The Vicar's Daughter

by Betty Neels

  ‘Had she run away from her nanny?’

  Lady Trueman’s pleasant face became quite ferocious.

  ‘That woman. She is to leave immediately. She had left Peggy playing alone in the gardens while she went to chat with one of the gardeners. Do you know, she was still there when you came back? And never once gave a thought to Peggy? I told Helen when she engaged her that she was far too young and flighty...

  ‘Lord Trueman will most certainly wish to thank you when he gets back home...’

  Bessy peered round the door. ‘The professor’s ready to leave, my lady. I was to tell you and Miss Pearson.’

  He was in the hall with Dr Wilcox and Helen, and Margo, very conscious of her stockinged feet, padded across the icy, marble-paved floor. It was the professor who came to meet her. He swallowed a desire to laugh at her ramshackle appearance.

  ‘If someone could let Miss Pearson have a pair of shoes—boots—anything...’

  It was Bessy who asked what size her feet were and sped away to return in a moment with a pair of wellies. ‘Better than nothing,’ she muttered.

  ‘Of course we’ll replace your shoes, Margo,’ said Helen, and took her hand. ‘We are so grateful.’

  She began to cry again.

  A pretty little woman, reflected the professor, but lacking common sense—utterly dependent on everyone else. He wasn’t aware that he was comparing her with Margo.

  With perfect good manners he got himself and her out of the house, popped her into the car and drove away.

  ‘Will you tell me where your aunt lives? Close by, I gather.’

  ‘The first house on the left when you reach the village in about two minutes. How did you get here? I mean, do you live close by?’

  ‘Fairly near. Tell me, Margo, do you spend your life coping with emergencies? And why are you so far from home?’

  He hadn’t answered her question; she shouldn’t have asked it in the first place. She sneezed. ‘I’m visiting my aunt—father’s sister-in-law. She’s an archdeacon’s widow.’

  ‘You spring from an ecclesiastic family—and yet you intend to be a farmer’s wife?’

  She sneezed again, and he passed her a very large white handkerchief.

  ‘No, I don’t. I told George I didn’t want to marry him. He hadn’t exactly asked me, but I thought I’d tell him first and save him the trouble.’

  He turned a laugh into a cough. ‘How very sensible of you. I must admit that I find it hard to imagine you as a farmer’s wife.’

  ‘Well, I dare say you do. I expect you think of me as a vicar’s daughter.’ She spoke without rancour. ‘That’s my aunt’s house on the left. Thank you for the lift; it was most kind...’

  All he said was, ‘Stay where you are.’ And he got out of the car and opened her door, waiting patiently while she sneezed yet again.

  ‘That’s going to be a nasty cold. I think I should see your aunt.’

  Mrs Pearson opened the door as they reached it.

  ‘Dear child, come inside at once.’

  As she ushered them into the sitting room she cast an eye over the professor and he said smoothly, ‘Mrs Pearson? I was called in to see Peggy and have brought Margo back to you. Strangely enough, we have met before. Dr Wilcox will call tomorrow and take a look at Margo, but in the meantime perhaps I might advise that she be put to bed at once. Warm drinks and a quiet day in the house tomorrow. I’m afraid she has caught a cold.’ He smiled at her. ‘Gijs van Kessel.’

  Mrs Pearson liked the look of him, and she liked the sound of his quiet, assured voice. She held out a hand. ‘Can you spare the time to tell me exactly what has happened? I had a very garbled version over the phone.’

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Pearson. You will want to get Margo to bed at once, will you not?’ He looked at Margo. Bed was undoubtedly the best place for her. ‘If I might suggest another hot drink and two aspirins? A good night’s sleep will put things to rights again.’

  Margo peered at him from watery eyes and sniffed from a stuffed-up nose. Nothing, she had discovered at that very moment, could be put to rights again. Life would never be the same again either. How could it be? The peculiar feeling she had been experiencing for the last hour or so wasn’t a cold in the head, it was love! And to have fallen in love so completely with a man who looked at her with kind detachment and not a vestige of interest in her as a person was ridiculous, and she must put a stop to it immediately.

  She said, as briskly as another sneeze permitted, ‘Thank you for bringing me back, Professor. There’s really nothing wrong with me; I shall be fine in the morning.’ She held out a hand. ‘Goodbye.’

  He took the hand—small, nicely shaped and capable—and held it fast.

  ‘Not goodbye, Margo. I feel sure that we shall meet again.’

  She looked up into his face and saw kindness there. There was something else too—amusement?

  She took her hand away smartly. ‘Perhaps.’

  At the door she said, ‘I’m quite all right to put myself to bed, Aunt Flo. I’ll get some aspirins and milk as I go.’

  Her aunt nodded. ‘Very well, child. I’ll pop in and see you later on. A little light supper, perhaps?’

  She closed the door firmly after her niece. ‘Do sit down,’ she bade the professor. ‘Margo will be all right; she’s very healthy and strong.’

  ‘It might be wise to keep her in bed until Dr Wilcox sees her tomorrow. It wasn’t only getting so wet; she carried the child for quite a distance, and with only one shoe on—moreover, she was afraid for Peggy’s life. She acted with great good sense.’

  ‘Something she has always possessed in abundance. Lady Trueman was full of praise for her conduct!’ Aunt Florence settled herself more comfortably in her chair. ‘There’ll be coffee in a moment, or would you prefer a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be delightful. Is Margo staying with you for some time?’

  ‘Another week or so. You said you had met her already—at her home?’

  ‘Yes. Actually we first met on a lonely road in the middle of the night...’ He told his hostess about it very simply. ‘And since then I have been to her home,’ he concluded.

  Aunt Florence poured the coffee. ‘Oh, then you’ll know all about George. I must say I was very relieved to hear that she has decided not to marry him. They have known each other for years and it was a gradual thing, you know—his mother liked the idea, thought that Margo could be moulded into the kind of wife she wanted for George. Only Margo isn’t a girl one can mould. There was no engagement—indeed, she tells me that he had never actually asked her to marry him and took it all in good part. I shall be sorry for his wife when he does marry—his mother, you know.’

  ‘So now Margo can rearrange her future to suit herself?’ The professor spoke idly.

  ‘Well, as to that, she has had no training of any sort. An excellent education, but she has been at home for several years.’ She added severely, ‘Margo is a good daughter. It is to be hoped that she will get the chance to be a good wife and mother.’

  The professor murmured politely, drank his coffee and presently took his leave. He had interrupted a free day—a rare occurrence—in order to confer with Dr Wilcox, and now he wanted to get back to the quiet evening he had planned.

  He had been surprised to see Margo again; she tended to pop up in the most unexpected places. She hadn’t shown any particular pleasure at seeing him once more—although, he reflected, he had been pleased as well as surprised to see her.

  He couldn’t think why; she had no looks to speak of, her nose had been red and she had sniffed a good deal! And she had never made the slightest attempt to attract his attention. He remembered briefly the considerable number of women who had done just the opposite. Perhaps that was why he liked her. She obviously didn’t mind in the least what his opinion of her was an
d he was sure that if she thought he should be put in his place then that was exactly what she would do.

  He smiled at the idea and decided that when he went back to see Peggy, after the X-rays had been taken, he would call at Mrs Pearson’s and see how Margo did.

  His decision set at rest a vague feeling of disquiet. He wouldn’t like her to be ill. She was young and healthy and clearly not given to making the worst of things. All the same she had put him in mind of a half-drowned kitten he had once rescued...

  * * *

  MARGO, MUCH REFRESHED by a brief nap, ate the splendid supper her aunt brought to her later that evening, swallowed more aspirins and went to sleep again, to wake in the morning feeling quite herself but with a streaming cold.

  ‘You’ll stay where you are until Dr Wilcox has been,’ ordered Aunt Flo, at her most stern. ‘Now just lie back, dear, while I rub your chest with camphorated oil.’

  Margo did as she was told—people seldom disobeyed Aunt Flo—and presently, much soothed by the old-fashioned remedy, she lay back on her pillows, reeking of camphor, quite happy to do nothing more energetic than blow her small red nose at intervals.

  She was sipping more hot milk when Dr Wilcox called and, escorted by Aunt Flo, entered the bedroom—to recoil at the overpowering atmosphere.

  ‘Camphorated oil,’ said Aunt Flo, in a voice which dared him to say anything detrimental about it.

  ‘A splendid old-fashioned remedy—very soothing to the patient,’ agreed the doctor.

  He took a quick look at Margo and pronounced her none the worse for her wetting, but advised that she spend the rest of the day in bed. ‘Paracetamol every four hours and drink all you can. There’s no need for me to call again unless you’re anxious about anything.’

  ‘Is Peggy better?’

  ‘Yes. No great harm done. Concussion and a nasty bruise. I saw the X-rays. She’s to stay in bed for a few days, though.’

  He got off the bed. ‘Lady Trueman is coming to visit you in a day or two, when your cold is better. She is so very grateful. It could have been much worse but for your prompt action.’

  He shook hands and went away and Aunt Flo returned with a bouquet of flowers in cellophane, tied with a great deal of ribbon. ‘These have just come. There’s a card...’

  Margo read the card. They were from the Truemans and Helen. The thought that they might have been from the professor was absurd, to be dismissed at once. She said brightly, ‘Aren’t they beautiful? Will you keep them in the sitting room, Aunt? There are so many of them, and I’ll be downstairs tomorrow.’

  Excepting her thickened speech and a constantly blown nose, Margo was indeed quite herself by the following morning. She was dusting the numerous knick-knacks in her aunt’s sitting room when the professor called.

  She hadn’t expected him, although she had been thinking about him, and the sudden sight of him sent the colour into her cheeks.

  ‘Entertain him while I see about coffee,’ commanded Aunt Flo, and went away.

  Margo put down the hideous Victorian vase she was holding. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Have you been to see Peggy?’

  ‘I’ve seen her; now I’ve come to see you.’ He smiled gently.

  ‘Oh, yes, well, do sit down.’ She picked up a delicate Spode bowl and began to dust it. ‘I hope she’s better?’

  ‘Going along nicely. And you, Margo?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m quite well, thank you.’ She very much wanted to blow her nose, but gave a surreptitious sniff instead.

  He was sitting very much at his ease, looking at her, making no further attempt to speak. He could at least make an effort, she thought crossly. Her pretty colour had faded, leaving her pale, with puffed eyelids and a pink nose. Aware of this, she said peevishly, ‘Haven’t you any other patients to see?’

  He said placidly, ‘Oh, yes, quite a few—but not until this afternoon. A clinic at the hospital...’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Scores of them—crying and being sick and wetting themselves. They will all be ill, though.’

  ‘So you don’t mind if they are tiresome?’

  ‘No. Would you like to come and see them one day?’

  ‘May I? Although I don’t go to London very often...’

  ‘Oh, I’d pick you up and bring you back. It would make a good subject next time you have a get-together at the village hall.’

  She looked at him to make sure that he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t.

  ‘Well, yes. There’s the Mothers’ Union and the WI, and some of the older children from the Sunday School...’

  She smiled at him. He wasn’t only the man she had fallen in love with, he was a man to admire and trust and be perfectly safe with. Her eyes sparkled and glowed in her face so that he didn’t see the red nose and the puffy eyelids any longer, only the gentle curve of her mouth and her sweet smile.

  Aunt Florence came in then, and they drank their coffee and talked about the weather and the excellent apple crop and the still distant approach of Christmas.

  ‘November already,’ observed Aunt Florence. ‘Let us hope that we have a period of good weather... Do you return to your home for Christmas, Professor?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m only here for another month or so.’

  Just as well, thought Margo; then I can forget him. It took all her common sense to dispel the wave of sadness which engulfed her person.

  The same common sense prompted her to empty her head of him once he had bade them goodbye and driven away and plunge into preparations for the church bazaar, the committee of which was chaired by Aunt Flo.

  ‘You couldn’t have been here at a better time,’ that lady told her, sorting through the piles of contributions for the stalls, housed for the moment in the box-room. ‘You will have a stall, of course, dear—good-as-new clothes.’

  Margo said dutifully, ‘Yes, Aunt. Do people really buy other people’s clothes?’

  ‘Good gracious me, yes. Lady Trueman’s hats are very popular, and that young woman who works for the BBC and lives at the other end of the village—she has sent some really very nice things. Farmer Deadman’s youngest is marrying in the spring; I’ve no doubt she’ll snap up some of the dresses—just right for a wedding—and there’s a lovely dressing gown—you know, one of those loose, flowing ones.

  ‘Pass me my pen, dear, and I’ll start pricing some of these things. You can fold them up and put them in those boxes ready to take down to the hall in the morning.’

  Several days of hard work ensued. Aunt Florence, who Margo decided must have been a regimental sergeant major in some former life, marshalled her helpers, willing and unwilling, and saw to it that no one slacked. To give her her due, by Saturday afternoon, with the stalls stocked, the hall decorated and somebody at the door ready to take the entrance fee, she had achieved everything she had promised the committee she would do.

  Margo, arranging the last few clothes, could hear the voices of the small queue already outside the door, which was due to be opened at any moment now. She rearranged the looking glass just so, so that the prospective purchasers could view their chosen articles in comfort, and took a quick look to make sure that her nose, still faintly pink from her cold, wasn’t shining.

  The door was opened and a great many people surged in, impatient to start looking for bargains but having to wait while Lady Trueman—just arrived in her car—made her usual speech and declared the bazaar open. The rector spoke too, but experience had taught him to make it very brief; his audience were already heading towards the particular stalls they fancied.

  Margo did a brisk trade. It was fortunate that some of the things left from several years ago—rejects from bygone bazaars—were, as Aunt Flo observed, quite in style again, fashion being what it was.

  The newer clothes went fast too. She had hung them in sizes, which help
ed a bit but didn’t prevent a good deal of impulse-buying which she knew would be regretted later. She was helping an elderly woman choose a hat when she glanced up and saw Professor van Kessel, quite close by, watching her.

  She offered the lady a feather toque, and he shook his head slightly and came nearer.

  ‘The brown one with the brim,’ he suggested, and smiled at her customer, who, taken by surprise, removed the toque and poised the hat of his choice on her grey hair.

  ‘Well, dearie me, love, the gentleman’s quite right. It suits me a treat. How much?’

  ‘Seventy-five pence. A real bargain and just right for you—smart, too.’

  ‘For me grandson’s wedding, New Year’s Day.’ She beamed at the professor. ‘Thank you kindly, sir. Got a wife of your own, I dare say, to choose hats for!’

  ‘I’m sure you will look very nice in it.’ He smiled his kind smile and she took the hat in the bag Margo had found for it and trotted off.

  He said then belatedly, ‘Hello, Margo.’ He glanced round. ‘A pity there is nothing here which I can buy.’

  ‘However did you get here?’

  ‘In my car,’ he said, and when she frowned added, ‘I had a last visit to pay to Peggy.’

  He glanced round him at the women inspecting the clothes on the stall. ‘When will you be free?’

  ‘We stay open till half past five and then we clear up.’

  He nodded. ‘From the look of things, you won’t have much to clear up on this stall. Have you seen Lady Trueman?’

  ‘Well, no. She doesn’t stay. A lot of people don’t come. I mean it’s their hats and clothes, if you understand me.’

  ‘Ah, of course. I’m just going to have a word with someone...’

  He wandered away, and a moment later she saw him bending his height to speak to Helen and presently joining her to go to the other end of the hall.

  How strange it is, mused Margo, that we meet whenever I’m looking a fright or doing something quite unglamorous. She became so lost in thought about this that she sold a size fourteen dress to a size eighteen woman without noticing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him still with Helen, laughing with her. It didn’t seem quite fair. After all, Helen had already got a husband; she had lovely clothes too, and a pretty face.