He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. “Will you marry me, Emma?”

“Why?” she asked.

He was amused, but all he said was, “A sensible question. I need a wife to run my home, entertain my friends and—er—support me.”

“But Kulk runs your home beautifully and your friends might not like me. Besides, you don’t need supporting. Indeed, you’ve been supporting me.” She added politely, “Thank you for asking me. But I’ve had a very good idea this morning. I shall sell the cottage and then I can pay you back. Then I’ll get a job.”

“For such a sensible girl you have some odd ideas, Emma. How will you pay the rent and feed yourself on the kind of wages you are able to earn?”

“Well, I must say,” said Emma crossly, “this is a very strange conversation.”

“Indeed it is. Shall we start again. Will you marry me, Emma?”

MILLS & BOON

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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.

Emma’s Wedding
The Best of
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

THERE were three people in the room: an elderly man with a fringe of white hair surrounding a bald pate and a neat little beard, a lady of uncertain years and once very pretty, her faded good looks marred by a look of unease, and, sitting at the table between them, a girl, a splendid young woman as to shape and size, with carroty hair bunched untidily on top of her head and a face which, while not beautiful or even pretty, was pleasing to look at, with wide grey eyes, a haughty nose and a wide mouth, gently curved.

The elderly man finished speaking, shuffled the papers before him and adjusted his spectacles, and when her mother didn’t speak, only sat looking bewildered and helpless, the girl spoke.

‘We shall need your advice, Mr Trump. This is a surprise—we had no idea…Father almost never mentioned money matters to either Mother or me, although some weeks before he died…’ her voice faltered for a moment ‘…he told me that he was investing in some scheme which would make a great deal of money, and when I asked him about it he laughed and said it was all rather exciting and I must wait and see.’

Mr Trump said dryly, ‘Your father had sufficient funds to live comfortably and leave both your mother and you provided for. He invested a considerable amount of his capital in this new computer company set up by a handful of unscrupulous young men and for a few weeks it made profits, so that your father invested the rest of his capital in it. Inevitably, the whole thing fell apart, and he and a number of the other investors lost every penny. In order to avoid bankruptcy you will need to sell this house, the car, and much of the furniture. You have some good pieces here which should sell well.’

He glanced at her mother and added, ‘You do understand what I have told you, Mrs Dawson?’

‘We shall be poor.’ She gave a little sob. ‘There won’t be any money. How are we to live?’ She looked around her. ‘My lovely home—and how am I to go anywhere if we haven’t any car? And clothes? I won’t be shabby.’ She began to cry in real earnest. ‘Where shall we live?’ And before anyone could speak she added, ‘Emma, you must think of something…’

‘Try not to get upset, Mother. If this house and everything else sells well enough to pay off what’s owing, we can go and live at the cottage in Salcombe. I’ll get a job and we shall manage very well.’

Mr Trump nodded his bald head. ‘Very sensible. I’m fairly certain that once everything is sold there will be enough to pay everything off and even have a small amount leftover. I imagine it won’t be too hard to find work during the summer season at least, and there might even be some small job which you might undertake, Mrs Dawson.’

‘A job? Mr Trump, I have never worked in my life and I have no intention of doing so now.’ She dissolved into tears again. ‘My dear husband would turn in his grave if he could hear you suggest it.’

Mr Trump put his papers in his briefcase. Mrs Dawson he had always considered to be a charming little lady, rather spoilt by her husband but with a gentle, rather helpless manner which appealed to his old-fashioned notions of the weaker sex, but now, seeing the petulant look on her face, he wondered if he had been mistaken. Emma, of course, was an entirely different kettle of fish, being a sensible young woman, full of energy, kind and friendly—and there was some talk of her marrying. Which might solve their difficulties. He made his goodbyes, assured them that he would start at once on the unravelling of their affairs, then went out to his car and drove away.

Emma went out of the rather grand drawing room and crossed the wide hall to the kitchen. It was a large house, handsomely furnished with every mod con Mrs Dawson had expressed a wish to have. There was a daily housekeeper too, and a cheerful little woman who came twice a week to do the rough work.

Emma put on the kettle, laid a tea tray, found biscuits and, since the housekeeper had gone out for her half-day, looked through the cupboards for the cake tin. She and her mother might have been dealt a bitter blow, but tea and a slice of Mrs Tims’s walnut cake would still be welcome. For as long as possible, reflected Emma.

Mrs Dawson was still sitting in her chair, dabbing her wet eyes.

She watched Emma pour the tea and hand her a cup. ‘How can I possibly eat and drink,’ she wanted to know in a tearful voice, ‘when our lives are in ruins?’

All the same she accepted a slice of cake.

Emma took a bite. ‘We shall have to give Mrs Tims notice. Do you pay her weekly or monthly, Mother?’

Mrs Dawson looked vague. ‘I’ve no idea. Your father never bothered me with that kind of thing. And that woman who comes in to clean—Ethel—what about her?’

‘Shall I talk to them both and give them notice? Though they’ll expect something extra as Father’s death gave them no warning.’

Emma drank some tea and swallowed tears with it. She had loved her father, although they had never been close and the greater part of his paternal affection had been given to her brother James, twenty-three years old and four years her junior. And presently, most unfortunately, backpacking round the world after leaving university with a disappointing degree in science.

They weren’t even quite sure where he was at the moment; his last address had been Java, with the prospect of Australia, and even if they had had an address and he’d come home at once she didn’t think that he would have been of much help.

He was a dear boy, and she loved him, but her mother and father had spoilt him so that although he was too nice a young man to let it ruin his nature, it had tended to make him easygoing and in no hurry to settle down to a serious career.

He had had a small legacy from their grandmother when she died, and that had been ample to take care of his travels. She thought it unlikely that he would break off his journey, probably arguing that he was on the other side of the world and that Mr Trump would deal with his father’s affairs, still under the impression that he had left his mother and sister in comfortable circumstances.

Emma didn’t voice these thoughts to her mother but instead settled that lady for a nap and went back to the kitchen to prepare for their supper. Mrs Tims would have left something ready to be cooked and there was nothing much to do. Emma sat down at the table, found pencil and paper, and wrote down everything which would have to be done.

A great deal! And she couldn’t hope to do it all herself. Mr Trump would deal with the complicated financial situation, but what about the actual selling of the house and their possessions? And what would they be allowed to keep of those? Mr Trump had mentioned an overdraft at the bank, and money which had been borrowed from friends with the promise that it would be returned to them with handsome profits.

Emma put her head down on the table and cried. But not for long. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and picked up her pencil once more.

If they were allowed to keep the cottage at least they would have a rent-free home and one which she had always loved, although her mother found the little town of Salcombe lacking in the kind of social life she liked, but it would be cheaper to live there for that very reason. She would find work; during the summer months there was bound to be a job she could do—waitressing, or working in one of the big hotels or a shop. The winter might not be as easy, the little town sank into peace and quiet, but Kingsbridge was only a bus ride away, and that was a bustling small town with plenty of shops and cafés…

Feeling more cheerful, Emma made a list of their own possessions which surely they would be allowed to keep. Anything saleable they must sell, although she thought it was unlikely that her mother would be prepared to part with her jewellery, but they both had expensive clothes—her father had never grudged them money for those—and they would help to swell the kitty.

She got the supper then, thinking that it was a pity that Derek wouldn’t be back in England for three more days. They weren’t engaged, but for some time now their future together had become a foregone conclusion. Derek was a serious young man and had given her to understand that once he had gained the promotion in the banking firm for which he worked they would marry.

Emma liked him, indeed she would have fallen in love with him and she expected to do that without much difficulty, but although he was devoted to her she had the idea that he didn’t intend to show his proper feelings until he proposed. She had been quite content; life wasn’t going to be very exciting, but a kind husband who would cherish one, and any children, and give one a comfortable home should bring her happiness.

She wanted to marry, for she was twenty-seven, but ever since she had left school there had always been a reason why she couldn’t leave home, train for something and be independent. She had hoped that when James had left the university she could be free, but when she had put forward her careful plans it had been to discover that he had already arranged to be away for two years at least, and her mother had become quite hysterical at the idea of not having one or other of her children at home with her. And, of course, her father had agreed…

Perhaps her mother would want her to break off with Derek, but she thought not. A son-in-law in comfortable circumstances would solve their difficulties…

During the next three days Emma longed for Derek’s return. It seemed that the business of being declared bankrupt entailed a mass of paperwork, with prolonged and bewildering visits from severe-looking men with briefcases. Since her mother declared that she would have nothing to do with any of it, Emma did her best to answer their questions and fill in the forms they offered.

‘But I’ll not sign anything until Mr Trump has told me that I must,’ she told them.

It was all rather unnerving; she would have liked a little time to grieve about her father’s death, but there was no chance of that. She went about her household duties while her mother sat staring at nothing and weeping, and Mrs Tims and Ethel worked around the house, grim-faced at the unexpectedness of it all.

Derek came, grave-faced, offered Mrs Dawson quiet condolences and went with Emma to her father’s study. But if she had expected a shoulder to cry on she didn’t get it. He was gravely concerned for her, and kind, but she knew at once that he would never marry her now. He had an important job in the banking world, and marrying the daughter of a man who had squandered a fortune so recklessly was hardly going to enhance his future.

He listened patiently to her problems, observed that she was fortunate to have a sound man such as Mr Trump to advise her, and told her to be as helpful with ‘Authority’ as possible.

‘I’m afraid there are no mitigating circumstances,’ he told her. ‘I looked into the whole affair when I got back today. Don’t attempt to contest anything, whatever you do. Hopefully there will be enough money to clear your father’s debts once everything is sold.’

Emma sat looking at him—a good-looking man in his thirties, rather solemn in demeanour, who had nice manners, was honest in his dealings, and not given to rashness of any sort. She supposed that it was his work which had driven the warmth from his heart and allowed common sense to replace the urge to help her at all costs and, above all, to comfort her.

‘Well,’ said Emma in a tight little voice, ‘how fortunate it is that you didn’t give me a ring, for I don’t need to give it back.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that we had discussed the future,’ he told her.

‘There is no need, is there? I haven’t got one, have I? And yours matters to you.’

He agreed gravely. ‘Indeed it does. I’m glad, Emma, that you are sensible enough to realise that, and I hope that you will too always consider me as a friend. If I can help in any way…If I can help financially?’

‘Mr Trump is seeing to the money, but thank you for offering. We shall be able to manage very well once everything is sorted out.’

‘Good. I’ll call round from time to time and see how things are…’

‘We shall be busy packing up—there is no need.’ She added in a polite hostess voice, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?’

‘No—no, thank you. I’m due at the office in the morning and I’ve work to do first.’

He wished Mrs Dawson goodbye, and as Emma saw him to the door he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘If ever you should need help or advice…’

‘Thank you, Derek,’ said Emma. Perhaps she should make a pleasant little farewell speech, but if she uttered another word she would burst into tears.

‘How fortunate that you have Derek,’ said Mrs Dawson when Emma joined her. ‘I’m sure he’ll know what’s best to be done. A quiet wedding as soon as possible.’

‘Derek isn’t going to marry me, Mother. It would interfere with his career.’

A remark which started a flood of tears from her mother.

‘Emma, I can’t believe it. It isn’t as if he were a young man with no money or prospects. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t marry at once.’ She added sharply, ‘You didn’t break it off, did you? Because if you did you’re a very stupid girl.’

‘No, Mother, it’s what Derek wishes.’ Emma felt sorry for her mother. She looked so forlorn and pretty, and so in need of someone to make life easy for her as it always had been. ‘I’m sorry, but he has got his career to consider, and marrying me wouldn’t help him at all.’

‘I cannot think what came over your father…’

‘Father did it because he wanted us to have everything we could possibly want,’ said Emma steadily. ‘He never grudged you anything, Mother.’

Mrs Dawson was weeping again. ‘And look how he has left us now. It isn’t so bad for you, you’re young and can go to work, but what about me? My nerves have never allowed me to do anything strenuous and all this worrying has given me a continuous headache. I feel that I am going to be ill.’

‘I’m going to make you a milky drink and put a warm bottle in your bed, Mother. Have a bath, and when you’re ready I’ll come up and make sure that you are comfortable.’

‘I shall never be comfortable again,’ moaned Mrs Dawson.

She looked like a small woebegone child and Emma gave her a hug; the bottom had fallen out of her mother’s world and, although life would never be the same again, she would do all that she could to make the future as happy as possible.

For a moment she allowed her thoughts to dwell on her own future. Married to Derek she would have had a pleasant, secure life: a home to run, children to bring up, a loving husband and as much of a social life as she would wish. But now that must be forgotten; she must make a happy life for her mother, find work, make new friends. Beyond that she didn’t dare to think. Of course James would come home eventually, but he would plan his own future, cheerfully taking it for granted that she would look after their mother, willing to help if he could but not prepared to let it interfere with his plans.

The house sold quickly, the best of the furniture was sold, and the delicate china and glass. Most of the table silver was sold too, and the house, emptied of its contents, was bleak and unwelcoming. But there was still a great deal to do; even when Emma had packed the cases of unsaleable objects—the cheap kitchen china, the saucepans, the bed and table linen that they were allowed to keep—there were the visits from her parents’ friends, come to commiserate and eager, in a friendly way, for details. Their sympathy was genuine but their offers of help were vague. Emma and her mother must come and stay as soon as they were settled in; they would drive down to Salcombe and see them. Such a pretty place, and how fortunate that they had such a charming home to go to…

Emma, ruthlessly weeding out their wardrobes, thought it unlikely that any of their offers would bear fruit.

Mr Trump had done his best, and every debt had been paid, leaving a few hundred in the bank. Her mother would receive a widow’s pension, but there was nothing else. Thank heaven, reflected Emma, that it was early in April and a job, any kind of job, shouldn’t be too hard to find now that the season would be starting at Salcombe.

They left on a chilly damp morning—a day winter had forgotten and left behind. Emma locked the front door, put the key through the letterbox and got into the elderly Rover they had been allowed to keep until, once at Salcombe, it was to be handed over to the receivers. Her father’s Bentley had gone, with everything else.

She didn’t look back, for if she had she might have cried and driving through London’s traffic didn’t allow for tears. Mrs Dawson cried. She cried for most of their long journey, pausing only to accuse Emma of being a hard-hearted girl with no feelings when she suggested that they might stop for coffee.

They reached Salcombe in the late afternoon and, as it always did, the sight of the beautiful estuary with the wide sweep of the sea beyond lifted Emma’s spirits. They hadn’t been to the cottage for some time but nothing had changed; the little house stood at the end of a row of similar houses, their front gardens opening onto a narrow path along the edge of the water, crowded with small boats and yachts, a few minutes’ walk from the main street of the little town, yet isolated in its own peace and quiet.

There was nowhere to park the car, of course. Emma stopped in the narrow street close by and they walked along the path, opened the garden gate and unlocked the door. For years there had been a local woman who had kept an eye on the place. Emma had written to her and now, as they went inside, it was to find the place cleaned and dusted and groceries and milk in the small fridge.

Mrs Dawson paused on the doorstep. ‘It’s so small,’ she said in a hopeless kind of voice, but Emma looked around her with pleasure and relief. Here was home: a small sitting room, with the front door and windows overlooking the garden, a smaller kitchen beyond and then a minute back yard, and, up the narrow staircase, two bedrooms with a bathroom between them. The furniture was simple but comfortable, the curtains a pretty chintz and there was a small open fireplace.

She put her arm round her mother. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and then I’ll get the rest of the luggage and see if the pub will let me put the car in their garage until I can hand it over.’

She was tired when she went to bed that night; she had seen to the luggage and the car, lighted a small log fire and made a light supper before seeing her mother to her bed. It had been a long day, she reflected, curled up in her small bedroom, but they were here at last in the cottage, not owing a farthing to anyone and with a little money in the bank. Mr Trump had been an elderly shoulder to lean on, which was more than she could say for Derek. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Emma aloud.

All the same she had been hurt.

In the morning she went to the pub and persuaded the landlord to let her leave the car there until she could hand it over, and then went into the main street to do the shopping. Her mother had declared herself exhausted after their long drive on the previous day and Emma had left her listlessly unpacking her clothes. Not a very good start to the day, but it was a fine morning and the little town sparkled in the sunshine.

Almost all the shops were open, hopeful of early visitors, and she didn’t hurry with her shopping, stopping to look in the elegant windows of the small boutiques, going to the library to enrol for the pair of them, arranging for milk to be delivered, ordering a paper too, and at the same time studying the advertisements in the shop window. There were several likely jobs on offer. She bought chops from the butcher, who remembered her from previous visits, and crossed the road to the greengrocer. He remembered her too, so that she felt quite light-hearted as she made her last purchase in the baker’s.

The delicious smell of newly baked bread made her nose quiver. And there were rolls and pasties, currant buns and doughnuts. She was hesitating as to which to buy when someone else came into the shop. She turned round to look and encountered a stare from pale blue eyes so intent that she blushed, annoyed with herself for doing that just because this large man was staring. He was good-looking too, in a rugged kind of way, with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. He was wearing an elderly jersey and cords and his hair needed a good brush…

He stopped staring, leaned over her, took two pasties off the counter and waved them at the baker’s wife. And now the thin mouth broke into a smile. ‘Put it on the bill, Mrs Trott,’ he said, and was gone.

Emma, about to ask who he was, sensed that Mrs Trott wasn’t going to tell her and prudently held her tongue. He must live in the town for he had a bill. He didn’t look like a fisherman or a farm worker and he wouldn’t own a shop, not dressed like that, and besides he didn’t look like any of those. He had been rude, staring like that; she had no wish to meet him again but it would be interesting to know just who he was.

She went back to the cottage and found a man waiting impatiently to collect the car and, what with one thing and another, she soon forgot the man at the baker’s.

It was imperative to find work but she wasn’t going to rush into the first job that was vacant. With a little wangling she thought that she could manage two part-time jobs. They would cease at the end of the summer and even one part-time job might be hard to find after that.

‘I must just make hay while the sun shines,’ said Emma, and over the next few days scanned the local newspapers. She went from one end of the town to the other, sizing up what was on offer. Waitresses were wanted, an improver was needed at the hairdressers—but what was an improver? Chambermaids at the various hotels, an assistant in an arts and crafts shop, someone to clean holiday cottages between lets, and an educated lady to assist the librarian at the public library on two evenings a week…

It was providential that while out shopping with her mother they were accosted by an elderly lady who greeted them with obvious pleasure.

‘Mrs Dawson—and Emma, isn’t it? Perhaps you don’t remember me. You came to the hotel to play bridge. I live at the hotel now that my husband has died and I’m delighted to see a face I know…’ She added eagerly, ‘Let’s go and have coffee together and a chat. Is your husband with you?’

‘I am also a widow—it’s Mrs Craig, isn’t it? I do remember now; we had some pleasant afternoons at bridge. My husband died very recently, and Emma and I have come to live here.’

‘I’m so very sorry. Of course you would want to get away from Richmond for a time. Perhaps we could meet soon and then arrange a game of bridge later?’

Mrs Dawson brightened. ‘That would be delightful…’

‘Then you must come and have tea with me sometimes at the hotel.’ Mrs Craig added kindly, ‘You need to have a few distractions, you know.’ She smiled at Emma. ‘I’m sure you have several young friends from earlier visits?’

Emma said cheerfully, ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ and added, ‘I’ve one or two calls to make now, while you have coffee. It is so nice to meet you again, Mrs Craig.’ She looked at her mother. ‘I’ll see you at home, Mother.’

She raced away. The rest of the shopping could wait. Here was the opportunity to go to the library…

The library was at the back of the town, and only a handful of people were wandering round the bookshelves. There were two people behind the desk: one a severe-looking lady with a no-nonsense hair style, her companion a girl with a good deal of blonde hair, fashionably tousled, and with too much make-up on her pretty face. She looked up from the pile of books she was arranging and grinned at Emma as she came to a halt and addressed the severe lady.

‘Good morning,’ said Emma. ‘You are advertising for an assistant for two evenings a week. I should like to apply for the job.’

The severe lady eyed her. She said shortly, ‘My name is Miss Johnson. Are you experienced?’

‘No, Miss Johnson, but I like books. I have A levels in English Literature, French, Modern Art and Maths. I am twenty-seven years old and I have lived at home since I left school. I have come here to live with my mother and I need a job.’

‘Two sessions a week, six hours, at just under five pounds an hour.’ Miss Johnson didn’t sound encouraging. ‘Five o’clock until eight on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Occasionally extra hours, if there is sickness or one of us is on holiday.’ She gave what might be called a ladylike sniff. ‘You seem sensible. I don’t want some giddy girl leaving at the end of a week…’

‘I should like to work here if you will have me,’ said Emma. ‘You will want references…?’

‘Of course, and as soon as possible. If they are satisfactory you can come on a week’s trial.’

Emma wrote down Mr Trump’s address and phone number and then Dr Jakes’s who had known her for years. ‘Will you let me know or would you prefer me to call back? We aren’t on the phone yet. It’s being fitted shortly.’

‘You’re in rooms or a flat?’

‘No, we live at Waterside Cottage, the end one along Victoria Quay.’

Miss Johnson looked slightly less severe. ‘You are staying there? Renting the cottage for the summer?’

‘No, it belongs to my mother.’

The job, Emma could see, was hers.

She bade Miss Johnson a polite goodbye and went back into the main street; she turned into a narrow lane running uphill, lined by small pretty cottages. The last cottage at the top of the hill was larger than the rest and she knocked on the door.

The woman who answered the door was still young, slim and tall and dressed a little too fashionably for Salcombe. Her hair was immaculate and so was her make-up.

She looked Emma up and down and said, ‘Yes?’

‘You are advertising for someone to clean holiday cottages…’

‘Come in.’ She led Emma into a well-furnished sitting room.

‘I doubt if you’d do. It’s hard work—Wednesdays and Saturdays, cleaning up the cottages and getting them ready for the next lot. And a fine mess some of them are in, I can tell you. I need someone for those two days. From ten o’clock in the morning and everything ready by four o’clock when the next lot come.’

She waved Emma to a chair. ‘Beds, bathroom, loo, Hoovering. Kitchen spotless—and that means cupboards too. You come here and collect the cleaning stuff and bedlinen and hand in the used stuff before you leave. Six hours’ work a day, five pounds an hour, and tips if anyone leaves them.’

‘For two days?’

‘That’s what I said. I’ll want references. Local, are you? Haven’t seen you around. Can’t stand the place myself. The cottages belonged to my father and I’ve taken them over for a year or two. I’m fully booked for the season.’

She crossed one elegantly shod foot over the other. ‘Week’s notice on either side?’

‘I live here,’ said Emma, ‘and I need a job. I’d like to come if you are satisfied with my references.’

‘Please yourself, though I’d be glad to take you on. It isn’t a job that appeals to the girls around here.’

It didn’t appeal all that much to Emma, but sixty pounds a week did…

She gave her references once more, and was told she’d be told in two days’ time. ‘If I take you on you’ll need to be shown round. There’s another girl cleans the other two cottages across the road.’

Emma went home, got the lunch and listened to her mother’s account of her morning with Mrs Craig. ‘She has asked me to go to the hotel one afternoon for a rubber of bridge.’ She hesitated. ‘They play for money—quite small stakes…’

‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘you’re good at the game, aren’t you? I dare say you won’t be out of pocket. Nice to have found a friend, and I’m sure you’ll make more once the season starts.’

Two days later there was a note in the post. Her references for the cleaning job were satisfactory, she could begin work on the following Saturday and in the meantime call that morning to be shown her work. It was signed Dulcie Brooke-Tigh. Emma considered that the name suited the lady very well.

She went to the library that afternoon and Miss Johnson told her unsmilingly that her references were satisfactory and she could start work on Tuesday. ‘A week’s notice and you will be paid each Thursday evening.’

Emma, walking on air, laid out rather more money than she should have done at the butchers, and on Sunday went to church with her mother and said her prayers with childlike gratitude.

The cleaning job was going to be hard work. Mrs Brooke-Tigh, for all her languid appearance, was a hard-headed businesswoman, intent on making money. There was enough work for two people in the cottages, but as long as she could get a girl anxious for the job she wasn’t bothered. She had led Emma round the two cottages she would be responsible for, told her to start work punctually and then had gone back into her own cottage and shut the door. She didn’t like living at Salcombe, but the holiday cottages were money-spinners…

The library was surprisingly full when Emma, punctual to the minute, presented herself at the desk.

Miss Johnson wasted no time on friendly chat. ‘Phoebe will show you the shelves, then come back here and I will show you how to stamp the books. If I am busy take that trolley of returned books and put them back on the shelves. And do it carefully; I will not tolerate slovenly work.’

Which wasn’t very encouraging, but Phoebe’s cheerful wink was friendly. The work wasn’t difficult or tiring, and Emma, who loved books, found the three hours had passed almost too quickly. And Miss Johnson, despite her austere goodnight, had not complained.

Emma went back to the cottage to eat a late supper and then sit down to do her sums. Her mother had her pension, of course, and that plus the money from the two jobs would suffice to keep them in tolerable comfort. There wouldn’t be much over, but they had the kind of expensive, understated clothes which would last for several years…She explained it all to her mother, who told her rather impatiently to take over their finances. ‘I quite realise that I must give up some of my pension, dear, but I suppose I may have enough for the hairdresser and small expenses?’

Emma did some sums in her head and offered a generous slice of the pension—more than she could spare. But her mother’s happiness and peace of mind were her first concern; after years of living in comfort, and being used to having everything she wanted within reason, she could hardly be expected to adapt easily to their more frugal way of living.

On Saturday morning she went to the cottages. She had told her mother that she had two jobs, glossing over the cleaning and enlarging on the library, and, since Mrs Dawson was meeting Mrs Craig for coffee, Emma had said that she would do the shopping and that her mother wasn’t to wait lunch if she wasn’t home.

She had known it was going to be hard work and it was, for the previous week’s tenants had made no effort to leave the cottage tidy, let alone clean. Emma cleaned and scoured, then Hoovered and made beds and tidied cupboards, cleaned the cooker and the bath, and at the end of it was rewarded by Mrs Brooke-Tigh’s nod of approval and, even better than that, the tip she had found in the bedroom—a small sum, but it swelled the thirty pounds she was paid as she left.

‘Wednesday at ten o’clock,’ said Mrs Brooke-Tigh.

Emma walked down the lane with the girl who cleaned the other two cottages.

‘Mean old bag,’ said the girl. ‘Doesn’t even give us a cup of coffee. Think you’ll stay?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Emma.

The future, while not rosy, promised security just so long as people like Mrs Brooke-Tigh needed her services.

When she got home her mother told her that Mrs Craig had met a friend while they were having their coffee and they had gone to the little restaurant behind the boutique and had lunch. ‘I was a guest, dear, and I must say I enjoyed myself.’ She smiled. ‘I seem to be making friends. You must do the same, dear.’

Emma said, ‘Yes, Mother,’ and wondered if she would have time to look for friends. Young women of her own age? Men? The thought crossed her mind that the only person she would like to see again was the man in the baker’s shop.

CHAPTER TWO

EMMA welcomed the quiet of Sunday. It had been a busy week, with its doubts and worries and the uncertainty of coping with her jobs. But she had managed. There was money in the household purse and she would soon do even better. She went with her mother to church and was glad to see that one or two of the ladies in the congregation smiled their good mornings to her mother. If her mother could settle down and have the social life she had always enjoyed things would be a lot easier. I might even join some kind of evening classes during the winter, thought Emma, and meet people…

She spent Monday cleaning the cottage, shopping and hanging the wash in the little back yard, while her mother went to the library to choose a book. On the way back she had stopped to look at the shops and found a charming little scarf, just what she needed to cheer up her grey dress. ‘It was rather more than I wanted to spend, dear,’ she explained, ‘but exactly what I like, and I get my pension on Thursday…’

The library was half empty when Emma got there on Tuesday evening.

‘WI meeting,’ said Miss Johnson. ‘There will be a rush after seven o’clock.’

She nodded to a trolley loaded with books. ‘Get those back onto the shelves as quickly as you can. Phoebe is looking up something for a visitor.’

Sure enough after an hour the library filled up with ladies from the WI, intent on finding something pleasant to read, and Emma, intent on doing her best, was surprised when Miss Johnson sent Phoebe to the doors to put up the ‘Closed’ sign and usher the dawdlers out.

Emma was on her knees, collecting up some books someone had dropped on the floor, when there was a sudden commotion at the door and the man from the baker’s shop strode in.

Miss Johnson looked up. She said severely, ‘We are closed, Doctor,’ but she smiled as she spoke.

‘Rupert Bear—have you a copy? The bookshop’s closed and small William next door won’t go to sleep until he’s read to. It must be Rupert Bear.’ He smiled at Miss Johnson, and Emma, watching from the floor, could see Miss Johnson melting under it.

‘Emma, fetch Rupert Bear from the last shelf in the children’s section.’

As Emma got to her feet he turned and looked at her.

‘Well, well,’ he said softly, and his stare was just as intent as it had been in the baker’s shop.

She found it disturbing, so that when she came back with the book she said tartly, ‘May I have your library ticket?’

‘Have I got one? Even if I knew where it was I wouldn’t have stopped to get it, not with small William bawling his head off.’

He took the book from her, thanked Miss Johnson and was off.

Emma set the books neatly in their places and hoped that someone would say something. It was Phoebe who spoke.

‘The poor man. I bet he’s had a busy day, and now he’s got to spend his evening reading to a small boy. As though he hadn’t enough on his plate…’

Miss Johnson said repressively, ‘He is clearly devoted to children. Emma, make a note that the book hasn’t been checked out. Dr van Dyke will return it in due course.’

Well, reflected Emma, at least I know who he is. And on the way home, as she and Phoebe walked as far as the main street she asked, ‘Is he the only doctor here?’

‘Lord, no. There’s three of them at the medical practice, and he’s not permanent, just taken over from Dr Finn for a few months.’

Why had he stared so, and why had he said, ‘Well, well,’ in that satisfied voice? wondered Emma, saying goodnight and going back home through the quiet town.

It wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. Visitors were beginning to trickle in, most of them coming ashore from their yachts, mingling with those who came regularly early in the season, to walk the coastal paths and spend leisurely days strolling through the town. More restaurants had opened, the ice cream parlour had opened its doors, and the little coastal ferry had begun its regular trips.

Emma was pleased to see that her mother was already starting to enjoy what social life there was. She played bridge regularly with Mrs Craig and her friends, met them for coffee and occasionally did some shopping. But her gentle complaints made it clear that life in a small, off-the-beaten-track town was something she was bravely enduring, and whenever Emma pointed out that there was little chance of them ever leaving the cottage, Mrs Dawson dissolved into gentle tears.

‘You should have married Derek,’ she said tearfully. ‘We could have lived comfortably at his house. It was large enough for me to have had my own apartment…’

A remark Emma found hard to answer.

As for Emma, she hadn’t much time to repine; there was the cottage to clean, the washing and the ironing, all the small household chores which she had never had to do…At first her mother had said that she would do all the shopping, but, being unused to doing this on an economical scale, it had proved quite disastrous to the household purse, so Emma had added that to her other chores. Not that she minded. She was soon on friendly terms with the shopkeepers and there was a certain satisfaction in buying groceries with a strict eye on economy instead of lifting the phone and giving the order Mrs Dawson had penned each week with a serene disregard for expense…

And Miss Johnson had unbent very slightly, pleased to find that Emma really enjoyed her work at the library. She had even had a chat about her own taste in books, deploring the lack of interest in most of the borrowers for what she called a ‘good class of book’. As for Phoebe, who did her work in a cheerful slapdash fashion, Emma liked her and listened sympathetically whenever Phoebe found the time to tell her of her numerous boyfriends.

But Mrs Brooke-Tigh didn’t unbend. Emma was doing a menial’s job, therefore she was treated as such; she checked the cottages with an eagle eye but beyond a distant nod had nothing to say. Emma didn’t mind the cleaning but she did not like Mrs Brooke-Tigh; once the season was over she would look around for another job, something where she might meet friendly people. In a bar? she wondered, having very little idea of what that would be like. But at least there would be people and she might meet someone.

Did Dr van Dyke go into pubs? she wondered. Probably not. He wouldn’t have time. She thought about him, rather wistfully, from time to time, when she was tired and lonely for the company of someone her own age. The only way she would get to know him was to get ill. And she never got ill…

Spring was sliding into early summer; at the weekends the narrow streets were filled by visiting yachtsmen and family parties driving down for a breath of sea air and a meal at one of the pubs. And with them, one Sunday, came Derek.

Mrs Dawson was going out to lunch with one of her bridge friends, persuaded that Emma didn’t mind being on her own. ‘We will go to evensong together,’ said her mother, ‘but it is such a treat to have luncheon with people I like, dear, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

She peered at herself in the mirror. ‘Is this hat all right? I really need some new clothes.’

‘You look very smart, Mother, and the hat’s just right. Have a lovely lunch. I’ll have tea ready around four o’clock.’

Alone, Emma went into the tiny courtyard beyond the kitchen and saw to the tubs of tulips and the wallflowers growing against the wall. She would have an early lunch and go for a walk—a long walk. North Sands, perhaps, and if the little kiosk by the beach there was open she would have a cup of coffee. She went back into the cottage as someone banged the door knocker.

Derek stood there, dressed very correctly in a blazer and cords, Italian silk tie and beautifully polished shoes. For a split second Emma had a vivid mental picture of an elderly sweater and uncombed hair.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she wanted to know with a regrettable lack of delight.

Derek gave her a kind smile. He was a worthy young man with pleasant manners and had become accustomed to being liked and respected.

He said now, ‘I’ve surprised you…’

‘Indeed you have.’ Emma added reluctantly. ‘You’d better come in.’

Derek looked around him. ‘A nice little place—rather different from Richmond, though. Has your mother settled down?’

‘Yes. Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to see you, Emma. To talk. If you would change into a dress we could have lunch—I’m staying at the other end of the town.’

‘We can talk here. I’ll make cheese sandwiches…’

‘My dear girl, you deserve more than a cheese sandwich. We can talk over lunch at the hotel.’

‘What about?’

‘Something which will please you…’

Perhaps something they hadn’t known anything about had been salvaged from her father’s estate…She said slowly, ‘Very well. You’ll have to wait while I change, though, and I must be back before four o’clock. Mother’s out to lunch.’

While she changed out of trousers and a cotton top into something suitable to accompany Derek’s elegance, she wondered what he had come to tell her. Mr Trump had hinted when they had left their home that eventually there might be a little more money. Perhaps Derek had brought it with him.

When she went downstairs he was standing by the window, watching the people strolling along the path.

‘Of course you can’t possibly stay here. This poky little place—nothing to do all day.’

She didn’t bother to answer him, and he said impatiently, ‘We shall have to walk; I left the car at the hotel.’

They walked, saying little. ‘I can’t think why you can’t tell me whatever it is at once,’ said Emma.

‘In good time.’ They got out of the road onto the narrow pavement to allow a car to creep past. Dr van Dyke was sitting in it. If he saw her he gave no sign.

The hotel was full. They had drinks in the bar and were given a table overlooking the estuary, but Derek ignored the magnificent view while he aired his knowledge with the wine waiter.

I should be enjoying myself, reflected Emma, and I’m not.

Derek talked about his work, mutual friends she had known, the new owner of her old home.

Emma polished off the last of her trifle. ‘Are you staying here on holiday?’

‘No, I must return tomorrow.’

‘Then you’d better tell me whatever it is.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s half past two…’

He gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get rid of me soon enough, Emma?’

He put his hand over hers on the table. ‘Dear Emma, I have given much thought to this. The scandal of your father’s bankruptcy has died down; there are no debts, no need for people to rake over cold ashes. There is no likelihood of it hindering my career. I have come to ask you to marry me. I know you have no money and a difficult social position, but I flatter myself that I can provide both of these for my wife. In a few years the whole unfortunate matter will be forgotten. I have the deepest regard for you and you will, I know, make me an excellent wife.’

Emma had listened to this speech without moving or uttering a sound. She was so angry that she felt as though she would explode or burst into flames. She got to her feet, a well brought up young woman who had been reared to good manners and politeness whatever the circumstances.

‘Get stuffed,’ said Emma, and walked out of the restaurant, through the bar and swing doors and into the car park.

She was white with rage and shaking, and heedless of where she was walking. Which was why she bumped into Dr van Dyke’s massive chest.

She stared up into his placid face. ‘The worm, the miserable rat,’ she raged. ‘Him and his precious career…’

The doctor said soothingly, ‘This rat, is he still in the hotel? You don’t wish to meet him again?’

‘If I were a man I’d knock him down…’ She sniffed and gulped and two tears slid down her cheeks.

‘Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to sit in my car for a time—in case he comes looking for you. And, if you would like to, tell me what has upset you.’

He took her arm and walked her to the car. He popped her inside and got in beside her. ‘Have a good cry if you want to, and then I’ll drive you home.’

He gave her a large handkerchief and sat patiently while she sniffed and snuffled and presently blew her nose and mopped her face. He didn’t look at her, he was watching a man—presumably the rat—walking up and down the car park, looking around him. Presently he went back into the hotel and the doctor said, ‘He’s a snappy dresser, your rat.’

She sat up straight. ‘He’s gone? He didn’t see me?’

‘No.’ The doctor settled back comfortably. ‘What has he done to upset you? It must have been something very upsetting to cause you to leave Sunday lunch at this hotel.’

‘I’d finished,’ said Emma, ‘and it’s kind of you to ask but it’s—it’s…’

‘None of my business. Quite right, it isn’t. I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?’

‘The end cottage along Victoria Quay. But I can walk. It is at the end of Main Street and you can’t drive there.’

He didn’t answer but backed the car and turned and went out of the car park and drove up the narrow road to the back of the town. It was a very long way round and he had to park by the pub.

As he stopped Emma said, ‘Thank you. I hope I haven’t spoilt your afternoon.’

It would hardly do to tell her that he was enjoying every minute of it. ‘I’ll walk along with you, just in case the rat has got there first.’

‘Do you think he has? I mean, I don’t suppose he’ll want to se me again.’ She sniffed. ‘I certainly don’t want to see him.’

The doctor got out of the car and opened her door. It was a splendid car, she noticed, a dark blue Rolls-Royce, taking up almost all the space before the pub.

‘You have a nice car,’ said Emma, feeling that she owed him something more than thanks. And then blushed because it had been a silly thing to say. Walking beside him, she reflected that although she had wanted to meet him she could have wished for other circumstances.

Her mother wasn’t home and Emma heaved a sigh of relief. Explaining to her mother would be better done later on.

The doctor took the key from her and opened the door, then stood looking at her. Mindful of her manners she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps you want to go back to the hotel—someone waiting for you…?’

She was beginning to realise that he never answered a question unless he wanted to, and when he said quietly that he would like a cup of tea she led the way into the cottage.

‘Do sit down,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ And at the same time run a comb through her mop of hair and make sure that her face didn’t look too frightful…

It was tear-stained and pale and in need of powder and lipstick, but that couldn’t be helped. She put the kettle on, laid a tray, found the cake tin and made the tea. When she went back into the sitting room he was standing in front of a watercolour of her old home.

‘Your home?’ he wanted to know.

‘Until a month or so ago. Do you take milk and sugar?’

He sat down and took the cup and saucer she was offering him. ‘Do you want to talk about the—er—rat? None of my business, of course, but doctors are the next best thing to priests when one wishes to give vent to strong feelings.’

Emma offered cake. ‘You have been very kind, and I’m so grateful. But there’s nothing—that is, he’ll go back to London and I can forget him.’

‘Of course. Do you enjoy your work at the library?’

She was instantly and unreasonably disappointed that he hadn’t shown more interest or concern. She said stiffly, ‘Yes, very much. Miss Johnson tells me that you don’t live here, that you are filling in for another doctor?’

‘Yes, I shall be sorry to leave…’

‘Not yet?’

His heavy-lidded eyes gleamed. ‘No, no. I’m looking forward to the summer here.’ He put down his cup and saucer. ‘Thank you for the tea. If you’re sure there is nothing more I can do for you, I’ll be off.’

Well, he had no reason to stay, thought Emma. She was hardly scintillating company. Probably there was someone—a girl—waiting impatiently at the hotel for him.

‘I hope I haven’t hindered you.’

‘Not in the least.’

She stood in the doorway watching him walking away, back to his car. He must think her a tiresome hysterical woman, because that was how she had behaved. And all the fault of Derek. She swallowed rage at the thought of him and went back to clear away the tea tray and lay it anew for her mother.

Mrs Dawson had had a pleasant day; she began to tell Emma about it as she came into the cottage, and it wasn’t until she had had her tea and paused for breath that she noticed Emma’s puffy lids and lightly pink nose.

‘Emma, you’ve been crying. Whatever for? You never cry. You’re not ill?’

‘Derek came,’ said Emma.

Before she could utter another word her mother cried, ‘There—I knew he would. He’s changed his mind, he wants to marry you—splendid; we can leave here and go back to Richmond…’

‘I would not marry Derek if he was the last man on earth,’ said Emma roundly. ‘He said things—most unkind things—about Father…’

‘You never refused him?’

‘Yes, I did. He took me to lunch and I left him at the table. I met one of the doctors from the health centre and he brought me home. Derek is a rat and a worm, and if he comes here again I shall throw something at him.’

‘You must be out of your mind, Emma. Your future—our future—thrown away for no reason at all. Even if Derek upset you by speaking unkindly of your father, I’m sure he had no intention of wounding you.’

‘I’m not going to marry Derek, Mother, and I hope I never set eyes on him again.’

And Emma, usually soft-hearted over her mother’s whims and wishes, wouldn’t discuss it any more, despite that lady’s tears and gentle complaints that the miserable life she was forced to lead would send her to an early grave.

She declared that she had a headache when they got back from evensong, and retired to bed with a supper tray and a hot water bottle.

Emma pottered about downstairs, wondering if she was being selfish and ungrateful. But, even if she were, Derek was still a worm and she couldn’t think how she had ever thought of marrying him.

Mrs Dawson maintained her gentle air of patient suffering for the rest of the following week, until Emma left the house on Saturday morning to clean the cottage. The week’s tenants had had a large family of children and she welcomed the prospect of hard work. As indeed it was; the little place looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. It would take all her time to get it pristine for the next family.

She set to with a will and was in the kitchen, giving everything a final wipe-down, when the cottage door opened and Mrs Brooke-Tigh came in, and with her Dr van Dyke and a pretty woman of about Emma’s own age.

Mrs Brooke-Tigh ignored her. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she declared loudly, ‘that I had this last-minute cancellation. Take a quick look round and see if it will suit. The next party are due here in half an hour but the girl’s almost finished.’

‘The girl’, scarlet-faced, had turned her back but then had to turn round again. ‘Miss Dawson,’ said Dr van Dyke, ‘what a pleasant surprise. This is my sister, who plans to come for a week with her children.’

He turned to the woman beside him. ‘Wibeke, this is Emma Dawson; she lives here.’

Emma wiped a soapy hand on her pinny and shook hands, wishing herself anywhere else but there, and listened to Wibeke saying how pleased she was to meet her while Mrs Brooke-Tigh, at a loss for words for once, tapped an impatient foot.

Presently she led them away to see round the cottage, and when they were on the point of leaving Mrs Brooke-Tigh said loudly, ‘I’ll be back presently to pay you, Emma. Leave the cleaning things at my back door as you go.’

The perfect finish for a beastly week, thought Emma, grinding her splendid teeth.

And Mrs Brooke-Tigh hardly improved matters when she paid Emma.

‘It doesn’t do to be too familiar with the tenants,’ she pointed out. ‘I hardly think it necessary to tell you that. Don’t be late on Wednesday.’

Emma, who was never late, bade her good afternoon in a spine-chilling voice and went home.

It would have been very satisfying to have tossed the bucket and mop at Mrs Brooke-Tigh and never returned, but with the bucket and mop there would have gone sixty pounds, not forgetting the tips left on the dressing table. She would have to put up with Mrs Brooke-Tigh until the season ended, and in the meantime she would keep her ears open for another job. That might mean going to Kingsbridge every day, since so many of the shops and hotels closed for the winter at Salcombe.

Too soon to start worrying, Emma told herself as she laid out some of the sixty pounds on a chicken for Sunday lunch and one of the rich creamy cakes from the patisserie which her mother enjoyed.

To make up for her horrid Saturday, Sunday was nice, warm and sunny so that she was able to wear a jersey dress, slightly out of date but elegant, and of a pleasing shade of blue. After matins, while her mother chatted with friends, a pleasant young man with an engaging smile introduced himself as Mrs Craig’s son.

‘Here for a few days,’ he told her, and, ‘I don’t know a soul. Do take pity on me and show me round.’

He was friendly and she readily agreed. ‘Though I have part time jobs…’

‘When are you free? What about tomorrow morning?’

‘I must do the shopping…’

‘Splendid, I’ll come with you and carry the basket. We could have coffee. Where shall I meet you?’

‘At the bakery at the bottom of Main Street, about ten o’clock?’

‘Right, I’ll look forward to that. The name’s Brian, by the way.’

‘Emma,’ said Emma. ‘Your mother is waiting and so’s mine.’

‘Such a nice boy,’ said her mother over lunch, and added, ‘He is twenty-three, just qualified as a solicitor. He’s rather young, of course…’ She caught Emma’s eye. ‘It is a great pity that you sent Derek away.’

Emma quite liked shopping, and she enjoyed it even more with Brian to carry her basket and talk light-heartedly about anything which caught his eye. They lingered over coffee and then went back through the town to collect sausages from the butcher. His shop was next to one of the restaurants in the town and Brian paused outside it.

‘This looks worth a visit. Have dinner with me one evening, Emma?’

‘Not on Tuesday or Thursday; I work at the library.’

‘Wednesday? Shall we meet here, inside, at half past seven.’

‘I’d like that, thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Thank you for the coffee; I’ve enjoyed my morning.’

Miss Johnson was grumpy on Tuesday evening and Mrs Brooke-Tigh was more than usually high-handed the following day. She couldn’t find fault with Emma’s work, but somehow she managed to give the impression that it wasn’t satisfactory. Which made the prospect of an evening out with Brian very inviting. Emma put on the jersey dress once more and went along to the restaurant.

Brian was waiting for her, obviously glad to see her, and sat her down at the small table, ordering drinks.

In reply to her enquiry as to what he thought of the town he smiled wryly. ‘It’s a charming little place, but after London’s bright lights…What do you do with yourself all day long?’

‘Me? Well, there’s the library and the shopping, and all the chores, and we’re beginning to know more people now.’

‘You don’t get bored? My mother likes living here; it’s a splendid place for elderly widows: nice hotels, bridge, coffee, reading a good book in the sun, gossiping—but you are rather young for that.’

‘I’ve been coming here ever since I was a small girl. It’s a kind of a second home, although most of the people I knew have left the town. But I’m quite content.’

They went to their table and ate lobster and a complicated ice cream pudding, and finished a bottle of white wine between them, lingering over their coffee until Emma said, ‘I really must go home. Mother insisted that she would wait up for me and she sleeps badly.’

‘I’m going back on Friday. But I’m told there’s a good pub at Hope Cove. Will you have lunch with me there? I’ll pick you up around twelve-thirty?’

‘Thank you, that would be nice. If you like walking we could go along the beach if the tide’s out.’

‘Splendid. I’ll walk you back.’

They parted at the cottage door in a friendly fashion, though Emma was aware that he only sought her company because he was bored and didn’t know anyone else…

Her mother was in her dressing gown, eager for an account of her evening.

‘You’ll go out with him again if he asks you?’ she enquired eagerly.

‘I’m having lunch with him on Friday.’ Emma yawned and kicked off her best shoes. ‘He’s going back to London; I think he is bored here.’

‘Mrs Craig was telling me that she wishes he would settle down…’

‘Well, he won’t here; that’s a certainty.’ Emma kissed her mother goodnight and went to bed, aware that her mother had hoped for more than a casual friendship with Brian.

He is still a boy, thought Emma sleepily, and allowed her thoughts to turn to Dr van Dyke who, she suspected, was very much a man.

Miss Johnson was still grumpy on Thursday evening, but since it was pay day Emma forgave her. Besides, she was kept busy by people wanting books for the weekend. She felt quite light-hearted as she went home, her wages in her purse, planning something tasty for the weekend which wouldn’t make too large a hole in the housekeeping.

Friday was warm and sunny, and she was out early to do the weekend shopping for there would be no time on Saturday. Her mother was going out to lunch with one of her new-found friends and Emma raced around, getting everything ready for cooking the supper and, just in case Brian wanted to come back for tea, she laid a tea tray.

He came promptly and they walked through the town to the car park. He drove up the road bordering the estuary onto the main road and then turned off to Hope Cove. The road was narrow now, running through fields, with a glimpse of the sea. When they reached the tiny village and parked by the pub there were already a number of cars there.

The pub was dark and oak-beamed and low-ceilinged inside, and already quite full.

Brian looked around him. ‘I like this place—full of atmosphere and plenty of life. What shall we eat?’

They had crab sandwiches, and he had a beer and Emma a glass of white wine, and since there was no hurry they sat over the food while he told her of his work.

‘Of course I could never leave London,’ he told her. ‘I’ve a flat overlooking the river and any number of friends and a good job. I shall have to come and see Mother from time to time, but a week is about as much as I can stand.’ He added, ‘Don’t you want to escape, Emma?’

‘Me? Where to?’

‘Mother told me that you lived in Richmond. You must have had friends…’

‘My father went bankrupt,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, we had friends—fair-weather friends. And we’re happy here. Mother has made several new friends, so she goes out quite a lot, and I’m happy.’ She went on, ‘If you’ve finished, shall we walk along the cliff path for a while? The view is lovely…’

She hadn’t been quite truthful, she reflected, but she sensed that Brian was a young man who didn’t like to be made uneasy. He would go back to his flat and his friends, assuring himself that her life was just what she wanted.

They drove back to Salcombe presently, parked the car at the hotel and walked back through the town.

Outside the bakery Emma stopped. ‘Don’t come any further,’ she suggested. ‘If you are going back today I expect you want to see your mother before you go. I enjoyed lunch; Hope Cove is a delightful little place. I hope you have a good journey back home.’

‘I’ll leave within the hour; it’s quite a long trip. I’ll be glad to get back. Life’s a bit slow here, isn’t it? I wish we could have seen more of each other, but I expect you’ll still be here if and when I come again.’

‘Oh, I expect so.’ She offered a hand and he took it and kissed her cheek.

Dr van Dyke, coming round the corner, stopped short, wished them a cheerful hello and gave Emma a look to send the colour into her cheeks. It said all too clearly that she hadn’t wasted much time in finding someone to take Derek’s place.

He went into the baker’s, and she bade a final hasty goodbye to Brian and almost ran to the cottage. The doctor would think…She didn’t go too deeply into what he would think; she hoped that she wouldn’t see him again for a very long time.

It was a brilliant morning on Saturday, and already warm when she got to Mrs Brooke-Tigh’s house, collected her cleaning brushes and cloths and started on her chores. From a bedroom window she watched Mrs Brooke-Tigh go down the lane, swinging her beach bag. On Saturday mornings she went to the hotel at the other end of the town, which had a swimming pool and a delightful terrace where one could laze for hours. The moment she was out of sight the girl in the other cottage crossed over and came upstairs.

‘Thought I’d let you know I’ve given in my notice. She’s furious; she’ll never get anyone by Wednesday. Wouldn’t hurt her to do a bit of housework herself. Mind she doesn’t expect you to take on any more work.’

Emma was stripping beds. ‘I don’t see how she can…’

‘She’ll think of something. I’d better get on, I suppose. Bye.’

Mrs Brooke-Tigh came back earlier than usual; Emma was setting the tea tray ready for the next tenants when she walked in.

‘That girl’s leaving,’ she told Emma without preamble. ‘She never was much good but at least she was a pair of hands. I’ll never get anyone else at such short notice. We will have to manage as best we can. I shall notify the next two weeks’ tenants that they can’t come in until six o’clock. If you come at nine o’clock and work until six you can do both cottages. I’ll pay you another fifteen pounds a day—thirty pounds a week more.’

Emma didn’t answer at once. The money would be useful…‘I’m willing to do that for the next week and, if I must, the second week. But no longer than that.’

Mrs Brooke-Tigh sniffed. ‘I should have thought that you would have jumped at the chance of more money.’ She would have said more, but the look Emma gave her left the words dying on her tongue. Instead she said ungraciously, ‘Well, all right, I’ll agree to that.’ She turned to go. ‘Bring your stuff over and I’ll pay you.’

There was a car outside the door as she left. It appeared to be full of small children, and a friendly young woman, the one who had been with the doctor, got out. ‘I say, hello, how nice to meet you again. We’re here for a week so we must get to know each other.’ She smiled. ‘Where’s that woman who runs the place?’

‘I’ll fetch her,’ said Emma, ‘and I’d love to see you again.’

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