A Christmas Proposal

by Betty Neels

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OLIVER’S feeling of unease was justified. Mrs Soames, left to herself, paced up and down her drawing room, fuming. Bertha had gone behind her back and was doing her best to put a spoke in Clare's wheel. The wretched girl! Something would have to be done.

  Mrs Soames, by now in a rage, spent some time thinking of the things she would like to do to Bertha before pulling herself together. Anger wasn't going to help. She must keep a cool head and think of ways and means. She heard Clare's voice in the hall and went to the door and called for her to come to the drawing room.

  'Presently,' said Clare, who was halfway up the stairs. 'I've broken a fingernail and I must see to it at once...'

  Something in her mother's voice brought her down­stairs again.

  'What's the matter?'

  'Oliver has been here. Bertha is to come home to­morrow and his mother has invited her to stay with her for a couple of weeks.' Mrs Soames almost choked with fury as she spoke. 'The ungrateful girl— going behind our backs. She's cunning enough— she'll have him all to herself if she goes to his home.' She looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder—Clare, get me the telephone directory.'

  His receptionist was still at his rooms, and, in an­swer to Mrs Soames's polite enquiry, said that she was afraid that Dr Hay-Smythe wouldn't be seeing new patients during the coming week. 'And he will be going on holiday the following week. But I could book you for an appointment in three weeks' time.'

  Mrs Soames put down the phone without bothering to answer.

  'He's going on holiday in a week's time—he'll go home, of course, and they'll have a whole week to­gether. We have this week to think of something, Clare.'

  Clare poured them each a drink and sat down. 'She'll have to go away—miles away. Now, who do we know...?'

  'She'll have to go immediately—supposing he calls to see her?'

  'We can say she's spending the weekend with friends.' Clare sat up suddenly. 'Aunt Agatha,' she said triumphantly. 'That awful old crow—Father's el­der sister, the one who doesn't like us. We haven't seen her for years. She lives somewhere in the wilds of Cornwall, doesn't she?'

  'Perfect—but will she have Bertha to stay? Sup­posing she refuses?'

  'She doesn't need to know. You can send Bertha there—tell her that Aunt Agatha isn't well and has asked if she would go and stay with her.'

  'What are we to say? Bertha may want to see the letter...'

  'No letter. A phone call.' Clare crowed with laugh­ter. 'I'd love to see her face when Bertha gets there.' She paused to think. 'We'll have to wait until Oliver has brought her home and then pack her off smartly. Do you suppose that he's interested in her? It's ridic­ulous even to think it. Why, Bertha's plain and dull— it's not possible. Besides, he's taken me out several times...'

  'He will again, darling,' said Mrs Soames. She smiled fondly at her daughter; she could rest assured that Clare would get her way.

  Bertha was ready and waiting when the doctor came for her. Her leg was still bandaged and her cheek un­der the black eye was grazed, but all he saw was the radiance of her smile when she saw him. He held down with an iron will a strong desire to gather her into his arms and kiss her, and said merely, 'Quite ready? The leg is comfortable? I can see that the eye is better.'

  'I'm fine,' declared Bertha—a prosaic statement, which concealed her true feelings. ‘It's very kind of you to take me home.'

  He only smiled, waiting while she said goodbye to

  Sister and the nurses; she had already visited each bed to shake hands with its occupant.

  He carried on a gentle, rambling conversation as he drove her home and as he drew up before the door he said, 'I'm coming in with you, Bertha.' Mrs Soames had seemed pleasant enough, but he still had an un­easy feeling about her.

  Mrs Soames and Clare were both there, waiting for them. Clare spoke first.

  'Bertha, are you quite better? Ought you to rest?' She gave a small, apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry I didn't come and see you—you know how I hate illness and dreary hospitals. But I'll make it up to you.'

  Bertha, recognising this as a deliberate act to put her stepsister in a good light, murmured back and re­plied suitably to her stepmother's enquiries, which gave Clare the opportunity to take the doctor aside on the pretext of enquiring as to Bertha's fitness.

  'Is she all right to walk about? Not too much, of course. We'll take good care of her.' She smiled up into his face. 'It is so kind of your mother to have her to stay. Will you be going to your home too?'

  He looked down at her, his face bland. ‘I shall do my best.' He got up from the sofa where they were sitting. ‘I must go. I have several patients to see this afternoon.' He crossed the room to where Bertha was in uneasy conversation with her stepmother. ‘I will come for you in three days' time, Bertha. Mrs Soames, I'm sure you'll take good care of her until then.' He shook hands then turned to Bertha. ‘I hope to get away at half past twelve— will you be ready for me then?'

  'Yes—yes, thank you.'

  'Don't try and do too much for a few days.'

  No one could fault the way in which he spoke to her—a detached kindness, just sufficiently friendly. Only his eyes gleamed under their lids.

  Bertha's stepmother, once the doctor had gone, was so anxious to make sure that Bertha had everything she wanted, wasn't tired, wasn't hungry, or didn't wish to lie down on her bed that Bertha was at pains to discover what had brought about this change of heart.

  She wasn't the only one. Crook, going back to the kitchen after he had served dinner, put down his tray and said darkly, 'Depend upon it, this won't last— there's madam begging Miss Bertha to have another morsel and is she comfortable in that chair and would she like to go to bed and someone would bring her a warm drink. Poppycock—I wonder what's behind it?'

  Apparently nothing; by the end of the second day Bertha's surprise at this cosseting had given way to pleased relief, and Crook had to admit that Mrs Soames seemed to have had a change of heart. 'And not before time,' he observed.

  Bertha went to bed early. She had packed her bag with the miserable best of her wardrobe, washed her hair and telephoned the nursery school to tell the ma­tron that she would be coming back after Christmas if they still wanted her. Since her stepmother was showing such a sympathetic face, Bertha had told her that she was no longer reading to an old lady but to a group of children.

  'Why didn't you tell me this?' Mrs Soames strove to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  ‘I didn't think that it was important or that you would be interested.'

  Mrs Soames bit her tongue and summoned up a smile. 'Well, it really doesn't matter, Bertha. I'm sure it is very worthwhile work. Oliver arranged it for you, I expect?'

  Bertha said that yes, he had, and didn't see the an­gry look from her stepmother.

  Clare, when told of this, burst into tears. 'You see, Mother, how she has been hoodwinking us all this time. Probably seeing him every day. Well, she'll be gone when he comes. Is it all arranged?'

  It was still early morning when Bertha was roused by her stepmother. 'Bertha, I've just had a phone call from your aunt Agatha. She's not well and asks for you. I don't think she's desperately ill, just needs someone there other than the servants. She has always been fond of you, hasn't she? She begged me to ask you to go as soon as possible, and I couldn't refuse.' 'I'm going to Mrs Hay-Smythe today, though...'

  'Yes, yes, I know. But perhaps you could go to your aunt just for a day or two.'

  'Why must I go? Why should she ask for me?'

  'She's elderly—and she's always been eccentric' Mrs Soames, sensing that she was losing the battle, said with sudden inspiration, 'Suppose you go today? I'll phone her doctor and see if he can arrange for someone to stay with your aunt, then you can come straight back. A day's delay at the most. Your father would want you to go.'

  'Oliver expects me to be ready—'

  'Write him a note and I'll explain. Believe me, Bertha, if Clare could go in your place sh
e would, but you know how your aunt dislikes her.'

  Bertha threw back the bed clothes. 'Very well, but I'm coming back, whatever arrangements are made.'

  'Well, of course you are. Get dressed quickly and I'll find out about trains.'

  Mrs Soames went away to tell Clare that their plan was working so far. ‘I told her that I was finding out about the next train.' She glanced at the clock. 'I've just time to dress and drive her to Paddington. She can have breakfast on the train.' She turned at the door. 'Bertha's writing a note for Oliver. Get rid of it before he comes—and not a word to the servants. I'll see them when I get back. I don't mean to tell them where she has gone.'

  An hour later, sitting in the train, eating a breakfast she didn't want, Bertha tried to sort out the morning's happenings. It didn't occur to her that she had been tricked; she knew that her stepmother didn't like her, but that she would descend to such trickery never crossed her mind. She had written to Oliver—a care­ful little note, full of apologies, hoping that he wouldn't be inconvenienced and hoping to see his mother as soon as she could return.

  Clare had read it before she'd torn it into little pieces.

  The train journey was a lengthy one. Bertha, eating another meal she didn't want, thought about Oliver. He would have been to her home by now, of course, and been told about her sudden departure. She wished she could have written a longer letter, but there hadn't been time. She could think of nothing else, her head full of the whys and wherefores of something she couldn't understand. It was a relief when Truro was reached at last and she got out to change to a local train, which stopped at every station until it stopped, at last, at her destination.

  The village was small and she remembered it well from visits when she was a child. Miss Soames lived a mile or two away from the narrow main street, and Bertha was relieved to see a taxi in the station yard. She had been given money for her expenses—just suf­ficient to get her to her aunt's house—and since her stepmother had pointed out that there was no point in getting a return ticket as she herself would drive down and fetch Bertha she had accepted the situation will­ingly enough. Her head full of Oliver, nothing else mattered.

  Her aunt's house looked exactly the same as she remembered it—solid and rather bleak, with a splen­did garden. Bertha toiled up the path with her suitcase and knocked at the door.

  After a moment it was flung open and Miss Agatha Soames, majestic in a battered felt hat and old and expensive tweeds, stood surveying Bertha.

  'Well, upon my word. Why are you here, gel?'

  Bertha, not particularly put out by this welcome, for her aunt was notoriously tart, said composedly that her stepmother had sent her. 'She told me that you were ill and needed a companion and had asked for me urgently.'

  Miss Soames breathed deeply. ‘It seems to me from the look of you that it is you who needs a companion. Your stepmother is a vulgar, scheming woman who would be glad to see me dead. I am in the best of health and need no one other than Betsy and Tom. You may return home.' She bent a beady eye on Bertha. 'Why have you a black eye? She actually sent you here to me?'

  'Yes, Aunt Agatha.' Awful doubts were crowding into Bertha's tired head.

  Miss Soames snorted. 'Then she's up to something. Wants you out of the way in a hurry. Been upsetting the applecart, have you? Poaching on that Clare's pre­serves, are you?'

  When Bertha's cheeks grew pink, she said, 'Took a fancy to you instead of her, did he? Well, if he's got any sense he will come after you.'

  Bertha shook her head. 'No, I don't think so. He doesn't know where I am—I didn't tell him.'

  'They won't tell him either. But if he's worth his salt he'll find you. Love him?'

  'Yes, Aunt Agatha. But he doesn't think of me like that, though he's a kind man.'

  'We will see.' Miss Soames thrust the door wide open and said belatedly, 'Well, come in. Now you're here you'd better stay. Where's your father?'

  'I'm not exactly sure, but he's coming home soon.'

  Aunt Agatha said, 'Pah!' and raised her voice. 'Betsy, come here and listen to this.' Betsy came so quickly that Bertha wondered if she had been standing behind the door.

  'No need to tell, I heard it all. Poor lamb. I'll get the garden room ready and a morsel of food. The child looks starved—and look at that eye! A week or two here with good food and fresh air is what she needs.'

  During the next few days that was what Bertha got. Moreover, her aunt ordered Tom to bring the elderly Rover to the front door and she and Bertha were driven into Truro, where she sailed in and out of var­ious shops buying clothes for her niece.

  When Bertha protested, she said, 'I'll not have a niece of mine wearing cast-off clothes which are sev­eral sizes too big and quite unsuitable. I shall speak to your father. Don't interfere, miss.'

  So Bertha thanked her aunt and got joyfully into skirts and blouses and dresses which fitted her slender person and were made of fine material in soft colours. If only Oliver could see her now. She had talked to her aunt about what she should do and that lady had said, 'Do nothing, gel. Let your stepmother wonder, if she can be bothered to do so. You are not to write to her nor are you to telephone. You will stay here until this doctor finds you.'

  'He won't,' said Bertha. 'He'll never find me...'

  'Have you never heard of the proverb “Love finds a way"? I have great faith in proverbs,' said Aunt Agatha.

  Oliver had presented himself at half past twelve ex­actly to collect Bertha, and had been shown into the drawing room. Mrs Soames had come to meet him.

  'Oliver, thank heaven you have come. I tried to get you on the phone, but there was no answer.'

  She'd found his calm unnerving.

  'Bertha!' she'd exclaimed. 'She must be ill—that accident. She got me out of bed early this morning and insisted on being driven to Euston Station. I begged her to stay, to phone you, to wait at least until you came. She was quite unlike herself—so cold and determined.'

  'You did as she asked?' His voice had been very quiet.

  'What else could I do? She wouldn't listen to rea­son.'

  'She had money? Did she say where she was go­ing?'

  ‘I gave her what I had. She told me that she was going to an aunt—a relation of her mother's, I believe, who lives somewhere in Yorkshire. I begged her to tell why she wanted to leave us and I reminded her that she was to visit your mother—she said she would write to you.' Mrs Soames managed to squeeze out a tear. ‘I really don't know what to do, Oliver. Clare is terribly upset.'

  Oliver sounded quite cheerful. 'Why, I suggest that we wait until one or other of us gets a letter. She is quite capable of looking after herself, is she not?'

  'Yes, of course. Will you come this evening so that we three can put our heads together? Dinner, per­haps?'

  'Not possible, I'm afraid, Mrs Soames.' He spoke pleasantly, longing to wring the woman's neck. There was something not right about the story she had told him. He would get to the bottom of it if it took him weeks, months...

  'The whole thing is fishy,' he told Freddie as he drove away. Someone somewhere would know where

  Bertha had gone; he would send Cully round later with some excuse or other and he could talk to Crook—both he and Cook were obviously fond of Bertha, and in the meanwhile he would see if the nurs­ery school knew anything.

  'Gone?' asked Matron. 'Without a word to anyone? I find that hard to believe. Why, she telephoned not a day or two ago to say that she would be coming back after Christmas, when she had had a short hol­iday.'

  Oliver thanked her. It hadn't been much help, but it was a start.

  Cully's visit had no success, either. Crook was dis­turbed that Bertha had gone so unexpectedly, but he had no idea where she might be. Certainly there was an aunt of hers somewhere in the north of England, and the master had a sister living, but he had no idea where.

  The doctor phoned his mother and sat down to think. Mrs Soames had been very glib, and he didn't believe a word of what she had said, but the
re was no way of getting her to tell the truth. To find this aunt in Yorkshire when he had no idea of her name or where she lived was going to be difficult. Her fa­ther's sister—unmarried, Crook had said—was a more likely possibility. He went to bed at last, knowing what he would do in the morning.

  Mr Soames QC was well-known in his own pro­fession. The doctor waited patiently until a suitable hour the next morning and then phoned his chambers.

  'No,' he was told. 'Mr Soames is still in the States. Would you like to make an appointment at some fu­ture date?'

  The doctor introduced himself. 'You are his chief clerk? So I can speak freely to you? I am a friend of the Soames family and there is a personal matter I should like to attend to—preferably with Mr Soames. Failing that, has he a relation to whom I could write? This is a family matter, and Mrs Soames is not con­cerned with it.'

  'Dr Hay-Smythe? You have a practice in Harley Street. I remember that you were called to give evi­dence some time ago.'

  'That is so. You would prefer me to come and see you?'

  'No. No, that won't be necessary. Mr Soames has a sister living in Cornwall. I could give you her ad­dress.' The clerk sounded doubtful.

  ‘I will come to your chambers to collect it, and if you wish to let Mr Soames know of my request, please do so.'

  It was impossible to go down to Cornwall for at least two days; he had patients to see, a ward round at the hospital, an outpatients clinic, and then, hours before he intended to leave, an urgent case. So, very nearly a week had passed by the time he got into his car with Freddie and began the long drive down to Cornwall.

  It was already later than he had intended; he had no hope of reaching Miss Soames's house at a rea­sonable hour. He drove steadily westward, Freddie alert beside him, and stopped for the night at Liskeard in an old friendly pub where he was given a hearty supper before going to his room, which was low­-ceilinged and comfortable. Since Freddie had behaved in a very well-bred manner he accompanied his mas­ter, spreading his length across the foot of the bed.