by Rose elver
His resilience was remarkable—only a few hours ago the aftermath of the fever had made him morose and apathetic. Now his recovery was likely to plunge her into problems she had not foreseen. Not the sort of problems the doctor had warned her of and she had so blithely shrugged aside, she reflected wryly.
The kettle was boiling merrily on the Primus while Amelia bungled about the kitchen. She accidentally knocked the teapot against the table and dropped the teaspoons with a resounding clatter. She must pull herself together! A virile man's consuming need for a woman was not necessarily concerned with love. Why had fate lured her into loving this particular man? This man, who had so casually offered her a temporary refuge in his home and his bed because it suited him. Sensible Amelia Leigh who wouldn't fuss over trivialities or indulge in romantic fantasies ! Well, here she was, her feeble nature crying out to share the passion and tenderness she felt for him.
And what good would that do her for the rest of her
life?
She bent half over the table, eyes shut tight, overwhelmed with bitterness. She thought she heard a sound at the door and straightened up stiffly, but when she finally carried the tray into the bedroom Donovan was propped up in bed. Intuitively she sensed a difference.
He said abruptly : 'Amelia. I don't know how to thank you for all you've done these last few days.'
`I'm used to nursing.' she replied stiltedly, putting the tray across his knees.
`All the same, it must have been hard going. A sick man in an unused flat without any amenities,' his jaw tightened. 'Quite a strain for you.'
She walked round and swished up the venetian blinds, flooding the room with sunlight. 'Oh, Dr Hallow's been a great help. It will all be functioning soon—today or tomorrow with a bit of luck. The kettle's on again and as soon as you've finished your tea I'll help you wash and freshen up, Professor.'
`Put the kettle in the bathroom for me,' he requested curtly.
A flicker of anxiety broke the blankness of her expression. `Do you think you should get up? Only yesterday you were—'
`Do as I ask, please, Amelia.'
His tone was so final and uncompromising that the protest died on her lips. It was no use quoting the doctor to him. She made herself scarce, tidying up the bathroom and calling out to him when everything
was ready. His mood had altered decisively and she was helpless against it.
Nevertheless her heart was in her mouth all the while he was splashing in the bathroom. As she made up the bed she kept glancing at the door, and as she replaced her armchair in its original position in the drawing room she heard the drone of his electric shaver. A loud expletive, strong and earthy, was more reassuring to her ears. The professor was himself again—no doubt about that. But with it came the realisation that Amelia's days with him, those precious days of tending and brooding over him, were pretty well over. And her days of working with him as his assistant were numbered.
Contrary to Dr Hallow's predictions he was a model patient after that, except for an immovable determination to do everything possible for himself. The workmen arrived, clumped cheerfully about, adjusted meters and switches and restored the telephone connection. The doctor spent shorter periods in rumbling conversation with his patient, patted Amelia on the shoulder and told her she must come and have dinner with his wife and himself, to which she responded with a rather wooden, noncommittal smile. And all the while the atmosphere of constraint in the flat grew until it had become a painful, perplexing estrangement.
Amelia spent most of her time now in cleaning, shopping and preparing meals, carrying a tray into Donovan's bedroom and offering one lame excuse after another for having her own meal in the kitchen. He made no attempt to dissuade her, commenting
sardonically : `Go ahead, my dear girl, it's more convenient than eating off the corner of my bedside table.' She fetched him books and .newspapers, when he asked for them, but conversation between them had virtually ceased, and each evening she would escape, swallowing her tears, to the guest room which she now occupied, half packed, like a transient guest in a hotel.
It was on Thursday morning, when she overheard him on the telephone extension arranging with someone at the Institute to go down to Whimpleford to pack up his papers and personal belongings, that she saw with agonising clarity what lay ahead. So he did not intend to go himself ... or ask her help! It was spring—but for Amelia Leigh the year was over.
That night Amelia, came to a decision. She had promised Emma that she would not be an encumbrance at the Manor House again. She had broken through the inertia which had held her in Whimpleford, and if Donovan was not returning, there was nothing for her to do there. In fact there was no need for her to return to Whimpleford at all. She ought to be grateful to Donovan Lyne. He had roused her dormant emotions, absorbed her into his interests, turned her old life upside down. And in the past few days he had slowly but surely succeeded in convincing her that the time had come for her to make her own way. As soon as he was fit enough to fend for himself, that was precisely what she would do.
She lay in one of the twin beds in the guest room of the flat trying to make plans for a still nebulous
future. She remembered that on her way to the Fenn Institute for an appointment that never materialised, she had seen the name-plate of an employment agency which looked quiet and discreet; and on the drive back in the cab she recalled the name of a small bed-and-breakfast hotel which might suit her as a temporary pied-d-Terre. It seemed like a lifetime ago, although it was only a week. Here, at least, were two points of reference in such a large city that she would be able to find again, and she eventually fell asleep reassuring herself that she could manage on her own quite well.
The next morning she should have felt bright and active, now that she had made up her mind; but her decision to cut clean from Donovan Lyne and from her home in Whimpleford at one and the same time weighed on her spirits like a dull ache.
To her surprise, when she emerged from the kitchen with the professor's breakfast tray, she found him already up and dressed writing at the desk in his study. This was the one place that, apart from dusting, she had not attempted to tidy up. The broad sunlit room was overflowing with books and papers, and where the crowded bookshelves ended the walls were decorated with carved and feathered aboriginal masks, lethal-looking spears and painted shields. Even the top of the window ledge was loaded with ritual objects, lumps of volcanic lava and fragments of bone.
She rested the tray gingerly on the corner of the desk. He looked up and thanked her with a preoccupied smile.
`Are you—do you feel up to this yet?' she ventured a trifle anxiously.
The smile disappeared. His eyes were seeking something as he looked steadily at her pallid face. She made a business of pushing up and adjusting her spectacles to avoid this uncomfortable scrutiny.
He said : 'I'm fine now. Much quicker than I would otherwise have been, thanks to your ministrations, Amelia.' He got up and moved restlessly to the window, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and easing his shoulders. 'I wish I could say your devoted care!' He gave a short, jarring laugh.
Hurt by what she took to be sarcasm. she turned blindly towards the door. He called, 'I'm sorry, Amelia. I don't know why I said that. Put it down to the frustrations of convalescence. Have you had breakfast? Can you spare me a minute?'
`Well, I—I have to go shopping, and I must speak to the porter.'
`This won't take long.' He reached for his briefcase and extracted his cheque book. 'Please sit down,' he said in a quiet, almost weary tone.
But she remained standing, wiping all expression from her face as she watched him return to the desk and write out a cheque.
He said in the same precise, level voice : 'I cannot allow you to work in the flat as a combined nurse, cook and cleaner any longer. And I haven't paid your salary this month either.'
She took the cheque from him with nerveless fingers. She would rather have died than betray the pain his word
s had inflicted, but the amount made
out to her took her breath away.
`But this isn't my salary, you've made a mistake—'
`No mistake,' he swivelled his chair away to look out of the window, his back to her. 'Please accept it, Amelia. I want you to have it. You've worked selflessly for me for months, and in this last week I couldn't have managed without you. A professional nurse would have cost as much, probably more. Think of it as a bonus. I want you to go back to Whimpleford and have a break for a while. Spend it on clothes and having a good time—a bit of a holiday somewhere. You deserve it.'
For services rendered,' she murmured bitterly under her breath.
`I've had a word on the phone with Polly Austin, she and Bill are coming over later today.' He took a cigarette from his case. The sunlight showed the drawn lines on his bony face, and his knuckles were white gripping the lighter. 'Why didn't you ring and let Polly know the way I've been imposing on you?' he asked awkwardly. Then, without waiting for her to reply : 'Polly thinks she can get hold of a capable woman to take on the housekeeping of the flat until I can make other arrangements. It isn't fair to tie you down. You look as if you could do with a rest.'
`Oh,' she said, staring at the cheque, 'if you say so ...' She felt too stupefied to find anything else to say now that the moment had come. She was being paid off. She backed towards the door.
`Polly and Bill are looking forward to meeting you again,' he added.
`Yes.' Her throat was dry. 'Well, thank you for your generous cheque. Will you excuse me? I have a lot to do.'
`Amelia?' She paused at the door as he spoke, without turning. 'I'll never be able to express my appreciation for all you've done.'
`Oh, but you have ! ' she returned in a dead voice, and held up the cheque. Fifteen minutes later she put a brief farewell note, together with the keys of the flat, on his bedside table. He was still in his study. Case in hand, she crossed the hall and quietly let herself out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DONOVAN Lyne would never know what he had accomplished with the cheque he had given her, thought Amelia. That small piece of paper had severed their relationship with the sharp, clean, agonising cut of a knife. He could not have made his lack of feeling clearer.
What had she expected? For her, looking after him had been a secret outpouring of love, letting her patience and concern speak for her; if she had agreed to marry him he would no doubt have accepted her help without question. But he probably felt under an obligation which had become more and more irksome until he could stand it no longer.
What hurt most was that he had made no attempt to talk things over, even as friends. He knew she had no wish to return to Whimpleford. He knew she was hoping for his help in finding something suitable in London. Instead he had proffered a cheque and told her to go home.
If she had not needed that cheque to get her through the next few weeks she would have torn it up and thrown it on his desk. A silly gesture, she reflected sadly, which would have succeeded in angering and embarrassing him while it only relieved her feelings temporarily.
For two days Amelia walked in the void she had been dreading, doing mechanically what had to be done. Having opened a bank account with the professor's cheque she was able to book into a small hotel in Bayswater as the usual influx of overseas tourists had not yet begun to crowd into London. She felt guilty at not having phoned Polly Austin, particularly when Donovan was ill, but to do so now would require explanations she was not prepared to give. Nor did she wish to renew a contact which would inevitably draw her back into the professor's circle. As far as he was concerned she had gone back to Whimpleford, and she wanted it to stay that way.
On the third day, after spending most of her time sitting listlessly in her small hotel, Amelia made a determined effort to pull herself together. She dressed carefully in the new outfit she had bought in Whimpleford, called a taxi and gave the name of the employment bureau she had noticed on the way to Donovan's flat. It would have been cheaper on a double-decker bus, but she was not yet sufficiently sure of her way around town.
The cab took her to Great Russell Street. She paid it off at the corner of Museum Street and walked the short distance, straightening her coat and pushing up her spectacles nervously. She was prepared to take whatever job they offered her. Without giving herself a chance to hesitate she pushed open the glass door and walked in.
It was a long, narrow office with three desks and some lounge chairs, and a rack of decorative pot plants patterning one wall. At one desk a thin, very
precisely dressed man was interviewing a girl. The second desk was empty. From the third a woman rose and smilingly beckoned Amelia forward.
`Do you have an appointment?'
`No, I'm sorry,' Amelia said awkwardly. 'I didn't realise it was necessary for a preliminary inquiry about getting work.'
`Preferable, but not necessary.' The woman's dark, rather prominent eyes swept over Amelia, leaving the impression that she had weighed up the possibilities in one shrewd glance. 'Come in and sit down, Miss--er—'
`Leigh. Amelia Leigh.'
`Miss Leigh.' Her hand was soft but her handshake was brief and firm. 'I'm Hannah Hall. I have a number of girls to see this morning, and calls to make, but the first appointment is not for another fifteen minutes or so, time enough for us to have a talk.' She drew out a large index card and opened her pen as Amelia sat down opposite her.
`Now, perhaps a few preliminary details?'
The bare, prosaic facts about her went down on the card. This was interrupted by a telephone call which gave Amelia a chance to watch the older woman. She must have been in her fifties, with a rather florid complexion; in a black overdress with white lace at collar and wrists, heavy rings on long manicured fingers and an immaculate arrangement of dark wavy hair. Their eyes met for a second and the woman smiled again, and for some inexplicable reason Amelia felt reassured and much more confident about the prospects.
When the card had been completed, Hannah Hall began probing so skilfully and sympathetically that Amelia found herself giving a candid account of her life—all but the past ten days.
`Professor Lyne, did you say? Donovan Lyne? I remember reading about him, a very distinguished anthropologist. And something else about him,' she added musingly. 'I can't think for the moment what it was.' She paused. 'That's beside the point. Do you think Professor Lyne would give you a reference?'
`I'm sure he would,' Amelia agreed haltingly, `but ... but if it's possible without bothering him .'
Hannah Hall noted the reluctance, thinking : she's in love with him and she's followed him to London and doesn't want him to know yet. She said briskly, `Well, we shall have to see. Any other references?'
`There's my old tutor at college. And the vicar and the doctor in Whimpleford. I suppose you would call those character references. But I'm quite willing to take a typing test, or work on some project without pay until I've proved myself.'
Hannah Hall studied Amelia silently for a few moments. 'You're going to be difficult to place,' —Amelia's heart sank—'your background is too good to waste on filing or copy-typing. We don't handle much at that level anyway. Don't look so disappointed ! ' she went on bracingly. 'We're developing a service for literary and general research assistants, and you might fit into something later. Meanwhile,' she pursed her coral-red lips in thought, 'how would you like to start by working in this office? My husband and I, and my nephew, run the agency between
us, but my nephew has had a bout of 'flu, so there's a vacancy here at the moment.'
Amelia blinked. But I know nothing about interviewing and placing!'
`Then I shall teach you a few of the techniques. Common sense is a prime commodity; I think you have it, and we shall soon test your judgement.'
`If you really feel I could cope ...'
'I do.' Hannah Hall named a salary which was more than Amelia had dared to hope for at this early stage. 'When can you start?'
`Whenever you wish
.'
`Good. Take off your coat—I think a useful beginning would be for you to sit in on my interviews today, and we can take it from there.'
Hannah Hall led her out to the staff rooms at the back of the office where she left Amelia to hang up her coat, tidy her hair and add a touch of lipstick to her pale mouth. She was astonished at her good for-tune—that of all the agencies in London she should have noticed this place, and that they had offered her something immediately, however temporary. She liked Hannah Hall, she would have a chance to show her capabilities and she would be on the spot should any other opportunities turn up. It was too good to be true, she thought with the first little spurt of elation she had felt since those small signs of improvement in Donovan Lyne while she was nursing him. Was it only last week?
How was he now? Had Polly Austin filled the gap she had created so abruptly? As the memories threatened to sweep over her again she pushed them
determinedly into her subconscious and went out to join Hannah Hall at her desk and involve herself in other people's problems.
In the weeks that followed Amelia had no time for introspection, at least during working hours, and as the bright evenings lengthened she had a chance to explore some of London's byways. She would stroll down through Lincoln's Inn Fields under the graceful trees, perhaps stop for a moment to watch the tennis enthusiasts on the courts, then out, past the venerable red brick walls behind which many eminent lawyers had their chambers, and across Carey Street to the gothic arches and turrets of the Law Courts, looking for all the world like a Ruritanian palace but built for much sterner purposes.