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THE Baroness shook out a lace ruffle, raised her voice and said pleasantly: ‘There you are, Rolf—how nice,’ and turned to smile at Sappha. ‘This is my son Rolf, my dear—he’s on a short visit from Holland—just to see how I am, you know.’ She gave Sappha just enough time to murmur politely before she went on: ‘Rolf, this is Miss Sappha Devenish who has come to nurse me back on to my feet again—all the way from London too. I daresay you remember, dear—I did mention…’ Her voice took on a vague note. ‘I believe you have already met…’

Sappha had gone a delectable pink. She said baldly: ‘Yes, we have, I was just telling you.’ She glanced across at the man standing so quietly in the doorway, her brown eyes snapping because she suspected that behind the politeness of his expression he was laughing at her. He walked across the room without saying anything at all, kissed his mother, said in a voice deeper than Sappha had remembered: ‘Yes, Mother, I remember very well,’ and turned to shake Sappha’s hand. At close quarters he seemed very large indeed and handsome in a dark sort of way. He enquired gravely how she did and when she looked at him she could see that his eyes were alive with laughter. He said: ‘I hope you will enjoy staying here, it is—er—a little quiet.’

He allowed his gaze to sweep over her well-turned-out person so that she made haste to say with a touch of haughtiness: ‘I shall be wearing uniform,’ and was instantly furious with herself for saying anything so stupid, for his mouth curved in a faint smile and the peculiar eyebrows lifted. ‘Of course,’ he said mildly, ‘what could have made you suppose I should expect anything else?’ He sat down carefully on the end of his mother’s bed. ‘Tell me, did you have a good journey? Which way did you come?’

‘The M1—from London, you know.’ Her voice had an edge to it. ‘And at Inverness I got on to the A832, through Garve and Achnasheen and Torridon—it was a good road all the way, excepting for the last few miles.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She was sure he was laughing at her again. ‘There are very few roads around here—just the one to Torridon. You will enjoy the walking, I have no doubt.’ His voice was silky and she had her mouth open to answer him back, but he went on smoothly: ‘Am I interrupting something? Would you prefer me to come back later?’ Which was so obviously a polite way of asking her to leave that she got to her feet at once with a remark that she would unpack.

She found her way down to the kitchen presently to fetch her patient’s supper, having disposed of her clothes and changed into a crisp white uniform and perched her Greggs’ cap upon her nicely arranged hair. It was a spotted muslin trifle, goffered, edged with lace and rather fetching. Mrs MacFee, helping in the preparation of the invalid’s supper, complimented Sappha upon it. ‘Such a refreshing change, my dear, after some of these odd styles—not,’ she added hastily, ‘but what you looked charming when you arrived.’ She set a steaming pipkin of soup carefully upon the tray and added its lid.

‘Now, dear, if you wouldn’t mind taking this up. I don’t feel that I should be telling you what to do, really I don’t, but I’m sure you will find your way around in no time at all, and then you must do as you think best for your patient. I expect Dr van Duyren is with her now?’

Sappha said, ‘Yes,’ and cast around for something else to say about him. She could, of course, have mentioned that they had already met, she could even have passed a remark about his satyr’s eyebrows, but Mrs MacFee might find that a little odd. Instead she asked: ‘Does he stay here? I mean when comes to see his mother?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course he’s been coming here ever since he was a very small boy—Mr MacFee thinks of him as a son—he comes and goes as he likes and he knows everyone for miles around. He keeps a Land Rover here and many’s the time he’s gone to some outlying croft when there has been an accident or a baby arriving too soon and we couldn’t get Hamish MacInroy.’ She paused for breath. ‘They’re good friends, anyway.’

Sappha, cutting toast into neat squares, agreed that it sounded most convenient, while the unbidden thought that Andrew—a great stickler for etiquette—would never have countenanced casual help from a colleague crossed her mind. Presumably it was a different kettle of fish in these remote parts. She picked up her tray and went upstairs to find that her patient was alone and looking rather downcast, so when she had arranged everything so that the Baroness could manage with her one hand, she said: ‘I want to write up your charts—do you mind if I sit here and do them while you have your soup?’

Her patient lifted her spoon. ‘Would you?’ she asked eagerly, ‘a new face is so refreshing.’ She spooned another mouthful. ‘You were quite right, Sappha—Rolf does look like a demon king—it’s extraordinary that I have never noticed it before.’

Sappha put down her charts. ‘I must apologise, Baroness. I should never have said that—I had no intention…’

Her companion nibbled toast. ‘Why should you be sorry?’ she asked. ‘I expect he was wearing some dreadful clothes and muddy boots and probably he hadn’t shaved. I believe he went out very early this morning—a broken leg near Ben Eighe and he would have to walk part of the way you know—it was off the road. Hamish was out on a baby case and one really can’t leave a person lying with a broken leg, can one?’

Sappha said dryly: ‘No, that would be rather unkind,’ and her patient nodded before continuing: ‘Really, I hardly recognise him sometimes. At home, of course, he looks exactly like a doctor.’ She waved a hand in an expressive gesture, ‘and naturally, being the eldest, he tends to throw his weight around—is that the right expression?’

Sappha smiled. ‘Yes, though perhaps it’s a little severe.’

‘Not nearly as severe as Rolf when he’s annoyed,’ retorted his mother with spirit.

‘All the same,’ commented Sappha, ‘you must be very glad of his support.’

‘Oh, I am, child, I am. My husband died when Rolf was twenty-five, and Antonia—the youngest—was only nine. The others are married now, which means that Rolf has more leisure, though he always has time for Tonia—they’re so fond of each other.’ She smiled a little wistfully. ‘She is such a dear child and I do miss her. She’s at school and I had hoped that she would be able to come over for a day or so—it’s so long to Christmas, but anyway, I shall be home before then.’

Sappha took the empty soup bowl. ‘Good gracious, yes,’ she said bracingly, ‘but surely she could fly over for a weekend? There’s an airfield at Inverness…’ She stood deep in thought. ‘We could at least make a few enquiries.’

‘That would be lovely, but I believe Rolf thinks that it would be unsettling for Tonia—she has her studies…’

‘Oh, pooh,’ said Sappha inelegantly, ‘she can do some extra homework to make up for it—shall I talk to Doctor van Duyren and see if he will change his mind?’ She was on her way to the door and didn’t see the Baroness’s face which held an expression of mischief mixed with anticipation.

When Sappha returned after a few minutes with a fricassée of chicken and an egg custard, and having placed these delicacies before her, poured a glass of wine and put it within her reach, her patient said: ‘What a great deal of work I am going to give you, Sappha.’

‘Indeed you won’t—in hospital I ran around all day except when I had to sit at a desk and fill in forms and answer the telephone.’

The Baroness speared a morsel of chicken and asked: ‘Will you not be bored just with me to look after?’

‘Not in the least.’ Sappha spoke with a conviction which wasn’t quite genuine, for she had her private doubts on the subject; not only would her working day be far less exacting, her private life was going to be very different too. No more going out on her evenings off duty to the theatre or dinner and dancing or to the cinema. She tried to remember where she had seen the last cinema on the way to Dialach. Probably one had to go back to Inverness, or at least Achnasheen or Garve. Her speculations were brought to an abrupt end by the realisation that even if she were in London there would have been no theatres or cinema or dinners—not with Andrew, at any rate. She said rather abruptly: ‘I’ll fetch your coffee,’ and when she got back her patient had finished her supper and was lying back against her pillows, deep in thought, she roused herself, however, to say pensively: ‘Of course, you’ll have our Gloria—she’s about your age. Such a pretty girl—I expect you know that she’s engaged to Hamish—a dear boy, your uncle thinks very highly of him.’ She watched Sappha pour the coffee and then obediently swallowed the pills she was offered. ‘Loathsome things,’ she muttered crossly, and Sappha laughed and said encouragingly:

‘Yes, but think how much worse everything would be if you didn’t have them.’

‘Since no one has told me what they are or why I am taking them, how can I possibly agree with you?’ her patient wanted to know, and then on the same breath and with a suddenness which took Sappha by surprise: ‘Why are you not married or at least engaged? You’re a pretty girl, young—twenty-three or four?—intelligent and well dressed.’ And when Sappha didn’t reply: ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m just a curious old woman.’

Sappha managed a smile, ‘You’re not old, nor are you rude. I’ll tell you one day, but just for now I’d rather not talk about it.’

She went downstairs, outwardly calm, but inwardly a little ruffled. She had, after all, come several hundred miles in order to be free from just such questions as the Baroness had asked.

Mrs MacFee was in the sitting room, sitting before the fire, and Mr MacFee was standing in the window, engaged in conversation with Dr van Duyren. They paused as she went in, however, and came over to the fire.

‘You two have met, I understand,’ remarked Mr MacFee cheerfully. ‘Well, now you can sit down for a few minutes and get better acquainted.’

‘Just as though,’ thought Sappha crossly, ‘we can’t wait to tell each other how pleased we are to meet again.’ She sat down, accepted a glass of sherry and was instantly affronted by the manner in which Dr van Duyren walked as far away from her as possible, saying: ‘Oh, we shall have time enough for that, I imagine. I’m sure Nurse would prefer to rest a little.’

She gave him an open-mouthed, indignant look while Mrs MacFee observed: ‘Why, of course—such a long journey—how thoughtless we are. You must be worn out, my dear, although I must say that in that uniform you look so fresh and efficient.’

Sappha, murmuring politely, looked up and caught Dr van Duyren’s dark gaze bent upon her and it was obvious that he was laughing. She lifted her rather determined chin, nettled at his lack of interest coupled with his implication that she was a useless creature who needed a rest, or worse, that she looked as though she needed one. And calling her ‘Nurse’ too, she hadn’t been called that for eighteen months or more.

Reading her thoughts with an uncanny accuracy, he said smoothly:

‘Forgive me—I have been guilty of demoting you. You were a Ward Sister, weren’t you?’ He looked apologetic, although she was sure he wasn’t, and when he continued: ‘I shouldn’t have any idea what to call Gloria,’ the remark somehow made things seem worse because it reminded Sappha that she was a stranger in a small community where apparently everyone knew everyone else. She wondered rather wistfully if they would accept her, and then, catching his eyes on her again, unsmiling now, decided that it didn’t matter in the least.

She treated him with a cool politeness throughout supper and when that meal was over, asked him if he would spare her a few minutes as she had something to discuss with him, to which he replied that he would be delighted although she saw that he was a little surprised too, if his eyebrows were anything to go by.

Mr MacFee had urged them to make use of his study; a small dark room, cluttered with old copies of the Statesman and some dusty volumes which looked like encyclopaedias and probably were. It was furnished with a large desk upon which were laid paper, pens and a great deal of blotting paper—her host’s sermon, waiting to be written, thought Sappha as she preceded her companion into the room and took a remarkably uncomfortable chair pushed up against the wall. The doctor had the good sense to rest his bulk against the desk, from which he regarded her without speaking.

She folded her hands tidily in her lap and said austerely: ‘I should be glad of your co-operation, Doctor,’ and watched the eyebrows arch once more.

‘So soon? I am amazed—I thought that that would be the last thing you would wish.’ He sounded mildly amused.

Sappha suppressed a desire to answer him back, knowing that it would get her nowhere. She closed her pretty mouth on the words which bubbled to her lips and was silent for so long that he enquired, still very mild: ‘You wanted me to co-operate, I believe. How?’

‘Your mother is anxious to see your sister—Antonia—she feels that you wouldn’t approve because of her studies. Surely it could be arranged for her to come over by air, even for a day or so?’

He said coldly: ‘Antonia’s schooling is important. She is doing very well—probably she will go on to a university.’

‘Oh, fiddle,’ said Sappha rudely and quite out of patience. ‘Surely she can do some extra homework or something—your mother’s peace of mind is much more important.’ She shot him a sharp glance. ‘Your sister will probably marry before she even gets to university.’

His cold voice became icy. ‘Probably, but as you yourself are aware there is many a slip between the cup and the lip when it comes to marriage.’

Sappha sat very still, staring at him. She had gone rather white even though she appeared quite composed. She hadn’t realised that the man standing in front of her would know about her and Andrew, but of course Uncle John would have told him. She felt humiliation, so bitter that she could taste it, well up within her. She took her lovely eyes from his face and focused them on the wall above his head, and said quietly: ‘We are discussing your mother, I believe,’ and heard his voice, wonderfully kind and gentle saying: ‘I beg your pardon, that was unforgivable of me. I am afraid I have no excuse, only the unsatisfactory one of always having my own way with my family and taking it for granted that no one will gainsay me.’

He crossed the space between them and caught her by the shoulders so that she came to her feet, willy-nilly. ‘Forgive me—if you will, I’ll arrange for Tonia to come over whenever you say.’

Sappha studied his face; his eyes, now that she saw them so close, weren’t black at all but brown, and at that moment they looked warm and friendly. She said uncertainly: ‘I say pretty breastly things myself sometimes—and I forgive you without the bribery—or is it blackmail?’

‘Whichever you like, I’ll take the blame for both.’ He smiled at her so that his face changed completely and just for a second she caught a glimpse of someone quite different, but only a glimpse, not enough to stop her saying: ‘It’s rather difficult to put into words, but I think we should understand that…’ she paused so as to get it quite right, ‘some people don’t get on very well—I think perhaps we are all like that.’

‘Ah,’ he said blandly, ‘mutual dislike and so forth—is that what you mean? It has been known. Well, in that case, we must conceal our true feelings for each other under the guise of good fellowship, mustn’t we?’ He walked a little away from her. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult, for I go back to Holland tomorrow and you will have plenty of time to practise a friendly approach before I return. Now, shall we go back to the drawing room? I usually spend half an hour with Mother at this time if you have no objection. I’ll be gone early tomorrow morning, so you won’t need to strain your friendly approach.’

It wasn’t until they had parted with outward goodwill and she was sitting with the MacFees that she came to the conclusion that he had been laughing silently when he had made that last remark.

Sappha had expected to spend a wretched night; leaving London had been a wrench, and the peace and quiet she had anticipated in the Highlands had been strangely ruffled by her meeting with Dr van Duyren. She went to bed prepared to lie awake, and promptly slept, to awaken only when Meg, the little daily maid, came in with her morning tea.

‘It’s a fine bright day, Miss,’ she observed as she drew the curtains, revealing a glimpse of the sea and the rugged coastline beyond the rooftops. ‘The Baron left with the sun on him.’

Sappha sat up, tossed her hair over her shoulders and yawned. ‘Baron who?’ she enquired, not quite awake.

Meg turned a surprised face towards her. ‘Why, miss, the Baron, ye ken, though maybe ye call him the doctor, but here in the village he gets his rightful title.’

Sappha sipped her tea. ‘Oh, Dr van Duyren, the Baroness’s son.’

Meg nodded. ‘The Baron,’ she stated simply. ‘Breakfast is at half past eight, I was to tell you.’ She went away, leaving Sappha to ponder this titbit of information. She had never met a baron before; she supposed, after due thought, that he was very like a baron should be—the very name conjured up a swashbuckling, high-handed gentleman, for ever shouting down his inferiors and being charming when it suited him. She got up and dressed rapidly, reminding herself the while of everything about him that annoyed her.

Her patient was awake after a good night and very ready to talk while Sappha performed the few necessary tasks prior to bringing up her breakfast. Her son, she told Sappha, had left at first light to board a plane at Inverness and she wasn’t at all sure how long it would be before he would be coming again, for as well as running a practice with his two partners, he lectured in Groningen.

‘Ah, yes—somewhere in the north of Holland, then,’ said Sappha, shaking down the thermometer, and was taken back when the Baroness said touchily: ‘Not North Holland—our home is in Dokkum, which is in Friesland. Groningen, of course, is not.’

Sappha begged her pardon, made a mental note to have a look at an atlas when she got downstairs, and besought her patient to open her mouth.

Uncle John came later that morning and spent a long time examining his patient, and a still longer time talking to Sappha about her. He was pleased with the results of the operation he had performed; the tumour had been removed before it could do lasting damage and the bones were hardening once more with the increased calcium, moreover the renal failure was improving at a heartening rate, but he warned Sappha of the depression which was bound to attack the Baroness from time to time—the aftermath of her rare disease. ‘But we’ll pull her through, I have no doubt’, he said cheerfully, then asked without pause: ‘I suppose Rolf has gone?’

Sappha gave her uncle a level look. ‘You mean Dr van Duyren—or should I say Baron van Duyren?’

He returned her look with an innocent one of his own. ‘My dear, how should I know? Everyone around here calls him Rolf—the people in the town address him as Baron, I believe, but I hardly think he would expect you to address him as such. Don’t you like him?’

Sappha pinkened faintly. She said crossly: ‘How ever should I know, Uncle John? I’ve hardly spoken to him.’ She picked up a batch of forms and went on in a businesslike way: ‘Shall I fill these in for you to sign? I expect you’re taking them with you.’

Dr McInroy arrived just as her uncle was preparing to leave. He was a sturdy man in his early thirties, of middle height, and with good features and bright blue eyes. After he had greeted the specialist, he turned to Sappha with a warm smile, saying: ‘Miss Devenish—I’ve heard all about you from Gloria and I’m delighted to welcome you to Dialach.’ He sounded so genuinely pleased to meet her that Sappha found herself smiling widely as she shook hands, but even as she did so, she had a fleeting recollection of her meeting with Dr van Duyren, who hadn’t greeted her at all…but there was no time to indulge her own thoughts; the two doctors began to discuss their patient, and as they seemed to take it for granted that she should stay with them, she concentrated upon the subject in hand, so when she was drawn into their conversation from time to time she was able to join in in a manner which caused Dr MacInroy to look at her with something like respect and remark:

‘You know a great deal about osteitis fibrosa cystica—have you seen one before? It’s a rare condition.’

Sappha shook her head. ‘No, never, that’s why I read up all I could about it before I came—I picked a few brains too.’ They all laughed and presently she left them to return to her patient.

The Baroness was lying back in bed looking bored. As well she might, thought Sappha, with only one leg and one arm available. She bustled around with an exaggerated cheerfulness getting ready to bedbath her patient, and presently, while she was doing this, asked: ‘What else do you do—other than reading?’

‘Oh, crosswords—there’s nothing else with one hand…’ The Baroness spoke listlessly and Sappha made haste to say: ‘Uncle John is delighted with your progress—he wants you to do a few exercises each day, so that when your arm comes out of plaster it will be fairly strong. I’m going to get you out of bed and into a chair by the window—there’s a lovely view. I suppose you don’t paint?’

Her patient looked surprised and faintly interested. ‘Yes, I used to—how did you know?’

‘I didn’t—but I was thinking if we could get hold of some paints and a canvas or some paper, you could amuse yourself.’

The Baroness lifted eyebrows which reminded Sappha of her son. ‘With one hand?’ she enquired.

‘Why not? If I arrange everything within reach—we can find some way of keeping the paper steady, and I shall be on hand for a good deal of the day—would you like to try?’

She had been wrapping her patient in a dressing gown as she spoke; now she pulled the chair alongside the bed and lifted the Baroness in her strong young arms into it and trundled her over to the window.

‘I’ll get you some coffee and while you’re drinking it I’ll see if Mrs MacFee can help about the paints.’

Mrs MacFee, when appealed to, not only produced an elderly paintbox of her own but a sketching pad as well and spent half an hour with her friend discussing the best view to start on; while Sappha busied herself making the bed and tidying the room; with such success that Sappha was able to leave the two ladies together after lunch and take an hour or two off duty. She went first to the post office to send a hastily written letter to her mother and then explored the little town and its harbour. The day, which had started off in sunshine, had become overcast and windy, so that the waves beat against the lonely shore; only in the harbour was the water smooth although it looked cold enough.

She was on her way back when she met Gloria, who fell into step beside her saying: ‘There you are—how nice. No good me asking you to come in for tea, I’m afraid—I’m just off to see a patient.’ She waved vaguely in the direction of the causeway and Sappha asked: ‘Where? You’re pointing out to sea.’

‘Well, she is in a way,’ said Gloria cheerfully. ‘At least, I have to be rowed over because the causeway’s in ruins—there’s a baby due any time now and a good thing it’s not later in the year, for there’s a terrific current and if it’s stormy the boat can’t make it—the locals think nothing of scrambling over the causeway when the weather’s bad, but I’m no mountain goat—even they hesitate a bit unless it’s daylight.’

‘Who lives there?’ asked Sappha, interested.

‘The family MacTadd—father’s a fisherman and there are Mum, Gran and a clutch of children. There’s a plan to rehouse them, but there’s nothing suitable for them at the moment, and besides, they don’t want to go. They’ve patched up the croft very nicely, though there’s no H and C and no electricity either. Hamish has tried to persuade Mrs MacTadd to go to hospital, but she absolutely refuses, so all we can do is to keep a sharp eye open and pray for fine weather.’ She grinned cheerfully. ‘I’m going down here—Mr MacTadd will be waiting for me—let me know when you’ve fixed your days off and I’ll pop up and see to the Baroness for you. ‘Bye.’ She turned away and then paused to say over her shoulder: ‘I’ve fixed Saturday for mine, so don’t have that.’

Sappha took her day off on Friday; during the four days she had been at the Manse she had got the routine nicely settled, and in any case, she didn’t go until she had got her patient up for the day, arranged with Gloria for that young lady to call in after lunch and arranged with Mrs MacFee that the Baroness shouldn’t be left too long alone in case she moped. She then set out with the Mini. The weather was good; she suspected that before many weeks as the autumn settled into winter, she would have to spend her free day in Dialach—it seemed a good idea to explore as far afield as possible while she could. She took the road to Ullapool, where, Gloria had informed her, there was a rather delightful shop selling local handicrafts and tweeds. Besides, she intended to visit the garden at Inverewe—it wasn’t the best time of year to do so, but various of her friends in London had urged her on no account to miss it.

She thought briefly of Dr van Duyren as she drove to Torridon—his mother, beyond mentioning that he had got home safely and was very busy, had offered no further information, although she had been voluble enough about Antonia, who, from all accounts, was not only very pretty but a little spoiled and wilful as well. Sappha stopped for a late cup of coffee at the Loch Maree Hotel, feeling breathless from the magnificent scenery she had just passed through, and eager for more. The day was going to be too short. She decided to press on to Ullapool, have lunch there, take a quick look around the town and then visit Inverewe on her way back. Even so, by the time she had reached Ullapool she knew that she would have to return, not once, but several times if she were to take her fill of the scenery.

She lunched at the Caledonian Hotel, and for the first time since she had arrived in Scotland, felt almost happy. She supposed it was the magnificent country through which she had been driving which somehow had the power to make London and its pleasures seem a little unreal. She spent a pleasant half hour looking round the little town, quiet now after its summer season, but she was anxious not to miss the gardens and sped back through the forest land, resisting the urge to stop and gaze at the mountains around her. Next time, she promised herself, going downhill fast towards Gruinard, and then up the other side to Inverewe gardens.

They were lovely even though there was only an aftermath of summer’s glory in the flower beds. She left reluctantly, promising herself that she would pay another visit in some distant summer, and stopped for tea in Aultbea, and then, pleasantly tired, took the road back to Dialach. It had been a successful day, made more successful by the friendly people she had met wherever she had stopped and the openly admiring glances of the young man in the deerstalker cap who had entered the hotel while she was having lunch, and had at once engaged her in conversation while he ate his own meal at a nearby table. It was only after they had parted in mutual friendliness that she felt a twinge of regret that they weren’t likely to meet again, for as far as she could see, there weren’t many men of her own age in Dialach—Dr MacInroy couldn’t be counted, of course, for he was Gloria’s anyway, and the Baron, with his peculiar eyebrows and bossy ways, certainly had no place in her thoughts. She spent several minutes convincing herself of this as she changed back into uniform and went to seek out her patient. And felt instantly contrite when she saw her; the Baroness was in bed—Gloria had seen to that before she had left at teatime—and turned a listless tear-stained face to Sappha as she went in; it took a few minutes of patient comforting on her part before she could induce her patient to speak. ‘I—I h-hope you h-had a lovely d-day,’ she sobbed, ‘and this is s-so s-silly, because I d-don’t know why I’m c-crying,’ and then contradicted herself by adding: ‘Rolf s-said he would t-telephone and he hasn’t.’

‘Perhaps he’s been too busy,’ said Sappha, who felt strongly that the telephone was a modern blessing which had its drawbacks. How many times had she sat by the wretched instrument in London waiting for Andrew to ring, and all the while… She jerked her thoughts back to her patient; it was really too bad of the tiresome man, he should have squeezed in a call whatever he was doing. ‘He’ll telephone later,’ she said with a conviction she didn’t feel, ‘and don’t worry about being a bit tearful, Baroness—remember what Uncle John said; that you were bound to feel depressed for no reason at all. I’m going to wash your face and tidy your hair, and after supper we’ll play that game of draughts we never had.’

The evening was cheerful after all—with the fire alight in the old-fashioned grate and the chintz curtains drawn, the room looked cosy and inviting. Sappha ate a hasty supper and went back upstairs and true to her promise got out the draughts board and allowed the Baroness to beat her soundly before giving her her sleeping pill and tucking her up for the night. She had only just got downstairs to say goodnight to the MacFees when the telephone rang and Mr MacFee, who answered it, said:

‘It’s for you, Sappha,’ he smiled a little, ‘a man.’

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she crossed the room. It could be Andrew, miraculously in love with her again, telephoning to say so because he couldn’t wait to write it. She picked up the receiver and said Hullo in a voice which shook with excitement.

But it wasn’t Andrew, although it was a man—a man with strange eyebrows who had laughed at her and thought her clothes were silly, and who had forgotten to telephone his mother. His deep voice came lazily over the wire: ‘Oh, dear, I’m not the right one, am I?’ he asked outrageously. ‘How’s Mother?’

She choked back disappointment, furious with him and with herself.

‘She’s been waiting for you to ring up,’ she said sharply. ‘She was upset…’

‘I’m sorry. I imagine you’ve given her her sleeping pill by now, that’s why I thought I’d better speak to you first.’

‘Well, it’s no good, she’s asleep.’ Sappha spoke with some thing of a snap.

‘You sound like a love-starved spinster with no looks and no prospects.’ He was laughing, and forgetful of the MacFees, sitting across the room politely not listening, she burst out: ‘How dare you!’

‘I’ll dare anything if I have a mind to,’ he said coolly, ‘and just for the record, you’ll never starve for lack of love, my good girl, and your prospects are about as good as they can be.’

Sappha drew a deep breath, let it out noisily and said helplessly:

‘Well!’ She was prevented from saying anything else because he went on at once: ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t telephone earlier—circumstances prevented it. I’ll ring in the morning—you can tell her that if she wakes. I hadn’t forgotten, it was quite impossible.’

She said: ‘Very well’ in a stiff little voice and he went on as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve arranged for Tonia to come over with me. It’s most inconvenient, but I don’t dare face you without her. That will be a week on Thursday. Goodbye.’

He rang off before she had time to open her mouth. She put down the receiver slowly and went back to the MacFees and repeated what he had said, but with a good deal of it expurgated, so that her mild version didn’t tally in the least with the heated retorts she had given. This quite escaped her, and the MacFees, beyond a mild comment on the pleasure of seeing Rolf and Antonia again, didn’t mention it.

Later on, in bed, Sappha went over all that he had said. She hadn’t understood his remarks about her not starving for love and having good prospects and she thought about it for a long time, getting more and more frustrated because it didn’t make sense, finally she said out loud: ‘Oh, he’s crazy,’ then turned over and went determinedly to sleep. The following days passed quietly enough and the boredom which she had half expected to settle upon her after a week or so, didn’t materialise. Instead, she began to find the days not quite long enough. The Baroness had taken heart again; Rolf had telephoned her several times and she was full of excitement at seeing Antonia so soon. She had never asked Sappha if she had spoken to Rolf about her daughter’s visit, nor did she do so now beyond making a comment upon his kindness and understanding. Sappha, asked to agree with her patient upon her son’s excellent qualities, agreed woodenly, remembering what he had said—she wondered if she would ever forget his words even though she had forgiven them. She pummelled the pillow she was shaking up with unnecessary vigour—he was one of the most unpleasant men she had ever met.

She had her day off on Wednesday and took the Mini in the other direction down to Balmarca, so that she might see the hills of Skye across the Kyle of Lochalsh. She had lunch at the hotel there and then went on to look at Eilean Donan Castle on the edge of Loch Duich. She followed on down the steep road to get a good view of the Kintail Mountains, but they were fast disappearing in heavy clouds, so she found a place to turn the car and started back home. She had promised to have tea with Gloria anyway, and it was already getting on for four o’clock.

Gloria wasn’t home, but Sappha let herself in, poked up the fire, put on the kettle and then went to fetch the cake she had brought from the baker’s. The cottage had a small rather cluttered kitchen, gay with gingham curtains and a collection of copper pans which Sappha coveted. She pottered around, rather enjoying herself so that she found herself reflecting, while cutting bread for the toast, that life in Dialach was so pleasant that the idea of going back to London seemed quite laughable. A fortunate thing, in the circumstances, because that was the last place she wanted to be in—probably by now Andrew had married that beastly little blonde…

She frowned and sighed at the thought, so that Gloria, coming in at that moment, exclaimed: ‘Good lord, Sappha, what’s eating you? You look ferocious—sadly ferocious—or do I mean ferociously sad? What’s the matter?’

Sappha speared bread on to a toasting fork. ‘Hullo—nothing, really.’

Gloria cast her hat on one chair, her coat on another and her case on the table. ‘Not bored, are you?’

‘No, on the contrary—I was just thinking how bored I should be in London.’

‘Well, even if you were,’ said Gloria, making the tea, ‘you won’t be after tomorrow. Rolf and Antonia will be here, you can’t be bored when they’re around. What do you think of Rolf?’

Sappha buttered toast. ‘Well, I don’t really know him—I mean we only talked a little.’

Gloria laughed. ‘But he’s not the kind of man you need to talk to—don’t tell me he didn’t make an impression on you, or you’ll be the first woman under ninety who hasn’t been bowled over.’

The two of them sat down by the fire in the little sitting room and bit into their toast. ‘If you want to know,’ said Sappha, her mouth full, ‘I found him rude, bossy—and he laughs behind his face.’

Gloria stared at her over her tea cup. ‘I haven’t asked you yet, but it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their heads that you came up here to get away from something or someone—a man, I suspect. It’s hardly fair to colour your impression of Rolf by your own experience.’ She put down her cup and held out a friendly hand. ‘That was a beastly thing to say—I’m sorry. I know how I’d feel if Hamish…’

‘I daresay you’re right,’ conceded Sappha, privately thinking her all wrong. ‘Now tell me, what are you going to do with your day off?’

‘Inverness—with Hamish. He’s coming for me about nine and we won’t be back until the late evening. There’s nothing to worry about in the village; old Mrs MacGower is off her penicillin injections and Mrs MacTadd is OK. She should go another three weeks—the babe’s a transverse lie, but there’s time enough for it to right itself—Hamish has turned it twice already. Are you a midwife? You are?—good, just in case I’m not about when Mrs MacTadd starts, I shall warn them to come for you.’ She had spoken jokingly and Sappha replied in kind, and Rolf’s name wasn’t mentioned again for the rest of Sappha’s visit. Before she went home though, Gloria said with a laugh: ‘I’m going to show you where everything is kept in the surgery, Sappha, so that if ever there is an emergency you could cope.’

So Sappha was invited to see where the key was hidden and where the midwifery bag was housed, and the gas and air apparatus, even the blood taking and giving sets—’For,’ said Gloria, ‘we just have to be prepared for everything—and by the way, there’s a litre of O blood, Rhesus positive, in the fridge—Hamish brought it with him today in case Mrs MacTadd does the dirty on us.’ She went with her guest to the door. ‘Do you want anything from Inverness?’

Sappha considered. ‘No, I don’t think so, thanks. I thought I’d drive over on my next day off and do some shopping, but there’s nothing urgent.’

She said goodbye and drove the short distance to the Manse, where she put the car in the little lean-to at the back of the house which the minister had put at her disposal, and ran indoors. The house was warm and quiet; the faint murmur of voices from the drawing room told her that Mr and Mrs MacFee were enjoying their usual evening chat together; she forbore from joining them, for she suspected that it was probably the only hour in the day when they could be reasonably sure of being uninterrupted, but went on upstairs, to pause at the Baroness’s door undecided whether to go and see her first or wait until she had taken off her outdoor things. She decided to go in; probably the Baroness was feeling lonely. She opened the door and poked her pretty head round it.

The Baroness was not lonely at all; she had company—a very pretty blonde girl curled up beside her on the bed, and the Baron, crouching on the floor, tinkering with a portable TV set. He came to his feet in a surprisingly agile manner for so large a man and said: ‘Hullo—had a nice day?’

Sappha said yes, thank you, a trifle breathless with surprise and some other sensation which, if she hadn’t disliked him so much, she would have admitted was pleasure. The Baroness beamed at her. ‘Sappha, isn’t this a lovely surprise? Rolf brought Tonia a day sooner and he’s brought a TV for me too…come and meet my daughter.’

Antonia had left the bed and had pranced over to Sappha. She really was extraordinarily pretty with great blue eyes and dimples, her hair was straight and thick and corn-coloured, cut in a fringe across her forehead. She put out a hand, remarking disarmingly: ‘You’re far too pretty to be a nurse. I don’t believe you’re much older than I am—I’m sixteen.’

Rolf said lazily from the floor: ‘Antonia, you mustn’t ask Nurse how old she is—she might not want me to know.’

‘Stuff,’ said his sister inelegantly. ‘You make her sound like some old bag in her thirties—just because you’re thirty-two yourself…’ She turned her lively little face to Sappha. ‘Tell me later,’ she invited, and bounced back to make herself comfortable by her mother once more as that lady said indulgently: ‘Tonia, you’re not to talk to Sappha like that—you hardly know her.’

‘Oh, yes, Mama, I do, you know. Sometimes you meet someone and it’s as if you’ve known them all your life.’ She appealed to her brother. ‘Rolf, people do feel like that, don’t they?’

He looked up briefly, but not at her. His dark eyes dwelt for a few seconds on Sappha, who felt herself turning slowly red under them. But all he said was: ‘Oh, yes, of course, only it’s more satisfactory if they both feel the same way at the same time.’

‘There, you see?’ Antonia addressed the room at large and smiled widely at Sappha. ‘I know we’re going to be friends.’ She studied Sappha’s heightened colour and went on with devastating candour: ‘You’ve gone very red—it makes you prettier than ever. Rolf…’

He didn’t look up and his voice was bland. ‘I’m sure Nurse wants to take off her coat.’ And Sappha cast him a look of relief mingled with the vexed thought that he had called her nurse again. She said primly:

‘I’ll be back with your supper presently, Baroness,’ and went away.

Hours later, sitting up in bed thinking about the evening, Sappha had to admit that she had enjoyed herself. Antonia had lent a sparkle to the conversation, and so too, surprisingly had Rolf. He was certainly very fond of his sister and she, for her part, was equally devoted to him, and although it was apparent that she could twist him round her little finger, it was also quite clear that she had a wholesome respect for him too. Sappha smiled to herself, thinking about her; she was spoilt and a little wilful but so good-natured and sunny-tempered that she doubted if anyone, even her eldest brother, could be annoyed with her for more than a couple of seconds at a time. And, reflected Sappha, she had been instantly obedient to the suggestion that it was her mother’s bedtime, and afterwards, sitting on the end of Sappha’s bed while the latter rearranged her hair, she had asked some remarkably sensible questions about her mother’s illness and when Sappha had hesitated to answer them, said: ‘I know a great deal about it already—Rolf said it would be better for me and for Mother if I did. And of course he’s right. He always is,’ she added simply.

Sappha thought it wise to say nothing to this; quite obviously, the Baron ruled his family with a rod of iron, albeit a well camouflaged one. She found herself speculating upon the poor girl he would coerce into marrying him and felt fiercely sorry for her. She could imagine what it would be like—’Half a dozen children,’ she muttered to herself, thumping her pillows. ‘The woman’s place is in the home, and all that, however luxurious that home might be.’ She had a sudden vivid mental picture of the Baron sitting at the head of a table lined with little barons and baronesses, all with miniature satyr’s eyebrows and herself at the end. She pulled herself up short, hastily substituting this ridiculous idea with the interesting question as to what a baron’s children were called, but before she could go deeply into the matter she was disturbed by her patient’s voice from the bedroom next door, asking if she might have another sleeping tablet because one hadn’t seemed to be enough. Sappha got out of bed, her unruly thoughts forgotten. She said soothingly: ‘It’s only because you’ve had such an exciting evening—you have been to sleep and you’ll soon drop off again. I’ll read to you, shall I? Are you quite comfy?’

She made a few deft movements amongst the pillows and bedclothes.

‘There, not a wrinkle in sight. Close your eyes—I’ll go on with Jane Eyre.’

She read for several minutes until the Baroness interrupted her to say:

‘What an arrogant man he was—but of course he loved Jane, and she loved him. Was the man you loved—still do perhaps, Sappha—arrogant?’

Sappha looked up from her reading. Her dressing gown was a soft pink, a perfect contrast to the dark hair hanging around her shoulders. She smelled faintly of Roger and Gallet’s Violet soap and she looked as pretty as the proverbial picture. Her patient, studying her closely, thought it a great shame that there was no one other than herself to see her.

Sappha said in a wooden voice: ‘No, not arrogant. It was just that he found someone else—blonde and sexy and willing to give him what I wouldn’t—I’m old-fashioned about marriage…’

‘Me too,’ said the Baroness briskly, ‘and you would be surprised at the number of men who want an old-fashioned girl for a wife—a girl who will love them and run their home with pride. And children—men want children.’ She waved her plastered arm in the air. ‘It’s no good me telling you that you will get over it and meet another man—there aren’t any other men at the moment are there? And you’re sure that you will never get over him, aren’t you?’

She took another look at Sappha, and it was a pity that Sappha, instead of looking at her companion, was looking backwards over the last few disastrous months, for the Baroness’s pretty face wore the look of someone who had just had a brilliant idea. She did, in fact, look very like her young daughter when that young daughter was plotting mischief. There was a little pause until Sappha said quietly: ‘Shall I go on reading?’

The Baroness yawned daintily. ‘I do believe I begin to feel sleepy again, dear. Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to fetch me just a little warm milk?’

Sappha padded downstairs and presently, with the milk in her hand, went back again through the quiet old house, to stop in the bedroom doorway at the sight of Rolf, still dressed, lounging over the end of his mother’s bed. He said nothing at all, but his gaze swept Sappha from head to foot. It was the Baroness who said in her soft voice:

‘Sappha, Rolf heard us talking and came to see if anything was the matter.’ She smiled at them in turn, giving her son a bright glance which dared him to imagine otherwise. He stared back at her, his eyes snapping with laughter. ‘And now that I see you are in such excellent hands, I’ll leave you to settle, dear Mother.’

He bent and kissed her, said a brief goodnight to Sappha without apparently seeing her, and went back to his room.

The Baroness accepted her milk with the blameless air of a good child.

‘You poor girl,’ she said contritely, ‘I’ve kept you from your bed, but I’m sure that I shall sleep very well now.’ She finished the milk, allowed Sappha to settle her once more, said goodnight in a grateful voice and closed her eyes, leaving Sappha to go back to bed, but not at once to sleep. It was a pity that her patient had asked her those questions—answering them had made Andrew very clear in her mind once more, and she wanted so much to forget him.