“You have good taste,”
Lady Manderly admitted.

“Your clothes are rather dull, but then of course you have to buy things which will wear well, but I must admit that you make the most of them.” She got up from the dinner table. “I shall read this evening and you shall play to me.”

Jemima played Ravel, Bach, My Fair Lady, Bitter Sweet and then back to Ravel and finally Delius.

“That’s very sad,” observed her listener as she finished and sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap. “Do you feel sad, Jemima?” It was so unexpected a question coming from Lady Manderly, who had never expressed any interest in her before, that Jemima couldn’t think of a ready answer. “You are in love, perhaps?”

Jemima looked down at her hands and willed herself not to blush. “That would hardly fit into my life at present, Lady Manderly. Would you like me to continue playing?”

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

A Dream Came True
Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE ROOM WAS small and shabby, but comfortable enough, with the firelight flickering on the unimaginative furniture and the small table with the remains of a meal upon it. Two people were sitting there, a young man with a thin, spectacled face and a girl somewhat older, with straight shoulder-length mousy fair hair and a face which just missed being pretty by reason of a slightly turned up nose and a too wide mouth. But the mouth curved gently and her eyes, hazel and thickly fringed, were quite beautiful. She sat very quietly, her hands, small and capable and a little roughened from housework, clasped loosely on the table before her. When she spoke her voice was brisk but pleasantly soft.

‘Well, love, that’s settled, then. We’ll give up this flat—I never liked it much, did you? You go off to Boston and I’ll find a job to keep me going until you come home again,’ and when her brother made an impatient gesture: ‘No, Dick, it’s no good arguing any more, it’s a heavensent chance for you and you simply must take it, and what’s two years? You’ll only be twenty-three…’ she ignored his muttered ‘And you’ll be twenty-eight,’ and went on firmly: ‘You’ll probably be a famous scientist by then and we’ll live in a nice house in the country and I’ll keep hens…’

‘But that’s years away, Jemima—what’s going to happen to you in the meantime?’ He sighed heavily. ‘You’re not trained for anything, are you?’

Rather like a magician she produced a folded newspaper and passed it to him. ‘Read that,’ she begged him, and tapped the advertisements column. ‘I’m cut out for it—I shall go there tomorrow.’

Her brother read it, frowning. ‘But this wouldn’t do—it’s drudgery!’

‘Rubbish.’ If her voice faltered a little he didn’t notice it. ‘I’ve walked dogs all my life, haven’t I, and read aloud to Mother and Father every day for years, I can answer the phone intelligently and write letters and play cards. I shall do very nicely. It’ll be an old dame with a Peke and a hearing aid—and the money is good.’

She got up, a girl not much above middle height and rather on the plump side, and began to clear the table.

‘I’ve got to get your suit from the cleaners and fetch your shoes. Will you have enough money until they pay you?’

‘I’ll manage; I shan’t know anyone to start with, shall I? Besides, I plan to work.’

‘Yes, love, but you can’t work all the time. I wonder what Boston is like? America for that matter—mind you write at least once a month.’ She grinned at him. ‘And take most of what’s left in the bank just to be on the safe side.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ll do fine. I’ve enough clothes and there’ll be enough to keep me going until I get my wages. It says “Good salary” and if I live in I’ll not have a care in the world.’ Jemima spoke cheerfully and inwardly contemplated the future with some doubt; she was a practical girl, not given to moaning or wanting the moon, but she did wish that she had been trained to do something. But there had been no need—her parents had assured her of that each time she had brought the subject up. Her father was a Professor of History at one of the colleges at Oxford, living in a delightful old house which went with the job, and her mother had been only too delighted to leave more and more of the housekeeping to her. And she hadn’t complained; she had a small allowance, a number of friends and no prospect of marrying; she was neither clever enough nor pretty enough to catch the eye of younger men, and the older ones were all married. She hoped that one day she would marry, but here she was, twenty-six last birthday and apart from a middle-aged don, a widower with three teenage children, no proposals. And for the last four years she hadn’t minded at all. When her father died her mother had somehow lost her zest for living too, and Jemima had taken over the running of the house, the paying of the bills and the shopping, not thinking too much about the future. Authority had allowed them to stay on in the house which had been their home for so long and Dick had finished his studies and done brilliantly and somehow she had managed very well on the pension which they now lived on. But when her mother died suddenly, life changed drastically. They had to leave their home; there was no more pension and only a very little money left in the bank. They had sold the furniture and moved into a poky little flat so that Dick could continue his studies while he waited to see if he had won a place at Boston University, where he would have a grant sufficient to keep him while he worked for still another degree. He had done even better; he had been offered a place there with the prospect of a good job at the end of it, and Jemima had urged him to snap it up, brushing aside his doubts about her own future.

All the same, she had scoured the advertisements for several weeks now trying to find something which would suit her few talents, and at last something had turned up and she had every intention of applying for it. The advertisement stipulated an interview, in the first instance at an address in Bloomsbury. She had looked it up and found it to be a street close to the British Museum, a fairly familiar ground to her, for she had been there on several occasions with her father. It sounded very respectable.

She went up to London on a morning train. The interviews were timed for three o’clock and she supposed there might be several girls there as well as herself; she would get there exactly on the hour and in the meantime do a little window-shopping, have a snack lunch and make her way on foot to the address in the advertisement. It was a pleasant day in late September, when she considered London was at its best, and she spent an hour or so going unhurriedly from one big store to the next. If she got the job she would be able to buy one or two things to bring her wardrobe up to date—she made a list while she drank coffee and ate a dull ham sandwich, and then walked on, away from the shops now, taking short cuts through narrow streets full of people hurrying out for their lunch, until she arrived in front of the British Museum. Here she had to stop and ask someone the way, and presently found herself in a quiet Bloomsbury square, its tall houses overlooking the garden in its centre. Number ninety-one would be at the far end; she started to walk along one side, noting that almost all the houses had brass plates under their old-fashioned brass bells—offices, she supposed, lawyers, dentists and doctors, she imagined with some satisfaction, so even more respectable than she had hoped for.

Number ninety-one’s front door stood open, so Jemima went into the lobby and from there into a narrow hall and followed an arrow on the wall which had ‘Waiting Room’ written under it, and found another door on the landing above, a handsome mahogany one with ‘Waiting Room’ on a discreet brass plate. No one answered when she knocked and since a nearby church clock was striking the hour, she opened the door and went inside.

The room wasn’t large, but it was empty of people, which rather surprised her. She glanced at the address again to make sure that she had come to the right place and then went and sat down. There were a couple of small easy chairs against one wall, but she chose the straight-backed chair behind the desk set cornerwise against the window, where she sat composedly, waiting.

She waited for ten minutes and no one appeared; held up by traffic, she decided, and getting bored, typed her name with one finger on the paper ready in the typewriter and, flushed with this success, carefully filled in the rest of the line with the first thing which came into her head: ‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner—’ She came to the end of the paper and turned the roller, quite absorbed. She had a finger poised for the next word when there was a quick determined step on the stairs and the door was opened.

Jemima froze in her chair, not daring to look up. Suppose it was the typist whose machine she was messing about with? She put her hands in her lap and assumed what she hoped was a serene expression.

The steps had reached the desk and she looked up, just in time to have a sheaf of papers thrust at her and hear a deep impatient voice say: ‘Get these typed by five o’clock, will you?’ He barely glanced at her. ‘I suppose you’re the girl from the typing pool to replace Miss Ames? I hope you’re efficient.’

Jemima goggled at him, looking, if only she knew, the height of inefficiency. She had to tell him smartly that he was mistaken, but she hesitated for a few seconds because she really had to look at him. Tall and very large, with pepper-and-salt hair and the coldest grey eyes she had ever seen; a mouth pressed into a thin line and a high-bridged nose—very nice-looking if only he’d smile… She opened her mouth finally. ‘I…’ she began, too late as he strode past her and went through a door at the end of the room, closing it with a decided click which somehow prevented her from following him.

She looked at the papers he had given her—not even ordinary writing but page upon page of what looked like Greek and little sums dotted here and there—a kind of advanced algebra, perhaps? She looked at it for a minute or two, summoning up courage to go after him and explain, vexed with herself because she felt timid and nervous. ‘Ridiculous,’ she said out loud. ‘Father always said you had more common sense in your little finger than any other female he’d ever known.’

She tidied the papers into a neat pile and prepared to stand up just as the door opened again. This time it was a girl, a gorgeous creature with golden hair, a fetching waistcoat and black velvet knickerbockers. She swanned in, smiled brilliantly at Jemima and draped herself in one of the chairs.

‘Hullo—is he in?’

Jemima nodded while she wondered if her legs were good enough to carry off knickerbockers. She was probably far too curvy, she thought regretfully.

‘Oh, good. Be a darling and tell him I’m here, will you?’

It was a chance to see the man and explain. Jemima got to her feet once more, the papers in her hand. ‘What name?’ she asked.

‘Just say Gloria.’

She knocked on the door before she had time to get nervous and walked in. The man was sitting at a massive desk, his head bowed over a pile of papers, so untidy that Jemima itched to straighten them.

‘There’s a young lady,’ she began, and encouraged by his grunt: ‘Her name is Gloria…’

‘Tell her to go away—I shan’t be ready for hours yet. How’s that typing going?’

He looked up and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the papers.

‘Well,’ said Jemima, reasonably, ‘not very well, I’m afraid. You see, I can’t type…’

‘Then why the hell are you here?’ He flung a hand on to the desk so violently that most of the papers there flew on to the floor. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he declared furiously.

‘Not me—you,’ Jemima corrected him calmly. ‘If you wouldn’t get so cross I could explain.’

‘I am not cross. Well?’

She explained with commendable brevity while he sat glowering at her. ‘So,’ she concluded matter-of-factly, ‘if you would tell me where I ought to be…it does give this address, you know.’

He frowned at her. ‘Sit down, wait here,’ he told her, and went out. She could hear his voice rumbling on about something or other and Gloria’s rather shrill tones interrupting. Presently a door banged and he came back.

‘You appear to be the only applicant for the post,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I don’t imagine you will get it. The lady in question is difficult to please; I don’t think you are suitable.’ His cold eyes studied her leisurely and she said tartly:

‘Don’t stare, it’s rude, and what has it got to do with you, anyway?’

Just for a moment the grey eyes warmed with amusement. ‘Er—nothing. I merely suggest that you might not be able to cope—a companion’s life isn’t all roses.’

‘I didn’t expect it to be. And now perhaps you will be good enough to tell me where I should go?’

‘Perhaps I am mistaken—appearances are so deceptive. Take a taxi to this address’—he was scribbling on a pad as he spoke. ‘It’s close to Harrods—you will of course be reimbursed for any expenses.’

Jemima stood up, took the paper he was offering her, wished him good afternoon, and went to the door. He hadn’t answered her, hadn’t looked up even. She said as she opened the door, ‘You’ll have to do your own typing, won’t you?’

Sitting in the taxi she was filled with remorse and shame; to have been so rude, and such a waste too—a complete stranger she would never see again, but it was no good brooding about it, she still had to get the job. ‘Not suitable, indeed!’ she muttered, and when the taxi stopped in a quiet street in Knightsbridge, she had got out, paid her fare, added a tip and mounted the steps to the front door of the tall narrow house, thumped the door with the heavy brass knocker, and when it was opened, trod firmly through it.

The man she had given her name to was short and stout and puffed a good deal. He said civilly: ‘If you would come this way, miss,’ and led her across a high-ceilinged hall to a small room, where he begged her to sit down and then shut the door firmly upon her. It was a pleasant place, nicely warm and well furnished, and she sat back comfortably and thought longingly of her tea—perhaps she would be offered a cup? If not she could stop on her way to the station. Her musings were interrupted by the stout man, who appeared silently and asked her to follow him, this time up the curved staircase and on to a broad landing with a number of doors.

He opened one of these and ushered her inside. ‘Miss Mason, my lady,’ he intoned, and shut the door behind her.

‘Well, come in, come in,’ said an impatient voice from the other end of a large lofty room, and Jemima advanced across the beeswaxed floor, over a beautiful Indian carpet, avoiding chairs, little tables and enormous sofas, until she reached the wing chair by the window where an old lady was sitting.

‘Stand there,’ she commanded, ‘where I can see you—I can’t say you’re much to look at.’

To which Jemima made no answer; she could have agreed, of course, but she saw no reason to do so. The old lady went on: ‘I am Lady Manderly. I suppose you are applying for the post of companion?’

‘Yes, I am.’ Jemima wasn’t sure whether she should say my lady or Lady Manderly, so she chose Lady Manderly, then stood quietly, taking a good look at her companion. Lady Manderly was an imposing figure, even though an outsize one, with a formidable bosom encased in a beautifully tailored grey wool dress in the style made fashionable by Queen Mary. Her iron-grey hair was dressed in a fashion which Jemima decided was vaguely Edwardian, and she wore a magnificent choker of jet beads and gold, supporting a series of quivering chins. From somewhere about her person she produced a lorgnette and studied Jemima at length and in silence.

Jemima bore the scrutiny with calm for a minute or so and then said kindly: ‘You would be much more comfortable with glasses, Lady Manderly.’

The lorgnette was lowered and two hard grey eyes glared at her. They reminded her forcibly of the man who had interviewed her earlier with such abruptness.

Somewhere under that Gorgon front, thought Jemima, there must be a nice old lady lurking. Apparently not. ‘I will not tolerate impertinence,’ declared Lady Manderly.

‘I wasn’t being impertinent, Lady Manderly. An aunt of mine always used a lorgnette until she was persuaded to change to ordinary glasses; she found them a great deal better than forever fidgeting with a lorgnette.’

‘I do not fidget,’ observed Lady Manderly awfully. ‘What experience have you had?’

‘Well, actually none at all, but I can read aloud, and play most card games and answer the telephone sensibly, and write letters. I’m very strong too.’ Jemima frowned a little. ‘Oh, and I can drive a car and run a house economically. My mother became ill after my father died, so I saw to everything…’

‘I have a housekeeper, a butler and a number of servants, Miss—er—Mason. I am, I consider, a considerate and generous employer. You are not quite the type I would have wished for, but since no one else has applied, I will offer you the post on a month’s approval. You will live out; I can’t have the servants running round after you morning and evening—and I will give you forty pounds a week wages.’

Jemima said gently: ‘I should have been glad to accept, Lady Manderly, but if I have to live out I can’t possibly live on that amount. Clothes and shoes and things,’ she added matter-of-factly. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time. Good afternoon, Lady Manderly.’

She started for the door, indeed she had a hand on the door handle when Lady Manderly spoke. ‘I will give you fifty pounds a week, Miss Mason—that is a generous offer. You will come here each morning from nine o’clock and remain until six o’clock in the evening. You will, of course, have your lunch here and your tea. I shall not require you on Sundays.’

‘I should need a half day each week—shopping for food and seeing my friends.’

Lady Manderly sighed so deeply that Jemima expected to see the seams of her dress give way. ‘You are like all modern young women, selfish and indifferent to the comfort of others. You may have a half day each week. Be good enough to start your duties on Monday next. You have references?’

Jemima handed over the names and addresses of some elderly friends of her parents.

‘If they are not satisfactory I will let you know. Be good enough to give your address to my butler as you go out.’ Lady Manderly nodded regally and Jemima, not in the least intimidated, whisked herself out of the room and down the stairs to encounter the butler in the hall.

He wrote down her address impassively and then puffed his way to the front door and held it open for her. ‘I trust we shall see you in due course, miss,’ he observed, and allowed his features to relax into the beginnings of a small smile.

‘Me too,’ said Jemima.

So far so good, she thought as she walked briskly towards the end of the square. Now to find somewhere to live; close by and cheap. The main road was bustling with people and traffic, another world to the peace and dignity which she had just left. There were shops here, mostly good class boutiques, high class grocers and the kind of greengrocer who sold out-of-season fruit and vegetables, but tucked in between them, her searching eye saw a stationers and post office. A likely place to enquire for rooms, she considered. She crossed the street and made her way there and since the shop was almost empty, she went inside.

A redhaired young woman behind the post office counter listened to her silently. ‘Well, I might know of something,’ she observed in a cheerful cockney voice, ‘and then again I might not.’ She eyed Jemima’s sober appearance. ‘What do you do?’

‘Well, I’ve just got a job as a daily companion. I’d only want a room and bed and breakfast.’

The girl chewed on a pencil. ‘There’s a room ’ere,’ she said at length. ‘Me mum lives over the shop and she likes a lodger.’ She opened the counter flap. ‘You’d better come up and see ’er.’

Mum was small and wiry and sharp-tongued, but her eyes were kind. ‘It ain’t much of a room,’ she said, but with no hint of apology, ‘but it’s clean and it’s got a gas fire and a ring for yer kettle, there’s a wash basin too, but yer’ll ’ave ter use the loo at the end of the passage.’

It was a dim little room with a view of chimney pots and a strip of sky, but the furniture wasn’t too bad; there was a small table under the window and a rather battered armchair, a wardrobe and bookshelves and a bed against one wall. With her own small possessions and an eiderdown and a few flowers, Jemima decided, it would do. And the rent was no more than she could afford to pay. Panic caught her by the throat when she remembered that she would be here for two years perhaps, but she made herself forget that. She said steadily: ‘It’s very nice, I should like to take it. You’d like some rent in advance, wouldn’t you—and references?’

‘I’ll have a week’s money, dear, but I know a lady when I see one—I don’t need no references.’ The girl added sharply: ‘Name’s Adams—Mrs Adams. Come into me sitting room and ’ave a cup of tea.’

Jemima drank dark sweet tea thankfully, it was just what she needed. She listened to Mrs Adams telling her about hot water for baths, what kind of breakfast she would get and how the gas fire was on its own meter and she’d have to pay for it separately. ‘And if you want ter cook yerself a snack I’ve no objection. Yer’ll get yer breakfast later on a Sunday, me and Shirley like a nice lie-in. Yer’ll eat in ’ere. If yer want the milkman or the baker, I’ll take in yer stuff. There’s a launderette down Smith Street, that’s first right when you go out of the shop.’ She gave Jemima a quick look. ‘Yer can do yer smalls in the bathroom, but don’t ’ang em there.’

Jemima promised that she wouldn’t, finished her tea, parted with a week’s rent and said goodbye. ‘If I could move in on Sunday evening?’ she asked. ‘I have to work from nine to six o’clock and I’d like to get settled in first.’

Mrs Adams nodded. ‘OK. Ring the shop door bell twice so that we know who it is.’

Jemima had to wait for a train; she sat on the station, impervious to the crowds of homegoing people milling around her, doing careful arithmetic on the back of an envelope. She would be able to manage nicely if she were careful; she had clothes enough, not very new, but they had been good when she had bought them, she would have to allow for tights and soap and writing paper and stamps and all the small things one overlooked normally, but she would have no fares and, with luck, a good lunch every day, she might even save a little money. She went on with her sums when she was in the train and by the time she reached the flat at Oxford, she was her usual calm cheerful self. After all, she had the job, she had somewhere to live and in two years’ time Dick would be back in England and they could set up house together and if, as he was bound to do, Dick married, she would learn typing and shorthand and become some powerful executive’s right hand secretary. It would be nice to marry, of course, but she didn’t dwell on that; she was after all turned twenty-six and no beauty.

Dick was home, deep in his books, which he had spread out all over the table. Jemima took off her jacket, piled them tidily and laid the table for their supper. She had been busy about this for a minute or two before he looked up to ask: ‘Well, did you get the job?’

‘Yes, and I think I’ll quite enjoy it too. I have to live out, but I’ve found a very nice bedsitter close by—it’s just behind Harrod’s—her name is Lady Manderly.’

‘That’s splendid—is she paying you enough?’

‘Quite enough, love. I shall manage splendidly. I’m to start on Monday, which is just right, isn’t it? I’ll be able to see you off on Sunday morning.’ She smiled a little ruefully as she spoke; Dick had already turned back to his book, obviously relieved that her future had been settled so easily.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he was going to America on his own, she reflected, watching the plane getting smaller and smaller as it left Heathrow. He had always been looked after—not spoilt, she told herself, he was too nice for that, but since an early age he had buried his head in books; food and clothes, even people, had meant very little to him. She hoped that they would be kind to him in Boston, he was a nice boy and everyone liked him. She was going to miss him.

She spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat, handing over the keys and packing the rest of her things and in the evening she called a taxi and had herself driven to catch the train to her new home.

Mrs Adams answered the door, took one of her cases from her and ushered her upstairs. The flat smelled of Sunday dinner, but her room was spotlessly clean and the bed looked inviting. Left to herself Jemima lighted the gas fire, made tea on the gas ring and started to unpack. She quite enjoyed arranging her possessions round the room, and the bed looked even better with her eiderdown on it and the reading lamp on the small table beside it. She had almost finished when Shirley knocked and came in. ‘Got all you want?’ she asked kindly. ‘Mum says breakfast at eight o’clock—we open the shop at half past. The water’s hot if you want a bath.’

She sat down on the bed and smoothed the eiderdown with a careful hand. ‘Silk, ain’t it? I bet you ’as a posh ’ome.’

Jemima closed the wardrobe door. ‘Well, I suppose it was, but home’s what you make it, isn’t it? I’ve been in some very grand houses and they’re just like museums, not home at all—now this is cosy…’

Shirley stared at her. ‘Cor—you mean it too, don’t you? Well, I never! Mind you, I’d hate to live anywhere else but London—deadly dull it must be.’ She got up. ‘You can call me Shirl,’ she invited.

‘Thank you, Shirl—call me Jemima if you like.’

‘Sounds a funny name to me, but if it’s all you’ve got I’ll ’ave to, won’t I? So long.’

Jemima slept soundly. She was a sensible girl; Dick was safely embarked on a career, she had a job and a roof over her head and she didn’t owe anyone any money, so there was no reason why she should stay awake.

She was up and ready for breakfast in good time, very neat in the navy blue suit she had worn to the interview. It was by no means new, but her shoes were good and her blouse, a white silk one she had had for years, dateless. Looking at her reflection in the mirror behind the wardrobe door, she hoped that her appearance was right for the job and was encouraged to think so by Mrs Adams, who put a plate of bacon and egg in front of her remarking: ‘There’s nothing like navy blue to make a girl look ladylike.’ She poured strong tea and handed it to Jemima. ‘Nervous?’

Jemima thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think I am, a little. I’ve never had a job before.’

‘You’ll do,’ observed Shirley through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. ‘Just remember not to let ’er sit on you—you stand up for yourself, see?’ She pushed her chair back. ‘Well, I’ll go and get started, I suppose. You coming down later, Mum?’

Mrs Adams nodded. ‘Yes, and just you see that that Ned does the till proper.’ And as her daughter clattered down the stairs. ‘’E’s the assistant part-time, but ’e’s not much use.’

It was barely five minutes’ walk to Lady Manderly’s house. Jemima went back to her room, made the bed neatly, tidied it, picked up her bag and gloves and wished Mrs Adams goodbye. And in the shop Shirley sorting magazines with lightning efficiency, cried: ‘Good luck, girl!’ and waved airily from behind the counter. Jemima, outside on the pavement, found herself reluctant to cross the road; the little shop already seemed a safe shelter. She would be coming back that evening, she reminded herself, and nipped on to the opposite pavement, heading for Lady Manderly’s house.

The door was opened by the same stout man and after wishing him a good morning, Jemima said: ‘Will you tell me your name? I wasn’t told the other day when I was here, but if we are going to see each other every day it would be nicer.’ She smiled at him and he smiled back at her in a rather surprised way. ‘Belling, miss. And I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy here.’

‘Why, thank you, Belling, I hope so too. What do I do next?’

‘I’ll show you the cloak room, miss, where you can put your things and then ascertain if Lady Manderly is ready for you.’

He started off across the hall and then paused as someone came running down the staircase. Jemima paused too, having no choice as a man came round the curve of the staircase. She recognised him at once—who could forget that pepper-and-salt hair and the size of him? He stopped as he reached them, nodded at Belling and stared hard at her. ‘So you landed the job,’ he observed. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be a better companion than you were a typist.’ He smiled mockingly, but his eyes were as cold as the first time they had met.

Belling had gone to open the street door and he went through it without saying anything more. A very unpleasant man, but there was no harm in finding out who he was.

As Belling rejoined her she asked diffidently: ‘That gentleman—we met the other day at his office…’ She allowed her voice to sound questioning and the butler answered readily enough.

‘That is Professor Cator, miss—Professor Alexander Cator, Lady Manderly’s nephew and a very famous man in his field of learning.’

‘Oh, what sort of learning?’

‘Endocrinology, miss. He’s considered to be a very clever gentleman.’

And a nasty bad-tempered one too, thought Jemima as she was ushered into the small room she had waited in on her first visit. It was a good ten minutes before Belling came back and asked her to follow him.

Jemima got up with alacrity. It was, after all, an important moment in her life; she was about to start her first job.

CHAPTER TWO

BELLING LED THE WAY upstairs and on to the landing, but this time he ignored the drawing-room door and knocked on a smaller door opposite, opened it and stood aside for Jemima to go past him. Compared to the drawing-room, the apartment she entered was small; it was also austerely furnished with a fine knee-hole writing desk, an upright chair behind it, a couple of small tables and an upholstered armchair drawn up to the small fire burning in the polished steel grate.

Lady Manderly was in the chair, wearing a dress exactly the same as the grey one, but this time it was blue and the jet and gold necklace had been replaced by a turquoise choker. There was a pile of letters on the small table by her chair and she was tapping impatiently with a beringed hand upon the newspaper on her lap.

Jemima wished her good morning politely and waited.

‘I said nine o’clock,’ began Lady Manderly icily.

‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Jemima pleasantly, ‘and I was here at five minutes to the hour, Lady Manderly. I waited downstairs until Belling came to fetch me.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘For ten minutes,’ she added.

Lady Manderly looked affronted. ‘I am not always ready, Miss Mason. You will go through these letters and give me those which are personal so that I may read them. Bills, requests for money and so on you will put on the desk and consult me about them when it is convenient.’ She added: ‘To me.’

And when Jemima had done that: ‘While I am reading my letters and when you have sorted the remainder, you will scan The Times and mark anything of significance so that you may read it to me during the course of the day.’

They settled down the pair of them, Lady Manderly occasionally making indignant noises over her correspondence, Jemima working silently, making a neat pile on the desk and then looking through the paper for likely bits to read—a formidable task, since she had no idea what the lady’s tastes were; would she want to hear the Prime Minister’s speech on the coal industry, or what the Middle East was doing at the moment? Or would she be interested in the fashion page? Jemima thought it unlikely; fashion as such didn’t appear to mean much to her employer—she fancied that she made her own. She might like the social column, though, and the weather report…

Lady Manderly laid down the last of her letters. ‘And now you may tell me about the rest,’ she commanded.

They were mostly bills, but there were a couple of begging letters, a leaflet about thermal underwear, an enquiry as to whether Lady Manderly would like double glazing and a catalogue from Liberty’s. Lady Manderly made short work of them while Jemima scribbled little notes on each of them so that she would remember what she had to do later on.

‘Now you may read to me,’ stated Lady Manderly.

Jemima began with the weather report, touched lightly on the Middle East, read the whole of the Prime Minister’s speech in full, added an item or two about the Royal Family’s daily round, touched delicately upon the separation of a peer of the realm and his wife, and ended with a colourful account of the discovery of a rare ceramic—an Imari cat—which had been found on the kitchen overmantel in a Norfolk farmhouse.

As she folded the newspaper Lady Manderly remarked: ‘You have a pleasant voice, Miss Mason, and your choice of reading material was most suitable. Kindly ring the bell for coffee.’

Coffee came, on a massive silver tray. Jemima poured it from a George the Second silver coffee pot into paper-thin cups, and it was atrocious—watery and bitter and not as hot as it should have been; she waited for Lady Manderly to complain, but that lady drank two cups with apparent enjoyment before desiring Jemima to ring the bell once more.

‘You will take Coco for a walk and bring her back to me in one hour,’ said Lady Manderly. ‘My maid, Pooley, always takes her to St James’ Park, but of course she has to be driven there and back. You, I presume, are young enough to enjoy a good walk.’

‘Yes, of course I am, Lady Manderly, but what about Coco? Is she young?’

‘Five—no, six years old, I believe. She does not, of course, get the exercise she should, so you may have to carry her if she tires.’

Jemima pictured herself struggling under the weight of a Great Dane. ‘What sort of dog?’ she asked.

‘A poodle—miniature, of course. You may go now, Miss Mason, but be back at noon precisely.’

Belling was waiting in the hall when Jemima went downstairs, holding the lead of a very small grey poodle. ‘The little dog is very good, miss,’ he volunteered, ‘she’ll be glad of a nice walk.’

The sun was shining although there was a cool wind with a decided autumnal nip to it; just right for a brisk walk. The hour passed too quickly for both Jemima and Coco and she hoped that a daily walk was to be part of her duties. Coco, her paws wiped by a woman in an apron, summoned to the hall by Belling, was allowed to mount the stairs with Jemima and go into the drawing-room where Lady Manderly was sitting before a vast embroidery frame. She looked at her watch before she spoke. ‘At least you are punctual,’ she observed tartly. ‘We lunch at one o’clock, until then you may start on the letters, and I have left you a list of telephone calls I wish you to make.’ She pushed the frame aside. ‘Come to Mother,’ she begged Coco in such a different, gentle voice that Jemima stared. Perhaps Lady Manderly wasn’t as harsh as she seemed. She went back to the small room and sat down at the desk. Fifty pounds had seemed an awful lot of money when she had been offered that sum; she saw now that she was going to earn every penny of it.

She quite enjoyed the next hour, however, telephoning for flowers to be sent, a fitter to come that afternoon with a new dress Lady Manderly had ordered, a wine merchant to deliver a dozen bottles of claret, and then settling down to write answers to the bills and begging letters in her neat handwriting. She made out cheques too, and when they were done, took them back to the drawing-room for Lady Manderly to sign. And by then it was lunch time.

Jemima was relieved to find that this was a substantial meal, which meant that she need only get herself a sandwich or beans on toast or an egg in the evening, and since Lady Manderly had a good appetite, she was able to enjoy her lunch down to the last mouthful. The coffee was frightful, though, and Jemima made up her mind to do something about that just as soon as she had got to know the members of the household.

Lady Manderly rested after lunch, she told Jemima, and liked to be read to, so Jemima made her comfortable on the day bed, draped a series of shawls around her massive person, and took a chair close by. She was to read one of Agatha Christie’s earlier books, one she had read at least twice herself. She had got as far as the second chapter when she was brought up short by a tremendous snore from her companion. There was no point in going on, so she marked the place carefully and sat back in her chair, glad of a few minutes’ quiet. So far, she thought, she wasn’t doing too badly. Lady Manderly had watched her like a hawk during lunch, presumably to make sure that she knew which knives and forks to use, but she hadn’t actually grumbled once. The thought that the job was going to bore her to tears within a month she stifled at once; she was lucky to get work and until she could train for something else she hadn’t much choice.

Lady Manderly woke presently and Jemima went on reading, just as though she had never left off. Coco had to be taken for a short walk before four o’clock tea, a welcome break before Jemima found herself behind the silver tea tray once more, this time flanked by plates of little sandwiches and cakes. She had handed Lady Manderly her tea and a plate and was offering her the sandwiches when the door opened and Professor Cator came in, and just ahead of him came the girl who had called at the office in Bloomsbury. She was looking more beautiful than ever, in knickerbockers again, this time plaid ones with a fetching little velvet waistcoat and a ridiculous velvet beret perched on her lovely head. She said: ‘Hullo, Lady Manderly, I made Alexander bring me here for tea—I’m dying for a cup.’ She pecked Lady Manderly’s cheek and grinned at Jemima. ‘Hullo to you too. Alexander said Lady Manderly had a new companion, though I must say you don’t look the part.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Well, perhaps you do—no glamour, poor dear, and you ought to do something with that mousy hair.’

The Professor had gone to stand by the window after greeting his aunt briefly. He had barely glanced at Jemima, but now he stared at her thoughtfully so that she coloured and frowned. ‘I’ll ring for more cups,’ she said rather primly, and stood by the bell until Belling came into the room. She felt awkward and dreadfully plain, and although the girl hadn’t meant to be unkind, her words had poked a hole in Jemima’s pride—a hole made much worse by Lady Manderly telling her carelessly to go and have her tea in the room where she had been working that morning. ‘Find something to do,’ advised Lady Manderly, ‘and come back when I ring.’

So Jemima tidied the desk and then sat behind it, longing for her tea and not sure if she was supposed to go in search of it or ring. Probably Belling would object to bringing it to her—after all, she wasn’t much better than a servant.

She sat for five minutes or so, getting steadily more and more indignant. She was after all a don’s daughter who had enjoyed a social life of sorts, well educated, so that when presently Professor Cator opened the door and came into the room she gave him a look of dislike as well as surprise.

‘Ah, you have had no tea,’ he observed in a bland voice which made her grit her teeth.

‘I don’t want any, thank you, Professor Cator,’ said Jemima while she thought longingly of a whole teapot full, with sandwiches to go with it.

He took no notice of her at all, but pulled the bell rope and when Belling came, ordered tea to be brought at once. ‘And be so good as to put a second cup on the tray,’ he finished, and to Jemima’s annoyance, sat down.

She could think of nothing to say; she sat behind the desk still, twiddling a pen between her fingers and wishing he would go away.

Something he didn’t mean to do, for as the tea tray was borne in and set down on a small table he observed: ‘I take milk and two lumps of sugar.’

Jemima raised her eyes to his impassive face. ‘Shouldn’t you be having tea with Lady Manderly and—and the young lady?’

He shrugged massive shoulders. ‘They’re discussing some party or other which I found boring.’ And at the speaking look she gave him: ‘You won’t bore me, Miss Mason, because there is no need for us to talk.’

Jemima poured tea carefully from a small silver teapot. ‘That’s an abominable thing to say,’ she pointed out severely, and handed him his cup and saucer. He put it down by his chair and in turn handed her the plate of sandwiches.

It was a little unnerving, but by the time she had given both of them a second cup of tea, and eaten her share of the sandwiches and started upon the really delicious walnut cake, her sensible nature had reasserted itself. And as for her companion, he appeared to be the picture of ease and contentment, sitting there eating his tea for all the world as if he were alone. It was a chastening thought that she made not the slightest impression upon him, a remark borne out by his: ‘You may not set the Thames on fire, Miss Mason, but at least you don’t chatter,’ as he got to his feet and went out of the room.

She sat very still after he had gone. He had been extremely rude, for two pins she would get her things and leave the house and leave him and his arrogant old aunt to fend for themselves. But of course she couldn’t do that; she hadn’t two pins, let alone a week’s salary, and the beautiful Gloria would undoubtedly fend very nicely for the Professor.

She heard their voices presently as they prepared to leave, and shortly afterwards Lady Manderly swept into the room, told her to get the tray taken away, and when that was done, began on a list of names of those who were to be invited to a party she intended giving. ‘In two weeks’ time,’ she observed. ‘Just a small affair—my birthday, you know.’ She shot a glance at Jemima. ‘There will be a good deal of organising to do.’

From which Jemima concluded that she was to be organiser in chief.

Lady Manderly was still murmuring on about smoked salmon and should she have oyster patties when the carriage clock above the fireplace tinkled the hour. Jemima finished the note she was making and closed the book.

‘I’ll start on the invitations tomorrow morning, shall I, Lady Manderly?’ She stood up, aware that Lady Manderly was looking surprised. ‘It’s six o’clock,’ she went on.

Lady Manderly snapped: ‘A clockwatcher, are you? Another half hour or so…’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s quite a long day, you know, and I have things to do in the evenings—besides, you wouldn’t want to pay me overtime, Lady Manderly.’

Her employer gobbled. ‘Overtime? I have no intention of paying you overtime!’

‘No, I didn’t think you would want to, that’s why I’m going now. Good evening, Lady Manderly.’

Jemima smiled kindly at her companion, who was obviously struggling for words, but by the time she had decided what to say, Jemima had gone.

The flat, when she reached it, looked small and poky and her room dark and shabby, but she told herself that that was because she had just come from such luxurious surroundings. She tidied herself and in response to Shirley’s cheerful shout, went along to the sitting room and sat down to the supper they had invited her to share. Mrs Adams and Shirley greeted her with a casual friendliness which was heartwarming after the arrogance of her employer and Professor Cator’s indifference and rudeness. They piled her plate high with food, poured strong tea and plied her with questions.

‘What’s the old lady like?’ asked Shirley eagerly, and before Jemima could answer: ‘What’s the house like inside?’ asked her mother.

‘Very large,’ said Jemima, and thought that answered both questions very adequately, but it wouldn’t do to make fun of her employer. ‘Lots of lovely furniture and thick velvet curtains. I haven’t seen any bedrooms, indeed I’ve only been in three rooms; the drawing-room is magnificent, a bit like a museum, you know. I work in a smaller room with just a desk and a table and chair or two, and we had lunch in a dining room at the back of the house…’

‘And the old lady?’

‘Very—very dignified. Tall and stout and beautifully dressed. There’s a butler and I suppose there are maids as well, though I haven’t seen any yet.’

‘What did you eat?’ asked Mrs Adams, and cast an involuntary glance at the remains of the steak and kidney pudding on the plastic tablecloth.

‘Well, it sounds a lot, but it wasn’t nearly as good as this pudding, Mrs Adams. It was awfully kind of you to ask me to share it…’

‘It’s your first day,’ explained Mrs Adams. ‘Well, what did you eat?’

‘Soup—just a little bowl full—a clear soup.’

Shirley sniffed. ‘Bovril watered down!’

‘And then a fish soufflé with spinach and afterwards a crème caramel.’

‘Not enough to put into a hollow tooth, I’ll be bound. Tell you what, love, you can eat with us in the evenings for another two pounds a week. Shan’t make anything out of it, but it’s just as easy to cook for three as two and it’ll give you a bit more time to enjoy yourself.’ Mrs Adams added sharply: ‘There ain’t no butler, mind, nor no pudding for afters. Just a cup of tea.’

‘You’re very kind, Mrs Adams, and I’d love to do that if you’re sure it doesn’t put you out. Only if you have visitors will you say so and I’ll have supper in my room? It’ll be lovely to come back to a meal in the evenings, it seemed a long day, but I daresay once I know more about the work, the days will go faster.’

Shirley gave her a look of sympathy tinged with pity. ‘Sounds like a dull old job to me,’ she observed. ‘Any men around?’

‘There’s Belling the butler, but he’s elderly and a bit severe…’ She hesitated and Shirley said quickly: ‘And someone else?’

‘He doesn’t really count,’ said Jemima slowly. ‘He’s Lady Manderly’s nephew—a Professor of Endocrinology, but he doesn’t live there. He came this afternoon with a girl, an absolutely gorgeous creature. You know, golden hair and blue eyes and most wonderful clothes—those knickerbockers, and a waistcoat and the most heavenly boots.’

‘Got ’im ’ooked, ’as she?’ Mrs Adams wanted to know. ‘I don’t ’old with them knickers, nor don’t Shirley’s young man.’

Shirley pouted. ‘Old-fashioned, that’s what ’e is,’ she complained, ‘always talking about moons and roses and Ginger Rogers dresses!’

‘Well, they were rather fetching,’ said Jemima, and far safer for Shirley, she thought privately; such a nice friendly girl, but her legs didn’t bear too much limelight on them. Nor do mine, for that matter, thought Jemima, erroneously, as a matter of fact; she had nice legs, but since no one had ever told her so, she took it for granted that they were better concealed by a skirt.

She helped with the washing up presently and then went to her room to write to Dick before making herself a mug of cocoa on the gas ring. She lit the gas fire, and sitting up in bed, reading, belatedly, the morning paper, she decided that the little room wasn’t too bad at all. Tomorrow she would buy some flowers, she promised herself, and in a week or two, when she had a little money to spare, she would buy one of those cheerful coloured rugs and a cushion or two. She didn’t allow herself to think about her old home; it had gone for good, and she had been lucky to find someone as kind as Mrs Adams. She turned out the fire and the light and closed her eyes. She had a job too, although she wondered sleepily just how long she would keep it. Lady Manderly was an old tyrant and Jemima, although tolerant to a fault, had no intention of being anyone’s doormat. She would see how the cat jumped, but meanwhile, she told herself resolutely, she was both happy and content. Not quite, perhaps; no girl, however happy and content, liked to be told that she wouldn’t set the Thames on fire. ‘Beastly man,’ said Jemima aloud, and went to sleep.

It was all go the next day. Lady Manderly, disappointed that Jemima should present herself exactly at nine o’clock, was inclined to be tetchy and had to content herself with the remark that she hoped that Jemima would continue to be punctual each morning. ‘As punctual as you were leaving yesterday evening,’ she added sourly.

Jemima agreed with her cheerfully and began sorting the post. She followed yesterday’s pattern exactly so that beyond a frustrated snort from her employer, nothing had to be said. It was fortunate that the paper reported at great length the wedding of a peer of the realm’s daughter. Jemima prudently earmarked it for reading, discarded the more gloomy titbits, studied the weather forecast, found an amusing story about a dog purported to play the piano, and held herself ready to receive Lady Manderly’s instructions.

There were a great many of them, and they kept Jemima occupied for the rest of the morning, so that, by the time they had had lunch and she had taken Coco for a long-delayed walk, it was time for the tea tray to be brought in, and since there was no Professor and no Gloria today, she was able to drink her tea in comparative peace, if she discounted Lady Manderly’s frequent demands for this that and the other to be done at once.

She left the house promptly, shared a supper of toad-in-the-hole with Shirley and her mother and then, unable to bear her little room after the spaciousness of Lady Manderly’s house, went for a walk. It was a cool evening and she walked fast, not noticing where she went and when she got back to her little room she was tired enough to go straight to bed and sleep, which was a good thing, for she was feeling utterly miserable.

But with the morning she felt better. Here she was half way through the week, and pay day within sight too. She presented a calm face towards Lady Manderly, carried out her manifold duties and went back to the flat that evening feeling that at least she was holding her own. And for the next couple of days she was busy enough not to have the time to mope, indeed she was surprised to find that she was actually beginning to enjoy herself. True, Lady Manderly never ceased to remind her that she had no qualifications of any sort and that a girl in her position should be able to type at the very least, but on the other hand, she was forced to concede that Jemima had a pleasant voice, good manners and didn’t answer back. On the whole, they were beginning to like each other, in a guarded way.

It was raining when Jemima left for work the next morning, with a mean little wind which hinted of winter ahead. She skimmed along into its teeth and was almost at the house when a car, driven too fast, forced her against the railings, checked momentarily, and then drove off.

Jemima looked at her mud-spattered legs. ‘The horrible wretch!’ she muttered with a good deal of feeling, and then repeated herself at the sight of the furry heap in the middle of the road. It mewed soundlessly and stared at her with beseeching eyes, and she went to it at once, kneeling down in the muddy road to touch it with a gentle hand. ‘Oh, my poor dear!’ She was so angry and upset she could hardly get the words out. ‘That devil! Let me take a look.’

The little beast lay still as she felt it carefully through its sodden fur, but it bared its teeth as she touched its hind legs. She would have to get it to a vet as quickly as possible. She stroked its head while she thought what was best to be done. Lady Manderly’s house was only a few doors away, she could at least telephone from there, but the thought of leaving the little cat in the road made her hesitate. If only someone would come…

She barely heard the car purring to a halt, but she looked round when the car door was slammed and someone came towards her. Professor Cator. She wasted no time. ‘Oh, good, I’m glad it’s you,’ she told him urgently. ‘Some fiend ran over this poor little beast not five minutes ago and didn’t stop. I think he’s broken his back legs, but I’m not sure. Would you mind telephoning a vet for me, I can’t leave him here.’

The Professor didn’t say anything, only crouched down beside her and looked closely at the animal. ‘Go and get into the car,’ he told her. ‘I’ll bring him over to you, he can lie on your lap—it’ll be much easier to take him to a vet straight away.’

She hesitated. ‘Yes, but won’t you hurt him?’

He said dryly: ‘Not intentionally, Miss Mason, and he can’t stay here.’

Jemima did as she was told then, getting into the front seat and leaving the door open. A Rolls-Royce, she noticed vaguely, gleaming and spotless and the acme of comfort. She sat with her head averted because she couldn’t bear to see how the Professor would manage, but in no time at all the little cat was on her knee and he was sitting beside her, reversing the big car and driving back the way he had came.

‘Is there a vet close by?’ she asked.

‘I’ve no idea, I’m taking him to my own vet.’ The tone of his voice didn’t encourage her to talk; she sat without speaking until he turned down a narrow street and pulled up before a small door in a high wall. ‘Wait here,’ he told her, and got out and went through the door, to return very shortly with a short thin man who nodded at her, eased the cat on to what looked like a miniature stretcher, and went back through the door. The Professor went with him and she was left sitting there, suddenly in a frightful state because she had remembered that she should have been at her desk all of twenty minutes ago. Probably she would get the sack, she thought unhappily, in which case she was entitled to a week’s salary? Or was she entitled to no salary at all?

When, after another five minutes, Professor Cator returned she turned to him with a worried face. ‘I’m so late…’ and then, because the little cat was really more important: ‘Can the vet do something? Will it be all right?’

The Professor got in beside her. ‘Yes, he’ll set the legs and look after the little beast until it’s fit to go to whoever will have it.’ He gave her a sideways look as he spoke. ‘You?’ he asked blandly.

She said at once: ‘Yes, of course. The fees…?’

‘The vet never charges for this kind of accident.’ He watched the relief on her face with detached amusement. ‘I telephoned my aunt and explained why you would be late.’

He was driving back the way they had come, showing no further interest in her.

‘Oh, did you? How kind—I was a bit worried. I mean, Lady Manderly likes me to be punctual, and I thought…that is, I was afraid she might have given me the sack.’

He said casually: ‘Yes, I was surprised she was so forbearing. You’ll only be half an hour or so late, though.’

‘Yes, and I can make it up this evening.’

‘You live close by?’

‘Yes, quite a short walk.’ She had no intention of telling him where. The little newspaper shop was hardly a good address; even as she thought it she felt mean. Mrs Adams and Shirley were kind and friendly and however poky her room was, it was her own while she paid the rent. ‘I’m very comfortable at the flat,’ she told him with a shade of defiance and a regrettable lack of truth, and was sorry she had said it, because he didn’t show any interest. She doubted if he was listening; he was probably bored stiff by the whole little episode.

She was left to face Lady Manderly alone. The Professor gave her a curt nod when they reached the house, leaned over and opened the door for her and drove off without a second glance.

‘Rather rude,’ muttered Jemima, and thumped the door knocker with unnecessary violence.

Belling admitted her and allowed a faint sympathetic smile to crease his bland features. ‘Lady Manderly is in the small sitting room, miss, if you would go up at once.’

Lady Manderly, empurpled with ill humour, received her coldly. ‘It is to be hoped,’ she uttered sternly, ‘that you will not make a habit of rescuing animals when you should be here working for me.’

‘It’s to be hoped that there won’t be any more animals to rescue,’ observed Jemima reasonably. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Lady Manderly, but I couldn’t have left that cat lying there in the middle of the road…’

Her employer raised a majestic hand. ‘Spare me the details, Miss Mason, I do not wish to hear them.’

‘That’s the trouble, isn’t it?’ said Jemima equably. ‘People never want to hear about misery and pain, do they?’

Lady Manderly drew in a hissing breath, lifted her lorgnette and stared at Jemima through them, and then flung them back on to her generous front so fiercely that the chain snapped and the whole lot fell on to the carpet.

‘There, now see what you’ve done,’ said Jemima chidingly. ‘I told you that specs would be easier for you.’ She got down on her knees and picked up the broken chain. ‘I’ll get some thread and tie the links together until we can get it mended.’

Lady Manderly was opening and closing her mouth like a dying fish, struggling to get out words. At last she managed: ‘You are a forward girl…’

‘I don’t mean to be,’ said Jemima, and smiled nicely at the cross face.

‘Would you like me to read to you first this morning, there don’t seem to be many letters.’ She glanced at the unopened pile on the desk.

‘Very well,’ said Lady Manderly ungraciously, and then: ‘Really, I don’t know if you will suit, Miss Mason.’

Jemima’s heart sank, but she turned a calm face to her employer.

‘Would you like me to draft another advertisement?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

Lady Manderly bristled. ‘You don’t like your work here? You wish to leave?’

‘Me? Heavens, no! I’m very happy, you see I had an invalid mother to look after for a few years and I—I miss caring for someone.’

Lady Manderly’s rather protuberant eyes popped out still further and for once she had no answer. Jemima hadn’t expected one, she skimmed through the news, picking out the choicest bits. ‘Shall I start reading, Lady Manderly?’ she asked.

‘Yes, you may do so, Miss Mason. You say that you are happy here—that being so, I am prepared to overlook your lateness this morning. After all, my nephew seems to think that you are a good enough young woman.’

‘How very kind of him,’ said Jemima softly and her fine eyes sparkled with temper at the arrogance of it.

‘So you will stay?’ asked Lady Manderly, and Jemima detected the tiniest hint of wistfulness in the commanding voice.

‘Yes, I’d like to, Lady Manderly.’ She smiled at the lady and picked up the paper. ‘There is a report on the PM’s speech—shall I read it to you first?’

The morning went as usual after that, and at lunch time, Lady Manderly made gracious conversation, presumably offering an olive branch of sorts. Jemima was a good listener; they rose from the table in charity with each other and Jemima, having seen Lady Manderly safely tucked up in the drawing room, whisked herself out of the house with Coco, just as eager for a walk as she was.

It was almost six o’clock, and Jemima was just finishing the last of the letters when the phone rang.

‘You leave at five o’clock, do you not?’ asked the Professor into her ear.

‘No, I don’t, Professor.’ Remembering that he had called her a good enough young woman, she asked in a freezing voice: ‘You wish to speak to Lady Manderly?’

‘No, not particularly, I thought you might like to know that the little cat is recovering nicely. Have you attempted to find out if it belongs to anyone?’

‘How could I do that?’ she asked with a snap. ‘I’ve had no time at all. I’ll go round to every house this evening when I’m free to do so.’

‘If you hadn’t taken me up so sharply, I would have continued,’ said the Professor mildly. ‘The cat is obviously a stray, ill cared for and half starved. If I might suggest—without my head being bitten off—that she remains with the vet until she is quite well, then if you wish to have her you can do so, if not, we must find a good home for her.’

‘Oh, yes—well, that would be nice, but the vet won’t keep her for nothing? Will he? Could I have his phone number or his name—the bill, you know.’

‘I thought I had made myself clear already, Miss Mason. He doesn’t charge for emergency treatment, and I will settle the account…’

Jemima said suddenly: ‘You’re an endocrinologist, aren’t you? Belling told me. Do you use cats to—to experiment on? Because if that’s the reason…’

His voice cut through hers like cold steel. ‘Miss Mason, I do not, as you put it, use cats. I never have done nor do I intend to, but since you are determined to think the worst of me I suggest we end our conversation.’

He hung up before she could so much as draw breath.

She licked down the last envelope, wondering if she had hurt his feelings—or was he a man with feelings to hurt? Just his pride perhaps. In any case she would have to apologise. She picked up the letters to post and went along to the drawing room to wish Lady Manderly goodnight and went slowly out of the house and down the street.

‘Bother the man,’ she muttered, ‘I hope I never see him again!’ The thought was a little lowering for some reason; she brightened visibly when she remembered that she would have to in order to apologise.

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