Nurse Hilary

by Peggy Gaddis

  As Nora moved to the tea-cart, the dark apron that she wore fluttered back a little to reveal another one beneath it, of snowy white with a deep edging of crocheted lace. Hilary bent forward eagerly.

  “What lovely crochet!” she said. “Did you do it yourself, Nora?”

  “I did that,” answered Nora proudly, lifting the dark apron to show the snowy white one with its handsome edging. “About the only thing I can do that I’m real proud of is crochet.”

  “You must meet a new guest at the Club, who crochets,” said Hilary. “She showed me a luncheon set she was making for her daughter; it’s really lovely.”

  “Well, now,” said Nora heartily, “I’d sure like to meet her.” And then she chuckled richly and looked down at Angela. “How’d an old-fashioned woman like that get into the T. & C.?” she wondered. “I thought all those old girls did was play bridge, quarrel with the help and each other and gossip.”

  “Mrs. Barton isn’t like that at all,” protested Hilary. “I think you’d like her. She’s really a dear, very shy and timid and lonely. She lived in a very old house in a small town and was famous for her iris.”

  “Iris?” asked Angela with eager interest. “Oh, I’d love to meet her. Maybe she can advise me what kind to plant, I adore iris.”

  “You’d adore Mrs. Barton, too! You must both come and meet her—” Her voice died beneath the look of rich amusement that covered Nora’s broad face.

  “Now, can you just picture me walking into the T. & C. and being introduced to one of the guests? Maybe even sitting down to talk with her? Himself would just about strip a gear!” she drawled. “You’d better bring your lady-friend down to tea some afternoon—that’d be all right, Angela? You suppose Himself wouldn’t object to that?”

  “Oh, shut up, Nora.” Angela was flushing deeply and miserably avoiding Hilary’s startled eyes. “You know Pop’s not that kind of a snob.”

  “Is he not?” drawled Nora in a tone of polite, unconvinced surprise. “Then you tell me what kind he is. Been nice meeting you, Hilary. Sorry you can’t come for dinner, but maybe some other time.”

  She wheeled the cart out of the room, the swinging door into the kitchen rocked shut, and her voice, surprisingly true and musical, lifted in an old hymn.

  “I’m sorry you can’t come for dinner, too, Hilary,” said Angela, as she walked down the flagstone path to the low gate. “Maybe some other time, hmm?”

  “Thanks, I’d love it,” answered Hilary, smiling. “Your Nora’s a darling.”

  “Oh, she’s a character, but I adore her and we get along beautifully.” Angela laughed, then sobered, and there was an odd shyness, a hesitancy in her voice as she went on, “Hilary, I have to ask you to promise me something.”

  Puzzled by her manner, Hilary answered, “If it’s anything I can do, Angela—”

  “It’s just that you won’t tell anybody up there at the Club about Reid coming to dinner,” said Angela huskily.

  “Why, Angela, of course I won’t. Does your father disapprove?”

  “Heck, no, Pop would be pleased to death. It’s the Duchess who would just about raise the roof,” answered Angela painfully. “She is convinced I’m not Reid’s—social equal.” Her mouth twisted bitterly on the phrase.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, surely she can’t be that stupid.”

  “Hilary, you have no idea what she can be, when she sets her mind to it!” Angela burst out. “You saw the way she treated him in the dining room that day. Well, she is perfectly willing to kick him around and treat him like a dog, but after all, he is a Keenan, and so when he marries it must be some—anemic, buck-toothed debutante straight out of the top drawer socially.”

  She spoke so bitterly that Hilary was startled, and then Angela looked up at her and grinned.

  “So you see why I don’t want the old—er—that is, one of Pop’s pet guests to find out her favorite football is threatening to escape her,” she finished.

  “I hope very much that he does, Angela,” said Hilary quietly but very firmly. “He seems like a rather nice lad, much too good to be anybody’s favorite football.”

  “He is, Hilary; he’s wonderful,” said Angela, her lovely face glowing with ardour. “It’s just that he’s so grateful to her that he feels he owes it to her to let her kick him around. You know something, Hilary?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid,” admitted Hilary, smiling in spite of her warm sympathy for the girl.

  “Gratitude can be a very good thing, but there are times when it can become a curse,” said Angela hotly. “Just because she took care of him when he was a child and growing up, now she thinks she owns him body and soul, and he’s grateful, so he puts up with it.”

  “As you put up with Nora,” Hilary reminded her gently.

  Angela stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “Well, maybe you’re right,” she admitted at last, turning the thought over and over in her mind. “But I wouldn’t give you one of Nora, for a whole worldful of Mrs. Keenans.”

  Hilary laughed.

  “Confidentially, Angela, neither would I!” she answered, and hugged the girl lightly. “You have fun with Reid, and your secret is perfectly safe with me! I admire his good judgment in choosing you for his friend! He couldn’t have found a more loyal or a more deserving one—or a prettier one! The lad’s loaded with luck, even if he is the Duchess’ favorite football.”

  Angela beamed happily. “Aren’t you nice?” she glowed.

  “So are you,” said Hilary and walked away back up the drive to the Club, her mind occupied with the discoveries she had made this afternoon.

  Chapter Twelve

  March continued to be mild and spring-like and merged gradually into April. One morning Hilary was summoned to the lobby, to see Jill Fleming, very smart in a thin gray suit, with an armful of sable-skins slung over her arm.

  “Oh, Nurse, I’m Mrs. Fleming,” she announced eagerly. “I’ve come to see my mother, Mrs. Barton.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Fleming,” Hilary greeted her pleasantly. “I think she’s in the solarium. Will you come this way?”

  “How has she been, Nurse?” asked Jill anxiously, peered at Hilary, and said eagerly, “Oh, I remember now, you’re Miss—Miss—?”

  “Westbrook,” Hilary answered.

  “Oh, yes, I was so dreadfully upset the day we brought Mother here I don’t remember much of anything, except that I was just about heartbroken to go away and leave her,” Jill went swiftly on, anxiety in her eyes. “Has she settled down? Does she seem terribly unhappy or homesick? But then of course she would. People don’t adjust easily at her age.” They had reached the solarium now, and Hilary’s eyes swept swiftly about the place and came to rest on Mrs. Barton, the centre of a small group that was watching her eagerly, listening very respectfully to something she was saying.

  Jill followed the direction of Hilary’s eyes, and her own widened as she caught her breath, incredulous. Mrs. Barton was laughing, a faint color in her cheeks, as she kept her eyes on the crocheting she was doing, while the others watched her, obviously interested.

  “I can’t believe it,” gasped Jill faintly. “Why—she looks years younger and—happy!”

  “I feel sure she is, Mrs. Fleming,” answered Hilary. “She’s very popular and seems to enjoy herself every minute.”

  Jill studied her mother for a moment, before she went forward with a little rush and hugged her.

  Startled, Mrs. Barton looked up, and then her face flamed with delight and she dropped the crocheting into her lap and put her arms about Jill.

  “Darling, this is wonderful! I’m so glad to see you, Jill honey,” she beamed joyously.

  “And I’m so glad to see you, Mamma darling,” said Jill, and there were tears in her eyes. “I feel such a beast that I haven’t been able to come before.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, darling!” Mrs. Barton scolded her fondly. “I know how busy you are. How is Elliott? And Juddy? And Elise?”

  “Oh, ever
ybody’s just fine, honey. We’ve all been worried about you ...”

  Mrs. Barton looked astonished.

  “But, my dear girl, why should you worry about me?” she protested in such honest surprise that Jill winced. “This is such a lovely place and I have such lovely friends. You must meet my friends.”

  She introduced them, the women who sat grouped about her, eyeing Jill with a friendly, admiring interest. And then Mrs. Barton said, “And this is my friend, Mr. Hodding.”

  Mr. Hodding, a little apart from the group of women, rose, put down his newspaper, and smiled warmly at Jill.

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Fleming,” he said with old-fashioned courtesy as he took the hand Jill extended and bowed above it.

  “Well, I must say, Mother, you look as if you were having the time of your life.” Jill had mastered the tears but not yet the astonishment that had gripped her. “And of course it is a lovely place.”

  Mrs. Barton smiled warmly at her.

  “Now you’re teasing me again, as you always do because I keep saying things are ‘lovely.’ Well, it is a lovely place and these are lovely people,” she said, gaily defensive.

  “Well, of course,” Jill agreed lightly. “Now come along and get dressed. I’ve come to take you away.”

  Mrs. Barton cried out in sharp protest, and the group looked startled and unhappy.

  “Oh, no, Jill, do I have to leave?” Mrs. Barton’s face was stricken.

  “Why, you blessed goose, I only meant for the day,” Jill answered hastily. “I thought we’d go in town, do some shopping, have a very fancy lunch somewhere, and then perhaps see a movie or something and have tea.”

  Mrs. Barton drew a deep breath of acute relief and regained her smile.

  “Thank you, dear, that’s lovely of you,” she answered warmly. “But I really couldn’t today. I’m much too busy.”

  Jill stared at her.

  “Too busy?” she repeated incredulously.

  “Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Barton as though she found Jill’s surprise faintly offensive. “I’m teaching a class in arts and crafts this afternoon, and then there’s my bridge lesson at three. And there’s a lecture on flower arrangement after tea; and tonight we’re having a TV party. There are several good programs on that we all enjoy...”

  Jill caught a phrase here and there in the busy schedule. “Bridge lesson, Mother? You?”

  “And why not, I’d like to know? I’m almost the only guest here who doesn’t play, and it looks like a lot of fun.”

  “And flower arrangement?”

  Mrs. Barton grinned, a girlish grin of honest amusement. “I know, I know,” she admitted. “I always thought it was nonsense. I always thought if you gave cut flowers enough water in which to be comfortable and to look happy, that was all that mattered. But since I’ve seen the miracles of beauty that can be done with just a few blooms, or some dried grasses, even weeds ...”

  Jill drew a long breath and said firmly, “And now I’ll hear more about that arts and crafts. Just what are you teaching, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

  Mrs. Barton held up the delicate, lace-like crochet, a twinkle in her eyes.

  “What else?” she demanded youthfully, and Jill laughed joyously.

  “Mother, you really are—the most!” Her youthfulness matched her mother’s, as she bent and kissed her. “Sure you won’t come in town with me? I thought we could go for a drive so you could see the countryside in spring.”

  Mrs. Barton’s hand indicated the sweep of woods and fields, the new-turned earth, the blossoming forsythia and quince and the tulips and daffodils marching in a vari-colored flood down the hillside; the trees limned in delicate new green.

  “Thank you, dear, but could you show anything more beautiful than this?” she asked gently.

  “No, darling, I don’t suppose I could,” Jill yielded. “Well, can I do any shopping for you? Is there anything you’d like to have?”

  Mrs. Barton smiled up at her fondly.

  “I just can’t think of a single thing, honey,” she answered with convincing sincerity. “It’s good to see you, dear, and thank you for coming.”

  Jill, tears in her eyes, bent swiftly and kissed her, smiled and nodded at the interested group about her, and turned away. Hilary walked beside her. Halfway down the corridor, Mr. Hodding overtook them, diffident as a bashful boy, but obviously with something on his mind that he felt must be said.

  “Mrs. Fleming, may I say something?” he asked as Jill turned toward him.

  “Of course, Mr. Hodding.” There was a moment of uneasiness in Jill’s eyes.

  “It’s only to assure you that your mother was quite sincere,” he told her awkwardly. “I mean she was not, as the young people say, putting on an act. She is very busy, very happy, she is perfectly adjusted, and you have no cause to worry about her in the slightest degree.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hodding,” said Jill.

  “I was just afraid you might think that she was—well, that she was merely trying to reassure you,” Mr. Hodding said, smiling shyly at Hilary. “Those of us who are with her constantly know that she is very active, busy, occupied—in short, that she is very happy and contented.”

  He smiled, bowed his slight, old-fashioned bow and went on down the corridor toward the lounge. Jill’s eyes followed his tall, spare back that was so erect that it seemed to deny his white hair.

  “What a nice man,” said Jill, and drew her brows together in a little frown. “Hodding? That wouldn’t be old Jason Hodding, the multi-millionaire, would it?”

  “It wouldn’t be anybody else,” Hilary smiled. “He is rather a darling, isn’t he?”

  “He is indeed, so much so that I’d never have dreamed he had tons of money,” mused Jill thoughtfully. “You’d expect a man with all his money to be living in some very de luxe hotel, or in an apartment or on a vast estate.”

  “He found it very lonely, and he seems to like it much better here,” said Hilary, smiling. “We’re very happy to have him, and happiest of all to know that he likes being here.”

  Jill stood for a moment, very thoughtful, and then she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and tossed her furs about them.

  “And to think how I dreaded coming here, for fear I’d find mother bed-ridden, grieving herself to death from homesickness,” she said aloud. “And she didn’t even ask about her beloved iris!”

  Hilary laughed.

  “Mr. Ramsey asked her to help select varieties to be planted in the garden, and she seemed to get quite a bang out of it.”

  “I must see Mr. Ramsey and thank him for that,” said Jill firmly, and Hilary nodded as they walked down the corridor and to the door of Drew’s office, opening off the lobby, across from Dr. Marsden’s.

  “I’ll see if he is free,” said Hilary, and tapped at the door. At the sound of Drew’s voice, she opened it. “Mrs. Fleming is here, Mr. Ramsey. Mrs. Barton’s daughter. She would like to speak to you.”

  Drew, dictating to a secretary, rose instantly and crossed to the door, where he turned on all his charm for Jill, accepting graciously her assurance of her delight in her mother’s wellbeing.

  “I may say, Mrs. Fleming, we take great pride in keeping our guests happy,” said Drew genially. “It’s nice of you to come and tell me.”

  “Miss Westbrook tells me that you let Mother advise you on the variety of iris you were planting; I know Mother loved that!” said Jill.

  “I’m always happy to have the advice of an expert on such matters, and there’s no question but that your mother is an expert on iris,” Drew laughed. “Frankly, all I know is that they are a spring flowering bulb!”

  “I’m sure Mother told you a lot more than that,” Jill laughed.

  “Oh, I gave her a catalogue of some of the finest varieties and let her make out the list. All I did was draw the check to pay for them, but I learned that iris can be very expensive, if you go in for the rare and fancy ones your mother chose!” Drew admitt
ed ruefully.

  “That will teach you to be more careful with catalogues, where Mother is concerned.” Jill mocked him gaily. “Goodbye, Mr. Ramsey, and thank you again.”

  Drew answered appropriately, closed his door, and Jill started across the lobby. Her eyes fell on Dr. Marsden’s door, and she hesitated for a moment, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

  “I suppose I really should have a chat with Dr. Marsden.”

  “These are his clinic hours, Mrs. Fleming,” Hilary said quickly. “But as a nurse, I can assure you your mother’s health is perfect, I won’t even say for a woman her age. Her blood pressure is that of a young girl; her heart is splendid; her appetite good. In fact, she’s in wonderful shape, so that, too, is something you need not worry about.”

  Jill put her hand swiftly on Hilary’s arm and looked at her with eyes brimming with warm gratitude.

  “What a thoroughly nice person you are, Miss Westbrook! I don’t wonder the guests here are so contented and happy with you to look after them! The Town & Country is so fortunate to have you here,” she said earnestly.

  “That’s very gracious of you, Mrs. Fleming,” Hilary thanked her, and watched as Jill went out of the door into the warm spring sunshine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a few days later and mid-afternoon. In the solarium, all was peace and quiet. Most of the guests had gone away to their own room for after-luncheon naps.

  At a table in a corner, Mrs. Barton, partnered by Mr. Hodding, with another couple helping, was being given an extra lesson in bridge. Flushed, bright eyed as a young girl, she was concentrating on her cards, absorbed in acquiring all the knowledge that would make it possible for her to play what she called “real bridge” when she was invited to make up a foursome.

  Across the room, beside a glass panel that spilled the warm golden sunlight over her, Mrs. Keenan was absorbed in the stock market reports in The New York Times which was delivered to her daily. A few other guests were scattered about the big room, all intent on their own books or newspapers or magazines.