs. J. B., a bulldog, Flotsam, a dog of no known make with an enormous tail and an engaging expression, and a great black shaggy dog with yellow eyes and a great deal of tongue hanging out of its enormous jaws—Moses. They came to meet the two girls, were patted and made much of and rearranged themselves before the fire once more, taking up a lot of room. They all got up again when the door was opened to admit Friso and Toby, who, having been introduced, got on to their father’s knee, where they sat staring at Cressida unwinkingly until it was time to go in to lunch.

It was a delicious meal; onion soup to keep out the cold, as Harriet explained, chicken à la king and a magnificent trifle, which she disclosed with some pride she had made herself. ‘It’s about all I’m any good at,’ she explained to her guests, but Friso interrupted from his end of the table with: ‘You make an excellent stew, my love,’ and smiled at her in such a way that a pang smote Cressida’s heart. It would be wonderful to be loved like that…

‘The first meal Harry ever cooked for me was a stew,’ Friso told her. ‘We ate it in a flooded house under the dyke while the tide came in; it had everything in it and it smelled like heaven.’ He put a spoon into Toby’s small fist and smiled again at his wife before he went on to talk of something else.

They didn’t stay long after lunch, which was a pity because Cressida, robbed of a cosy chat with Harriet, hadn’t been able to discover anything about Doctor van der Teile. True, there had been frequent references to mutual friends, but she was still in the dark as to where he lived and what exactly he did. A consultant—well, she knew that, but in which branch of the profession? and had he a practice beside the one he shared—if you could call it sharing—with his partners? And what was his home like and where was it? She wondered if the girl he was going to marry approved of it. She made her farewells with real regret and got into the Bentley.

‘Nice people,’ commented the doctor as he took the road to the Afsluitdijk and Alkmaar. ‘I’ve known Friso for years, of course—Harry came to Franeker to spend a holiday with a friend and they met there and married in no time.’

They were on the Afsluitdijk now, tearing along its length in the gloom of the afternoon, but Cressida didn’t notice the gloom; just for a little while she felt happy and blissfully content; somehow her companion had, in a few hours, lightened her grief. Probably when they next met they would fall out, but for the moment they were enjoying each other’s company.

She found Alkmaar enchanting. They parked the car and walked through its narrow streets, looking at the cheese market and the Weigh House, and waiting for the figures on the topmost gable to ride out and encircle the clock when it struck the hour. If it hadn’t been so cold, Cressida would have gone back and had another look, but a mean little rain was falling now and the suggestion of tea was welcome. They went to a small tea-room in the main street, almost empty of customers but cosily warm and pretty, with its pink lampshades and small tables. A tiny jug of milk was brought with their miniature teapots, and Cressida, just beginning to get used to the weak, milkless tea the doctors drank, was delighted. Nor did the cake trolley fail in its delights. She chose an elaborate confection of nuts and chocolate and whipped cream and ate it with the gusto of a schoolgirl on a half-term treat, something which caused her companion a good deal of hidden amusement.

It was getting dark as they went into the street again and walked back to the car, and it was as they started back in the direction of Groningen that Cressida inquired artlessly: ‘Do you have far to go after you drop me off?’

‘No great distance.’ And that was all he said, and that in a cool voice which didn’t invite any more questions. Probably he thought that she was being curious, but he need not have sounded so snubbing. In a polite, wooden voice she remarked: ‘What a pity it is dark so quickly, but I have enjoyed my day—it was so kind…’

‘It’s not over yet, and I’m not kind. I felt like company.’

Her pleasure in the day evaporated and gave way to temper, so that she said tartly: ‘How convenient for you that I accepted your invitation, although now that I come to think about it, you didn’t invite me—you took it for granted that I’d come.’ She added sweetly, ‘Pray don’t expect that a second time.’

‘Who said anything about a second time?’ he wanted to know silkily, and put his foot down hard, so that the Bentley shot forward at a pace to make her catch her breath. Nothing would have made her ask him to drive more slowly, so she sat as still as a mouse and as stiff as a poker until he remarked carelessly: ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to be frightened.’

If it had been physically possible, she would have liked to box his ears for him.

They left Afsluitdijk behind them and he slowed the car through Franeker and Leeuwarden and slowed it still more as they neared the village. Cressida, mindful of her manners, had sustained a conversation throughout the latter part of their journey; she would dearly have loved to sulk, but that would have been childish and got her nowhere; dignity was the thing. It made her sit up very straight beside him and talk nothings in a high voice, hurrying from one harmless topic to the next, giving him no time to do more than answer briefly to each well-tried platitude which passed her lips. Dignity, too, helped her to mount the steps to the front door beside him, still talking, to pause at the door and plunge into stilted thanks which he ruthlessly interrupted.

‘I’m not coming in,’ he told her. ‘I had thought that we might have dined together, but at the rate you are going, you would have had no social conversation left, and by the time we had finished the soup you would have been hoarse.’

Cressida’s mouth was open to speak her mind, but she didn’t get the chance. ‘My fault,’ he said, and didn’t tell her why, and when Juffrouw Naald opened the door he turned without a word and went back to the car. Cressida went indoors feeling as though she had been dropped from a great height and had the breath knocked out of her. It wasn’t a nice sensation and she didn’t go too deeply into it. She had her supper with the two doctors and went to bed early, expecting to lie awake with her disturbing thoughts, but surprisingly she didn’t; she was conscious of only one vivid memory; Doctor van der Teile’s lonely back as he had walked away from her on the doorstep.

CHAPTER THREE

THE FIRST THING she thought of when she woke up the next morning was Doctor van der Teile, and the second that he had made no mention of the Royal General, nor asked her a single question about herself. She got up and dressed rapidly, telling herself rather peevishly that quite likely he wasn’t in the least interested in her—and why should she mind that? She wasn’t interested in him. She scowled horribly at her lovely reflection and went downstairs to thump her typewriter with such speed and energy that Doctor van Blom, when he joined her presently, begged her not to tire herself out so early in the day.

They made good progress during the next few days; the book was taking shape, and Doctor van Blom, now that there was someone to sort out his muddle of notes and reduce his flowery prose to matter-of-fact English, was happier than ever. He worked too hard, of course; he and Doctor Herrima had scant leisure and quite often not enough sleep, and Cressida found herself wondering if their senior partner realised just how busy they were. And he? Most likely leading the well-ordered life of a top consultant, with only urgent cases disturbing his nights; junior doctors to do the spadework for him in hospital and almost certainly a nurse and secretary to help him in his consulting rooms. She worried away about it while it nagged the back of her mind, and when one morning, just as she was putting the finishing touches to a chapter before her coffee break, she heard the Bentley slide to a standstill outside the house, she got to her feet with the half-formed resolve to speak to him about it eddying around her head.

But half way to the door she paused. Mingled with the doctor’s deep voice, addressing Juffrouw Naald at the door, was a woman’s voice, light and laughing, saying something which made the doctor laugh in his turn. Cressida went back to her desk and put a clean sheet of paper in her machine and began on the next chapter. She would give coffee a miss; she had plenty of work to get on with and it would be a frightful waste of time to go to the sitting-room…the door opened and Doctor van Blom put his elderly head round it. ‘Cressida, coffee is ready—why do you not come?’

‘Well, I thought I’d get on with the next chapter—it’s going so well…’

‘All the more reason for you to take a little break.’ He smiled and held the door wide so that she had no choice but to go with him.

The moment she entered the sitting-room she wished that she hadn’t come; the woman sitting by the stove was everything that she had always wanted to be; her pretty face exquisitely made up, a fur coat tossed carelessly over a chair, a velvet trifle arranged just so on her fair hair, the hands she held out to the warmth white and narrow with pink nails. Cressida was all at once conscious of her hastily powdered face, and hair put up with more speed than style, and her tweed skirt, well cut though it was and its matching angora jumper, were no match for the visitor’s cashmere two-piece.

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