Dear Tiberius; (aka Nurse Nolan)

by Susan Barrie

  “That’s quite likely,” Lucy agreed. “And the best thing you can do in that case is to rest it.”

  “I am resting it,” with the persistent sharpness in her voice. “But I’ve got to hobble downstairs to dinner.”

  “You could have your dinner up here on a tray. I’m sure Sir John would understand.”

  “What!” The shapely eyebrows lifted scornfully, and she cast a glance that was almost disdainful around the lovely, firelit room. “Do you imagine I’m going to turn myself into an invalid just because you suggest it?” Her maid brought an evening gown arrayed on a hanger to her side for her inspection, and she cast an imperious look at it. It was a billowing mass of white tulle patterned with enormous golden roses, and in Lucy’s faintly awed eyes it was sheer perfection, but Lynette Harling plainly did not agree with her for she waved it away with a pettish gesture. “Not that thing, Lawson. You know I can’t bear it! I’ll wear the black—the black and jade!” She directed a look of cold enmity at Lucy, and with a superbly graceful gesture rose from the couch. “You’ve come too late, Nurse Nolan, because I’m going to have my bath. But tomorrow you can start getting to work on my ankle—the massage treatment that is so good!”

  “I will if I can spare you the time Miss Harling,” Lucy replied quietly.

  Lynette shed her brocade housecoat like a butterfly throwing aside its chrysalis, revealing herself in a lace brassiere and panties.

  “As to that,” she returned, her voice like the drip of ice, “I have no doubt that Sir John will see to it that you make time!”

  Outside the room Lucy paused for a moment to subdue those unworthy feelings of anger that were doing their best to take possession of her again, for if the dancer really was being troubled by the aftereffects of a badly sprained ankle, then massage was the treatment she required. But that she would be more or less ordered to provide the treatment made her feel cold and disturbed deep down inside her.

  Ten minutes later Lucy went downstairs to fetch Miranda a hot drink. She had no wish to trouble any of the servants on so busy an evening. She reached the foot of the stairs just as her employer, immaculate in evening clothes, reached it from the opposite direction, and she thought that he directed a displeased look at her.

  “I’d like to speak to you in the library, if you can spare the time, Nurse Nolan!” he said quietly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lucy had the feeling, which proved to be quite correct, that she was about to receive a reprimand, and the reprimand was not long in being delivered, in quiet but rather cutting accents as soon as the library door had closed behind them.

  Sir John, she could see very plainly, was very definitely annoyed.

  “Nurse Nolan,” he said, without even offering her a chair, “did Mrs. Abbott make it clear to you that I wished you to go straight to Miss Harling’s room as soon as she sent for you tonight?”

  Lucy looked him levelly in the eyes.

  “Mrs. Abbott was far too busy to pass your message on to me herself, Sir John, but Eva, whom she instructed to let me know that for some purpose or other I was to go to Miss Harling’s room, did not waste any time in letting me hear of your wishes, as far as I know. I could not, however, go at once, because I was unable to leave Miranda.”

  “Why not?”

  “Miranda has had one of her bad days today, and I make a practice of remaining near her when she is like that.”

  “I see.” He frowned slightly. “But you could have left her with Fiske.”

  “I could.” She stared at the tips of her lightly polished fingernails. “But I don’t think Miranda would have been happy about that.”

  “And yet,” he reminded her swiftly, sharply, “only a few

  days ago you were trying to persuade me that Miranda no longer had any real need of you, and that Fiske could undertake all the duties you felt did not any longer come within the scope of a hospital-trained nurse!”

  “Yes, that is quite true,” Lucy agreed, looking up at him again with a kind of dignified gravity in her eyes this time. “But perhaps I made a mistake about the extent of Miranda’s progress.”

  “You mean that she is not so well?”

  “Today has been one of her worst days for a long time.”

  “And to what do you attribute that?”

  “I really wouldn’t like to say.”

  “What do you mean,” he asked quickly, “you wouldn’t like to say?”

  “Well....” Lucy could feel something that was almost a kind of slow anger stirring in him, and it was so unusual that it caused her to study him rather closely. His face was set in lines of almost rigid disapproval, and the eyes were cold and hard and watchful. The thin lips appeared to be tightly compressed together. This evening he was particularly well groomed, his sleek hair well brushed and in no danger of falling forward over his eyes, and his white dress shirt accentuated the natural faint bronze of his skin. He appeared taller than usual—unless it was that she herself was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and she felt rather small and insignificant standing there in front of him—and elegantly spare. “Well?” he repeated, as she hesitated.

  “Well, perhaps the excitement—all the bustle and preparation that has been going on around her for the last few days, and the knowledge that visitors were expected ... That you were coming yourself—”

  “Then in that case my coming is hardly a good thing for her, and it is better that she should remain the little, lonely prisoner in the tower?”

  His voice was very dry.

  “I didn’t say so! I don’t even think so! But visitors—she is hardly accustomed to visitors—”

  “Then she will now have an opportunity to become accustomed to them!”

  “Yes,” Lucy murmured, and was turning away from him when he brought her up sharply with his next words.

  “But with regard to Miss Harling, and the time you allowed to elapse between the receipt of my message and your visit to her in her room, I would like you to understand, Nurse Nolan, that when you do receive such a message from me I like attention to be paid to it immediately! Either word sent back—as it could have been through Eva—that you could not possibly leave Miranda, or compliance with my request within a reasonable space of time! Is that now quite clear to you?”

  Lucy drew herself up to her full, slender height.

  “Yes, Sir John—perfectly clear!”

  “Good!” She felt rather than saw that he relaxed slightly. “And if you will be good enough to pay some attention to Miss Harling’s ankle, I will be grateful for that as well. It has been troubling her a good deal today, and strengthening exercises, and so forth, are obviously what she wants.”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  He looked at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised a trifle quizzically.

  “You will be dining with us tonight, nurse?”

  “I’d prefer it if you would allow me to remain upstairs near Miranda,” she replied a trifle stiffly.

  “Oh, of course,” But a quizzical gleam spread to his eyes. “I notice, however, that you are now wearing your own clothes, so there would be no need for you to appear in the dining room in uniform, if that is against certain rules of yours.”

  “It is not against any rules, Sir John, but I am here to look after my patient, and I would prefer to be as near to her as possible—if that is not in opposition to your own wishes?”

  Sir John assured her that it was not, and then smiled faintly as she once more turned away toward the door.

  “But I don’t wish you to feel like a prisoner yourself— sharing Miranda’s lonely lot!”

  “Miranda will probably feel better tomorrow,” she replied, deliberately ignoring the sarcastic inflection in his voice.

  “We’ll hope so,” he said, and somewhat to her surprise, crossed the room swiftly from behind her and held open the door for her. He watched her departure with a queer, inscrutable, little half smile in his eyes.

  Lucy ran swiftly up the stairs, and when she reached her
own rooms she felt amazed because there was a kind of emotional disturbance going on deep down inside her. She attempted to subdue it by ringing the bell for Eva, and when the little maid appeared asked whether it would be convenient for her to have a tray served to her in her room that night.

  “Of course, nurse,” Eva replied, but the infectious excitement of all that was going on in the usually quiet house of Ketterings was still in her eyes, and she disappeared like a miniature whirlwind when Lucy thanked her.

  Lucy took a bath and changed into a housecoat—nothing spectacular like Lynette Harling’s but comfortable and attractive at the same time. And then she settled herself with a book and her tray, when it arrived, after which she sat listening to the sudden, tempestuous wind that had arisen outside the house and was lashing the great trees in the park. The noise of it shut out all the noises that were occurring below her—the noise of slippered footfalls on the stairs, the booming of the great Burmese gong in the hall and the laughter and chatter that transformed the dining room from the place of solemn silence she knew into a place of gaiety, brilliance and warmth.

  Much later that night she stole along the corridor to look in on Miranda, who had been sleeping peacefully when she gazed at her last, and considerably to her surprise she found the door standing partly open. She hastened quietly into the room, half expecting to find that Fiske was there—but it was not Fiske who was standing, as if absorbed, beside the motionless, small figure in the bed.

  Lucy drew back with a little, quickly suppressed murmur of surprise.

  There was only a dim light burning in the room, but it was sufficient for her to recognize Sir John’s tall form. He turned, and his expression was quite unreadable, although his quick action in placing his finger to his lips warned her that he did not expect her to speak. She backed out of the doorway, and he followed her into the corridor, closing the bedroom door carefully behind him.

  “Still on duty, nurse?” He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  “Not on duty, I only came to look at Miranda before going to bed.”

  “She appears to be sleeping quietly enough.”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at the pattern of the thick carpet, tracing it with the toe of his gleaming evening shoe. Then he looked up again at Lucy quickly, and this time she was certain that there was no detail of her appearance that escaped him, and it made her feel embarrassed. The dark, rich crimson of her housecoat suited her, she knew, but she knew also that her hair was slightly tumbled, and she had only flicked a powder puff over her face after her bath, and she wore no lipstick whatsoever. She felt as if he had caught her without the protection of any sort of armor.

  “I should say that you can go to bed now with quite an easy conscience if you want to.”

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, and knew that a flood of color was rising to her cheeks under his thoughtful look.

  “You probably find it a little lonely up here by yourself?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been reading.”

  His face remained inscrutable as he turned away from her.

  “Well, I won’t keep you from your beauty sleep,” he said. “Good night, nurse!” And he strode off down the corridor.

  Lucy remained quite still, gazing after him. She wished that, just for an instant, that carefully controlled expression of his had slipped a little—especially when he stood there beside Miranda’s bed.

  The next morning was one of those perfect September mornings when the threat of winter seems to have receded altogether, and a promise of spring has taken its place. There was the bright sparkle of sunlight over the lawns and the lake and the surrounding woods were all draped in a tender haze that promised considerable heat as the day advanced. That there were reds and golds amongst the green of the woods merely added to their enchantment, and on the wide terrace with its flower-filled urns and decorative lions, the sun formed molten splashes in which it was pleasant to relax and recline.

  The entire house party seemed to be congregated there when Lucy wheeled Miranda in her chair around the angle of the house, and for an instant she paused, contemplating retreat. But the master of the place catching sight of them, lifted his hand, and there could be no ignoring his signal.

  Miranda was wide-eyed and fearful when the chair came to rest outside the wide, open French windows of the drawing room. Lynette Harling was lying at full-length in a long cane chair, and there were cushions stuffed in behind the flame red of her hair. She was dressed with an attention to detail that was more in keeping with the town than the country, but the quality of her tweeds was unmistakable, and the dainty snakeskin brogues on her slender feet were quite obviously the product of a craftsman, and never intended for muddy country lanes. She looked up at Miranda through curving eyelashes that were so strikingly black by contrast with her hair that they were quite fascinating.

  “So this is your daughter, John?” she murmured, and there was a kind of low, crooning note in her voice that Lucy disliked extremely—although she could not have told anyone quite why, unless it was because she disliked Lynette Harling herself. “She’s not a bit like you, is she?”

  “Isn’t she?” Sir John was regarding his daughter himself with a somewhat odd and faintly quizzical air. “Well, no, I suppose she isn’t! And that means she must take after her mother.”

  “It’s generally considered a lucky thing for a daughter to favor a father,” Lynette observed, rather more drawlingly. And then she smiled slowly at Miranda, and extended a languid hand to her. “You’ve none of your father’s inky dark looks, have you, my dear? You look as if a puff of wind might blow you right away—as if you’re all mixed up with moonbeams, and about as substantial!”

  Miranda gazed back at her unsmilingly, but offered a polite hand in response.

  “Do I?” she said uncertainly.

  Lynette’s green eyes traveled over her.

  “I wonder how much you weigh? You must be badly below normal weight!”

  “Miranda is very gradually regaining her weight,” Lucy could not prevent herself from saying stiffly.

  Miss Harling sent her an oblique look—a faintly surprised look—but otherwise ignored her altogether.

  “You look as if you need fattening up somehow or other, but I suppose being pushed around in that chair you don’t get much exercise?” she continued to address Miranda. “I can, however, sympathize with you over not being able to walk, for I haven’t been able to walk very comfortably myself since I twisted my ankle—but at least I’m not doomed to be immobile for life!”

  Sir John leaned forward across her chair and spoke quickly to Miranda.

  “This is Miss Harling, Miranda. She’s a wonderful dancer, and one of these days, when we’ve got you out of that chair, we’ll get her to take you on as a pupil, shall we?”

  His daughter was silent for so long that Lynette herself laughed suddenly, as if amused.

  “Miranda will be a little too old for a career as a dancer by the time that happens,” she said. “I started my dancing career when I was barely four years old, and unless you do begin when you’re very young there’s little hope of making a success later on—not a success worth calling a success, anyway. It’s a question of flexible muscles and fluid joints, of course. If the pattern of the dance is to be interpreted in the correct way complete elasticity is everything—isn’t that so, mother?” she addressed a plump little woman who sat knitting a violently heliotrope sweater on her left hand.

  “Oh, yes, love, everything!” the plump little woman agreed, and Lucy was surprised because there was something friendly, and slightly Cockney, about the tones of this new voice, and Mrs. Harling’s bright, birdlike eyes rested on Miranda with a compassionate, motherly gleam in them. “Everything!” she repeated.

  “Mother knows that I have devoted my life to dancing,” Lynette exclaimed somewhat dramatically, and then lay back against her chair and closed her eyes as if the thought of it exhausted her.

  A tall man with graying ha
ir who had been standing beside the low balustrade of the terrace and gazing out across the grounds, while he thoughtfully smoked a cigarette, turned suddenly and appropriated the chair on her right hand. He bent over her almost solicitously as he produced his gold cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to her, at the same time sparing a smiling, sideways glance for Lucy.

  “A grand morning, miss...? Or should I say ‘nurse’?” he asked.

  Sir John made the necessary introductions somewhat belatedly, and then Purvis appeared walking sedately along the terrace with a tray of drinks. Lucy prepared to move on with her charge, but the friendly Mrs. Harling looked up at her and smiled with as much obvious goodwill as the man with the graying hair, who had been introduced to her as a Mr. Francis Burke.

  “I saw you from my window this morning, nurse,” Mrs. Harling said, “and you were walking so briskly down the driveway, pushing that heavy chair, that I quite envied you. This is such a heavenly spot, isn’t it?” She glanced about her as if she had never seen anything quite so “heavenly” before, and then sighed suddenly, “but I’m afraid I’ve left my walking shoes behind, and I can’t hobble around on these things,” glancing down disparagingly at her perilously high-heeled shoes.

  Lucy surveyed them for a moment with interest, thinking that both mother and daughter had equipped themselves in a rather unwise fashion for their stay in the country, and then offered to lend her a pair of her own walking shoes, as their feet seemed to be much the same size, if Mrs. Harling cared to take advantage of her offer. And the creator of the heliotrope sweater positively beamed.