Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
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Contents
Margaret Pemberton
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Margaret Pemberton
The Flower Garden
Margaret Pemberton
Margaret Pemberton is the bestselling author of over thirty novels in many different genres, some of which are contemporary in setting and some historical.
She has served as Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and has three times served as a committee member of the Crime Writers’Association. Born in Bradford, she is married to a Londoner, has five children and two dogs and lives in Whitstable, Kent. Apart from writing, her passions are tango, travel, English history and the English countryside.
Dedication
For Mike, who made Madeira so memorable.
Chapter One
To tell a patient they are about to die is never the easiest of tasks. When the patient is thirty-five, a woman and exceptionally beautiful, the task is even harder. Dr Henry Lorrimer furrowed his brow and drummed well-manicured fingers on the leather-topped surface of his desk as the minute hand moved steadily up towards the hour.
It was the winter of 1934 and the sidewalks were piled high with snow. Henry Lorrimer thought longingly of Florida and The Keys and the giant marlin he had hooked way back in September. From his window he could see the frosted citadel of the Chrysler building soaring against a leaden sky that indicated more snow to come. He sighed, wishing himself back in Florida; wishing himself anywhere but in his opulent surgery about to face Nancy Leigh Cameron.
In the icy streets below chaotic traffic made way for a Rolls Royce Phantom II. It slid to a standing halt outside the discreet entrance of Henry’s surgery. No brass plate adorned the entrance. There was no need of one. Dr Henry Lorrimer was the most respected consultant in New York State. A world expert on rare blood diseases. His patients came from places as diverse as South Africa, Switzerland and Japan. They all had two things in common. They were ill and they were rich.
Over the years he had perfected his method of breaking bad news. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he simply did not do it. If the disease was fatal he saw no reason to mar his patients’last months of life by telling them so. Smoothly he would talk of treatment, of blood transfusions, of rest. Something in the demeanour of the remaining one per cent caused him to give them the highest accolade of his respect and tell them the truth. Nancy Leigh Cameron possessed that indefinable trait of character. Dr Lorrimer wished heartily that she did not.
Three floors below, an epauletted chauffeur opened the door of the Rolls and a slim figure stepped out. The growing group of spectators inched forward, blowing hard on mittened hands. Even the down-and-outs, emerging from the shelter of the doorways, knew to whom the Rolls belonged. Jack Cameron’s initials were emblazoned in gold on the doors of all his automobiles. It gave them class and Jack Cameron liked class. It was the reason he had married Nancy.
A neatly shod foot emerged from heavy folds of ankle-length sable as Nancy Leigh Cameron stepped on to the sidewalk that Dr Lorrimer’s minions had cleared of snow.
‘I shan’t be long, Collins. Leave the engine running.’
Her voice was low and well modulated. It had husky undertones that brought an intimacy to the most banal of conversations. Nancy Leigh had disturbed more men’s peace of mind than any other woman in New York. The fact that she seemed oblivious to it only added to her fascination.
‘Yes, m’lady.’ Collins touched his peaked hat deferentially, enjoying the envious glances as he sauntered back to the front of the Rolls.
A nurse in a starched white overall held open the door so that Mrs Cameron was exposed to the Arctic air for a minimum of time. She escorted her into a deeply carpeted lift and they rose in silence towards Dr Lorrimer’s inner sanctum. The sable coat shimmered and gleamed and the nurse resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it. It had a deep shawl collar and lavishly high cuffs. A matching hat was tilted coquettishly over one eyebrow, exposing dark hair that feathered in small curls around a perfectly oval face. Nancy Leigh Cameron had inherited the dramatic colouring and superb bone structure of her Irish forebears. Her skin was milky white and flawless. Her eyes sloe-black and thickly lashed. Her nose was straight, her cheekbones high. Her mouth was the only feature that was less than perfect. It was a mouth that smiled easily and often, but it was too wide and full for classical beauty. It added a dimension to her face that her rivals could not hope to emulate. That of effortless sensuality.
She smiled at Betty Duggan as the lift doors opened and she indicated with a slight movement of her hand that she did not wish to be accompanied. Betty hesitated. She had strict instructions from Dr Lorrimer on the way his patients were to be treated and escorted. Her role was to open the door for them and then leave silently. She had no wish to incur Dr Lorrimer’s wrath. She moved forward but Nancy Leigh Cameron was already entering Dr Lorrimer’s room and saying throatily, ‘How gloriously warm it is in here. It’s absolutely freezing outside.’
Dr Lorrimer stared in dismay as the door closed behind her.
‘Where is Mr Cameron? I expressly asked that …’
Nancy sat down and began to remove gauntletted gloves. ‘My husband runs to a very tight schedule, Doctor,’ she said pleasantly. ‘He doesn’t have time to hold my hand while I have medical check-ups.’
‘But this is more than a check-up, Mrs Cameron,’ Henry Lorrimer could feel the sweat break out on the palms of his hands. Where was Cameron, for Christ’s sake? He had stressed the seriousness of the situation to him a week ago. He had no right to allow his wife to come unaccompanied and unprepared.
‘Dr Lorrimer?’ Velvet-black eyes held his queryingly. ‘Will you please give me the result of the blood test. I have to be at the Yacht Club by two.’
With difficulty Henry Lorrimer curbed his anger and, steepling his fingers, leaned across his desk.
‘Mrs Cameron, I would really appreciate it if another appointment could be made when I can speak to both you and your husband together.’
The lightness in her voice died a little. ‘But why? Surely a simple thing like a blood test …’ Her words hung in the air.
Henry Lorrimer cursed Jack Cameron heartily and began his usual repertoire of polished assurances. Nancy cut him short.
‘If the blood test shows I am anaemic, then I need pills. Why does my husb
and have to be here for you to tell me that?’
Dr Lorrimer took off his rimless glasses and polished them carefully. ‘Because it’s a little more involved than that, Mrs Cameron.’
Nancy looked perplexed. ‘I fainted. People faint every day. It isn’t the end of the world.’
‘And your doctor sent you to Professor Walton?’
Nancy nodded.
‘And he referred you to me?’
Nancy nodded again.
Now was the moment of decision. Either he told her or for ever held his peace.
‘Mrs Cameron,’ he said, replacing his glasses. ‘Let me tell you something about anaemia. It isn’t the simple disease you seem to think. In many cases it can’t be treated with a handful of pills.’
Nancy listened to him attentively, her head slightly to one side, a small frown furrowing her brow.
‘Roughly, anaemia falls into four classifications: microcytic hypochromic anaemia, megalabastic anaemia, aplastic anaemia and haemolytic anaemia.’
‘And which have I got?’
‘Aplastic anaemia.’
‘Then I need iron?’
Dr Lorrimer shook his head. ‘If you had microcytic hypochromic anaemia then we could treat it by giving iron. But you haven’t. It’s aplastic anaemia and that’s a different thing altogether.’
There was no mistaking the gravity in his voice. Nancy sat very still. ‘Tell me about aplastic anaemia.’
Dr Lorrimer leaned back in his leather swivel chair and studied her face long and hard. At last he said, reluctantly, ‘Aplastic anaemia is a disease in which the red blood corpuscles are greatly reduced, Mrs Cameron. For reasons we don’t know, there is no attempt by the bone marrow to regenerate them. The symptoms are often slight. A fainting attack, in your case. A number of sufferers are completely unaware of their condition.’
‘Then it isn’t serious?’
Dr Lorrimer’s eyes held Nancy’s. They were pansy-deep, dark and trusting. She believed implicitly that he would tell her the truth and the strength in the delicate line of her jaw and chin indicated that she would be able to cope with it. Nancy Leigh Cameron was not a woman who liked deceit and Dr Lorrimer knew that he was dealing with the rare one per cent of patients to whom he would tell the stark truth.
‘I’m afraid the condition is serious, Mrs Cameron. It was for that reason I wanted your husband to be here with you today.’
Nancy sat motionless: the face she had always thought of as benign was frighteningly sombre. There was a dreadful stillness in the centre of her being. She knew instinctively that his next few words would send her plunging down a precipice from which there would be no return. She could step back from the precipice: smile, thank him and leave the office. She sensed that he would not detain her if that was what she wanted to do. The words hovering ominously would never be uttered. And she would never know what they were. Her hands remained still in her lap.
‘And what happens?’ she asked.
‘The red blood corpuscles diminish steadily over a period of time.’
‘And …?’
His voice was grave. ‘… and are not renewed. There is no treatment, Mrs Cameron. Regular blood transfusions will help stave off the inevitable consequences but are no cure.’
She was over the precipice now and there was a sound in her ears like the roaring of waves. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. Dr Lorrimer reached out for his bell to summon Nurse Duggan.
Nancy’s voice seemed to come from a great distance as she said shakily, ‘No. Please don’t call the nurse. I’m perfectly all right. If I could just sit for a few minutes …’
Dr Lorrimer poured two generous brandies and walked around his desk to her, pushing a glass into her unprotesting hand.
‘You will, of course, receive the very best care and …’
‘How long, Dr Lorrimer? How long have I got to live?’
Dr Lorrimer was not a man to allow emotion into his professional life. Only hours earlier he had told the parents of an eight-year-old that there was no hope for their son. Now he could hear the pity in his voice as he said quietly: ‘I can give you no accurate length of time, Mrs Cameron. It could be anything from three months to a year.
‘In very rare cases it has been known for a sufferer to recover, though why and how we still do not know. You mustn’t give up hope entirely. We are discovering new drugs daily …’
The rest of his words flowed over her, unheard. Three months to a year. Slowly, she rose to her feet and walked across to the giant window. Below her, taxi cabs and limousines hurtled backwards and forwards. The clock on the building opposite showed ten minutes past two. She thought inconsequentially: I’m late for my meeting with Consuelo at the Club: and then, in wonder: Consuelo will still be entertaining every Friday afternoon at the Yacht Club, flirting with Commadore Stuyvesant, chatting about her last vacation to Europe, and I won’t be there. Everything will go on as normal and I won’t be a part of it. I will be dead. It was incredible; unbelievable. With painful clarity she wondered what it was about human nature that thought itself indestructible. That could see people dying daily and yet still live in a kind of wonderland where death would never strike.
‘My nurse will accompany you back to your apartment,’ Dr Lorrimer was saying.
Nancy shook her head. ‘My chauffeur is waiting. I would prefer to be alone.’
She turned and picked up her gloves from his desk. Her skin was marble-white but there was no other outward sign of shock or distress. Her voice was perfectly composed as she said:
‘Thank you for your honesty with me, Dr Lorrimer. As there is no treatment it will be unnecessary for me to see you again.’
‘But the disease must be monitored!’ Dr Lorrimer protested in alarm. ‘We must have regular blood samples …’
‘So that I may know how rapidly or slowly I am approaching death? I think not, Doctor. Goodbye.’
Before Henry Lorrimer could regain his shaken composure she had left the room, and as he hurried protestingly after her the lift doors closed. To his utter amazement he discovered he was trembling as he seated himself once more behind his desk and reached out for his unfinished brandy. Her calm had been unnatural. For the first time in his career Dr Henry Lorrimer wondered if he had made an error of judgement in telling a patient the unpalatable truth.
‘Three months to a year’. The words rang in Nancy’s head like an incantation as the lift slowly descended. ‘Three months to a year’. Jesus Christ. She had imagined she was going to be given a box of pills and advised to rest. How could she be going to die? She was fit and healthy. Fainting at the opera didn’t qualify one for an incurable disease, for God’s sake. She didn’t see the bewildered expression on Betty Duggan’s face as she ignored her request for a convenient date for her next appointment. She never knew who opened the door for her. All she felt was an incredible relief as the icy air blasted her face. She wanted it to blow the unreality of the last half hour away. To wake her from the nightmare. Three months to a year. Her brain would not function beyond that. It chanted the words like a repetitive hymn, blocking out all further thought.
Collins stood at the open door of the Rolls, waiting for her to enter. The interior was warm, safe and familiar. She could enter it and be swept away from Dr Lorrimer and his claustrophobically hot surgery. She could have a Gin Sling with Consuelo and go with her and the Stuyvesants to the Met. She stood motionless, staring at the open door for so long that Collins asked hesitantly:
‘Is everything all right, m’lady?’
She looked at him unseeingly. ‘Yes, Collins. I don’t need the Rolls. Thank you.’
In stupefied amazement he watched as she began to walk on ridiculously high heels down the icy street, the hem of her sable trailing in the snow. Collins had inherited a certain amount of British phlegm from his previous employer. He exercised it now, imperturbably waiting until Nancy was a hundred yards away and then followed at a discreet distance, hugging the kerb.
Nancy walked blindly, flurries of snow coating her hair and clinging to her cheeks. Down 42nd Street and into Fifth Avenue. Across Broadway and down to Canal Street. Passers-by, scurrying for the warmth of one and two-room apartments on the lower East Side, eyed her warily and gave her a wide berth. The leaden skies began to darken and gas lamps flickered into life as she turned into the warren of streets fronting the docks. At last she came to a halt, standing motionless and staring out over the grey-green waters of the river. Five minutes passed, and then Collins left the engine running and approached her cautiously.
‘The Rolls is waiting, madam.’ And then again, this time touching her lightly on the arm. ‘The Rolls is waiting, Mrs Cameron.’
Nancy turned, blinking the snow from her lashes and looking around her for the first time. The tenements were dark and high and strangely threatening in the gathering twilight. She had no idea where she was.
‘Of course. Thank you, Collins.’ She allowed him to help her into the blessed warmth of the car.
Collins let out a guarded sigh of relief and accelerated through the battered streets and into areas in which he felt more at home.
Nancy leaned back against the monogrammed upholstery, feeling for the first time the intense pain that seared her face and legs, her hands and her feet. She tried to reach down and ease them from the sodden and ruined crocodile shoes, but her hands were too numb to obey the instructions her mind gave. She abandoned the attempt and leaned back once more as Collins sped smoothly up Park Avenue. She would have to break the news to Jack and her father and Verity. She flinched physically. Not Verity. There was no need to mar Verity’s happiness. And her father …? She closed her eyes. Chips O’Shaughnessy was campaigning vigorously for re-election as Mayor of Boston, riding exuberantly on a new tide of political popularity. At Verity’s wedding he had looked like a man twenty years his junior, as he flaunted Nancy’s young stepmother on his arm, daring Verity to make him a great-grandfather before his seventieth birthday.
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