Читать книгу Dearest Mary Jane - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

SEPTEMBER was almost over and the weather was changing. Fewer and fewer tourists stopped for coffee or tea although Mary Jane still did a steady trade with the village dwellers—just enough to keep the bills paid. Miss Mabel made steady progress and Mary Jane, graciously offered a lift in the rectory car, visited her again. Sir Thomas had been again, she was told, and Miss Mabel was to return home in a week’s time and see him when he came to the hospital in six weeks’ time. ‘Such a nice man,’ sighed Miss Mabel, ‘a true gentleman, if you know what I mean.’

Mary Jane wasn’t too sure about that but she murmured obligingly.

Miss Mabel’s homecoming was something of an event in a village where one day was very like another. The ambulance brought her, deposited her gently in her home, drained Mary Jane’s teapots and ate almost all the scones, and departed to be replaced by Miss Kemble, Mrs Stokes and after an interval Dr Fellowes, who tactfully sent them all away and made sure that the Misses Potter were allowed peace and quiet. Mary Jane, slipping through the village with a plate of teacakes as a welcome home gift, was prevailed upon to stay for a few minutes while Miss Mabel reiterated her experiences. ‘I am to walk each day,’ she said proudly, ‘but lead a quiet life.’ She laughed and Miss Emily laughed too. ‘Not that we do anything else, do we, Mary Jane?’

Mary Jane smilingly agreed; that she had dreams of lovely clothes, candlelit dinners for two, dancing night after night and always with someone who adored her, was something she kept strictly to herself. Even Felicity, on the rare occasions when she saw her, took it for granted that she was content.

The mornings were frosty now and the evenings drawing in. The village, after the excitement of Miss Mabel’s operation, did settle down. Mary Jane baked fewer scones and some days customers were so few it was hardly worth keeping the tea-room open.

She was preparing to close after an unprofitable Monday when the door was thrust open and a man came in. Mary Jane, wiping down the already clean tables, looked up hopefully, saw who it was and said in a neutral voice, ‘Good evening, Oliver.’

Her cousin, Uncle Matthew’s heir.

She had known him since her schooldays and had disliked him from the start, just as he had disliked her. She had been given short shrift when her uncle had died and for her part she hadn’t been able to leave fast enough, for not only did Oliver dislike her, his wife, a cold woman, pushing her way up the social ladder, disliked her too. She stood, the cloth in her hand, waiting for him to speak.

‘Business pretty bad?’ he asked.

‘It’s a quiet time of the year. I’m making a living, thank you, Oliver.’

She was surprised to see that he was trying to be friendly, but not for long.

‘Hope you’ll do something for me,’ he went on. ‘Margaret has to go to London to see some specialist or other about her back. I have to go to America on business and someone will have to drive her up and stay with her.’ He didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I wondered if you’d do that?’ He laughed. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that...’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Mary Jane coldly. ‘Margaret has family of her own, hasn’t she? Surely there is someone with nothing better to do who could go with her?’

‘We did ask around,’ said Oliver airily, ‘but you know how it is, they lead busy social lives, they simply can’t spare the time.’

‘And I can?’ asked Mary Jane crisply.

‘Well, you can’t be making a fortune at this time of year. It won’t cost you a penny. Margaret will have to stay the night in town—tests and so forth. She can’t drive herself because of this wretched back, and besides she’s very nervous.’ He added, ‘She is in pain, too.’

Mary Jane had a tender heart. Very much against her inclination she agreed, reluctantly, to go with Margaret. It would mean leaving Brimble alone for two days but Mrs Adams next door would feed him and make sure that he was safe. It would mean shutting the tea-room too and, although Oliver made light of the paucity of customers at that time of year, all the same she would be short of two days’ takings, however sparse they might be.

Oliver, having got what he wanted, lost no time in going. ‘Next Tuesday,’ he told her. ‘I’ll drive Margaret here in the car and you can take over. I leave in the afternoon.’

If he felt gratitude, he didn’t show it. Mary Jane watched him get into his car and pulled a face at his back as he drove away.

Oliver returned on the Tuesday morning and Mary Jane, having packed an overnight bag, got into her elderly tweed suit, consigned Brimble to Mrs Adams’s kindly hands, and opened the door to him.

He didn’t bother with a good morning, a nod seemed the best he could manage. ‘Margaret’s in the car. Drive carefully; you’ll have to fill up with petrol, there’s not enough to bring you back.’

Mary Jane gave him a limpid look. ‘Margaret has the money for that? I haven’t.’

‘Good God, girl, surely a small matter of a few gallons of petrol...’

‘Well, just as you like. I’m sure Jim at the garage will have a man who can drive Margaret—you pay by the mile I believe, and petrol extra.’

Oliver went a dangerous plum colour. ‘No one would think that we were cousins...’

‘Well, no, I don’t think that they would, I quite often forget that too.’ She smiled. ‘If you go now you’ll catch Jim—he’ll be open by now.’

Oliver gave her a look to kill, with no effect whatsoever, and took out his wallet.

‘I shall require a strict account of what you spend,’ he told her crossly, and handed her some notes. ‘Now come along, Margaret is nervous enough already.’

Margaret was tall and what she described to herself as elegantly thin. She had good features, marred by a down-turned mouth and a frown; moreover she had a complaining voice. She moaned now, ‘Oh, dear, whatever has kept you? Can’t you see how ill I am? All this waiting about...’

Mary Jane got into the car. She said, ‘Good morning, Margaret.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Before we go I must make it quite clear to you that I have no money with me—perhaps Oliver told you already?’

Margaret looked faintly surprised. ‘No, he didn’t, he said...well, I’ve enough with me for both of us.’ She added sourly, ‘It will be a nice treat for you, a couple of days in town, all expenses paid.’

Mary Jane let this pass and, since Oliver did no more than raise a careless hand to his wife, drove away. Margaret was going to sulk, which left Mary Jane free to indulge her thoughts. She toyed with the idea of sending Oliver a bill for two days’ average takings at the tea-rooms, plus the hourly wages she would earn as a waitress. He would probably choke himself to death on reading it but it was fun to think about.

‘You’re driving too fast,’ complained Margaret.

Oliver had booked them in at a quiet hotel, near enough to Wigmore Street for them to be able to walk there for Margaret’s appointment. He had thought of everything, thought Mary Jane, unpacking Margaret’s bag for her since that lady declared herself to be exhausted; a hotel so quiet and respectable that there was nothing to do and no one under fifty staying there. Her room was on the floor above Margaret’s, overlooking a blank wall, furnished with what she called Hotel Furniture. She unpacked her own bag and went back to escort Margaret to lunch.

The dining-room was solid Victorian, dimly lit, the tables laden with silverware and any number of wine glasses. She cheered up at the sight; breakfast had been a sketchy affair and she was hungry and the elaborate table settings augered well for a good meal.

Unfortunately, this didn’t turn out to be the case; lunch was elaborately presented but not very filling: something fishy on a lettuce leaf, lamb chops with a small side-dish of vegetables and one potato, and trifle to follow. They drank water and Mary Jane defiantly ate two rolls.

‘I cannot think,’ grumbled Margaret picking at her chop, ‘why Oliver booked us in at this place. When we come to town—the theatre, you know, or shopping—we always go to one of the best hotels.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, I suppose he thought that, as you were coming with me, this would do.’

Mary Jane’s eyes glowed with purple fire. ‘Now, that was thoughtful of him. But you have no need to stay here, Margaret, you can get a room in any hotel, pay the bill here and I’ll drive myself back this afternoon and get someone from Jim’s garage to collect you tomorrow.’

‘You wouldn’t—how dare you suggest it? Oliver would never forgive you.’

‘I don’t suppose he would. I don’t suppose he’d forgive you either for spending his money. I dare say it won’t be so bad; you’ll be home again tomorrow.’

‘Oliver won’t be back for at least a week.’ Margaret paused. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me until he is back? I shall need looking after—all the worry of this examination is really too much for me. I’m alone.’

‘There’s a housekeeper, isn’t there? And two daily maids and the gardener?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Since we have to walk to this place we had better go and get ready.’

‘I feel quite ill at the very thought of being examined,’ observed Margaret as they set out. She had felt well enough to make up her face very nicely and put on a fetching hat. She pushed past Mary Jane in a cloud of L’Air du Temps and told her sharply to hurry up.

Wigmore Street was quiet and dignified in the early afternoon sun and the specialist’s rooms, according to the brass plate on the door, were in a tall red-brick house in the middle of a terrace of similar houses. Mary Jane rang the bell and they were ushered into a narrow hall.

‘First floor,’ the porter told them and went back to his cubbyhole, advising them that there was a lift if they preferred.

It was very quiet on the first-floor landing, doors on either side and one at the end. ‘Ring the bell,’ said Margaret and pointed to the door on the left.

It was as Mary Jane put her finger on it that she realised something. The little plate above it was inscribed Sir Thomas Latimer! She had seen it on the doorplate downstairs as well but it hadn’t registered. She felt a little thrill of excitement at seeing him again. Not that she liked him in the least, she told herself, as the door was opened and Margaret swept past her, announcing her arrival in a condescending way which Mary Jane could see didn’t go down well with the nurse.

They were a little early. The nurse offered chairs, made polite conversation for a few moments and went across to speak to the receptionist sitting at a desk in the corner of the room.

‘I didn’t expect to wait,’ complained Margaret, ‘I’ve come a long way and I’m in a good deal of pain.’

The nurse came back. ‘Sir Thomas has many patients, Mrs Seymour, and some need more time than others.’

Five minutes later the door opened and an elderly lady, walking with sticks, came out accompanied by Sir Thomas, who shook her hand and handed her over to the nurse.

He went back into his consulting-room and closed the door and Mary Jane decided that he hadn’t noticed her.

However, he had. He put the folder on his desk and went over to the window and looked out, surprised at the pleasure he had felt at the sight of her. He went back to his desk and opened the folder; this Mrs Seymour he was to see must be a sister-in-law—she and Mary Jane came from the same village.

He went and sat down and asked his nurse over the intercom to send in Mrs Seymour.

He could find nothing wrong with her at all; she described endless symptoms in a rather whining voice; none of which he could substantiate. Nevertheless, he sent her to the X-ray unit on the floor above and listened patiently to her renewed complaints when she returned.

‘If you will return in the morning,’ he told her, ‘when the X-ray results will be ready, I hope that I will be able to reassure you. I can find nothing wrong with you, Mrs Seymour, but we can discuss that tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?’

‘He is no good,’ declared Margaret as they walked back. ‘I shall find another specialist...’

‘You could at least wait and see what the X-rays show,’ suggested Mary Jane sensibly. ‘Why not have a rest in your room and an early night after dinner?’

First, though, they had tea in the hotel lounge and since it was, rather surprisingly, quite a substantial one, Mary Jane made the most of it, a little surprised at Margaret, despite her pain, eating a great many sandwiches and cream cakes. Left on her own, she poured a last cup of tea and thought about Sir Thomas. She hadn’t expected him to recognise her and after all he had had but the barest glimpse as he had stood in the doorway. As he had ushered Margaret out of his consulting-room he hadn’t looked in her direction. All the same, it was interesting to have seen him again in his own environment, as it were. Very remote and professional, thought Mary Jane, eating a last sandwich, not a bit like the man who had pushed his way into her tea-room, demanding tea for his friend. She sighed for no reason at all, picked up a magazine and sat reading, a girl not worth a second glance, until it was time to go up to Margaret’s room and warn her that dinner would be in half an hour.

Getting Margaret there by ten o’clock was rather an effort but she managed it, to be told by the nurse that Sir Thomas had been at one of the hospitals since the early hours of the morning operating on an emergency case. He would be with them as soon as possible and in the meantime perhaps they would like coffee?

‘Well, this is really too bad,’ grumbled Margaret. ‘I am a private patient...’

‘This was an emergency, Mrs Seymour,’ said the nurse smoothly and went to get the coffee.

Mary Jane sat allowing Margaret’s indignant whine to pass over her head. Like him or not, she felt sorry for Sir Thomas, up half the night and then having to cope with someone like Margaret instead of having a nap. She hoped he wouldn’t be too tired...

When he came presently he looked exactly like a man who had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, with time to dress with his usual elegance and eat a good breakfast. Only, when she peeped at him while he was greeting Margaret, she saw that there were tired lines around his eyes. He caught her staring at him when he turned to bid her good morning and she blushed a little. He watched the pretty colour pinken her cheeks and smiled. It was a kind and friendly smile and she was taken by surprise by it.

‘Your patient? Was the operation successful?’ She went even pinker; perhaps she shouldn’t have asked—it wasn’t any of her business.

‘Entirely, thank you—a good start to my day.’ Thank heaven he hadn’t sounded annoyed, thought Mary Jane.

The nurse led Margaret away then, and Mary Jane sat and looked at the glossy magazines scattered around her. The models in them looked as though they should still be at school and were so thin that she longed to feed them up on good wholesome food. Some of the clothes were lovely but since she was never likely to wear any of them she took care not to want them too much.

I’m the wrong shape, she told herself, unaware that despite her thinness she had a pretty, curvy figure and nice legs, concealed by the tweed suit.

The door opened and Sir Thomas showed Margaret back into the waiting-room, and it was quite obvious that Margaret was in a dreadful temper whereas he presented an impeturbable manner. He didn’t look at Mary Jane but shook Margaret’s reluctant hand, wished her goodbye with cool courtesy and went back into his consulting-room.

Margaret took no notice of the nurse’s polite goodbyes but flounced down to the street. ‘I told you he was no good,’ she hissed. ‘The man’s a fool, he says there is nothing wrong with me.’ She gave a nasty little laugh. ‘I’m to take more exercise, if you please—walk for an hour, mind you—each day, make beds, work in the garden, be active. I have suffered for years with my back, I’m quite unable to do anything strenuous; if you knew the hours I spend lying on the chaise longue...’

‘Perhaps that’s why your back hurts,’ suggested Mary Jane matter-of-factly.

‘Don’t be stupid. You can drive me home and I shall tell Dr Fellowes exactly what I think of him and his specialist.’

‘He must know what he’s talking about,’ observed Mary Jane rashly, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t be a consultant, would he?’

‘What do you know about it, anyway?’ asked Margaret rudely. They had reached the hotel. ‘Get your bag and get someone to bring the car round. We’re leaving now.’

It was a pleasant autumn day; the drive would have been agreeable too if only Margaret would have stopped talking. Luckily she didn’t need any answers, so Mary Jane was able to think her own thoughts.

She wasn’t invited in when they arrived at the house. Mary Jane, to whom it had been home for happy years, hadn’t expected that anyway. ‘You can drive the car round to the garage before you go,’ said Margaret without so much as a thank-you.

‘Oliver can do that whenever he comes back; if you mind about it being parked outside you can drive it round yourself, Margaret; I’m going home.’ She added rather naughtily, ‘Don’t forget that hour’s walk each day.’

‘Come back,’ ordered Margaret. ‘How can you be so cruel, leaving me like this?’

Mary Jane was already walking down the short drive. She called over her shoulder, ‘But you’re home, Margaret, and Sir Thomas said that there was nothing wrong with you...’

‘I’ll never speak to you again.’

‘Oh, good.’

Mary Jane nipped smartly out of the open gate and down to the village. It was still mid-afternoon; she would open the tea-room in the hope that some passing motorist would fancy a pot of tea and scones. First she would have a meal; breakfast was hours ago and Margaret had refused to stop on the way. Beans on toast, she decided happily, opening her door.

Brimble was waiting for her, she picked him up and tucked him under an arm while she opened windows, turned the sign round to ‘Open’ and put the kettle on.

Brimble, content after a meal, sat beside her while she ate her own meal and then went upstairs to take a nap, leaving her to see that everything was ready for any customers who might come.

They came presently, much to her pleased surprise; a hiking couple, a family party in a car which looked as though it might fall apart at any moment and a married couple who quarrelled quietly all the while they ate their tea. Mary Jane locked the door with a feeling of satisfaction, got her supper and started on preparations for the next day. While she made a batch of tea-cakes she thought about Sir Thomas.

It was towards the end of October, on a chilly late afternoon, just as Mary Jane was thinking of closing since there was little likelihood of any customers, that Sir Thomas walked in. She had her back to the door, rearranging a shelf at the back of the tea-room and she had neither heard nor seen the Rolls come to a quiet halt outside.

‘Too late for tea?’ he asked and she spun round, clutching some plates.

‘No — yes, I was just going to close.’

‘Oh, good.’ He turned the sign round. ‘We can have a quiet talk without being disturbed.’

‘Talk? Whatever about? Is something wrong with Miss Potter? I do hope not.’

‘Miss Potter is making excellent progress...’

‘Then it’s Margaret—Mrs Seymour.’

‘Ah, yes, the lady you escorted. As far as I know she is leading her normal life, and why not? There is nothing wrong with her. I came to talk about you.’

‘Me. Why?’

‘Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you.’

Sir Thomas sat down at one of the little tables and ate one of the scones on a plate there, and, since it seemed that he intended to stay there until he had had his tea, Mary Jane put the plates down and went to put on the kettle.

By the time she came back with the teapot he had finished the scones and she fetched another plate, of fering them wordlessly.

‘You wanted to tell me something?’ she prompted.

He sat back in the little cane chair so that it creaked alarmingly, his teacup in his hand. ‘Yes...’

The thump on the door stopped him and when it was repeated he got up and unlocked it. The girl who came in flashed him a dazzling smile.

‘Hello, Mary Jane. I’m on my way to Cheltenham and it seemed a good idea to look you up.’ She pecked Mary Jane’s cheek and looked across at Sir Thomas. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘No,’ said Mary Jane rather more loudly than necessary. ‘This is Sir Thomas Latimer, an orthopaedic surgeon, he—that is, Margaret went to see him about her back and he has a patient in the village.’ She glanced at him, still standing by the door. ‘This is my sister, Felicity.’

Felicity was looking quite beautiful, of course; she dressed in the height of fashion and somehow the clothes always looked right on her. She had tinted her hair, too, and her make-up was exquisite, making the most of her dark eyes and the perfect oval of her face. She smiled at Sir Thomas now as he came to shake her hand, smiling down at her, holding her hand just a little longer than he need, making some easy light-hearted remark which made Felicity laugh.

Of course, he’s fallen for her, reflected Mary Jane; since Felicity had left home to join the glamorous world of fashion she had had a continuous flow of men at her beck and call and she couldn’t blame Sir Thomas; her sister was quite lovely. She said, ‘Felicity is a well-known model...’

‘I can’t imagine her being anything else,’ observed Sir Thomas gravely. ‘Are you staying here with Mary Jane?’

‘Lord, no. There’s only one bedroom and I’d be terribly in the way—she gets up at the crack of dawn to cook, don’t you, darling?’ She glanced around her. ‘Still making a living? Good. No, I’m booked in at the Queens at Cheltenham, I’m doing a dress show there tomorrow.’ She smiled at Sir Thomas. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to come? We could have dinner...?’

‘How delightful that would have been, although the dress show hardly appeals, but dinner with you would be another matter.’

The fool, thought Mary Jane fiercely. She had seen Felicity capture a man’s attention a dozen times and not really minded but now she did. Sir Thomas was like the rest of them but for some reason she had thought that he was different.

Felicity gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Surely you could manage dinner? I don’t know anyone in Cheltenham.’

‘I’m on my way back to London,’ he told her. ‘Then I’m off to a seminar in Holland.’

Felicity said with a hint of sharpness, ‘A busy man—are you a very successful specialist or something, making your millions?’

‘I am a busy man, yes.’ He smiled charmingly and she turned away to say goodbye to Mary Jane.

‘Perhaps I’ll drop in as I go back,’ she suggested.

He opened the door for her and then walked with her to her car. Mary Jane could hear her sister’s laughter before she drove away. She began to clear away the tea tray, she still had to do some baking ready for the next day and Brimble was prowling round, grumbling for his supper.

‘We didn’t finish our tea,’ observed Sir Thomas mildly. He looked at her with questioning eyebrows.

Well, he is not getting another pot, reflected Mary Jane, and told him so, only politely. ‘I’ve a lot of baking to do and I expect you want to get back to London.’

Sir Thomas’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Then I won’t keep you.’ He picked up the coat he had tossed over a chair. ‘You have a very beautiful sister, Mary Jane.’

‘Yes, we’re not a bit alike, are we?’

‘No, not in the least.’ A remark which did nothing to improve her temper. ‘And I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you...’

‘I don’t suppose it was of the least importance.’ She spoke tartly. ‘You can tell me if we meet again, which isn’t very likely.’

He opened the door. ‘You are mistaken about a great many things, Mary Jane,’ he told her gravely. ‘Goodnight.’

She closed the door and bolted it and went back to the kitchen, not wishing to see him go.

She washed the cups and saucers with a good deal of noise, fed Brimble and got out the pastry board, the rolling pin and the ingredients for the scones. Her mind not being wholly on her work, her dough suffered a good deal of rough treatment; notwithstanding, the scones came from the oven nicely risen and golden brown. She cleared away and went upstairs, having lost all appetite for her supper.

Felicity hadn’t said when she would come again but she seldom did, dropping in from time to time when it suited her. When they had been younger she had always treated Mary Jane with a kind of tolerant affection, at the same time making no effort to take much interest in her. It had been inevitable that Mary Jane should stay at home with her aunt and uncle and, even when they had died and she had inherited the cottage, Felicity had made no effort to help in any way. She was earning big money by then but neither she nor, for that matter, Mary Jane had expected her to do anything to make life easier for her young sister. Mary Jane had accepted the fact that Felicity was a success in life, leading a glamorous existence, travelling, picking and choosing for whom she would work and, while she was glad that she had made such a success of her life, she had no wish to be a part of it and certainly she felt no envy. Common sense told her that a plain face and a tendency to stay in the background would never earn her a place in the world of fashion.

Not that she would have liked that, she was content with her tea-room and Brimble and her friends in the village, although it would have been nice to have had a little more money.

The Misses Potter came in for their usual tea on the following day.

Miss Mabel was walking with a stick now and was a changed woman. They had been to Cheltenham on the previous day, they told Mary Jane, and that nice Sir Thomas had said that she need not go to see him anymore, just go for a check-up to Dr Fellowes every few months.

‘He’s going away,’ she explained to Mary Jane, ‘to some conference or other, but we heard that he will be going to the Radcliffe Infirmary at Oxford when he gets back. Much sought-after,’ said Miss Mabel with satisfaction.

Of course, the village knew all about him calling at the tea-room and, Mary Jane being Mary Jane, her explanation that he had merely called for a cup of tea on his way back to London was accepted without comment. Felicity’s visit had also been noticed with rather more interest. Very few people took Vogue or Harpers and Queen but those who visited their dentist or doctor and read the magazines in the waiting-room were well aware of her fame.

She came a few days later during the morning, walking into the tea-room and giving the customers there a pleasant surprise. She was wearing a suede outfit in red with boots in black leather and a good deal of gold jewellery. Not at all the kind of clothes the village was used to; even the doctor’s wife and Margaret, not to mention the lady of the manor, wouldn’t have risked wearing such an outfit. She smiled around her, confident that she was creating an impression.

‘Hello, Mary Jane,’ she said smilingly, pleased with the mild sensation she had caused. ‘Can you spare me a cup of coffee? I’m on my way back to town.’

She sat down at one of the tables and Mary Jane, busy with serving, said, ‘Hello, Felicity. Yes, of course, but will you help yourself? I’m quite busy.’

The customers went presently, leaving the two sisters alone. Mary Jane collected up cups and saucers and tidied the tables and Felicity said rather impatiently, ‘Oh, do sit down for a minute, you can wash up after I’ve gone.’

Mary Jane fetched a cup of coffee for herself, refilled Felicity’s cup and sat. ‘Did you have a successful show?’ she asked.

‘Marvellous. I’m off to the Bahamas next week—Vogue and Elle. When I get back it will be time for the dress show in Paris. Life’s all go...’

‘Would you like to change it?’

Felicity gave her a surprised stare. ‘Change it? My dear girl, have you any idea of the money I earn?’

‘Well no, I don’t think that I have...’ Mary Jane spoke without rancour. ‘But it must be a great deal.’

‘It is. I like money and I spend it. In a year or two I intend to find a wealthy husband and settle down. Sooner, if I meet someone I fancy.’ She smiled across the little table. ‘Like that man I met when I was here last week. Driving a Rolls and doing very nicely and just my type. I can’t think how you met him, Mary Jane.’

‘He operated on a friend of mine here and I met him at the hospital. He stopped for a cup of tea on his way back to London. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a specialist in bones.’

‘How revolting.’ Felicity wrinkled her beautiful nose. ‘But of course, he must have a social life. Is he married?’

‘I’ve no idea. I should think it must be very likely, wouldn’t you?’

‘London, you say? I must find out. What’s his name?’

Mary Jane told her but with reluctance. There was no reason why she should mind Felicity’s interest in him, indeed she would make a splendid foil for his magnificent size and good looks and presumably he would be able to give Felicity all the luxury she demanded of life.

‘He said he was going abroad—to Holland, I think,’ she volunteered.

‘Good. That gives me time to track him down. Once I know where he lives or works I can meet him again—accidentally of course.’

Well, thought Mary Jane in her sensible way, he’s old enough and wise enough to look after himself and there’s that other woman who came here with him...

She didn’t mention her to her sister.

Felicity didn’t stay long. ‘Ticking over nicely?’ she asked carelessly. ‘You always liked a quiet life, didn’t you?’

What would Felicity have said if she had declared that she would very much like to wear lovely clothes, go dancing and be surrounded by young men? Mary Jane, loading a tray carefully, agreed placidly.

Since it seemed likely that the quiet life was to be her lot, there wasn’t much point in saying anything else.