by Betty Neels
‘Aren’t you being rather premature?’ James spoke casually, but, glancing at his profile, Sybil noted its grimness.
‘Perhaps, but you must admit that Philly looked happy.’
‘How long is Gregory staying at Netherby? He’s going up to town this evening, isn’t he?’
‘He’s meeting a friend for dinner…’
‘Does he work?’
‘Oh, yes. Something in the City. But he’s got leave until his leg is quite better. He has money of his own, of course. My uncle’s got a small estate in Norfolk.’
All of this was said with an air of such honesty, yet somehow the Professor’s handsome nose smelled a rat…
With only vague plans made for a future meeting, he dropped Sybil off and drove to his flat, where Jolly took one look at his face and retired discreetly to the kitchen.
‘In a mood,’ he told his cat. ‘Best leave him for a bit and then dish up something tasty. No doubt that Miss West’s been upsetting him again.’
The Professor wasn’t upset, he was in a towering rage. He had taken an instant dislike to Gregory, and to his air of possessiveness each time he looked at or spoke to Philly. If he had been a decent fellow, James told himself, he would have accepted the situation, but Gregory was the very last man for Philly. Besides, he wasn’t sure that she liked him, let alone loved him…
He went in search of Jolly presently. ‘I’m going down to the cottage tomorrow. Have the day off—I’ll not be back until early evening.’
‘I thought that was what you might be doing. There’s a marrow bone in the fridge for George.’
Mrs Willett was delighted when he phoned her. ‘There’ll be roast pork and apple sauce, and one of my treacle tarts, and we can have a good gossip.’ Which meant that she would ask innumerable questions without once probing his private life, knowing that if he wished to he would tell her anything he wanted to.
She knew that he was a very reserved man—he had many friends, but they knew very little about him other than his work. Not one of them approved of Sybil, but they liked him too much to say so, even in the vaguest way. Mrs Willett didn’t like her either, but she was prepared to do her best to do so if that would make her Master James a happy man.
He wasn’t happy; she saw that at a glance although she said nothing. He had a problem and she hoped that he might tell her about it. And sure enough, the pork and apple sauce disposed of, the washing up done and the pair of them sitting in the garden with George at their feet, the Professor said, ‘Nanny, I need your advice…’
‘If I can help, I will,’ said Nanny, ‘and I’ll listen.’
When he had finished, he added, ‘You see, Nanny, I love her, and if she loves this Gregory and wants to marry him I’ll not see her again. But, whether or not she does love him, I know that I cannot marry Sybil. I suppose that I should feel very much to blame for that, but I have known for some time now that she doesn’t love me. She is beautiful and charming, but behind that there is nothing. And before I say goodbye to Philly I want to make sure that she will be happy. Do you know, Nanny, I think that something is not quite right about this Gregory? Though Sybil told me that his home is in Norfolk and that he has a job in the City.’
Nanny was brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘Find out where this man lives and go and see where it is—perhaps manage to meet his father or family. Find out where he works, discover his friends. And don’t tell me that you can’t, for you know any number of people who could help you. If he’s a good man and loves Philly, and you’re satisfied about him, then you can bid her goodbye and take up your life again. If there’s something wrong, you can put it right.’
‘That is what I’ve been thinking. I needed someone to tell me that I wasn’t behaving like a fool.’
It was a few days later, discussing a small patient’s complicated fractured leg, that the Professor’s colleague remarked, ‘Uncommon case this. Only seen one other. A young man some months ago. Private patient and gave a good deal of trouble so I understand—chatting up the nurses, having drinks smuggled in and so on. Told me that he had an executive job in the City; turned out to be a job in name only, working in the family firm whenever her felt like it. Didn’t pay his bill, either. His father settled it finally, explained that though his son had money of his own he was still sowing his wild oats.’
The Professor listened to this with an expressionless face and finally said, ‘I seem to have heard about this—was it Finch…?’
‘Very likely. The father has a small estate in Norfolk; not liked in the neighbourhood. I made it my business to find out before I sent in my bill.’
‘I wonder why I remember the name?’ observed the Professor guilelessly. ‘A village not too far from the sea?’ It was a lucky guess.
‘That’s right—inland from Great Yarmouth. Limberthorpe. A dozen houses and a church.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. Let me know how that leg does…’
The Professor went home and got out a road map. He would be free on Sunday. From what he had heard his dearest Philly had fallen in love with a man who would make her unhappy, but he must give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. He might not be as black as his colleague had painted, and the only way to find out was to go and see for himself. Surely someone in a village as small as Limberthorpe would let drop a hint or two.
He set off early in the morning and reached Limberthorpe in time to join the handful of men in the bar of the village pub. They paused in their talk as he went in. He ordered a pint and sat at the bar, making no attempt to join in their conversation.
Presently one of the men said, ‘You’re strange to these parts?’
‘Just passing through. This village looked so pleasant I stopped for a while.’
‘’Tis pleasant enough,’ said an old man, ‘for them as passes on their way.’
He paused, and the Professor recognised this as a strong hint that a round was called for. This done, he said casually, ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Being sold up lock, stock and barrel, the big house. The old man wants to go and live with his daughter, and young Mr Finch he can’t be bothered with the place, you see. Likes London and racketing around. Can’t be bothered with the house, never been interested in the village.’
The Professor signalled another round. ‘Does that affect the village?’
‘Course it does. We rent our cottages from old Mr Finch, but the young ’un, he doesn’t want to know. The new owner, when they get one, will probably put up the rents or turn us out.’
‘But you could talk to young Mr Finch…’
‘Him? Smooth, he is. Always smiling and wouldn’t lift a finger to save his granny.’
Driving back home later, the Professor reflected that, even allowing for exaggeration, Gregory Finch was the last man in the world he would allow Philly to marry…
He had a busy week ahead of him, so there was no chance to go and see Philly before the following weekend. Sybil was clever enough not to demand to be taken out, being charmingly sympathetic over his long days at the hospital and only once mentioning Gregory.
‘He seems so happy,’ she told James. ‘He sees Philly most days—he’s moved into the local pub so’s to be nearer to her.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He can’t talk of anyone else.’
None of which was true. But how was the Professor to know that?
His busy week ended in an even busier weekend, so it wasn’t until Monday morning that he got into the Bentley and drove to Nether Ditchling.
The Vicarage door, as usual, was half-open, and somewhere beyond it someone was Hoovering.
Mrs Selby came to the door when he rang. ‘Oh, how nice to see you again. Come on in. Did you want to see the Vicar? He’s in his study.’
‘I wanted to see Philly.’
Mrs Selby shot him a quick look. ‘She’s in the garden, right at the end, hanging out the washing. Go and find her and I’ll put the coffee on.’
Philly, in a cotton dress which was a bit faded, her hair tied back
with a piece of string, was pegging sheets with the expertise of long practice.
The Professor didn’t speak until he was close behind her, and then his, ‘Good morning Philly,’ was uttered very quietly.
Philly turned sharply round. ‘Whatever are you doing here on a Monday morning? Shouldn’t you be working?’
Which was hardly a good start to a conversation.
He said meekly, ‘Sometimes I have a day off.’
He took a flapping sheet from her and pegged it neatly. ‘I want to talk to you, Philly.’
She shook out a towel. ‘Is Sybil with you?’
‘No, this is something which concerns us.’
He took the towel from her and hung it up neatly.
Philly picked up a sheet and had it taken from her too.
‘Will you listen, Philly?’
‘No.’ Then, much too brightly, she said, ‘Gregory tells me that you and Sybil are to marry very soon. I hope you will both be very happy.’
‘You believed him?’
‘Of course.’ She hadn’t wanted to, but he had sounded so convincing. She had cried her eyes out that night, and then in the cold light of morning had resolved never to think of the Professor again.
The Professor sighed. ‘Are you going to marry this Gregory?’
‘I shan’t tell you,’ said Philly, turning her back smartly and hanging another sheet. ‘And now, go away, do!’
He went, for there was no point in talking to her until she would listen.
At the house Mrs Selby met him as he went through the kitchen door.
‘Coffee?’ she offered, and then, seeing his face, added, ‘Perhaps you would rather not stop?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll come again, if I may. Tell me, Mrs Selby, does Philly mean to marry Gregory Finch?’
‘Marry him! Great goodness, no. She doesn’t like him overmuch, and he certainly doesn’t mean to marry her—although he’s always on the doorstep. It’s as though he’s…’ she paused to think ‘…acting a part.’
The Professor nodded; Philly had sent him away, but there was a reason for that and it certainly wasn’t because she intended to marry Gregory. If it was because she thought that he and Sybil were to marry, then that was a misunderstanding he must put right.
He should have felt disappointed by her reception of him, but, driving back to London, he felt elated. Sybil and Gregory were somehow concerned in fabricating the man’s assiduous courting of Philly; he must see them both as soon as possible.
He went straight to the hospital. Philly might be the love of his life, but his work was his life too.
It was several days before he had the good fortune to meet Sybil and Gregory together.
He had lunched with a colleague, and with an hour or so to spare was walking back to the hospital. Outside an elegant little café he saw Sybil and Gregory, their heads together over a small table.
Interesting, reflected the Professor; Sybil had phoned to say that she would be staying with friends in Wales for several days. She had also told him that Gregory was still in Nether Ditchling. ‘I hear wedding bells,’ she had said laughingly.
The Professor strolled across the pavement and took a chair between them. ‘Am I interrupting something?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Are you hatching another instalment of Gregory’s love-life?’ He turned a cold eye on him. ‘If you so much as set foot in Nether Ditchling again I’ll break every bone in your body. Now, tell me why you have been acting the eager bridegroom.’
Gregory had gone pale. He wasn’t a brave man, and the Professor’s nasty smile and the very size of him sent his heart into his boots.
‘It was just a joke. I meant no harm. I did it to please Sybil.’
He ignored the curl of the Professor’s lip and Sybil’s quick, ‘Shut up, Gregory.’
‘She was afraid you’d gone off her; after all, no girl likes to see a comfortable future go down the drain. Only she wanted a bit of fun first. It was a good scheme; I’d put you off Philly and you’d forget her…’ His voice trailed away. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘there’s no harm done…’
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ said Sybil. ‘I may have mentioned that it would be rather a joke to get Philly interested, but that’s all.’
The Professor got up, towering over them. ‘What a despicable pair you are. If I ever meet you again, Finch, I’ll not answer for my actions. And as for you, Sybil, there is a great deal that I would like to say, but what would be the point? I’m sure you will find yourself a husband without difficulty. I’ll see that a notice goes into the right papers with the usual polite nonsense used for broken engagements.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ gasped Sybil. ‘I’ll marry you when you want…’
‘But I don’t want.’ He smiled coldly at them in turn, and then walked away.
It was almost another week before the Professor was free to drive to Nether Ditchling. It was early afternoon by the time he got there.
The Vicar was putting the finishing touches to his Sunday sermon and Mrs Selby was on the drawing-room sofa with her feet up. All five of her daughters were home, but they were all out, and an hour with a good book was something she had been looking forward to.
She frowned when she heard someone at the open front door and got unwillingly to her feet. But the frown disappeared when she saw the Professor standing there.
‘I’ve disturbed you.’ She was still clutching her book. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve come to see Philly.’
Mrs Selby beamed. ‘She’s in the church, doing the flowers.’ She glanced at the hall clock. ‘She must be almost finished.’
He nodded, smiled slowly at her, went back to the street and across to the church. She watched him going inside before going back to the sofa. Not to read this time but to make plans—the plans a bride’s mother had such pleasure in making.
Philly was arranging a vase of flowers in one of the side chapels: lupins and phlox, sweet-smelling syringa and floribunda roses. James sat down quietly in a nearby pew and watched her.
When she had finished to her satisfaction he said quietly, ‘Philly, will you leave your flowers for a minute and come with me?’
She turned to look at him, her face suddenly aglow with happiness, and went to him and put her hand in his. Together they went out of the church, across the quiet churchyard and into the narrow lane beyond.
‘We will talk later,’ said the Professor, and took her in his arms and kissed her in a masterful fashion.
Really, there was no need to say anything, reflected Philly, completely and utterly happy. When she was being kissed in such a way words were unnecessary. She looked up into his face and saw the love there. She smiled at him, and then stretched up to kiss him, too.
A PERFECT PROPOSAL
Liz Fielding
CHAPTER ONE
‘MARK, what’s happened? You were supposed to be at a meeting with the surveyors first thing. They just called from the site—’
‘Jane…’ Mark Hilliard sounded as if he’d come out of some dark place and needed a moment to gather himself. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called…Ring them back and apologise for me, will you? I’ve got a bit of a crisis at home.’
‘Crisis?’ Jane Carmichael’s heart turned over. ‘Is Shuli sick?’
‘No, she’s fine. But she’s just sacked another nanny.’
‘Shuli sacked the nanny? I know she’s bright, but isn’t that rather advanced behaviour for a three-year-old? What did she do? Call her into the nursery, sit her down on Mr Fluffy and say, “I’m afraid you haven’t lived up to the promise of your excellent references, Mrs Collins. I’m going to have to let you go?”’
‘Mrs Collins was the nanny before last.’
‘Oh, Mark!’ Jane’s amusement evaporated rapidly. She’d interviewed Sarah Collins herself and had been convinced she would be perfect for the job.
‘She left last month. Some excuse about family problems. You tried so hard that I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. The agency has been send
ing me temps in the meantime. It’s given Shuli plenty of opportunity to practise the art of getting rid of them. This morning she just screamed the place down until the poor woman left the house. I don’t know why; her references were excellent. She seemed perfect in every way to me.’
‘Things look different from knee height. It wasn’t you she was giving a bath and tucking up in bed.’ Then, grateful that he couldn’t see her quick flush, ‘Maybe you should try asking Shuli what she wants before you take on someone else. She might settle better with a live-in nanny.’
‘She might. I wouldn’t.’
They’d discussed it at length before, but he was clearly uncomfortable about sharing his house with a strange woman. She wasn’t wild about the idea, either, but Shuli was more important than her own pathetic little jealousies. Getting him to acknowledge that his little girl was an individual who might have feelings of her own was an uphill battle, but someone had to try.
‘Has she calmed down now?’
‘Like any woman, Jane, she’s perfectly happy now that she’s got her own way.’ Then, somewhat belatedly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you…’
‘No.’ He didn’t think of her as a woman at all.
‘The agency is trying to find a replacement and in the meantime I’m calling everyone I can think of to have her.’
‘No luck?’
‘My mother is away at some conference and my sister moved to Strasbourg last month. They’re not your average grandmother/aunt combination,’ he said wearily. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to work from home until I can sort something out. At least for the rest of the week. Will you bring over the files on my desk, please? And the mail.’
‘Are you sure? It’ll be nearly lunchtime by the time I arrive. Maybe you should just take the day off and spend it with Shuli.’ That was what the child wanted. A father who was there to give her a cuddle when she needed it. Who had time for her when she woke up eager to play; who made an effort to get home in time to read her a bedtime story. She didn’t blame Shuli for sacking a series of strangers, no matter how well qualified, who were being paid to stand in for a mother she’d never known, for a father who found her presence a painful daily reminder of everything he’d lost. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she pointed out, trying again. ‘You could take her to the country park.’