by Betty Neels
The same thought passed through Matty’s and Henrietta’s heads—Deirdre Stone—but they agreed cheerfully and rather loudly, promised to have everything on the table by the time he got back and bustled around with unnecessary business.
Henrietta had hoped that he would ask her to go with him; lunch was almost ready, there was nothing to do except set the table, for Matty liked to do the cooking, but she hid her disappointment and talked about her holiday, agreeing to Matty’s plans that she should come again whenever she could.
‘I don’t expect you to come every week,’ said Matty. ‘It’s an awkward journey; besides, you’ve shopping and things to do, but just now and again...’
‘Oh, Matty, of course I’ll come, and the journey isn’t all that awkward. I looked up the buses before Mr Ross-Pitt offered me a lift, and I can come for the day quite easily...’
‘You do that, dearie.’ Matty had her back to her, bending over a saucepan. ‘And if ever you should want a place to go you come here to old Matty.’
Henrietta put down the napkin she was holding, the better to hug the old lady. ‘You cannot imagine...’ she began, and then tried again. ‘Matty, it’s like having a family—someone there—I can’t explain...’
‘No need, for I know just what you mean. Here’s Mr Adam back; get the pie from the oven, will you, dear?’
The talk over their meal was cheerful and easy; Mr Ross-Pitt appeared to be in the best of spirits, and Henrietta thought of the journey back with happy excitement—just to sit with him and listen to him talking, never mind what it was about; just the sound of his friendly voice...
Once in the car, waved away by a rather tearful Matty, he showed no signs of wishing to talk, and when she ventured a casual reference to her holiday he answered her with such a casual interest that she held her tongue, supposing his thoughts to be only of Deirdre.
It was a pity that there were some thoughts which were never uttered.
Mr Ross-Pitt supposed with unwonted annoyance that she was thinking about David, so Henrietta sat, bemused by love, not uttering a word while he, in love but as yet unaware of the fact, reminded himself that Henrietta was now with her feet on solid ground—a pleasant job she liked and a worthy young man already interested in her. There was absolutely no reason why he should concern himself with her any more.
He said suddenly, ‘You’re very quiet—sorry to leave Tollesbury?’
‘Yes, indeed I am. It was a marvellous week, and thank you for giving me a lift, Mr Ross-Pitt.’
‘There’s quite a good bus service to Braintree, then on to Maldon, then the local bus. No reason why you shouldn’t spend your free days there.’
In other words, thought Henrietta unhappily, I need not expect another lift. Of course, Deirdre wouldn’t like it; it was difficult to imagine Adam giving way to someone else’s wishes, but if he was in love with her... There was no way of finding that out; he wasn’t a man to wear his heart on his sleeve.
* * *
AT THE LODGE she thanked him again in a quiet little voice, patted Watson, and then on an impulse she instantly regretted said, ‘I hope you will be very happy, Mr Ross-Pitt.’
He opened his eyes wide at that and she saw their brilliant blue, so often half-hidden by heavy lids. ‘Why do you say that?’ he demanded.
‘Well, you changed my life for me, you know. You have been kind and generous and patient; you so deserve to be happy—and—and I’d like that.’
He said, ‘Thank you, Henrietta,’ and then got back into his car and drove away.
Mrs Pettifer, peeping from the lodge window, frowned at the sight of Henrietta’s face. Mr Ross-Pitt should leave the girl alone. It was apparent to her that Henrietta was head over heels in love with him and, give him his due, he had no idea of it. Henrietta was to him someone he had befriended as he would have befriended a lost puppy or kitten. Oh, well, if the kitchen gossip was anything to go by, that Miss Stone had him hooked.
She went to open the door. Men—even the nicest men—were blind about some things. ‘Had a good holiday?’ she asked Henrietta cheerfully. ‘You look marvellous.’
She led the way indoors, talking all the time to give Henrietta time to assume her usual manner.
‘Lovely, Mrs Pettifer. Matty was so kind and I met so many people...’
‘One or two of your own age, I hope.’
‘Oh, yes. We had tea at the vicarage and the vicar’s son was on holiday; he was very kind. When are Sir Peter and Lady Hensen coming home?’
‘In a week’s time, and before then you and I have a great deal of work to do. There are some old paintings up in the attics that Lady Hensen wants brought down and hung, and there are several pairs of curtains we are to clean and mend and hang in place of those in the big hall. Let’s pray for fine, warm weather, then we can take them out onto the lawn; otherwise we must use the ballroom floor.’
That evening, before she went to bed, Henrietta wrote a letter to Matty. Thanking her hadn’t been enough, even when she had accompanied her thanks with a box of the chocolates that Matty loved. Besides, the old lady looked eagerly for the postman each morning—letters, she had told Henrietta, were almost as good as a visit.
So she wrote about the curtains and pictures and how pleased Dickens and Ollie were to see her and how charming the country had looked on their drive back. She didn’t mention Mr Ross-Pitt. Even thinking about him hurt.
* * *
AS FOR ADAM, he went home, took Watson for a long walk and shut himself in his study until Mrs Patch came in with a tray of tea.
‘Going back tonight, sir?’ she wanted to know.
‘No, no, I’ll go early tomorrow morning, Mrs Patch.’ When she had gone he wondered why he had told Henrietta that he had to be back in town that evening. He had done it on an impulse because, he admitted honestly, he was annoyed about David. Although why he should mind about Henrietta making friends with suitable young men quite escaped him. She was a troublesome girl who for some reason was constantly on his mind.
When Deirdre phoned him later that evening he was unusually terse. He hadn’t a free moment during the week, he told her when she suggested that they might dine together one evening, and he put down the phone with relief. He had no wish to see her; indeed, it was only good manners which forced him to speak to her when they met occasionally at a mutual friend’s house. She had made it plain that she would like to marry him, and one day he would have to make it clear that he never had any intention of asking her.
* * *
HENRIETTA HAD LITTLE time to think about her holiday or Mr Ross-Pitt. There was a great deal to do before the Hensens returned.
The curtains proved to be in a sorry state—the brocade had worn thin in places, dust had eaten into them and mice had nibbled at their heavy fringes. Luckily it was the fine weather that Mrs Pettifer had hoped for; the lawns were smooth and dry and they could be spread out each day while the pair of them brushed and cleaned and mended with exquisitely small stitches and, since time was of the essence, they went back each evening after their suppers and climbed to the attics to select the paintings that Lady Hensen wanted.
The men carried them down to one of the small rooms leading from the kitchen where they cleaned the frames carefully. There would have to be a professional picture restorer to examine them, said Mrs Pettifer as Henrietta examined the various ancestors, their painted features dim with neglect.
* * *
THE HENSENS RETURNED, the house and grounds were reopened and the days became even busier. Henrietta didn’t mind; she didn’t want time to hang around heavy on her hands, for then she might lose herself in daydreams about Mr Ross-Pitt and that would never do.
She had had a letter from David in which he said that he hoped to see her again, and it was tempting to encourage him in that hope. After all, since Mr Ross-Pitt was out
of reach, the sooner she forgot about him and made the best of what life had to offer, the better. Perhaps life was offering her David.
She only thought this during the daylight hours, when her head was filled with good sense and not romantic notions. It was at night that she knew that she could never do that. It would be unfair to David and, besides, no one could take Adam’s place in her heart.
‘I shall be an old maid,’ Henrietta told Dickens, curled up on her feet with Ollie snuggled up against his portly frame.
So she wrote a nice letter back to David telling him that for the next few weeks she would be extra busy. ‘So I expect I’ll spend my free day each week recovering from the hordes of visitors who come each day.’ She did add that later on she hoped to visit Matty again.
* * *
IT WAS A week later that she decided to visit Mrs Tibbs on her free Saturday. She would have a quiet morning pottering in the lodge, doing a little gardening while Dickens and Ollie sunned themselves, make herself a sandwich and then walk to Mrs Tibbs and have her tea there.
It was a fine day; she did her chores, ate her sandwiches, attended to the cats’ wants, got into the floral dress and walked down to the village, through the lane and across the fields to Mrs Tibbs’ cottage. It was too early for tea so she walked on for a while, not hurrying in the sun’s warmth and presently she turned back, intent on tea.
Mrs Tibbs’ door was closed, which seemed strange on a Saturday afternoon when she was almost certain to have customers. Henrietta knocked and, getting no answer, knocked again.
The cottage stood apart from the others along the lane and she looked around her, wondering what to do. It would be silly to make a fuss just because she couldn’t get an answer, and the elderly couple who lived in the first cottage round the bend in the lane kept themselves to themselves, so Mrs Tibbs had told her.
Henrietta trod round the side of the cottage, not wishing to be nosy, but egged on by a feeling that there was something wrong.
The back door was shut but not locked. She knocked again and stood on tiptoe to see inside the kitchen. Mrs Tibbs was on the floor; Henrietta could see only her legs, since her view was restricted, but it was sufficient for her to open the door smartly and go in.
There was a kettle boiling dry on the elderly gas stove and the smell of something burning in the oven. Henrietta turned off the taps and got on her knees by Mrs Tibbs, who was unconscious and a nasty colour—due, no doubt, to the large lump bleeding sluggishly on one side of her head.
Henrietta was no nurse but she had plenty of good sense. She felt for Mrs Tibbs’ pulse and found it easily, fetched a cushion from the front room and lifted her head onto it and spoke her name. Mrs Tibbs didn’t answer, nor did she respond when Henrietta tried to get her to swallow water.
There was no telephone. Mrs Tibbs had told her once that she would have liked to have had one but her husband thought it would cost too much. ‘We ought to have one,’ she had added, ‘for there’s not one along the lane. The nearest one is Mr Ross-Pitt’s, and he is all of ten minutes’ walk.’
Ten minutes’ walk was five minutes’ running. Henrietta found pencil and paper and wrote on it ‘Don’t move, I’ve gone for help’ and propped the message up where Mrs Tibbs would see it if she came round. She laid an old rug lying over the back of a chair over Mrs Tibbs and went out, closing the door behind her.
She ran as fast as she could, urged on by the fact that Mrs Tibbs might be seriously hurt and ought not to be left. She was almost at the wall of Mr Ross-Pitt’s house when she saw him watching her from the garden. She had no breath left to shout, but waved her arms in what she hoped was an urgent manner.
The wall was of mellow old bricks, and breast-high to a tall man. Mr Ross-Pitt vaulted over it with the agility of a much younger man and brought her headlong flight to a stop by opening his arms and clasping her to his vast chest.
‘It’s you,’ gasped Henrietta. ‘Good. Mrs Tibbs—I went there for tea and she’s lying on the kitchen floor and her head’s bleeding and she’s unconscious—I left a note—’
‘Very sensible of you.’ He spoke in a calm, soothing voice. ‘Come with me; I’ll get the car—it will be quicker.’
He wasn’t a man to waste time on words; he put a hand on her shoulder and urged her forward along the lane, opened a door in the wall and sat her down on a rustic seat. ‘Get your breath,’ he advised, ‘while I get the car.’
The garage, a roomy affair converted from an old stables, was tucked away behind the shrubbery. Within a minute he had swept the big car round the side of the house, got out, opened her door and ushered her in. He disappeared into the house then, to return with his case and Watson as he said something to Mrs Patch, trotting behind him. It seemed to take an age to Henrietta before he got in beside her.
The road curved away from the village after a hundred yards or so, and he turned into the lane which would lead them to Mrs Tibbs’ cottage.
‘Tell me exactly how you found her and what you did.’
She told him, and he said, ‘Good girl,’ and didn’t speak again until they drew up outside the cottage.
Mrs Tibbs, naturally enough, was lying exactly as Henrietta had left her. Mr Ross-Pitt squatted down beside her, spared a fleeting moment to chuckle at Henrietta’s note and bent to examine his patient. Henrietta and Watson stood and watched him while he felt Mrs Tibb’s head and then the rest of her.
‘No bones broken,’ he observed. ‘A nasty crack on the head, though. Concussed—she’ll need hospital... Get me a basin with water and a clean towel, will you?’
He showed no sign of impatience as she hunted round, coming back presently with what he required. When he had cleaned the wound and dressed it he said, ‘Stay here, will you? I’m going to phone from the car.’ To Watson he said, ‘Stay.’
Henrietta was grateful for the faithful Watson’s company; Mrs Tibbs looked very ill, and supposing she came to and tried to get up? I shall shout for help, decided Henrietta, common sense coming to the fore.
Mr Ross-Pitt came back. ‘Henrietta, will you lay one of the rugs over the back seat and open the door? I’m going to drive Mrs Tibbs to Saffron Walden. If we wait for an ambulance it may do more harm than taking her in the car. I’ve warned them and they’ll be waiting for us. You and Watson will sit in front with me.’ He handed her his bag. ‘Hang on to that.’
Watson took up a lot of room, but she found his doggy warmth reassuring as she got into the car and waited while Mr Ross-Pitt went back to shut the kitchen door. When he came back he asked, ‘Do you know where Mr Tibbs is?’
‘When I have come here before on a Saturday afternoon he has been watching the football match in the village.’
Mr Ross-Pitt picked up the phone, dialled a number and handed it to her. ‘Mrs Patch will be on the other end. Ask her to go to the pub and get someone to find Mr Tibbs and see that he goes to the hospital in Saffron Walden. He must be told that his wife has had an accident and needs to be examined.’
He was driving fast as he spoke. She repeated the message, listened to Mrs Patch briskly acknowledging it, and put the phone back. There didn’t seem to be much point in saying anything. Saffron Walden wasn’t far, and a good thing too, she reflected, watching Mr Ross-Pitt’s large foot on the accelerator.
There was no delay at the hospital; Mrs Tibbs was wheeled away and Mr Ross-Pitt went with her. Henrietta and Watson sat side by side in the car in a close proximity which was comforting for them both.
‘He won’t be long,’ said Henrietta, and indulged in a little daydreaming; he would come out of the hospital and smile at her lovingly and tell her that she had been wonderful and he couldn’t live without her. She became so immersed in it that she didn’t notice a car draw up and a man hurry into the hospital—Mr Tibbs, looking pale with anxiety. She was just waiting for Mr Ross-Pitt to return.
It was all of half an hour before he did and, if only she had known it, he stopped at the entrance to look at her, squashed up with Watson, her rapt gaze on nothing in particular, dreaming her daydream. Mr Ross-Pitt was astonished to feel his heart give a decided lurch at the sight of her.
She wasn’t looking her best; her hair was coming down, for she had shed hairpins as she’d run, and her face lacked powder and lipstick. She looked hot and tired and surprisingly happy. He thought that he had never seen anyone quite as beautiful, so absolutely necessary to his happiness. It wasn’t the first time he had fallen in love, but he knew that this was the last. It would never do to rush her, though...
He got into the car and she turned to smile at him and wondered why he looked so remote.
‘Will Mrs Tibbs be all right?’
‘Yes. I think so. A hairline fracture and concussion. They’ll keep her in hospital for a few days to see how things go. Mr Tibbs got here. You saw him?’
‘Me? No, I didn’t notice.’
‘Well, we’ll go back. You must be wanting your tea.’ He sounded polite—the politeness of someone who was showing good manners when they were doing something they didn’t want to do. ‘I’m sure Mrs Patch will have it ready.’
‘Please don’t trouble—’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ He sounded angry. She longed to have tea with him in his home, but not if he was going to treat her like an unwelcome guest.
She said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather go back to the lodge.’
‘Why should I mind?’ asked Mr Ross-Pitt savagely, swept away by such a gust of love that he could hardly keep his hands off her. Indeed, if he hadn’t been driving that was what would have happened. As it was, they parted at the lodge gate, the air so frigid between them that a knife couldn’t have cut through it.
CHAPTER EIGHT