by Sara Seale
LUCY LAMB, DOCTOR’S WIFE
Sara Seale
It was a tremendous step for Lucy to leave her work in the children’s wards of St. Minver’s Hospital and marry the famous surgeon, Bartlemy Travers. Many a woman envied Lucy her marriage to this attractive doctor, who had a romantic hint of past tragedy to heighten his fascination.
But Lucy knew that she came to Polvane, his big house beside the Cornish sea, as an unloved wife, haunted always by the ghost of her lovely predecessor, and wanted by nobody but one small motherless boy. Could she hope for any change in their relationship?
CHAPTER ONE
I
“I WON’T employ you, my dear, but I’m prepared to marry you,” Bartlemy Travers had said so surprisingly to Lucy that chill spring morning on the moors, and here she was, only a few days later, standing beside him in the dark little church, timidly making her responses, watched by strangers.
The church was cold and depressingly empty. Two young doctors from the hospital acted as witnesses, and Matron, unfamiliar out of uniform, sat alone on the left side of the nave, a courtesy to the bride who had no one to support her.
With my body I thee worship... that could have been true, Lucy thought, with a quick, startled glance at the still, tall man beside her. His dark profile, etched sharply against the crude stained glass of a window, had the same compelling attraction which it had held for her years ago upon that one brief meeting which he had long since forgotten, the mouth a little forbidding, the cold blue of the eyes hidden now as he looked down at his strong surgeon’s hands. What was he thinking, she wondered, hearing those words which, for him, could have no meaning. Did he remember only his small son for whose sake he was marrying again? Was he regretting, too late, that curious decision to marry her rather than adopt Matron’s suggestion of employing her as nursery governess, or did he simply remember, with bitterness and heartache, these first vows pledged to a woman to whom he had given everything?
... to have and. to hold from this day forward... that spelled security, freedom from want, freedom from loneliness, a sense of belonging that in all her short life little Lucy Lamb had never known ... in sickness and in health, till death us do part ... the finality of those words should have comforted instead of bringing home their terrible emptiness for Lucy made her utter a small, involuntary sound, and he glanced down at her briefly, his thick black brows meeting in a frown. The chill in his penetrating gaze was the familiar chill of indifference, but the hand he placed over hers was warm and reassuring and he gave her a faint, infinitesimal smile.
The ceremony went on, and on, as she listened to the droning, uninterested voice of the clergyman, Lucy’s attention wandered again. As the crowded sequence of a dream fills only seconds, so she reviewed the past few weeks; the post of companion to old Miss Heap with her cats and her fads and her mania for economy; the few hours off which were filled with voluntary work at the hospital because it brought her into contact with the children’s ward, and, finally, Pierre, that strange, beautiful little boy who had first regarded her with the same silent distrust which he reserved for his father, and quite suddenly had wrung her heart with his passionate, inexplicable need of her.
He had been recovering from a minor operation for tonsils; as the time drew nearer for his discharge from the hospital his reluctance to return to his home became more painfully evident, and when his father visited him he would turn his face to the wall and refuse to answer leading questions. It had not surprised Lucy that the child might be afraid of the tall, dark man whose reputation for skill as an orthopaedic surgeon was combined with one for harsh intolerance of human frailty, but she had seen the bitter look of disappointment in Bartlemy Travers’ face when his son had turned from him, and been compassionately aware of the gentleness with which he handled the child.
“You aren’t kind to your father, Pierre,” she rebuked the boy, and he looked at her for a moment with the same chilly appraisal as Bart himself.
“He does not need me,” Pierre said with the old-fashioned formality, which sat strangely on his seven years.
“I think he does,” Lucy replied gravely. “You are all he has left.”
“No!” the boy cried with passion. “He loved my mother. I killed my mother when I got born. He cannot forgive me.”
It was, to Lucy, shocking that so young a child should recognize what might indeed be a truth, but when she tentatively voiced her opinions to Matron, she received a faintly twisted smile.
“Pierre’s father has made his own rod by refusing to have a woman in the house,” she said obscurely. “He was devoted to Marcelle, his wife, it is true—she was French and a very beautiful woman—but he asks too much of the boy. A child needs the comfort of a woman in its early years. Pierre, doubtless, doesn’t fully realize what he’s missing, but his father will pay for his own obstinacy, I’ve often told him.”
“Has Mr. Travers taken against all women, then?” asked Lucy, not understanding.
“Perhaps—for a time. His wife was very dear to him. Had Pierre been a girl things might have been different, but Bart has decided to bring up his son in a masculine household. I’ve tried, time and again, to get him to employ a woman for Pierre while he’s still a baby, but—”
And finally, she had suggested Lucy in lieu of the tutor she felt the boy was too young for.
There had, from the first, existed a curious bond between Mary Morgan, Matron of St. Minver’s Hospital in the quiet little Cornish town of the same name, and Lucy Lamb, the out-of-date bit of flotsam who was content to eke out her living by acting as companion to an ill-tempered old woman. To Lucy, Matron’s tolerance had been merely a gracious gesture to be accepted with gratitude and a certain respect, but to Mary Morgan, Lucy was a reminder of her own youth when she had been unwanted and a slave to her family until she had broken away and taken up nursing as a profession. Mary now had her position at St. Minver’s, respected, and sometimes feared, by probationer and nurse alike, but in Lucy she saw the ghost of herself, a ghost that in these days of working efficiency had no place in the struggle for life.
“Would you like the post, should Mr. Travers offer it to you?” she asked Lucy, and was, for a moment, disturbed by the look which briefly transfigured the girl’s thin face to a semblance of fleeting beauty.
“Oh, yes, Matron,” Lucy said, clasping her hands to her slender breasts. “I love Pierre ... he—he is the only being in all my life who has needed me.”
Sentimental nonsense, Matron had thought impatiently. Still there was something about Lucy Lamb; on her visiting days with picture-books and toys, the children’s ward echoed to the childish chant of Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool ... They all loved her and Pierre had made her his own special property, the only person in all his seven years who had won his strange little heart. But all the same, Bart had proved obdurate; instead, here he was marrying the girl, committing them both to a nameless future, sacrificing her, as Mary Morgan believed he would sacrifice anything, to the welfare of his only son...
The ring was being slipped over Lucy’s finger. She felt the strength of his touch as he eased it over the knuckle; he had set the seal on their union, the visible and outward sign that she now belonged to him, however empty the bargain...
“A business proposition, of course,” he had said that day on the moors. “As you may have guessed, I have little interest in women.” He had selected and lighted a cigarette with care, not offering one to Lucy, and leaned back against a shoulder of rock, blowing smoke lazily between them, waiting for her to speak.
“Wouldn’t it,” she asked carefully, avoiding his eyes, “be simpler to employ me for Pierre?”
“Not at all,” he replied equably. “My staff wouldn�
�t tolerate a female employee—never have but my wife would be a different matter. Besides, think of the security—for you a job for life, for Pierre a stepmother—someone who couldn’t be whisked away at the whim of his father.”
“You make it sound very cold-blooded,” she said, and he blew another cloud of smoke between them.
“A business proposition should be cold-blooded,” he retorted, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in sudden wry amusement. “Think of yourself, Lucy Lamb. You have no future, no prospects, and are, I understand, heart-whole. Marriage with me would be a better proposition than a possible union with some insecure little clerk, and, in time, we might grow quite fond of each other.”
“I’ve never heard such a thing in all my life!” cried Lucy, outraged. “You, I would think, have no f-fondness left in you, and—and how do you know I would marry a clerk, anyway?”
He threw the half-smoked cigarette away and placed a hand over hers; the hard lines of his face had softened to an unexpected tenderness. The wind blowing across the moor carried a tang of the sea, and she was immediately reminded of that other occasion, six years ago, the occasion he did not remember. His black hair, she noticed with faint surprise, had minute flecks of white in it as it stirred in the breeze. He would, she thought irrelevantly, look very distinguished when he was decisively grey at the temples.
“Dear Lucy,” he said softly, his fingers caressing hers. “I’ve been clumsy, haven’t I? But you’re wrong about fondness, you know. There’s a little left in all of us, I think, no matter how life treats us. I was only trying to be honest in explaining—rather badly, evidently—that my deeper affections have long since been laid aside. Could you put up with me, do you think—for Pierre’s sake?” She looked down at the hand resting so lightly on hers, at the strong fingers and well-shaped nails. He had once been a good lover, she thought with surprise, dominant, perhaps, but kind and sensitive to the loved one’s demands. She was aware again of that old attraction and knew in the, as yet, unexplored regions of her own emotions that had things been different she could have learned to love this man.
“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, and tried to pull away, but his hands tightened on hers, holding her there.
“Baba ... isn’t that Pierre’s name for you? Baa baa black sheep, come in out of the cold. There’s a nice warm fold waiting for you ... won’t you share it with Pierre?”
“And you?” she asked shyly, aware of temptation and a ridiculous desire to comfort him as he expected her to comfort Pierre.
“I?” he said lightly. “I will just be the shepherd, keeping you both from harm...”
“Follow me to the vestry, if you please,” the clergyman was saying in a hoarse whisper, and Lucy scrambled confusedly to her feet. It was over; she was married, and half the time she had been inattentive, battling too late with memories which should have been behind her.
She became aware of the relief in Bart’s face, the faint doubt in Matron’s, and the politely curious glances of the two young doctors. Bart did not kiss her. It would not, she supposed, occur to him to accord her the time-honored custom on such a prosaic occasion. When the register had been signed they stood in an awkward little group in the porch of the church, watching the rain which had fallen relentlessly since early morning. The heavens weep for me, thought Lucy fancifully, then gave herself a little shake. Why should anyone weep for her, she asked herself crossly; had she not just signed a business contract which meant nothing more than security for herself and happiness for a small boy?
“You look all eyes, Lucy,” observed Matron critically; and one of the doctors began to say heartily: “Happy, the bride the sun shines on...” observed the rain and his chief’s uncompromising expression and took himself off with muttered congratulations.
II
Very soon she found herself sitting beside Bart in the long black car he drove with such reckless speed about the district. His driving alarmed her now as the town was left behind and they climbed the long hill which wound to the first wild stretch of moorland. The high banks were starred with campion, small red eyes which glowed with warmth, but above them the spring sky was grey and sullen and mist was already rising from the moor.
“Not a promising start, maybe,” Bart observed a little dryly, glimpsing her dismayed expression, “but Cornish weather is fickle, as you should know by now.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, and was at once stricken dumb. What did one say to one’s bridegroom, she wondered a little wildly, gripping the side of the car as it skidded with screaming tires round the curves and bends in the narrow lanes.
“Nervous?” Bart asked pleasantly, and she set her teeth. If he was showing off to frighten her she was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her admit it.
“Do you always drive like this?” she enquired politely, and he slackened his pace at once.
“I’m well acquainted with these roads,” he replied. “Can you drive a car, Lucy?”
“No.”
“One of these days I must teach you.”
Not if I can help it, thought Lucy with alarm, but deemed it wisest to hold her peace.
The country grew wilder and the mist thicker. The sea, she knew, lay somewhere beyond the ragged horizon of the moor, and for the first time she wondered what her new home would be like. She knew nothing of Bart’s private life save that he had shut himself up with his son in the house on the headland which once he had shared with his young wife. He had no life now apart from his work, Matron had said, and Lucy shivered, thinking of the boy whose early childhood must have known so little love and laughter.
“Cold?” asked Bart, seeing the shiver.
“No. Does Pierre know I’m coming?”
“No. I didn’t want a disappointment for him if you should change your mind at the last minute.” There was a touch of irony in his voice and she glanced at him sharply.
“You gave me little chance to do that with your special licence and everything,” she retorted, and caught for a moment the sudden bitter grimness of his expression.
“No, I wasn’t taking risks for either of us,” he said. “It didn’t occur to you, Lucy, that I, too, might have had second thoughts?”
“Did you?” she asked with humility. It was, when all was said and done, unlikely that Bartlemy Travers, rich and already high up in his profession, should choose on impulse to marry little Lucy Lamb and not have doubts.
His hand rested for a moment on her knee with the same firm assurance with which his touch had rallied her in the church.
“No,” he said, and his smile was oddly gentle, “I may have taken advantage of your youth in rushing you to a decision, but at least I will see that you have no cause to regret it. How old did you say you were, Lucy?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty ... and I’m nearly thirty-seven ... an unfair advantage, would you say?”
“I don’t think so. When you’re left to earn your own living at a tender age, you grow up quickly.”
“Do you? You don’t seem very old to me, but for Pierre that will be an advantage.”
She forced herself to think of the boy, for with every mile left behind them she was experiencing the beginnings of panic. What did she know of this stranger who was now her husband? How would she measure up in the eyes of the unknown servants who had so devotedly served the first Mrs. Bartlemy Travers?
He did not speak again until he turned the car between stone gates, which rose suddenly out of the mist, and into a short drive flanked with giant rhododendrons. The flowers were nearly in full bloom and the unexpected riot of color made Lucy exclaim in wonder; crimson, purple, flamingo pink, snowy white, they glowed like jewels in that grey, rain-washed countryside.
“How beautiful!” Lucy cried. “And how gigantic they are!”
“Yes, they’re quite a sight,” he answered carelessly. “Vegetation takes on a tropical growth in Cornwall, you know, but there are few flowers in the garden.”
His remark h
ad a quenching sound as though he were reproving her for her enthusiasm, and when the house came in sight it looked grey and drab after that splendid splash of color. The slim, fluted pillars which supported the high porch lent an air of outdated elegance, but there was no welcome in the uncompromising granite and slate of walls and roof, the tall, blind windows, many of them shuttered. So this was Polvane, the house that was to her home from now on. As the car came to a standstill before the closed front door, Lucy could hear the sound of the Atlantic breakers thundering against the foot of the cliffs, a sound that was to be the constant background of her life at Polvane.
Bart was frowning as he flung open the door and strode into the house shouting for his servants, and to Lucy, following him, his voice seemed to echo through an empty house. The high hall was dark with the gathering shadows of late afternoon and doors stood open on silent empty rooms; it seemed scarcely possible that anyone could live here.
“Gaston! ... Smithers!” Bart called again, and pulled impatiently at an old-fashioned, heavily tassled bell-rope. The clamor of the bell echoed strangely through the silent house. Presently an altercation could be heard in some unspecified part of the house, and a door at the back of the hall opened to admit two incongruous figures, a short fat man in a chef’s high hat and a tall thin individual clothed decorously in correct but lugubrious black.
“Why wasn’t one of you here to meet me?” Bart demanded irritably. “You knew the time we should be expected.”
“Pardon, m’sieur. I prepare the special dinner,” the Frenchman said, and Lucy wondered if she imagined the faint irony in his tone. His companion said nothing until, avoiding Lucy’s eye, he enquired if there would be luggage.
“Naturally there is luggage,” snapped Bart impatiently, adding with slight sarcasm, “Had I by any chance omitted to inform you both that I would be returning with your new mistress? Lucy, I must present to you Gaston Dupont who cooks for this household and Smithers who fulfils what other domestic functions are necessary. You will, I hope, excuse their apparent lack of manners.”