by Betty Neels
Suzannah fetched a bowl, made her aunt comfortable and murmured in a reassuring way and when, surprisingly, her aunt went suddenly to sleep, she leapt down the stairs to the phone, a modern blessing which had been installed when her aunt had first become ill. It was barely seven o’clock, but she had no hesitation in ringing Dr Warren; he had told her to do just that if he was needed, and she wasn’t a girl to panic and call him for something trivial.
His quiet voice assured her that he would be with her in ten minutes before he hung up.
He was as good as his word, and by then her aunt was deeply asleep. ‘More than sleep,’ he told her, ‘a coma, but not very deep as yet.’ He looked at the small figure standing before him. ‘Your aunt is too ill to move. Do you think you can manage?’
‘Yes, of course—if you’ll tell me what I have to do?’
‘Very little.’ He explained what needed to be done. ‘And I’ll get the district nurse to pop in later on.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve an old friend staying with me for a couple of days—he’s a friend of the Davinishes at the manor, too—he’s a brain surgeon—I’d like him to take a look at your aunt, there might be something…’
‘Oh, please—if there’s anything at all… You see, she’s been quite well for months and it’s been hard to remember that she’s ill. She’s been getting slower and more tired, but never like this.’ She shivered and the doctor patted her shoulder.
‘Get yourself dressed and have some breakfast, I’ll be back in an hour or two and see what can be done.’
He was as good as his word; she barely had the time to dress, bathe her sleeping aunt’s face and hands and straighten the bed, feed a disgruntled Horace and make herself some tea before he was back, this time with his friend and colleague. The man from the picture gallery, coming quietly into the cottage, greeting her gravely and giving no sign at all that he had already met her.
But in any case Suzannah was too worried to give much thought to that; she led the way upstairs and stood quietly by while he examined her aunt with unhurried care and then trod downstairs again where he conferred quietly with Dr Warren. When they had finished Dr Warren called Suzannah from the kitchen, where she had been making coffee.
‘Professor Bowers-Bentinck thinks that the wisest course for us to follow is to let your aunt remain here. There is no point in taking her to hospital; she is gravely ill—you do understand that, don’t you? There is nothing to be done, my dear, and let us be thankful that she has slipped into a coma and will remain so…’
Suzannah gave a gulp. ‘Until she dies?’
‘Yes, Suzannah. Believe me, if there was the faintest hope of saving her by surgery, the professor would operate. I’m sorry.’
‘How long?’
‘A day—a few hours. I shall ask the district nurse to come here as soon as she has done her round. You will need help.’
All this while the professor had stood quietly by the window, looking out on to the little strip of grass and the flower border which separated the lodge from the drive. Now he turned to face her.
‘I am so sorry, Miss Lightfoot, I wish that I could help, but Dr Warren is quite right, there is nothing to be done.’
He sounded so kind that she felt tears prick her eyes. It was hard to equate this calm, impersonal man with the hard-eyed, tiresome creature who had been in the picture gallery. She said in a small voice which she strove to keep steady, ‘Thank you, I quite understand. It was good of you to come.’ After a moment added, ‘Aunty will sleep? She won’t wake and feel frightened?’
‘She won’t wake again,’ he told her gently.
She nodded her untidy red head. ‘I’ll fetch the coffee.’
They drank it, sitting in the small room, the two men talking about nothing in particular, covering her silence, and presently the professor got to his feet and went back upstairs. When he came down again, the two men went away, getting into Dr Warren’s elderly car with a final warning that she was to telephone and that Nurse Bennett would be with her directly.
Nurse Bennett had been the district nurse for years; the very sight of her comfortable form getting out of her little car was reassuring. She had known Miss Lightfoot for a long time and Suzannah for almost as long. She put her bag down on the sitting-room table and said cheerfully, ‘Well, love, we’ve known this would happen—it doesn’t make it any easier for you, but it’s a gentle passing for your aunty, and we’d all wish for that, wouldn’t we, after all she’s done for others.’
Suzannah had a good cry on to her companion’s plump shoulder and felt better for it. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea while you go upstairs,’ she said in a watery voice, and managed a smile.
Miss Lightfoot slipped away as she slept, and by then it was late in the evening and Dr Warren had been once more. He had liked his patient and felt sorry for her niece. ‘Nurse Bennett will stay here tonight,’ he told Suzannah, ‘and I’ll deal with everything.’
He went back home and his wife asked him what would happen to Suzannah. ‘She’s a sensible girl’, he observed. ‘That’s a nice little house and I dare say she’ll find work; she’s a clever girl, you know, should have gone to a university by rights. I dare say they’ll give her a helping hand at the manor house.’
The professor had already left to keep an appointment; Dr Warren picked up the phone and left a message for him.
Almost the entire village went to the funeral. Miss Lightfoot had been liked by everyone, and Suzannah, going home to an empty little house, felt comforted by their kindness. She had refused several offers of hospitality; it would only be putting off the moment when she would be alone with Horace. She had been unhappy before when her parents had died, and she knew that the unhappiness would pass, and pass more quickly if she faced up to it and carried on with her life as usual. She cooked her supper, fed Horace, saw to the hens and went to bed, and if she cried a little before she slept, she told herself it was only because she was tired after a long and trying day.
It was hard at first and time hung heavy on her hands, for she had been doing more and more for her aunt during the past few months. She turned out cupboards and drawers, gardened for hours at a stretch, and in the evenings sat at the table, pondering ways and means. Her aunt had left only a very little money, for she had been supplementing her pension from her small capital. Suzannah had a few pounds saved, but she would have to find work as soon as possible. There had been a rumour in the village that Miss Smythe had asked for an assistant to help her in the school; Suzannah had had a good education, a clutch of A-levels and could have had a place in a university. Much cheered with the idea, she went to bed a week or so after her aunt’s death, determined to go and see Miss Smythe in the morning.
She was up early to find that the postman had already been—several letters which she skimmed through and laid on one side to answer later; the last one was from the manor house and rather surprised her—a formal note asking her to call there that morning.
She read it a second time; perhaps there was a job for her there? She got dressed and had breakfast, tidied the little house and walked up the drive and round the side of the house to the door which the staff used. She met Mr Toms as she was going through the flagstoned passage which would lead her to the stairs and the private wing. She had always got on well with him, but now he showed no wish to stop and pass the time of day; indeed, he muttered that he was already late and barely paused to wish her good morning, which surprised her very much.
Grimm the butler answered the door when she pressed the discreetly hidden bell by the door at the top of the staircase. He bade her good morning, ushering her into a small ante-room, and then he went away, to return in a few minutes and ask her to go with him.
She had expected to see old Sir William, but there was no sign of him in the study into which she was ushered. Only his niece, a girl a little older than Suzannah, sat behind the desk. Suzannah had met her on several occasions and hadn’t liked her; she liked her even less now as she went on writing, le
aving Suzannah to stand in the middle of the room. She looked up finally and Suzannah thought what a pretty girl she was, tall and dark with regular features and blue eyes and always beautifully dressed. She said now, ‘Oh, hello. Uncle isn’t well enough to see anyone, so I’ve taken over for a time. I won’t keep you long. I expect you’ve heard that there is an assistant teacher coming to live here to give Miss Smythe a hand. She’ll start after half-term, in a couple of weeks’ time, so we shall want the lodge for her to live in.’
It was the very last thing Suzannah had expected to hear. She was sensible enough to know that sooner or later she would have to leave the lodge unless she could get a job connected with the manor house, and somehow she had believed that old Sir William would have agreed to her applying for the post of teacher or at least allowed her to have stayed on and continued to work as a guide.
She said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘I had hoped to apply for that post…’
‘Well, it’s been filled, and don’t expect to find a job here. Sir William has been far too easygoing; I’m cutting down on the staff. But you’re able to shift for yourself, I suppose?’ She gave Suzannah a cold smile. ‘I consider that we’ve more than paid our debt to your aunt; there’s no reason why we should have to go on paying it to you.’ She pulled some papers towards her. ‘Well, that’s settled, isn’t it? I don’t know what you intend doing with your aunt’s furniture—sell it to the schoolteacher if you like, only the lodge must be empty of your possessions in two weeks. Goodbye, Suzannah.’
Suzannah didn’t answer, she walked out of the room and closed the door very gently behind her. It was like a bad dream, only it wasn’t a dream, it was reality, and presently when she could think straight she would come to terms with it. Without thinking, she took the long way round to the front door, through the picture gallery, and half-way along it found herself face to face with Professor Bowers-Bentinck. She would have walked past him, but he put out a hand and stopped her, staring down at her pale, pinched face.
‘Well, well, Miss Lightfoot, so we meet once more—there must be a magnet which draws us…’ He had spoken lightly, but when she looked up at him with her lovely grey eyes full of hurt and puzzlement, he asked, ‘What’s wrong? You’re not ill?’
She didn’t answer, only pulled her arm away and ran from him, out of the gallery and down the staircase, through the front door and down the drive. She would have to be alone for a while to pull herself together and then think what was best to do. Fleetingly she wondered why the professor was at the manor house, and then she remembered that old Sir William wasn’t well. And anyway, what did it matter?
Back at the lodge, she sat down at the kitchen table with Horace on her lap and tried to think clearly. Two weeks wasn’t long, but if she was sensible it would be time enough. She fetched pencil and paper and began to write down all the things which would have to be done.
The professor stood for a moment, watching Suzannah’s flying figure, then he shrugged his huge shoulders and went back to the private wing, opened the door of the study and strolled in.
The girl at the desk looked up and smiled charmingly at him.
‘Phoebe, I have just met that small red-haired girl who works as a guide here, with a face like skimmed milk and tragic eyes…’
The girl shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s that woman’s niece—the one who died and lived at the lodge. The new assistant teacher will have to live there, so I’ve arranged for the girl to move out.’
He leaned against the wall, looking at her without expression. ‘Oh? Has she somewhere to go?’
‘How should I know, Guy? She’s young and quite clever, so I’ve heard; she’ll find something to do.’
‘No family, no money?’
‘How on earth should I know? Uncle William has been far too soft with these people.’
‘So you have turned her loose into the world?’
The girl frowned. ‘Well, why not? I want that lodge and there’s no work for her as a guide—I’ve got rid of that woman from the post office, too. Miss Smythe can manage on her own, and if we get more visitors in the summer I’ll get casual help.’
‘Does your uncle know about this?’ he spoke casually.
‘Good heavens, no! He’s too old to be bothered. I’ll write to Father and let him know when I’ve got time.’
‘And he will approve?’
She shrugged and laughed. ‘It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t—he’s on the other side of the world.’ She pushed back her chair and smiled charmingly. ‘Let’s talk about something else, Guy—how about driving me over to Hungerford and giving me lunch?’
‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Phoebe. I have to be back in town this afternoon.’ He strolled back to the door. ‘I came to see your uncle before I left.’
‘You’re not going? I counted on you staying for a few days…’ She got up and crossed the room to him. ‘You don’t mean that?’
He had opened the door. ‘My dear girl, you tend to forget that I work for a living.’
‘You don’t need to,’ she retorted.
‘Agreed, but it’s my life.’ He made no move to respond when she kissed his cheek.
‘We’ll see each other?’ she asked.
‘Undoubtedly, my dear.’ He had gone, shutting the door behind him.
He went back to Dr Warren’s house, made his farewells, threw his bag into the boot of the Bentley and drove away. But not very far. At the main gates of the manor house he stopped, got out and knocked on the lodge door. There was no answer, so he lifted the latch and walked in.
Suzannah was sitting at the table, neatly writing down what needed to be done if she were to leave in two weeks—the list was long and when she had finished it she began on another list of possible jobs she might be able to do. It seemed to her, looking at it, that all she was fit for was to be a governess—and were there such people nowadays? Or a mother’s help, or find work in a hotel or large house as a domestic worker. Whichever way she looked at it, the list was depressing.
She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, and for some reason she wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him. She said in a slightly thickened voice, ‘Oh, do go away…’
Despite her best efforts, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ he told her coolly, ‘and don’t, for pity’s sake, start weeping. It’s a waste of time.’
She glared at him and wiped a hand across her cheeks like a child. She wasn’t sure why he seemed to be part and parcel of the morning’s miserable happening; she only knew that at that moment she didn’t like him.
He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs before him. ‘You have to leave here?’
‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Now, if you would go away, I have a great deal to do.’
He sat looking at her for a few moments, frowning a little, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miss Davinish tells me that you have no job. Perhaps I could have helped in some way,’ his blue eyes were cold, ‘but it seems that I was mistaken.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good day, young lady.’
He went away as quietly as he had come, and she heard his car drive away.
CHAPTER TWO
SUZANNAH DID her best to shake off the feeling that the not very solid ground beneath her had been cut from under her feet. She might not like the professor, but he had offered to help her and she badly needed help, and like a fool she had turned his offer down; she hadn’t even thanked him for it, either. A pity he hadn’t had the patience to stay a little longer until her good sense had taken over from her stupid bout of weeping. She winced at the thought of the cold scorn in his eyes. And yet he had been so kind when Aunt Mabel had been ill…
As for the professor, he drove back to London, saw a handful of patients at his consulting rooms, performed a delicate and difficult brain operation at the hospital and returned to his elegant home in a backwater of Belgravia to eat his d
inner and then go to his study to catch up on his post. But he made slow work of it. Suzannah’s red hair, crowning her white, cross face, kept superimposing itself upon his letters. He cast them down at length and reached for the telephone as it began to ring. It was Phoebe at her most charming, and she had the knack of making him laugh. They talked at some length and he half promised to spend the next weekend at the manor house. As he put the phone down, he told himself that it was to be hoped that Suzannah would be gone.
He spoke so forcefully that Henry, his long-haired dachshund, sitting under his desk, half asleep, came out to see what was the matter.
He had a long list the next day, and when it was over he sat in sister’s office, drinking coffee and taking great bites out of the sandwiches she had sent for, listening courteously to her rather tart observations on lack of staff, not enough money and when was she to have the instruments she had ordered weeks ago?
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘We need another staff nurse, don’t we? We didn’t get a replacement for Mrs Webb when she left. You’re working at full stretch, aren’t you, Sister?’
She gave him a grateful look. Sister Ash was in her fifties, a splendid theatre sister and, although she had a junior sister to take over when she was off duty, she was hard-pressed. Just like Professor Bowers-Bentinck to think of that, she reflected; such a nice man, always calm, almost placid when he was operating, and with such lovely manners. She thanked him and presently he went off to the intensive care unit to take a look at his patient. It was as he was strolling to the entrance, giving last minute instructions to his registrar, Ned Blake, that he stopped dead.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’
‘A change in treatment?’ asked Ned.
‘No, no, my dear chap—nothing to do with our patient. Keep on as I suggest, will you? I’ll be in the earliest I can in the morning, and give me a ring if you’re worried.’ He nodded goodbye and went out to his car and drove home, where he went straight to his study, sat in his chair for five minutes or more, deep in thought, and then picked up the phone.