Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“What do you intend to do
about it, Eulalia?”

“Give it all back, of course. And we’ll leave the cottage.”

Fenno’s slow smile mocked her. “Yes? And where will you go?”

“I’ll find somewhere. I’m not a fool.”

“No, but pigheaded in the extreme. Come down off your high horse and use some sense.”

“I am not pigheaded.”

“No, no, of course not—a slip of the tongue. Let us say rather that you are a strong-minded female who likes her own way.”

Dear Reader,

To celebrate a fortieth anniversary, be it for a wedding, birthday or some family event, is something of an achievement. Forty years is a long time but that is what Harlequin has done, bringing romance into the lives of countless readers. And romance is something that everyone needs, even if it is sometimes not openly admitted.

Think what pleasure and comfort there is in curling up with a love story with a happy ending when one is feeling depressed or sad or lonely or just pleasantly lazy—there is nothing to beat it, and I’m sure every reader will agree with me. Romance will never be out of fashion or out of date; that is obvious from Harlequin’s success in the field of romance over the years. And I, being a romantic down to the soles of my feet, hope with all my heart that in another forty years’ time the eightieth anniversary will be celebrated with even greater success. Indeed, I’m sure that it will.

Fate Takes a
Hand
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CHAPTER ONE

THE little flower shop, squeezed between two elegant boutiques, was empty save for a girl in a cupboard-like space at its back, making up a bouquet. It was a charming bouquet, of rose-buds, forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley, suitable for the littlest bridesmaid for whom it was destined, the last of six which she had been left to fashion while the owner of the shop had gone off on some mission of her own. She was tying a pale pink ribbon around it when the shop door was thrust open and a customer came in. A giant of a man, elegantly dressed, no longer young, and wearing a look of impatient annoyance upon his handsome features.

He came to a stop in the middle of the floral arrangements and said curtly, ‘I want a couple of dozen roses sent to this address.’

‘Red roses?’

‘Certainly not. Yellow—pink, it really doesn’t matter.’

He stared at her, and really she was worth being stared at: a big girl with generous curves, short dark curly hair, large grey eyes and a pretty face.

He said abruptly, ‘What is your name?’

‘Eulalia Warburton,’ she replied promptly. ‘What is yours?’

He smiled thinly. ‘The roses are to be sent to this address.’ He handed her a card. ‘How much?’

‘Fifteen pounds and two pounds for delivery.’ She glanced at the card. ‘This afternoon—this evening? Tomorrow?’

‘This evening, before six o’clock. Make sure that they are fresh…’

She gave him an outraged stare. ‘All the flowers in this shop are fresh.’

She took the money and thumped the cash register with some force. Thoroughly put out, she said snappily, ‘If you doubt it, have your money back and go somewhere else.’

‘Dear, dear.’ He spoke with infuriating blandness. ‘Are you having a bad day?’

‘It was a perfectly good day before you came in,’ she told him. A good thing Mrs Pearce wasn’t here—she would have been given the sack on the spot. She handed him an ornate little card. ‘You will wish to write a message?’

She took it back when he had written on it, handed him his change and bade him a coldly civil good day. She got a grunt in reply.

She watched his broad back disappear up the street and took a look at the card. It was to a Miss Ursula Kendall and, after a careful scrutiny of his scrawled message, she gathered that he was sending his apologies. Well, thought Eulalia, if he was as rude to her as he had been here, a nice piece of jewellery would be more in order.

She finished her bouquet and began to arrange the yellow roses in their Cellophane sheath; somehow pink didn’t go well with a name like Ursula.

Mrs Pearce came back presently, approved of the bouquets and, since it was almost time to close, told Eulalia to deliver the roses. ‘I know it’s out of your way, so take a taxi—the money’s in the till.’ She bustled around, rearranging this and that. ‘You’ll have to take the bouquets round in the morning. Half-past nine— another taxi, I suppose—but it’s a good order.’

It had been a pleasantly warm June day, but now that the afternoon was slipping into early evening there was a cool breeze. Eulalia donned a navy blue jacket over her navy and cream patterned dress, gathered up the roses and left the shop, taking a breath of air as she waited for a taxi. Even there, in London, from time to time one had a faint whiff of really fresh air.

The roses were to be delivered to an address close to Eaton Square. She paid the driver and mounted the steps to the front door of a Georgian terraced house. The girlfriend, if it was a girlfriend, lived in some style, thought Eulalia, and pressed the bell. The door was flung open at the same moment and a young woman stood frowning at her.

‘I’m just going out…’

She was a handsome girl. Her features were too strong to be called pretty but she had beautifully dressed fair hair and large blue eyes, which for the moment held no warmth; moreover, she was dressed in the very height of fashion.

‘Miss Kendall?’ asked Eulalia sweetly. ‘I was asked to deliver these to this address before six o’clock.’

Miss Kendall’s perfectly made-up mouth thinned. She snatched the flowers and tore open the little envelope attached to them, glanced at the note and pushed the flowers back into Eulalia’s arms. ‘Throw them with the rubbish,’ she demanded angrily. ‘If he thinks he can—’ She stopped. ‘And don’t just stand there—take the beastly things and go!’

‘I simply cannot throw them in the bin,’ said Eulalia firmly. ‘They’re fresh and beautiful.’

‘Then take them home with you—eat them for your supper for all I care.’ Miss Kendall turned suddenly and went into the house and banged the door.

They deserved each other, decided Eulalia, walking briskly to the nearest bus-stop. She hadn’t liked her ill-tempered customer; she didn’t like Miss Kendall either. A well-matched couple. She dismissed them from her mind and boarded a bus to take her home.

Home was a basement flat in Cromwell Road—not the best end by any means, but it was on the edge of respectability and the flats in the rest of the house were occupied by quiet people. It was dark and poky but it had a narrow strip of garden at the back and she had been lucky to get it. It was a worrying thought that the five-year agreement she had would run out before the autumn, but she had been a good tenant and she hoped that the landlord would renew it and not put the rent up. She tried not to think what she would do if he did that…

She went down the steps and opened the narrow door. The room beyond was fair-sized, with a window at the back as well as the barred one beside the door, and it was nicely furnished with chairs and tables and a heavy sideboard which must have come from a larger house. The curtains were chintz, drawn back from the netcurtained windows, and the floor was covered with a rather fine if shabby Turkish carpet. There were two doors along the inner wall, and one of them opened now to reveal a boy of eight or so, who came through followed by an elderly woman with rosy cheeks and a round face crowned by grey hair strained back into a bun.

Eulalia put down the roses and hugged the boy. ‘Hello, Peter, have you had a good day at school? Tell me about it presently. Trottie, dear, I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I had to deliver these but they weren’t wanted, so I brought them home.’ She laid the roses down on a table, one arm round the boy. ‘Did that man come about the leak in the bathroom?’

‘That he did, Miss Lally, and a fine mess he left behind him too. Said he’d send the bill. Supper’s ready when you are.’

‘Two ticks,’ said Eulalia, and went through the door to a narrow lobby with three doors. She opened one of them and, with Peter still with her, went into her room. It was very small, with one window, barred like all the others, but there was a colourful spread on the narrow bed, and cushions and a pretty bedside lamp. She hung her jacket in the corner cupboard, peered at her face in the old-fashioned looking-glass and said cheerfully, ‘Let’s have supper. I’m famished, and Trottie will have some thing delicious…’

Trottie had laid the table under the back window, and Eulalia went through the second door into the narrow kitchen and helped carry through the toad-in-the-hole and jacket potatoes, while Peter filled their glasses with water. It was a simple meal but eaten off old and beautiful china salvaged from her old home, as were the knives and forks and spoons, rat-tailed eighteenthcentury heavy silver. Trottie wrapped them up carefully each evening and put them in a felt bag and hid them under her mattress. The discomfort was worth it, she had observed, for if they should be burgled even the worst of villains would hesitate to get an elderly lady out of her bed. Eulalia wasn’t sure about that but she forbore to say so.

She found it a cheerful meal, listening to Peter’s comments on his day at school, exchanging gentle gossip with Trottie, telling, with a wealth of detail, of the customer who had bought the yellow roses and how they had been rejected.

‘They must have cost a pretty penny,’ observed Trottie, and when Eulalia told her she said, ‘My goodness gracious, we could eat like fighting cocks for a week on that.’

‘What’s fighting cocks?’ said Peter, which led inevitably to the vexed question as to whether it would be unkind to have a rabbit in a hutch in the garden. They had decided against a dog long since, for there was no one to take him for walks. Eulalia was out all day, Trottie had the house to see to and Peter was at school. Even a cat would be risky, with so much traffic along the busy road.

‘As soon as I’ve made my fortune,’ said Eulalia, ‘we’ll move to a very quiet road with trees and big gardens and we’ll have a cat and a dog and a rabbit too.’

‘I suppose we couldn’t go to the country?’ asked Peter wistfully.

A wish she silently echoed. Oh, to be back in her old home in the Cotswold village where she had been born, in the nice old house to which her grandmother had whisked her when her parents had died in a car crash. She had been eight years old then and had spent the rest of her childhood there, and later, when her grandmother had grown frail, she had taken over the housekeeping with Miss Trott’s aid. It was only on the old lady’s death that she had discovered that the house was mortgaged and that there were debts…

She had paid them off and then, with Miss Trott’s staunch company, had set off for London with the small amount of money she had salvaged and the promise of a job in the flower shop run by a sister of one of her grandmother’s old friends.

She had laid out most of her money on the flat, its rent low because of the recession, signed a lease for five years and, with her wages and Miss Trott’s pension, they had carved a life for themselves. It wasn’t much of a life but neither of them complained; they had a roof over their heads and enough to eat. It had been towards the end of the third year that she had had a letter from her grandmother’s solicitor. A cousin—one she had never known that she had—and her husband had been killed in a plane disaster, leaving a small boy. There were no members of the family save herself, and was she prepared to give the boy a home?

She had gone to see the solicitor and was assured that the facts set out in his letter had been true; the child, unless she was prepared to give him a home, would have to go to an orphanage. There was a little money, she had been told, enough to send him to prep school and, provided he could win a scholarship, pay for his further education. Of course she had agreed to have him, her kind heart wrung by the thought of the lonely little boy, and she had never regretted it. Between them, she and Trottie had helped him with his grief, found a decent school not too far away from the flat, and turned themselves into a family.

They finished their early supper, discussing quite seriously where it would be nice to live, the puppy they would have, a kitten or two and a rabbit—because of course the garden would be large enough to house all three…It was a kind of game they all played from time to time, Peter firmly of the opinion that one day it would all come true, while Eulalia and Trottie hoped for the best. Miracles did happen, after all.

Eulalia helped Peter with his homework presently, while Trottie cleared away the supper things, and when that was done they read a chapter from The Wind in the Willows together before a noisy bath-time in the minute bathroom leading off the kitchen. Peter went to bed, and once he was asleep Eulalia sat down at the table to do her anxious sums and count the money in the house. They managed, the pair of them, to keep their heads above water but there was never any money over. Peter was growing fast, the children’s allowance was barely enough to keep him adequately clothed, and as for shoes…

She sat chewing the top of her ballpoint, ways and means for the moment forgotten, while she admired the roses displayed in a vase on the sideboard. Which, naturally enough, led her to think of the man who had bought them. He might, even at that very moment, be with his Ursula, apologising abjectly…No, he wouldn’t! she corrected herself. He wouldn’t know how to be abject…Then, neither would his Ursula. They would stare coldly at each other, concealing bad tempers in a well-bred manner. ‘And good luck to them,’ said Eulalia, so loudly that Trottie jumped and dropped a stitch of her knitting.

Eulalia had to explain about the rejected roses when she got to the shop in the morning. ‘It was too late to bring them back, and besides, Miss Kendall tore the wrapping.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ observed Mrs Pearce. ‘No point in bringing them back—he paid for them, didn’t he?’ She added, ‘Men do such silly things when they’re in love.’

Eulalia agreed, although she didn’t think that he had behaved like a man in love. Very tight-lipped. He wouldn’t do for me, she reflected, preparing to gather up the wedding bouquets and convey them in a taxi.

Her destination was a palatial mansion in Belgravia, the home of the bride and, judging by the coming and going, the wedding was going to be a day to remember. She was admitted at the side door, bidden to wait, and then led through a bleak passage into a kitchen and out again through a baize door to the entrance hall—a gloomy place with a lot of marble about and a very large chandelier hanging from its lofty ceiling. Here the bouquets were taken from her by a vinegar-faced lady in a black dress and borne away up the wide staircase. ‘Wait here,’ she was told sourly, and since there were no seats she wandered around, studying the large paintings on the walls. They were as gloomy as the hall, depicting scenes of battle, dying ladies in white robes, and dead ducks lying in a most unlikely fashion beside bowls of fruit and bunches of flowers.

‘Absolutely awful,’ said Eulalia in her clear voice, and turned round to see if there was anything better on the other wall.

The man who had bought the roses was standing at the foot of the staircase watching her. He looked rather splendid, in a morning coat with a carnation in his buttonhole, and she felt an unexpected pang at the thought of him marrying his Ursula, who most certainly didn’t love him. He would be hard to love, of course, with that air of knowing best all the time…

She eyed him, her lovely head on one side. ‘You look magnificent,’ she told him, ‘and I dare say you’ll be very happy. She’s quite beautiful and I dare say you made it up. Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you, since you’re getting married…?’

‘Your impertinent remarks are wide of the mark, Miss—er. I am not the bridegroom, nor indeed do I find it any of your business.’

He was as cross as two sticks, but she was glad he wasn’t getting married. ‘So sorry,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘I brought the bouquets, you know.’

‘I did not know, nor am I the. least interested. Why are you waiting here?’

‘I was told to. By someone in a black dress. She had a sharp nose.’

His thin mouth quivered just a little. ‘Then I will leave you to await her return. Good day to you, Miss—er.’

He crossed the hall and disappeared through a doorway and shut the door after him. At the same time the vinegar-faced lady came back, told her that the bouquets were satisfactory and that she might go. ‘Through the side door.’

‘I expect you’re tired, and overworked and cross,’ said Eulalia kindly, and nipped back down the bleak passage and out through the side door, to catch a bus and be borne back to the shop.

She was kept busy all day, for Mrs Pearce had built up quite a reputation for the perfection of her floral arrangements and there was a steady stream of customers, carried away by the sight of the flowers displayed so enticingly in the June sunshine. Besides, Eulalia was a very pretty girl and knew just how to please them, waiting patiently while they pondered their choice.

She didn’t go home for lunch; the bus cost money, for one thing, and for another, if the shop stayed open during the lunch-hour there was always a sprinkling of office workers, mostly husbands wanting flowers sent to their wives for an anniversary. Eulalia, a romantic girl, took great pains with them.

She worked on Saturdays, too, which meant that Peter, home from school, had to rely on Trottie’s company, but they spent their Sundays together, taking picnics to the parks in the summer and visiting museums in the cold weather. It wasn’t ideal but it couldn’t be helped. Mrs Pearce closed the shop on Mondays, which meant that Eulalia could stay at home and do the washing and ironing and then go to the local shops and stock up with groceries for the week. It worked well enough; since she and Peter spent their Sundays away from the flat, it gave Trottie a day to herself.

Going home that evening in a crowded bus, she planned what they would do at the weekend. They would take a bus, riding on the top, of course, and feed the ducks in St James’s Park. Banana sandwiches as well as Marmite, she decided, apples, and she would make some sausage rolls before she went to bed on Saturday. Orange squash, because he liked it, and some chocolate…He was a contented child and wise beyond his years, for he never asked her for something he knew she couldn’t afford.

It was a splendid morning as they left the flat on Sunday. It would be warm later, but now, in the comparative quiet of a Sunday morning, it was pleasantly cool. The bus was half-empty, so they had an upstairs front seat. At times, reflected Eulalia, parts of London were delightful. There would be no hardship in living in one of the elegant houses which lined the streets through which the bus lumbered. Peter, as though he had read her thoughts, said, ‘I’d like to live here. Do you suppose we could move one day?’

‘Just as soon as I make my fortune,’ she promised him, ‘but that may take a little time!’

‘You could marry a very rich man, Aunt Lally.’

‘Indeed, I could. Perhaps you will find him for me, dear.’

They were nearing the park, and made their way down to the platform, where they exchanged the time of day with the conductor and got off at the next stop.

There weren’t many people about, for it wasn’t ten o’clock yet. They wandered along, looking at the bright flowerbeds and presently feeding the ducks, before going to sit down in the sun.

There were plenty of people about now. They wandered on and presently sat down again to eat their lunch, and since Peter wanted to walk and there was plenty of time before they need go back again for tea, they had a last look at the lake and crossed the park to the Mall, crossed into Green Park and turned into Piccadilly, where Eulalia suggested that they might get a bus. However, Peter wanted to walk through the elegant streets with their big houses. ‘We can go as far as Park Lane,’ he pointed out, ‘and catch a bus there.’ Nothing loath, she agreed. She seldom had the chance to walk for any distance and, although the streets of London, however elegant, weren’t a patch on the country roads in the Cotswolds, it was pleasant enough to walk through them.

‘I dare say dukes and duchesses live here,’ said Peter. ‘Do you suppose they’re very grand inside?’

‘Certainly—lovely curtains and carpets and chandeliers…’ She enlarged upon this interesting subject as they walked, until in one of the quiet streets they came upon a magnificent dark grey Bentley and Peter urged her to stop while he took a good look at it. He circled it slowly, admiring it from all angles.

‘I shall have one, when I’m a man,’ he told her, and laid a small, rather grubby hand on its bonnet.

‘Peter, don’t touch. The owner would be very angry if he were to see you doing that.’

She let out a great gusty breath when a quiet voice said in her ear, ‘A wise caution, Miss—er. You should exercise more control over your son.’

They had been standing with their backs to the terrace of grand houses. Now she shot round to face someone who was beginning to crop up far too frequently. ‘It’s you,’ she said crossly. ‘I might have known.’

‘Now, why do you say that?’

‘No reason at all. I’m sorry if Peter has annoyed you; he had no intention of doing so.’ She moved away and took Peter’s hand. ‘Apologise to this gentleman, dear. I know you meant no harm but we mustn’t forget our manners.’

The boy and the man studied each other. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter finally, ‘but it’s a super car and I wanted to look at it.’

The man nodded. ‘Goodbye, Peter; goodbye Miss— er.’

He watched them go, smiling a little. A pity he couldn’t remember her surname, and they were hardly on such good terms that he could address her as Eulalia.

‘You look cross, Aunt Lally,’ said Peter, as they reached a bus-stop and joined the short queue.

‘Not with you, love; that man annoyed me.’

‘Was he rich?’ Peter wanted to know. ‘He must be if he lives in one of those houses and drives a Bentley.’

‘I dare say he is, but I really don’t know. Here’s our bus.’

Peter told Trottie all about it when they got home. ‘Aunt Lally was a bit cross with him,’ he explained.

At Trottie’s enquiring look Eulalia said, ‘It was the man who bought the roses,’ in a voice which didn’t invite questions.

* * *

A week went by. Eulalia, fashioning bouquets and taking orders for beribboned, Cellophaned flowers to be sent to wives and girlfriends and mothers, longed silently for her old home, with its large untidy gardens and the fields beyond. She hoped that the people who had bought it were taking proper care of it and had left the frogs in the pool at the bottom of the garden in peace. It would have been nice to show them to Peter.

She gave her head a shake. Moaning over what was past and couldn’t be helped would do no good. Rather, she must think of ways and means for Peter and Trottie to have a holiday once school was over. Somewhere not too far from London, and cheap. A farm, perhaps…

The fine weather had come to stay, at least for a time, and they planned a trip to the Serpentine on Sunday. Trottie was going to have her dinner with one of her elderly friends and Eulalia saw her off before she and Peter, carrying their picnic lunch, set out.

They had got off the bus and were waiting to cross the road when a bunch of youths on motorbikes raced past. They were in high spirits and the road was almost empty and they were going too fast. The last one of all went out of control, mounted the pavement and knocked Peter down, narrowly missing Eulalia, and tearing away.

Peter lay awkwardly, his head on the kerb, an arm bent awkwardly under him. She knelt down beside him, panic-stricken but fighting to keep sensible.

‘Peter—Peter, darling? Can you hear me?’ When he didn’t answer she felt for his pulse and was relieved to find his heart beating strongly. She took off her cardigan and slid it under his head but she didn’t move his arm in case it was broken. Then she stood up as a bus came lumbering along on the other side of the road. She waved and shouted to the driver and he stopped his bus, and the conductor came running across the street.

‘He was knocked down,’ said Eulalia in a voice which shook just a little. ‘I must get him to hospital…’

The conductor was a spruce little man and he looked helpful. ‘The bus passes Maude’s ‘ospital. We’ll have him aboard—quicker than waiting for an ambulance or a taxi.’

‘Bless you. He’s concussed and I think that arm’s broken.’

‘Leave it to me, miss. You go ahead of me; ’e can lie on yer lap. We’ll have ’im right as rain in no time.’

Between them they lifted Peter, and Eulalia lifted the arm gently and laid it across Peter’s small chest and then hurried to the bus. There was only a handful of passengers aboard and no one complained at the delay as she got in, received Peter on to her lap and held him close as the bus pulled away. The hospital was indeed only a very short drive and the driver took his bus into the forecourt and down the ramp to Casualty and then got down to help his conductor carry Peter in. Eulalia paused just long enough to apologise to the other passengers for the delay, and ran after them.

They were standing, the two of them, explaining to a nurse as Peter was laid on a trolley. “Ere she is,’ said the conductor. ‘She’ll give yer the details.’

He and the driver shook hands with her, looking bashful at her thanks. ‘Can’t keep the passengers waiting,’ said the driver. “Ope the nipper’ll be OK.’

‘Your names?’ asked Eulalia. ‘Quickly, for I must go to Peter.’

“E’s Dave Brown and I’m John ’Iggins, miss. Glad to ’ave ’elped.’

She kissed them on the cheek in turn and hurried after the trolley.

Peter had his eyes open now and she took his hand in hers. ‘Peter? It’s all right, love. You fell down, you’re in hospital and a doctor will come and see if you’re hurt.’

‘If you’ll give the details to the receptionist,’ said the nurse, ‘we’ll get him comfy and get someone to look at him. An accident, was it?’

Eulalia told her briefly and took herself off to the reception desk, and by the time she got back Peter was on an examination couch. His clothes had been taken off, the sleeve of his injured arm cut to allow the small arm to be exposed. He was trying not to cry and she went and held his good hand, wanting to weep herself.

The young doctor who came in said, ‘Hello,’ in a cheerful voice, then, ‘So what’s happened to this young man?’

He was gently examining Peter’s head as he spoke. He peered into his eyes, then turned his attention to the arm. ‘Can you squeeze my finger, old chap?’ he wanted to know, and at Peter’s whimper of pain, said, ‘I think an X-ray first of all, don’t you? So we can see the damage.’

He smiled at Eulalia. ‘We’ll take care of him. If you’ll wait here?’

She went and sat down on a bench, oblivious of her torn dress and dishevelled person. There were few people around: two or three at the other end of Casualty, talking quietly, and near them were curtains drawn round one of the cubicles. The curtains parted presently and a big woman with an air of authority came out, followed by a man in a long white coat. She would have known him anywhere because of his great size, and she watched him go and speak to the group near by with a feeling that she was never going to be rid of him. Hopefully, he’d go away without seeing her…

But he had. He shook hands with the two women, and with the man with them, and trod without haste towards her.

He looked different, somehow, and he was different. He was someone in authority, ready to help and capable of doing just that. She stood up to meet him, her skirt in tatters around the hem, dust from the street masking its colour. ‘It’s Peter, he was knocked down by a motorbike—we were on the pavement. He hit his head and I think his arm is broken. He’s been taken to X-Ray. I was told to wait here.’

She was pale with worry and her voice shook and so did her hands, so she put them behind her back in case he should see that and think her a silly woman lacking self-control.

‘Where did it happen?’

She told him. ‘And those two men on the bus, they were so quick and kind. I don’t know what I would have done without them.’

‘I suspect that you would have managed. Sit down again. I’ll go to X-Ray and see how things are.’

She put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Do you work here? I mean, you’re a doctor in Casualty?’

‘Not in Casualty, but I work here upon occasion. I am a surgeon.’ He added, ‘Orthopaedics.’

‘Bones,’ said Eulalia. ‘You’ll help Peter?’

‘It seems that since I’m here I might as well.’

She watched him walk away. He had spoilt everything with that last remark. She had been beginning to like him a little but she had been mistaken; he was a bad-tempered man and rude with it. All the same, she hoped he would do something for Peter. Quite unexpectedly, two tears escaped and ran down her pale cheeks. She brushed them aside impatiently, and just in time as he came back.

‘Mild concussion, and he has a fractured arm just above the wrist. We will give him a local anaesthetic, align the bones and put on a plaster. We’ll keep him overnight for observation…’ And at her questioning look he added, ‘No, no, nothing to worry about. Routine only. You can fetch him in the morning, but telephone first. Keep him in bed for a couple of days and no school for a week.’

‘He’s all right?’

He said impatiently, ‘Have I not said so? Come and see him before we put the plaster on.’

He turned on his heel and walked away, and she followed him through a door and into a small room where Peter lay on a table. He grinned when he saw her. ‘He said I was brave,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to stay here tonight. You will fetch me, won’t you?’

‘Of course, dear.’ She glanced around. There was no sign of any doctor, only a male nurse and a student nurse busy with bowls of water and plaster bandages.

‘Like to stay?’ asked the nurse, and gave her a friendly look.

‘May I?’

‘No problem.’ He turned away and lifted Peter’s good arm out of the blanket. ‘Here’s Mr van Linssen. He’ll have you as good as new in no time at all.’

So that was his name. She watched as he slid a needle into Peter’s broken arm. He did it unhurriedly and very gently, talking all the time to the boy. ‘You’re a lot braver than many of the grown-ups,’ he told him. ‘In a minute or two we’re going to straighten your arm—you won’t have any pain, but you’ll feel us pulling a little. Keep still, won’t you?’

Peter nodded. His lip quivered a little but he wasn’t going to cry. It was Eulalia who felt like crying. She was sure that Peter couldn’t feel any pain but she closed her eyes as Mr van Linssen began to pull steadily while the nurse held the arm firmly.

‘You can look now,’ he said in a hatefully bland voice, so she did. He was holding the arm while the nurse began to slide on a stockinette sleeve and then start to apply the plaster. It didn’t take long and Peter hadn’t made a sound.

Mr van Linssen was smoothing the plaster tidily when Sister put her head round the curtains. ‘Why, Mr van Linssen, I thought you had left ages ago. You’ll be late for that luncheon party.’ Her eyes fell on Peter. ‘Had a tumble?’

‘Knocked down by a motorbike. I’d like him in for the night, Sister. Get a bed, will you? And we’ll make him comfortable. He’s been a model patient.’

She went away and the nurse started to clear up. Mr van Linssen took off his white coat and the student nurse took it from him gingerly. Rather as though he might bite, thought Eulalia. She got up. ‘‘Thank you very much for your help—’ she began.

She was cut short. ‘No need, all in the day’s work, Miss—er?’

He raised his eyebrows, standing there looking at her.

‘Warburton,’ she snapped.

He nodded. ‘Your son’s a nice little chap,’ he said, and walked away.

She turned to the nurse. ‘I’m Peter’s cousin,’ she told him. ‘I did tell the receptionist—he’s an orphan.’

‘Makes no odds,’ said the nurse, and smiled at her; she was very pretty and she had cheered up his day a bit. ‘You were in luck. Mr van Linssen wasn’t even on duty—came in to see the relations of a patient who died—had a hip op here and got knocked down late last night. He may be a consultant and a bit high and mighty but I know who I’d like to deal with my bones if I broke them.’

Sister came back then and Peter was borne off to the children’s ward, sleepy now but rather proud of his plastered arm. Eulalia saw him into his bed and was told by the ward sister that there was no need to come back with pyjamas and toothbrush. ‘He’s only here for the night,’ she said in a comfortable voice. ‘Mind you phone first and we’ll have him ready for you.’

Eulalia thanked her, kissed Peter and went out of the Casualty entrance. At the top of the ramp there was a dark grey Bentley and Mr van Linssen was sitting in it. He opened the door as she reached the car.

‘Get in. I’ll drive you home.’

‘No, thank you. There’s a bus—’

‘Get in, Miss Warburton, and don’t pretend that you aren’t upset. All mothers are when their small children get hurt. Where do you live?’

She got in without another word after she had told him, and they drove in silence until he stopped before the flat. As she got out she said, ‘Thank you, you’re very kind. And I’m not Peter’s mother, only his cousin.’

CHAPTER TWO

MR VAN LINSSEN had expressed no surprise, only grunted, nodded and driven away, leaving her wondering why on earth she had told him. Luckily she wouldn’t have to see him again; she would feel such a fool…

She went indoors and was relieved to see that Trottie wasn’t back yet. It would give her time to change her torn dress and tidy herself up and compose herself before telling her old friend what had happened. She made a pot of tea and sat down to drink it, reflecting what a good thing it was that she didn’t go to work on Mondays; Mrs Pearce was a kind employer but she expected value for her money. She wasn’t over-generous with her wages but she was fair. She was also a businesswoman who would have no compunction in giving Eulalia the sack if business fell off, and if Eulalia were to take too many days off she might look around for someone else. Once Peter was home Trottie would look after him, she thought worriedly. Dear Trottie, always willing and goodtempered, and hating the flat as much as she did.

She got up and began to get tea. The sandwiches were still in her bag—they had better have those…

Trottie came in presently, took one look at Eulalia’s face and asked, ‘What’s happened? Where’s Peter? You look like a ghost.’

When she had been told she said, ‘Poor little fellow. But don’t you worry, Miss Lally, he’ll be as right as rain in no time. What luck that you’re at home tomorrow, and he’ll be no trouble—remember how good he was when he had the measles?’ She gave Eulalia a sharp glance. ‘Did you have any lunch?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought not. We’ll have a nice tea and you can tell me about that doctor. Fancy meeting him like that, and him a medical man. Like it was meant…’

Before she went to bed that night Eulalia phoned the hospital to be told that Peter was asleep after eating a light supper with gusto. Everything was fine, and would she ring after tomorrow’s round at noon? He would have been seen by then and an X-ray taken to make sure that the bones were in the right position.

She couldn’t imagine Mr van Linssen making any mistakes about bones—after all, it was his work. A tiresome man, not worth sparing a thought for. All the same, it was difficult not to think about him, since he was all part and parcel of their disastrous day.

She fetched Peter home the next afternoon, and since he was to go straight to bed for another two days she took him in a taxi, a rare treat which delighted him. He was full of his stay in hospital; he had enjoyed it, he told her, the nurses had been fun, and the doctor who had seen him in Casualty had come to see him before he went to sleep, and in the morning the big man who had told him that he was brave had come to see him too. ‘He wasn’t alone,’ explained Peter. ‘There was Sister with him and two nurses and another doctor and someone who wrote in a book when he said something. I liked him, Aunt Lally, he’s not a bit cross really. He carried a silly little girl all round the ward with him because she was crying.’

‘I’m very grateful to him, Peter, and so thankful that you weren’t really badly hurt. Did he explain that you have to stay quietly in bed for a few days? Dr Burns will come and see you then, and tell us when you can go back to school.’ She put an arm round his small shoulders. ‘Here we are, home again, and there’s Trottie waiting for us.’

He didn’t complain at going to bed but sat up happily enough with a jigsaw puzzle. He hadn’t a headache but, all the same, Eulalia wouldn’t let him read but read to him instead, and presently he settled down and slept, leaving her free to catch up on the household chores.

She began on a pile of ironing while Trottie rested her elderly feet. ‘It’s no good,’ said Eulalia, ‘you’ll have to have a holiday. Somewhere that will suit you both. The seaside would be nice, or somewhere in the country—a farm, perhaps…’

‘Give over, Miss Lally, where’s the money to come from?’ said Trottie.

‘I’ll go to the bank and get an overdraft…’

‘And what about you?’

‘Me? Oh, I’m fine, Trottie, and anyway, I can never have a holiday at this time of year. We’re too busy in the shop. I’ll wait until the tourist season is over.’

‘You said that last year and you didn’t go anywhere.’

‘Well, things cropped up, didn’t they?’

‘You mean gas bills and new trousers for Peter and me having to have new spectacles.’

‘Yes, well, we’ll see. Now, what shall we eat tomorrow? I’ll nip out and shop, if you like. Mrs Pearce won’t mind if it’s only for ten minutes.’

‘How about a nice macaroni cheese? That’s light enough for Peter—fish would be the thing, but I don’t trust fish on Mondays. Mashed swede with a bit of butter, and I’ll cream the potatoes. A little egg custard for afters.’

It was a good thing, reflected Eulalia later that evening, that Peter seemed to be quite well again. She had phoned the doctor and he had promised to look in some time tomorrow.

She went back to work in the morning, leaving Trottie to ask questions of their doctor when he came and get his advice. ‘I know it’s nothing much,’ she said, ‘but he had an awful bang on his head.’

Mrs Pearce was sympathetic but she didn’t offer to let Eulalia go home early. She said with casual kindness, ‘Boys will be boys, won’t they?’ Just as though it had been Peter’s fault, and added, ‘Luckily you have Miss Trott to look after him. I’ll want you to stay a bit later today—Lady Bearsted is sending her secretary for the flowers for her dinner party some time after six o’clock.’

Because she was worried about Peter the day went slowly. Mrs Pearce went home at five o’clock, leaving Eulalia to lock up once the flowers had been fetched. Six o’clock took twice as long as usual to come, and even then there was no sign of the secretary. She came finally, half an hour later, apologetic and harassed. ‘These dinner parties,’ she confided to Eulalia, ‘they’re ghastly. I’m supposed to get these flowers back and arranged on the table and round the rooms before everyone arrives about eight o’clock…’

Eulalia took the flowers out to the waiting taxi, watched it drive away and tore back to get her jacket and lock up. At least the rush hour was almost over and it wouldn’t take too long to get home.

All the same, it was well after seven o’clock when she reached the flat, to stop short on the pavement. Drawn up to the kerb was a dark grey Bentley.

A jumble of thoughts chased themselves round her head. Peter had been taken ill and their doctor had rung the hospital and Mr van Linssen had come to examine Peter. One heard of delayed collapse after concussion-Peter might be desperately ill. She flung open the door, almost tumbling down the steps in her hurry.

Trottie was standing at the table, a teapot in her hand. She looked up as Eulalia came in. ‘You are late, love; you must be tired, and famished into the bargain.’

‘Where’s Peter? What’s that man’s car doing outside? Why is he here?’

She had spoken a good deal louder than usual and Peter called from his room.

‘Aunt Lally—Mr van Linssen’s here—we’re playing draughts…’

Eulalia was feeling as anyone would who had believed the worst had happened and found that there was nothing to worry about. She had a wish to burst into tears but she swallowed them and went to Peter’s little room. Most of it seemed to be taken up by Mr van Linssen’s bulk. ‘Why are you here?’ she wanted to know, and then at Peter’s puzzled look she bent to kiss him and smile.

Mr van Linssen stood up, bending his head to avoid cracking it on the ceiling. ‘I happen to know your doctor,’ he told her smoothly. ‘We decided that it would save time if I were to come and check on Peter’s progress, since if he were to come he would still need to inform me of his findings.’

‘Peter’s all right?’

‘My dear Miss Warburton, if he were not, would we be playing draughts?’

She glared at him. What a nasty way he had of making her feel a fool. She was wondering if he would go now that she was home, and hoped that he would, but Trottie’s voice from the living-room begged them to come and have a nice cup of tea. ‘And I’ll give Peter his supper,’ she finished, and appeared a moment later with the tray. ‘Go and pour the tea, Miss Lally, I’m sure you could both do with a cup, and the doctor can tell you about Peter, for I can see you’re all of a fret.’

Eulalia, aware that Mr van Linssen was looking at her with an air of amusement, frowned and led the way, since there was nothing else she could do. Show him the door, of course, but that would be unthinkable. She should be grateful…

There was one of Trottie’s Madeira cakes on the table beside the teapot. She poured the tea, offered the cake and passed him the sugar-bowl.

‘You work long hours,’ he observed, and bit into the cake.

‘I had to wait to deliver some flowers. How is Peter, Mr van Linssen?’

‘He is perfectly fit, but before he returns to school I want him to be X-rayed again…’ At her look of fright he added, ‘No, no, don’t panic. I merely want to satisfy myself that the bones are correctly aligned and that there is no misplacement. Let me see—it is Tuesday today. Let him stay at home for the rest of this week. Bring him to the hospital tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

He saw the look on her face. ‘No—stupid of me, you would be at your shop. I’ll arrange for him to be fetched and brought back here. Trottie could accompany him, perhaps?’

‘You’re very kind.’ She was always telling him that, she thought. ‘I’m glad he’s quite well. He’s such a dear little boy.’

‘Yes.’

He passed his cup and she refilled it and passed him the cake. ‘Are you having a day off?’ she asked politely.

‘Er—no.’ He thought back over his busy day, which had begun with an emergency operation at four o’clock in the morning and was by no means at an end. ‘This is a delicious cake.’

She offered him more. It would spoil his supper or dinner, or whatever he had in the evenings, but he was a large man. He might have missed his tea.

He had missed his lunch too, but he didn’t tell her that.

He went presently to say goodbye to Peter and to tell him that he would be going to the hospital in the morning for an X-ray. ‘And you can go back to school on Monday.’

‘Oh, good. Will you come and see me again?’

‘Ah, yes, we still have to finish our game of draughts— I’ll see if I can find the time.’

Peter was reluctant to let him go. ‘Are you very busy every day?’

‘Yes, old chap, but now and again I have a day off.’

‘I think perhaps I’ll be a surgeon when I grow up.’

‘A splendid idea!’ They shook hands, and Mr van Linssen shook hands with Trottie too, but when Eulalia took him to the door he bent and kissed her, opened the door and went up the stone steps two at a time without a backward glance.

She banged the door shut. ‘He’s outrageous,’ she said furiously.

‘You’re a pretty girl, Miss Lally. Men like pretty girls.’

Eulalia ground her splendid teeth.

Mr van Linssen drove himself home. He had enjoyed kissing Eulalia but he wasn’t sure why he had done so. She was very pretty—indeed, beautiful when she wasn’t looking cross—but he had known and still did know other pretty women and felt no urge to kiss any of them. True, he kissed Ursula from time to time, but always circumspectly, as she was fussy about her make-up being spoiled. Their engagement was a well-conducted affair, with no display of emotion.

He had decided to marry her because she was so suitable to be his wife, and since he was no longer a young man and had decided that there was no ideal woman in the world for him. He had known from the first that Ursula didn’t love him; she liked him, was fond of him, and very content to marry him, for he had wealth and position and a certain amount of fame in his profession. They would get on well enough together, although she had revealed a pettishness and desire to have her own way which she had been careful not to let him see before they had become engaged. She had lost her temper once or twice and then apologised very prettily, but they had come near to quarrelling when he had told her that for part of the year they would live in Holland. ‘My home is there,’ he had pointed out reasonably. ‘I have beds in several hospitals. My home is in the country and I think that you would like it.’

She had screamed at him—at the idea of burying herself alive in some miserable little village with no shops and none of her friends. She would go mad. Of course, she would go there with him just to visit, but certainly not for more than a week or so. Perhaps they could take some of her friends with them…

He had given her a long, thoughtful look and had walked out of her mother’s house, so angry that he couldn’t trust himself to speak, and then later he had sent her the roses…

He left the main road presently and turned into an elegant little street off Cavendish Square. His house was at the end of a short terrace of Regency houses and was a good deal smaller than the others, with only two storeys, but it had the advantages of easy access to the mews behind and a minute garden at the back. He got out of his car, got his bag from the back seat and trod the three steps to his front door.

A thin middle-aged man opened it. He had a long face with an expression of resigned disapproval upon it, and his staid, ‘Good evening, sir,’ held reproach.

Mr van Linssen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good evening, Dodge. I’m late—I got delayed.’ He started down the elegant little hall towards his study.

‘Nothing serious, I hope, sir.’

‘I got carried away playing a game of draughts and quite forgot the time.’

Dodge looked astonished. ‘Draughts, sir? Would you like dinner served very shortly?’

Mr van Linssen, his hand on the study door, nodded. ‘Please.’

Dodge coughed. ‘Miss Kendall telephoned shortly after seven o’clock, sir. She asked if you were home. She seemed somewhat agitated, so I took it upon myself to say that you had been detained at the hospital over an urgent case. I was to tell you that she intended to go to the theatre with her friends as arranged.’

‘Oh, lord, I forgot.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll have dinner and phone later this evening.’

Dodge’s face didn’t alter, his, ‘Very good, sir,’ was uttered in his usual rather mournful tones, but once in the kitchen he informed Mabel, his cat, that it served that Miss Kendall right, always expecting the master to frivol away his precious free time at the theatre and suchlike, when all he wanted to do was to have a quiet evening with a book or in the company of his own friends.

Dodge shook his head sadly and began to dish up. He was a splendid cook, and with the aid of a daily cleaner ran the little house to perfection. He disliked Mr van Linssen’s choice of a bride. He considered her rude and arrogant and spoilt; moreover, despite his mournful manner, he was romantic at heart, and wished for nothing better than a love-match for his master.

Mr van Linssen enjoyed his dinner, finished an article he had been writing for The Lancet, made several phone calls to the hospital and then sat back idly in his chair. There was plenty of work for him to get on with on his desk, but he ignored it. He was mulling over his visit to Peter. A nice child, unspoilt too, and happy despite his orphaned state and lack of a father or uncle. Eulalia was doing her best, he had seen that for himself, and Trottie, waxing chatty over a cup of tea, had told him a good deal. Miss Lally was an angel, she had confided, and never had any time to herself. Even on a Monday, when she was free, there was the washing and ironing and shopping.

Mr van Linssen, who had only a vague idea about the running of a household, had nodded sympathetically. ‘What she wants is a good husband,’ Trottie had said, and had poured more tea.

She was an impetuous girl, he reflected now, outspoken too—not every man would want her for a wife. She was, of course, undeniably pretty. It was a pity that they had got off on the wrong foot, and she had made it obvious that she had no liking for him, although she had thanked him for looking after Peter and meant it.

He shrugged his shoulders, a little irritated at his interest in her, and lifted the phone.

Ursula’s voice, high with bad temper, caused him to wince. ‘I have had a wretched evening,’ she told him, ‘making excuses for you, and of course we were a man short for supper afterwards. Fenno, you will have to give up your appointments at all those hospitals—there’s no need. You’ve private patients enough, and think of the private hospitals there are—you could pick and choose and enjoy a social life.’

It was an old argument which he had always brushed aside. Now he said, ‘But I don’t want to give up my appointments, either here or in Holland, Ursula, nor do I intend to.’

She did some quick thinking. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be cross. I’ve had a beastly time—the play was a bore and some fool spilt wine down my dress—it’s a ruin. I’ll have to go looking for another one, and shopping is so tiring.’

He thought of Eulalia’s tired face when she had got home that evening and fought a rising tide of impatience. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something just as pretty as the frock which is spoilt.’

‘I’ll find something you will like, darling, be sure of that. Don’t let’s quarrel about something which isn’t in the least important.’

Mr van Linssen controlled his rage with an effort. ‘I have to ring off. I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

When, hopefully, he would feel more tolerant.

He fetched Peter the next morning, much to that little boy’s delight. ‘We thought there’d be an ambulance,’ explained Trottie. ‘Shall I come with him? However will he get back?’

‘I’ll bring him back, and there’s no need for you to come, Miss Trott.’

‘There’s coffee on the stove if you could find time for a cup, sir.’

Mr van Linssen sat himself down at the kitchen table, accepted the coffee and a slice of cake and remarked carelessly, ‘You must find this very different from the Cotswolds.’

‘Indeed I do, and so does Miss Lally. Made up her mind to go back there one day she has, bless her, though how she’ll manage that, bless me if I know.’

‘Perhaps she has prospects of marrying? An old friend—an admirer?’

‘Admirers enough,’ said Trottie, ‘but that’s not her way—too proud to accept help. Besides, she’s not found the right man yet.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Besides, he’ll have to be a proper man, if you know what I mean, able to take her troubles on to his shoulders. She’s not one of these modern young women wanting to be something big in the business world, but she’s no doormat, neither—’

She broke off as Peter came into the kitchen, his small face alight with excitement. ‘Are we going in your car? Is that why you’re here?’

‘Indeed it is. Are you ready? We’d better be off or we’ll be late.’

Mr van Linssen allowed Peter to chatter away as he drove to the hospital, but presently he asked casually, ‘Do you want to go to the Cotswolds too, Peter?’

‘Yes, ‘cos Aunt Lally does. We shall go one day. She said so—she’s going to make her fortune and we’ll go to the village where she was a little girl and she’s going to open a flower shop there and we’ll have a dog and a cat and a rabbit and there will be a garden.’

‘You might have to wait a bit, old chap.’

‘That’s what Aunt Lally says too, but I don’t mind. When I’m a man I’ll be a doctor like you, and then I can give her the money.’

Mr van Linssen’s rather stern face broke into a smile. ‘And why not?’ he wanted to know.

He parked the car and led Peter to the X-ray department, and, when he had been X-rayed, handed him over to Casualty Sister, who fed him chocolate biscuits and a glass of lemonade until Mr van Linssen came back to say that everything was splendid and that he was to come back and have a fresh plaster put on his arm in three weeks’ time. ‘You’ll have to keep that one for another five or six weeks, Peter, but you can use your arm as much as you like, as long as you keep it in a sling if it feels tired.’

‘Aunt Lally will be pleased. I’ll tell her.’

‘Maybe I’ll come along some time and explain it to her. Now we must go back.’

‘Are you very busy?’ asked Peter, as they went back to the car.

‘Not this morning, but this afternoon I’m going to operate.’

‘Oh, I’d like to watch you.’

‘So you shall, when you are a medical student and I’m grey-haired and elderly.’

Peter laughed at that. ‘With a beard and floppy moustache and specs!’

‘I do wear spectacles occasionally,’ said Mr van Linssen apologetically.

He didn’t stay when they reached the flat. ‘Everything’s just as it should be, Miss Trott,’ he said. ‘I’ll let your doctor know how things are, and I’ve no doubt he will get in touch with Miss Warburton.’ He sounded all at once very like a medical man, kind in a distant manner,

but quite impersonal.

* * *

When Eulalia got home that evening she listened first of all to Peter’s excited account of his visit to the hospital, and then to Trottie. Everything was all right, it seemed, and she was grateful to Mr van Linssen for taking so much trouble. She had no reason to suppose that he would leave any message for her; all the same, she felt a vague disappointment.

The weather turned suddenly wet and chilly, which meant that on Sunday, instead of their usual trip to one or other of the parks, she and Peter took a long bus ride, sitting on’ the front seat on top, sharing a bag of buns and pointing out everything which took their attention. And on Monday Peter went back to school.

It was halfway through the week when Mr van Linssen walked into the flower shop. Eulalia was alone, for it was the lunch-hour and Mrs Pearce had gone home for a while, leaving her to eat her sandwiches and get on with making bouquets for yet another wedding. She sighed as the doorbell tinkled, hoping it was someone who knew what they wanted and wouldn’t keep her for minutes on end while they decided what to do. She put down the roses in her hands and went into the shop.

Mr van Linssen, looming over the floral displays, looked larger than ever and bad-tempered to boot.

Eulalia went delightfully pink, and to cover her sudden shyness said, ‘Good afternoon, more yellow roses?’

It annoyed her then that she felt shy; from his forbidding appearance he had no recollection of kissing her, and certainly when he spoke it was quite without warmth, ignoring her remark.

‘It is only proper that I should inform you of the result of Peter’s X-ray, Miss Warburton, and as I was passing this way it seemed as good an opportunity as any at which to do it.’

‘It’s all right? Trottie said—’

‘It is perfectly satisfactory. He must return for a new plaster in three weeks’ time and continue to wear it for a further few weeks. He must use his hand normally. Do not get it wet, of course, and if it aches at all there is no reason why he shouldn’t have a sling.’

‘Thank you for telling me. I really am most grateful.’

He nodded impatiently. ‘Do you not close the shop for your lunch-hour?’

‘Heavens, no. Lots of customers come between one and two o’clock.’

‘When do you take your lunch-hour?’

‘Well, I don’t. I mean, I have sandwiches and eat them when there’s time.’

‘The owner?’

What a lot of questions, thought Eulalia. ‘Oh, Mrs Pearce goes home. She has a husband to feed, and she has to see wholesalers and so on—it’s convenient to do that over lunch.’

His growl was so fierce that she wondered what she had said to annoy him. A quick-tempered man, no doubt. ‘You will be good enough to send some flowers to Miss Kendall. What do you suggest?’

‘Well, it depends, doesn’t it? If it’s just a loving gesture, red roses are for love, aren’t they? But if it’s by way of saying you are sorry about something, then a mixture of flowers—roses and carnations and some of those lilies there and an orchid or two…’

‘Perhaps you will make up a bouquet and have it sent round?’

‘A large bouquet? Any particular flowers?’

‘No. Make your own choice. I’ll write a card.’

She watched him scrawl on the card and put it in its envelope.

‘It’s a waste of money,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘Miss Kendall threw the yellow roses at me, you know.’

‘Indeed?’ He gave her a bland look. ‘Don’t you have a delivery boy?’

‘Good heavens, no, that would be eating the profits.’

‘You enjoy your work, Miss Warburton?’

‘I like flowers and arranging them.’

‘But you do not enjoy living in London and working in this shop?’

It wasn’t really a question, just stating a fact, and she wasn’t sure how to answer him. ‘I’m glad to have a job.’ She added with sudden asperity, ‘And I can’t think what business it is of yours.’

‘Upon reflection, nor can I. Good day to you.’

He shut the door gently behind him as he left.

‘High-handed,’ said Eulalia loudly, ‘as well as bad-tempered. If I hadn’t disliked that Miss Kendall on sight, I’d be sorry for her.’

It was almost the end of the following week when Peter rushed to meet her when she got home. ‘Aunt Lally, oh, Aunt Lally, something splendid—Mr van Linssen’s going to take me round his hospital on Sunday afternoon. He knows I’m going to be a surgeon like him and he said I deserved a treat because I’ve been a good boy. Do say I can go—he says he’ll fetch me in his car and bring me back.’

Eulalia took off her jacket and kicked her shoes from her tired feet.

‘Darling, when did he say all this?’

‘He stopped here on his way home and he said he was sorry you weren’t here but he hoped you’d let me go with him. Two o’clock,’ added Peter.

She looked down at the eager little face.’ He didn’t have many treats. His small school-friends had fathers and mothers who took them to fun-fairs and the zoo, and in the summer to the sea for a holiday, but he had never voiced a wish to do that, although she was quite sure that he longed to do the same. She might not like Mr van Linssen, but for some reason or other she trusted him. She said at once, ‘Darling, how lovely. Of course you can go, and how kind of Mr van Linssen to ask you. Did you thank him?’

‘Yes, of course I did, but I said I’d have to ask you first.’

‘Well, I think it’s a splendid idea. How are you going to let him know?’

‘He said he’d be driving past tomorrow morning and it’s Saturday so I’ll be here.’ He lifted a happy face to her. ‘Won’t it be fun?’ His face clouded. ‘Only, what will you do, Aunt Lally? Because Trottie’s going to her friend’s for dinner…’

Eulalia glanced across to the table, where Trottie was arranging knives and forks and spoons. ‘I’ve so many odd jobs to do—not housework, just nice little jobs like sewing on buttons—and I can read the Sunday papers.’

Trottie’s eyes were on her face, and for a moment it seemed as though she would speak, but she only smiled. ‘Sounds nice and peaceful to me,’ she said finally. ‘Dear knows you don’t get much time to yourself.’

‘You must remember every single thing you see,’ said Eulalia, as they sat down to their supper.

* * *

Sunday came with blue skies and bright sunshine, and the three of them went to church before Trottie went to catch her bus. ‘There’s everything ready for your dinner,’ she told them. ‘Be sure and have it early so’s not to keep Mr van Linssen waiting. I’ll be back around seven o’clock, same as usual.’

It was a nice dinner but Peter was too excited to eat much. He was ready and waiting for a long time before two o’clock. ‘Perhaps he won’t come,’ he said, for the tenth time.

‘He said two o’clock, dear, so don’t worry—there’s still ten minutes left.’

He came five minutes later and she went to open the door to him.

Her, ‘Good afternoon, Mr van Linssen,’ was coolly polite. ‘This is very kind of you.’

He stood looking at her. ‘A pleasure. It has struck me that it might be sensible if you were to come too.’ At her frown, he added, ‘There is always the small chance that I might be called away urgently and Peter cannot be left alone. Do you dislike the idea very much?’

Upon reflection, she didn’t dislike the idea at all. ‘I don’t want to spoil Peter’s afternoon.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll leave you somewhere in safe hands.’

A remark which ruffled her feelings. She was on the point of making a suitably telling reply when Peter joined them. ‘Are we ready? What a pity you can’t come with us, Aunt Lally.’

‘She is coming,’ said Mr van Linssen, and shut the door.

‘Do go and fetch whatever you need to fetch. Peter and I will plan our route round the hospital—you can have five minutes.’

Her eyes sparkled with temper. ‘I don’t ‘ she began with dignity. She caught his eye then. It was very compelling. She mumbled, ‘All right, I won’t be long.’

Thank heaven she hadn’t changed out of the dress she had worn to church; she had intended to get into an old cotton dress and turn out a few cupboards. She brushed her hair, powdered her nose, added some more lipstick, found her bag and went back to the living-room. The pair of them were crouched over a large sheet of paper spread out on the table. A plan of the hospital, she supposed.

‘Won’t anyone mind?’ she asked, as she got into the back of the car. ‘Us walking round?’

‘Not if you are with me,’ he told her gravely.

They went to Casualty first, for once almost empty, and then to the outpatients’ hall, before taking the lift to the first floor to inspect each ward in turn, and in each one he introduced them to the ward sister. ‘Friends of mine,’ he explained, which she found rather high-handed of him. She hardly knew him, and what conversation they had engaged in had hardly been of a friendly nature.

When they reached the theatre block she was left with Theatre Sister in her office and given a cup of tea while Peter, speechless with excitement, was taken to see one of the operating theatres. They were gone a long time, and when they got back Mr van Linssen had a cup of tea too, and Peter a glass of lemonade. Somehow Eulalia hadn’t thought of the operating theatre allied to cups of tea. Sister’s office was quite cosy, too, and she was young and pretty and obviously Mr van Linssen’s slave.

She was one of the junior sisters, she had confided to Eulalia. The theatre superintendent, an awesome lady who ruled the theatres with a rod of iron, only scrubbed for major surgery and always for Mr van Linssen. ‘There are two other sisters, but we aren’t allowed to scrub for him, more’s the pity. He’s quite a dish, isn’t he? Going to get married soon—he never talks about it, though.’

They went unhurriedly back through the hospital and into Casualty once more, where Mr van Linssen explained with patience exactly what happened to a patient when he arrived, answering Peter’s endless questions with apparent tirelessness.

They got back into the car presently and he said casually, ‘I hope you will both come and have tea with me. I’m sure Peter hasn’t finished with his questions…?’

‘Tea?’ asked Peter. ‘Oh, please.’ He turned to look at Eulalia. ‘Aunt Lally, can we go?’

It was impossible to refuse without being rude and spoiling the day for Peter. ‘That would be nice,’ she said pleasantly, and caught him looking at her in his side mirror.

She had supposed that they would go to one of the cafés in any of the parks, but instead he kept to the streets, their surroundings becoming more elegant with every minute. When he stopped before his house and got out and opened her door, she got out too, and stood looking at his house.

‘You live here?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Very convenient for my work.’ He went off to help Peter out, locked the doors and ushered them across the pavement and in through the door being held open by Dodge.

‘I’ve brought some friends for tea, Dodge, if you would let us have it shortly.’

Peter held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Dodge? I’m Peter.’

Dodge shook his hand carefully. ‘How do you do, Peter? I see you’ve been in the wars.’

‘Miss Warburton and her cousin Peter, Dodge.’ And Mr van Linssen smiled a little as Eulalia shook hands too.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.