Читать книгу Hilltop Tryst - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

THE SUN, rising gloriously on the morning of Midsummer’s Day, turned the swelling Dorset hills into a wide vista of golden green fields and clumps of trees under a blue sky. Miles away, traffic along the dual carriageway thundered on its way to the west, unheard and unheeded in the quiet countryside around the village of Hindley, its inhabitants for the most part still sleeping in their beds. Farm workers were already about their work, though; the bleating of sheep and the sounds of horses and cattle were blotted out from time to time by the sound of a tractor being started up; but on the brow of the hill rising behind the village these sounds were faint, the bird-song was louder.

Half-way up the hill a girl sat, leaning comfortably against the trunk of a fallen tree, a shaggy dog sprawled beside her. She had drawn up her knees, clasped her arms around them and rested her chin on them—a pretty, rounded chin, but determined too, belying the wide, gentle mouth and the soft brown eyes with their thick black lashes. Her hair was long and brown, plaited and hanging over one shoulder. She flung it back with a well-shaped hand and spoke to the dog.

‘There—the sun’s rising on the longest day of the year, Knotty. Midsummer Madness—the high tide of the year, a day for fairies and elves, a day for making a wish. Do you suppose if I made one it might come true?’

Knotty, usually obliging with his replies, took no notice, but growled softly, cocked his large, drooping ears and allowed his teeth to show. He got to his feet and she put a restraining hand on his collar, turning to look behind her as she caught the sound of steady feet and someone coming along, whistling.

Knotty barked as a man left the line of trees and came towards them. A giant of a man, dressed in an open-necked shirt and elderly trousers, his pale hair shone in the sunlight and he walked with an easy self-assurance. Tucked under one arm was a small dog, a Jack Russell, looking bedraggled.

He stopped by the girl, towering over her so that she was forced to crane her neck to see his face. ‘Good morning. Perhaps you can help me?’ He had put down a balled fist for Knotty to examine, ignoring the teeth.

‘I found this little chap down a rabbit-hole—couldn’t get out and probably been there for some time. Is there a vet around here?’ He smiled at her. ‘The name’s Latimer— Oliver Latimer.’

The girl got to her feet, glad for once that she was a tall girl, and very nearly able to look him in the face. ‘Beatrice Browning. That’s Nobby—Miss Mead’s dog. She’ll be so very glad, he’s been missing for a couple of days—everyone has been out looking for him. Where was he?’

‘About a mile on the other side of these woods—there’s a stretch of common land… The vet?’

‘You’d better come with me. Father will be up by now; he’s leaving early to visit a couple of farms.’

She started down the hill towards the village below. ‘You’re out early,’ she observed.

‘Yes. You too. It’s the best time of the day, isn’t it?’

She nodded. They had left the hill behind them and were in a narrow rutted lane, the roofs of the village very close.

‘You live here?’ he wanted to know. He spoke so casually that she decided that he was merely making polite conversation.

‘My home is here; I live with an aunt in Wilton.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Well, not all the time—I’m staying with her until she can get another companion.’ She went on walking. ‘Actually she’s a great-aunt.’

She frowned; here she was, handing out information which couldn’t be of the slightest interest to this man. She said austerely, ‘What a splendid day it is. Here we are.’ Her father’s house was of a comfortable size surrounded by a large, overgrown garden, and with a paddock alongside for any animals he might need to take under his care. She led the way around the side of the house, so in through the back door, and found her father sitting on the doorstep drinking tea. He wished her good morning and looked enquiringly at her companion. ‘A patient already—bless me, that’s Nobby! Hurt?’

‘Nothing broken, I fancy. Hungry and dehydrated, I should imagine.’

‘Mr Latimer found him down a rabbit-hole the other side of Billings Wood,’ said Beatrice. ‘My father,’ she added rather unnecessarily.

The two men shook hands, and Nobby was handed over to be examined by her father. Presently he said, ‘He seems to have got off very lightly. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t go straight back to Miss Mead.’

‘If you will tell me where to go, I’ll take him as I walk back.’

Beatrice had poured the tea into two mugs. ‘Have some tea first,’ she offered. ‘Do you want to phone anyone? This must have delayed you…’

‘Stay for breakfast?’ suggested her father. ‘My wife will be down directly—I want to be well away before eight o’clock.’ He glanced up. ‘Far to go?’

‘Telfont Evias—I’m staying with the Elliotts.’

‘George Elliott? My dear chap, give him a ring and say you’re staying for breakfast. It’s all of three miles. Beatrice, will you show him where the telephone is? You can take Nobby back while breakfast is being cooked.’

Miss Mead lived right in the village in one of the charming cottages which stood on either side of the main street. Trees edged the cobbled pavement and the small front gardens were a blaze of colour. Mr Latimer strolled along beside Beatrice, Nobby tucked under one arm, talking of this and that in his deep voice. Quite nice, but a bit placid, Beatrice decided silently, peeping sideways at his profile. He was undoubtedly good-looking as well as being extremely large. Much, much larger than James, the eldest son of Dr Forbes, who had for some time now taken it for granted that she would marry him when he asked her…

She decided not to think about him for the moment, and instead pointed out the ancient and famous inn on the corner of the street and suggested that they might cross over, since Miss Mead’s little cottage was on the other side.

Miss Mead answered their knock on her door. She was tall and thin and elderly, and very ladylike. She wore well-made skirts and blouses, and covered them with cardigans of a suitable weight according to the time of year, and drove a small car. She was liked in the village, but guardedly so, for she had an acid tongue if annoyed.

But now her stern face crumpled into tearful delight. ‘Nobby—where have you been?’ She took him from Mr Latimer and hugged him close.

‘You found him. Oh, I’m so grateful, I can never thank you enough—I’ve hardly slept…’

She looked at them in turn. ‘He’s not hurt? Has your father seen him, Beatrice?’

‘Yes, Miss Mead. Mr Latimer found him down a rabbit-hole and carried him here.’

‘He seems to have come to no harm,’ interpolated Mr Latimer in his calm voice. ‘Tired and hungry and thirsty—a couple of days and he’ll be quite fit again.’

‘You’re so kind—really, I don’t know how to thank you…’

‘No need, Miss Mead. He’s a nice little chap.’ He turned to Beatrice. ‘Should we be getting back? I don’t want to keep your father waiting.’

A bit cool, she thought, agreeing politely, wishing Miss Mead goodbye and waiting while she shook hands with her companion and thanked him once again. Perhaps his placid manner hid arrogance. Not that it mattered, she reflected, walking back with him and responding politely to his gentle flow of talk; they were most unlikely to meet again. A friend of the Elliotts, staying for a day or two, she supposed.

He proved to be a delightful guest. Her mother sat him down beside her and plied him with breakfast and a steady flow of nicely veiled questions, which he answered without telling her anything at all about himself. That he knew the Elliotts was a fact, but where he came from and what he did somehow remained obscure. All the same, Mrs Browning liked him, and Beatrice’s three sisters liked him too, taking it in turns to engage him in conversation. And he was charming to them; Ella, fifteen and still at school, Carol, on holiday from the stockbroker’s office where she worked in Salisbury, and Kathy, getting married in a few weeks’ time…

They were all so pretty, thought Beatrice without rancour; she was pretty herself, but at twenty-six and as the eldest she tended to regard them as very much younger than herself, partly because they were all cast in a smaller mould and could get into each other’s size tens, while she was forced to clothe her splendid proportions in a size fourteen.

Mr Latimer didn’t overstay his welcome; when her father got up from the table he got up too, saying that he must be on his way. He thanked Mrs Browning for his breakfast, bade her daughters goodbye and left the house with Mr Browning, bidding him goodbye too as they reached the Land Rover parked by the gate and setting off at a leisurely pace in the direction of Telfont Evias.

‘What a very nice man,’ observed Mrs Browning, peering at his retreating back from the kitchen window. ‘I do wonder…’ She sighed silently and glanced at Beatrice, busy clearing the breakfast-table. ‘I don’t suppose we shall see him again—I mean, Lorna Elliott has never mentioned him.’

‘Perhaps he’s not a close friend.’ Ella, on her way to get the school bus, kissed her mother and ran down the drive.

And after that no one had much more to say about him; there was the washing-up to do, beds to make, rooms to Hoover and dust and lunch to plan, and as well as that there were the dogs and cats to feed and the old pony in the paddock to groom.

Mr Browning came back during the morning, saw several patients, just had his coffee and then dashed away again to see a sick cow; and at lunch the talk was largely about Great-Aunt Sybil who lived in Wilton and to whom Beatrice was acting as a companion until some luckless woman would be fool enough to answer her advertisement. Beatrice had been there three weeks already, and that, she pointed out with some heat, was three weeks too long. She was only at home now because the old lady had taken herself off to London to be given her yearly check-up by the particular doctor she favoured. She was due back the next day, and Beatrice had been told to present herself at her aunt’s house in the early afternoon.

‘If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s family, I wouldn’t go,’ declared Beatrice.

‘It can’t be for much longer, dear,’ soothed her mother, ‘and I know it’s asking a lot of you, but who else is there? Ella’s too young, Carol’s due back in two days’ time and Kathy has such a lot to do before the wedding.’

Beatrice cast her fine eyes to the ceiling. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, and no one applies for the job, I’d better get married myself.’

There was an instant chorus of, ‘Oh, has James proposed?’

And Kathy added, ‘I mean properly, and not just taking you for granted.’

‘He’s not said a word,’ said Beatrice cheerfully, ‘and even if he did I wouldn’t…’ She paused, quite surprised that she had meant exactly that.

Until that very moment she hadn’t bothered too much about James, while at the back of her mind was the knowledge that when he felt like it he would ask her to marry him, or at least allow his intentions to show, but now she was quite sure that she wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth.

‘Oh, good,’ said Kathy. ‘He’s not at all your sort, you know.’

‘No. I wonder why I didn’t see that?’

‘Well, dear—he may never ask you,’ observed her mother.

‘That’s just what I mean,’ went on Kathy, ‘you would have dwindled into a long engagement while he deliberated about the future, and then got married without a scrap of romance.’

‘Great-Aunt Sybil offers an alternative, doesn’t she?’ Beatrice laughed. ‘I only hope she liked this doctor she went to see. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were dozens of replies to her advert for a companion? Then I can come back home and help Father.’

Her father drove her over to Wilton the next day after an early lunch. ‘I’m sorry about this, love,’ he said as they drove the few miles to the town, ‘but your great-aunt is my mother’s sister, and I did promise that I’d keep an eye on her.’

‘And quite right too,’ said Beatrice stoutly. ‘Families should stick together.’

Her aunt’s house was Georgian, its front door opening on to the street which divided a square, tree-lined and ringed around by similar roomy old houses. Beatrice kissed her father goodbye, picked up her case and pulled the bell by the door. Mrs Shadwell, the sour-faced housekeeper, answered it and stood aside so that she might go in, and with a final wave to her father Beatrice went into the dim and gloomy hall.

Her aunt hadn’t returned yet; she went to her room and unpacked her few things, and went downstairs again to open the windows and the glass doors on to the garden at the back of the house; her aunt would order them all closed again the moment she came into the house, but for the moment the warm sun lit the heavily furnished room. Too nice to stay indoors, decided Beatrice, and skipped outside. The garden was quite large and mostly lawn bordered by shrubs and a few trees. She went and sat down with her back to one of them and allowed her thoughts to turn to Mr Latimer. A nice man, she decided; a thought dreamy, perhaps, and probably he had a bad temper once roused. She wondered what he did for a living—a bank manager? A solicitor? Something to do with television? Her idle thoughts were interrupted by a sudden surge of movement within the house. Her aunt had returned.

Beatrice stayed where she was; she could hear her aunt’s voice raised in umbrage and she sighed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she were paid for her companionship—if one could call it that: finding things, running up and down stairs with knitting, books, a scarf, answering the telephone, reading aloud to her aunt until that lady dozed off, only to wake a few minutes later and demand that she should continue reading and why had she stopped? Companion, Beatrice decided after a few days of this, wasn’t the right word—there was no time to be a companion—who should have been someone to chat to and share jokes with and take little jaunts with on fine days. The word was slave.

Her aunt’s voice, demanding to know where Miss Beatrice was, got her slowly to her feet and into the drawing-room.

‘I’m here, Aunt.’ She had a nice, quiet voice and a pleasant, calm manner. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

‘No, I did not. It was a waste of my time and my money—that old fool who saw me told me that I was as sound as a bell.’

She glared at Beatrice, who took no notice, but merely asked, ‘But why don’t you believe him, Aunt?’

‘Because I know better; I am in constant pain, but I’m not one to moan and groan; I suffer in silence. You cannot possibly understand, a great healthy girl like you. I suppose you’ve been at home, idling away the days.’

‘That’s right, Aunt,’ said Beatrice cheerfully. ‘Nothing to do but help Father in the surgery, feed the animals, groom the pony and do some of the housework and the cooking…’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Beatrice! You may go upstairs to my room and make sure that Alice is unpacking my case correctly, and when you come down I wish you to get the telephone number of a heart specialist— No, on second thoughts you had better open the letters. There are bound to be answers to my advertisement.’

But from the little pile of letters Beatrice opened there were only three, and they didn’t sound at all hopeful. The first one made it a condition that she should bring her cat with her, the second stipulated that she should have every other weekend free and the third expected the use of a car.

Beatrice offered them to her aunt without comment, and after they had been read and consigned to the wastepaper basket she observed, ‘Perhaps if you offered a larger salary…?’

Her aunt’s majestic bosom swelled alarmingly. ‘The salary I offer is ample. What does my companion need other than a comfortable home and good food?’

‘Clothes,’ suggested Beatrice, ‘make-up and so on, money for presents, probably they have a mother or father they have to help out, holidays…’

‘Rubbish. Be good enough to take these letters to the post.’

A respite, even though brief; Beatrice lingered in the little town for as long as she dared, and when she got back she was rebuked for loitering. ‘And I have made an appointment with this heart specialist. I shall see him on Wednesday next and you will accompany me. He has rooms in Harley Street.’ She added in her loud, commanding voice, ‘Jenkins will drive us, and I intend to visit several of these agencies in the hope that I may find someone suitable to be my companion.’

‘What a good idea. There’s bound to be someone on their books. Will you interview them here or there, Aunt?’

‘You may safely leave such decisions to me.’ Great-Aunt Sybil turned a quelling eye upon her, only Beatrice took no notice of it; she was a sensible girl as well as a pretty one and had quickly learnt to ignore her aunt’s worse moments. There were plenty of Great-Aunt Sybils in the world and, tiresome though they were, they had families who felt it their duty to keep an eye on them. Only she hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she could go back home again, which thought led to her wondering how Miss Mead’s Nobby was doing and that led naturally to Mr Latimer. An interesting man, she reflected, if only because of his great size and good looks; she speculated as to his age and quickly married him off to a willowy blonde, small and dainty with everybody doing everything they could for her because of her clinging nature. There would be children too, a little girl and an older boy—two perhaps… She was forced to return to her prosaic world then, because her aunt wished for a glass of sherry. ‘And surely you can do that for me,’ she grumbled in her overpowering voice, ‘although you don’t look capable of anything, sitting there daydreaming.’

Beatrice poured the sherry, handed it to her aunt, then gave herself one, tossed it off and, feeling reckless, poured a second one. Great-Aunt Sybil vibrated with indignation. ‘Well, really, upon my word, Beatrice, what would your father say if he could see you now? Worse, what would that young man of yours think or say?’

‘James? He’s not my young man, Aunt Sybil, and I have no intention of marrying him, and I expect that Father would offer me a third glass,’ she answered politely and in a reasonable voice, which gave her aunt no opportunity to accuse her of impertinence…

That lady gave her a fulminating look; a paid companion would have been dismissed on the spot, but Beatrice was family and had every right to return home. She said in a conciliatory voice, ‘I dare say that you have had several opportunities to marry. You were a very pretty young girl and are still a pretty woman.’

‘Twenty-six on my last birthday, Aunt.’

Beatrice spoke lightly, but just lately faint doubts about her future were getting harder to ignore. Somehow the years were slipping by; until her sudden certainty that she couldn’t possibly marry James, she supposed that she had rather taken it for granted that she and James would marry, but now she knew that that wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t love him and she didn’t think he loved her. Perhaps she was never to meet a man who would love her and whom she could love. It was getting a bit late in the day, she thought wryly.

‘Time you were married and bringing up a family,’ declared Aunt Sybil tartly. ‘A woman’s work…’

And one which her aunt had never had to do, reflected Beatrice. Perhaps if she had had a husband and a handful of children, she might not have become such a trying old lady: always right, always advising people how to do things she knew nothing about, always criticising and correcting, expecting everyone to do what she wanted at a moment’s notice…

‘Well,’ said Beatrice naughtily, ‘when you find another companion and I can go home again, perhaps I’ll start looking for a husband.’

‘Do not be impertinent, Beatrice,’ was all her aunt said quellingly…

Wednesday came to break the monotony of the days, and since it was a lovely summer morning Beatrice got into a rather nice silky two-piece in a pale pearly pink, brushed her hair into a shining chignon, thrust her feet into high-heeled sandals and got into the elderly Daimler beside her aunt.

Her aunt eyed her with disapproval. ‘Really, my dear, you are dressed more in the manner of someone going to a garden party than a companion.’

‘But I’m not a companion,’ observed Beatrice sweetly. ‘I’m staying with you because you asked me to. And it’s a lovely day,’ she added, to clinch the matter.

‘We will lunch,’ stated Great-Aunt Sybil in a cross voice, ‘and visit some of these agencies. The sooner I can approve of a companion the better. You are becoming frivolous, Beatrice.’

Beatrice said meekly, ‘Yes, Aunt Sybil, perhaps I’m having a last fling before I dwindle into being an old maid.’

Jenkins drove them sedately Londonwards, and at exactly the right time deposited them outside a narrow Regency house in a row of similar narrow houses. Beatrice rang the bell and then followed her aunt’s majestic progress into a pleasant waiting-room, where they were greeted by an elderly receptionist and asked to sit down.

‘My appointment is for half-past eleven,’ pointed out Aunt Sybil, ‘and it is exactly that hour.’ She drew an indignant breath so that her corsets creaked.

‘That’s right, Miss Browning.’ The receptionist spoke smoothly. ‘But the doctor is engaged for the moment.’

‘I do not expect to be kept waiting.’

The receptionist smiled politely, picked up the telephone and became immersed in conversation. She was putting it down again when a door at the end of the room opened and a woman came out. Beatrice could hear her saying goodbye to someone on the other side of the door and sighed thankfully; any minute now and her aunt would be whisked away by the nurse who had come into the room.

‘You will accompany me,’ decreed her aunt. ‘I may need your support.’ She sailed in the wake of the nurse and was ushered through the door, and Beatrice, walking reluctantly behind her, came to a sudden halt. The eminent doctor, a cardiologist of the first rank, according to her aunt, coming forward to shake her aunt’s hand, was Mr Latimer.

A rather different Mr Latimer, though; this elegant man in his sober grey suit and spotless linen was a far cry from the casual walker in his old trousers and shirt. He showed no surprise at the sight of her, but greeted her aunt quietly and then waited with a slightly lifted eyebrow until Great-Aunt Sybil said testily, ‘Oh, this is a great-niece of mine. I have a delicate constitution and may require her support.’

Mr Latimer said ‘How do you do?’ to Beatrice with a blandness which led her to suppose that he had forgotten her completely, observed that he had an excellent nurse in attendance and asked in what way could he advise his patient?

‘You are a very young man,’ observed Miss Browning in a suspicious voice. ‘I trust that you are adequately trained to diagnose illness?’

Beatrice blushed and looked at her feet; her aunt was going to be awful.

‘If I might know the nature of your illness?’ asked Mr Latimer with just the right amount of professional dignity. He glanced at the folder on his desk, containing letters from various colleagues on the subject of Miss Browning.

Miss Browning fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I suffer great pain in my chest. It is at times unendurable, but I do not wish to bother those around me with complaints: I have learnt to conceal my suffering. I think I may say that I have more than my share of courage and patience. The pain is here,’ she patted her massive bosom gently, ‘and I will explain exactly…’

Which she did at great length, while Dr Latimer sat quietly watching her, though now and again he took a quick look at Beatrice, still examining her feet and wishing the ground would open beneath her.

Presently he interrupted her aunt’s flow of talk. ‘Yes. Well, Miss Browning, I think the best thing is for me to examine you. If you will go with Nurse, she will prepare you.’

Miss Browning swept out, pausing by Beatrice to beg her in ringing tones to come to her aid of she were to fall faint. ‘For this will be an ordeal.’

Beatrice mumbled and peeped across the room to where Dr Latimer sat behind his desk. He was looking at her and smiling, and after a moment she smiled back.

‘Don’t you miss your green fields and hills?’ he asked.

She nodded. After a moment she said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

‘No? I rather feel it was inevitable that somehow we should meet.’

He got up in response to the buzzer on his desk and went to the examination-room, leaving her to wonder what on earth he meant.

She had plenty of time to ponder his words, for it was quite fifteen minutes before he came back, and there was nothing in his face to tell her what his examination had revealed. He sat down and began to write until after another five minutes his patient came back.

Miss Browning swept in on a tide of ill temper, sat herself down and addressed herself in quelling tones to the impassive man sitting behind his desk.

‘I very much doubt,’ began Great-Aunt Sybil, ‘if you are qualified to diagnose my particular illness. It seems to me that you have failed to appreciate my suffering.’

Dr Latimer appeared unworried. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Browning, you have a sound heart; your pain is caused by indigestion. I will give you a diet which, if you choose to follow it, will dispel the pain. From what you have told me, your diet is too rich. I will write to your doctor and inform him of my diagnosis.’

He stood up and went to her chair. ‘What a relief it must be to you that you are so splendidly healthy.’ He offered a hand, and she had perforce to take it. ‘Nurse will give you the diet sheet.’

He accompanied her to the door, and Beatrice was relieved to see that for once her aunt had met her match: Dr Latimer’s silky manners screened a steely intention to be in command of the situation. They were ushered out without Miss Browning having the time to utter any of the telling replies she might have had in mind.

The nurse had gone ahead to open the waiting-room door, and for a moment Beatrice and Dr Latimer were alone.

He held out a large, firm hand. ‘Goodbye for the present,’ he said.

‘Oh, do you intend to see my aunt again?’

‘Er—no—but we shall meet again.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘You don’t live with your aunt?’

‘Heavens, no! Her companion left and I’m staying with her until we can find another one.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you.’

Aunt Sybil had turned at the doorway and was looking back at them. ‘Come at once, Beatrice. I am exhausted.’

‘Dear, oh, dear,’ murmured Dr Latimer at his most soothing, ‘we must see about that companion, mustn’t we?’

She thought that he was merely being comforting, but then, she didn’t know him well.

Lunch was a stormy meal, taken at her aunt’s favourite restaurant. Naturally it consisted of all the things Miss Browning had been advised not to eat, and while they ate she gave her opinion of doctors in general and Dr Latimer in particular. ‘He should be struck off,’ she declared.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I thought he had beautiful manners.’

‘Pooh—any silly woman could have her head turned by the professional civility these men employ—I am able to see through such tricks.’

Beatrice poured the coffee. ‘Aunt Sybil, I think you might at least give his advice an airing…’

‘I shall do just as I see fit. We will go now to that agency I have written to; there must be any number of women needing work. Just look at the unemployment…’

But there was no one suitable, nor was there at the other two agencies they visited. Beatrice, a cheerful girl by nature, allowed herself to get despondent at the prospect of weeks of Great-Aunt Sybil’s irascible company.

Only it wasn’t to be weeks, after all. Three days after her aunt’s visit to Dr Latimer, a letter came. The writer, having seen Miss Browning’s advertisement, begged to apply for the post of companion, and was willing to present herself at an interview whenever it was convenient.

‘Let her come this afternoon,’ said Great-Aunt Sybil grandly. ‘She sounds a sensible woman.’

‘Well, she could hardly get here and back again today,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘It’s a London address—besides, there’s the fare, she might not have it.’

‘I cannot think what these people do with their money.’

‘They don’t have any—or not much to do anything with.’

Her aunt frowned. ‘You have this habit of answering back, Beatrice—most unbecoming. Write a letter and tell her to come the day after tomorrow in the early afternoon. You had better take some money from my desk and enclose it.’

Beatrice, addressing the envelope to Miss Jane Moore, hoped fervently that she would be suitable.

It was obvious from the moment that she faced Great-Aunt Sybil in the drawing-room that she was not only suitable but quite capable of holding her own with the old lady. Polite but firm, she allowed Miss Browning to see that she had no intention of being a doormat—indeed, she stipulated that she should have regular hours of freedom and a day off each week—but she sweetened this by pointing out that she was able to undertake all secretarial duties, keep accounts, drive the car, and read aloud. ‘I also have some nursing skills,’ she added composedly.

Beatrice thought she looked exactly the right person to live with her aunt. Middle-aged, small and wiry, with her pepper and salt hair and a severe bun, Miss Moore exuded competence, good nature and firmness.

Whether she would be able to stand up to her great-aunt’s peevish ill humours was another matter. At the moment, at any rate, her aunt seemed more than satisfied. Miss Moore was engaged with the option of a month’s notice on either side, and agreed to come in two days’ time, Miss Browning’s good humour lasting long enough for her to arrange for Miss Moore to be collected with her luggage at the station.

‘So now you can go home,’ said Miss Browning ungratefully as she and Beatrice sat at dinner that evening. If Beatrice expected thanks, she got none, but that didn’t worry her; she telephoned her mother, packed her bag, and at the end of the next day returned home.

It was lovely to be back in her own room again, to unpack and then go down to the kitchen and help her mother get the supper.

‘Do you think she’ll last, this Miss Moore?’ asked her mother.

‘I think she might. I mean, Great-Aunt Sybil’s other companions have always been so timid, but not Miss Moore—one could think of her as a ward sister used to geriatrics—you know—quite unflustered, but very firm and kind.’

She paused in the enjoyable task of hulling strawberries. ‘I shall get up early tomorrow and take Knotty for a long walk before breakfast.’

‘Yes, dear. Your father will be glad to have you back to give a hand. Carol’s back in Salisbury and Kathy’s staying with the in-laws. Ella will be glad, too. You always help her so nicely with her Latin.’

Beatrice woke as the sun, not yet visible, began to lighten the cloudless sky. She was out of bed, had washed her face, got into an old cotton dress she kept for cleaning out the chicken house, tied back her hair and was in the kitchen within minutes. Knotty was waiting, and together they left the house and started to climb the hill. Knotty had bounded on ahead, and Beatrice, almost at the top, looked up to see why he was barking.

She wasn’t alone on the hill; Dr Latimer was there too, waiting for her.