‘It’s a huge estate,’ said the young woman. ‘Could you not sell off some of the land to raise money instead of putting up wind farms?’
Lord Duncan frowned and said fiercely, ‘I feel it is held in trust. The land was added to over the years by marriages between the local aristocracy—people who loved it, understood it and who were born to look after it, like me. I don’t think it should be sold off to just anyone!’
What a snobbish old fossil he is, thought Jandy, amused by his reference to the ‘local aristocracy’, and his dismissal of other people as ‘just anyone’! And yet she could sympathise with his longing to keep his beautiful estate intact.
The young woman turned back to the camera with a bright smile. ‘So there you have it—is Lord Duncan justified in his scheme? We’d like your comments on what you, the viewers, think about the wind farm. Is it worth saving a stately home to have this project on our doorstep and changing the face of this little corner of Derbyshire? And do you think it will be a positive contribution to the green energy problem? Please let us know!’ Then she added brightly, ‘And if you’re interested in seeing this beautiful old house at close quarters, there’s a village fair being held in the grounds here at the weekend in aid of the village hall—so why not come along?’
Jandy yawned and flicked the ‘off’ button—she was too tired to apply her mind to questions about green issues, although it was mildly interesting that her neighbour was a nobleman. She rinsed her wineglass clean under the tap before she went up to bed, but she was sure she would not sleep well.
* * *
A lovely crisp autumn day—and a Saturday, which meant that she and Abigail could go out for the morning, thought Jandy with relief. A welcome change from packing cases and sorting through clothes to be thrown out before the move. Abigail’s little bike was in the boot and they drove to the new cottage. On such a lovely day it would be a good idea to stroll around the lanes there and get to know the area.
Jandy noticed the entrance to Easterleigh House just before she got to the cottage. A banner strung across the imposing gates before the long winding drive read, ‘Open Day at Easterleigh House in Aid of the Village Hall! Fun for all the Family!’ A little stream of people were making their way to the house after paying at the gate. Vaguely Jandy remembered it being mentioned on the television programme about the wind farm that she had watched the previous evening.
‘Look, Abigail!’ she exclaimed as she parked the car by the road. ‘Why don’t we go and see what’s happening there? There might be all kinds of exciting things to do and we could meet some of our new neighbours—perhaps other little boys and girls you could get to know.’
Abigail was enthusiastic and pedalled her bike up the drive, with Jandy walking briskly beside her. What a place to live, reflected Jandy, looking appreciatively at the beautiful trees turning amber and the magnificent facade of the house facing the drive. No wonder Lord Duncan was so passionate about preserving it.
To the side of the house was an enormous lawn, bounded by huge oaks and cedars, and on this were a variety of stalls and little fairground attractions.
‘Mummy, look!’ yelled Abigail with delight. ‘Swings and roundabouts—can I go on them?’
She got off her bike and gave it to Jandy to hold, before dashing over to the swings and waiting patiently in a queue for her mother to join her and pay for the ride. As Jandy walked towards her another child ran over to Abigail and tapped her on the shoulder, and then both children began jumping up and down in excitement. It was Livy! Jandy’s heart thumped. Where Livy was, it meant that Patrick was also nearby—and, of course, he lived near here, so it wasn’t surprising that they had come as well. Jandy went up to the little girls.
‘Hello, Livy, nice to see you!’ she exclaimed.
‘I wanted you to come.’ Livy beamed. ‘I asked Daddy if we could tell you to meet us, but he said he didn’t think you’d be able to. I’m going to take Abigail to see my pony when she’s been on the rides.’
Jandy felt a moment’s desolation at Patrick’s reaction to his daughter’s request—he was obviously determined that the families shouldn’t get involved.
‘Where is Daddy?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh, he’ll be here later. Grandpa’s looking after me at the moment.’ She looked round and waved to an old man being pushed across the lawn in a wheelchair, whom Jandy immediately recognised as Viscount Duncan, the man she’d seen on television only the night before.
Livy danced over to him, dragging Abigail with her. ‘Grandpa! Grandpa! Look, this is my new friend—she’s called Abigail and they’re going to live in the little cottage!’
Viscount Duncan smiled indulgently, and held Livy’s hand. ‘How lovely for you, pet, to have a little friend so near.’
From her vantage point near the swings, Jandy stared at him with incredulity. So Viscount Duncan was Patrick’s father! She drew in a breath. And this was where Patrick lived, right bang on her doorstep, in a stately home no less! And he’d kept that very secret! But hadn’t she known all along that he was from a background of privilege? The clues were all there after all: his restrained but confident manner; his deep, well-modulated voice. It all added up to someone who was used to the best of everything—including a country estate and a lord for a father!
Why hadn’t he told her his background? she wondered. Why had he kept a huge part of his personal life secret? They’d had one or two conversations when it would have been appropriate for him to say where he lived and who his father was, just as she had told him about her failed relationship and her own mother. She watched Abigail running round the lawns with Livy and was suddenly jolted by an unpleasant thought. Had Patrick drawn a veil over his connections because he’d discovered her own background was not from the ‘local gentry’?
‘Perhaps, having heard my sordid story, he thinks I’m just too common for him!’ she said angrily to herself. ‘His father seemed to imply that he needs good stock to keep the family line going! And Patrick probably agrees with him!’
She scowled ahead of her for a moment, struggling with that thought, and the painful reflection that Patrick was no better than Terry really if that was what he thought—throwing her to one side when he was frightened they would get too close. He was probably on the lookout for a girl from his background—the ‘local aristocracy’, not one already encumbered with a four-year-old daughter.
Then she sighed. She’d obviously been reading all the wrong signals. He’d realised that she was not part of his world and it would be silly to form a close friendship with her. That hurt—no matter that they’d only had a brief acquaintanceship, she still felt the sting of rejection from a man she’d imagined had felt the same fierce electric attraction between them as she had. But most of all it hurt that he had, in effect, kept the truth about his life to himself, just like Terry had.
* * *
Friday night and there was the first hint of the cutting edge of winter cold about the air. Jandy pulled her coat around her as she walked from her car to A and E for her three-night stint on night duty, and wondered if she’d get the decorating done in her little house by Christmas. It was September now, and they would have to move in anyway in a few weeks, camping uncomfortably in the bedrooms and doing things gradually.
It would have been fun, giving the place a make-over with Lydia’s help, but the whole thing had backfired with Patrick’s attitude towards her. How could he have turned out to be such an arrogant pig? From where she was, it seemed that pure snobbery was the only reason for his sudden coldness.
Probably, she thought scornfully, his father wielded a lot of influence over him. He’d sounded very Victorian, she would be deemed as highly unsuitable—a single mother with no money, whose own mother lived with a mechanic young enough to be regarded as a toy-boy, just the sort of girl he would advise his son to avoid!
Was she being over-sensitive? Jandy shrugged. Whatever the reason, she would keep her distance for a while and she was very r
elieved that he wasn’t on this weekend night shift. She was thinking far too much about the man, despite her annoyance with him.
‘Hi, there,’ said Bob, joining her as they walked down the corridor. ‘God, I hate this shift—it’s the worst of the whole week.’
‘Ah, well—it’s only for a few days,’ commented Jandy absently. ‘And then four days off.’
‘Three nights of hell…’ grumbled Bob, opening his locker and slinging his bag and jacket into it.
Jandy sympathised with him. There were more attempted suicides, more alcohol abuse as drinkers celebrated the end of the working week, and more road traffic accidents on a Friday night—and all sometimes crowded into a small space of time.
On her way to the central desk, Jandy passed an elderly couple walking very slowly to Reception. The woman was supporting the man as he shuffled along, stopping every now and then to draw breath.
‘Can I help?’ asked Jandy. ‘Have you booked in yet?’
‘My…my friend doesn’t seem able to breathe very well,’ said the little old lady, looking anxiously at Jandy. ‘We’ve only just come back from holiday and he started to feel unwell getting off the plane. I got a taxi, although he said it was nothing, and now…’
She stopped speaking and watched in distress as the man slid slowly to the floor and lay there motionless, except for the labouring motion of his chest trying to take in air, his breath stertorous.
‘Oh, heavens…Charles, what’s the matter?’ She bent over him anxiously. ‘Oh, dear…’
‘Max—bring a wheelchair!’ called Jandy sharply to the porter, who as usual, when he hadn’t been given anything specific to do, was deep into a detective novel.
‘Comin’, Nurse—no worry,’ he sighed, stuffing the paperback into his back pocket.
Jandy squatted down beside the man and felt his pulse. ‘Not too bad—a bit rapid,’ she murmured to herself.
The man attempted to sit up and said rather breathlessly, ‘I’m all right—I just can’t get my breath. I seem to have hurt my leg—it’s really painful.’
He sank back with closed eyes and Jandy turned to the elderly lady. ‘Has your husband been in pain long?’
‘Oh, we’re not married,’ said the woman quickly, a slight flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. She spoke rapidly, shock making her garrulous. ‘We’re just very good friends—we were colleagues and we’ve been on a tour of Greek historical sites.’
‘What’s your friend’s name?’ asked Jandy gently.
‘Oh, yes, of course…His name’s Charles Westhrop. He said his leg was painful as he came down the steps of the aeroplane, and that’s about two hours ago, but he won’t let me look at it.’
‘And your name?’
‘Gwen Pendle.’
‘Well, I think we’d better look at your friend’s leg now, Ms Pendle. Let’s get Mr Westhrop into a cubicle.’
Max trundled the wheelchair across and with Tilly’s help they managed to get the man onto a bed in the cubicle, and Jandy slipped an oxygen mask over Mr Westhrop’s face.
‘This should make your breathing easier,’ she explained, disguising her shock at the sight of the man’s swollen limb as she cut down the trouser leg with a pair of scissors. The skin stretched tight, red and shiny, and she noted the parchment-like pallor of his face and the slight sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He was obviously very ill.
She touched the leg very gently and Mr Westhrop flinched, biting his lip. ‘A little painful, that,’ he mumbled from behind the mask.
‘Tilly, ask Mr Vernon or Dr Thoms to come immediately, would you?’ Jandy’s voice sounded calm, belying the danger signals that were flashing in her head.
‘May I come in?’ asked Ms Pendle timidly, putting her head round the curtain.
‘Perhaps you’d like to go and have a cup of tea while Mr Westhrop is being examined?’ Jandy suggested kindly to little Miss Pendle, who was looking rather grey herself at the glimpse she had of her friend’s elephantine limb.
‘Oh—please let her stay,’ said the man weakly.
Gwen put her hand over Charles’s and patted it gently. ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ she said bravely. ‘I want to know what they have to say about you, Charles—I’ll have a cup of tea in a minute.’
‘I’ll be fine—it’s all a fuss about nothing,’ said Charles, his voice muffled through the oxygen mask.
But Jandy could tell that he was relieved that Miss Pendle was staying with him—they were obviously devoted to each other. Then the curtain swished aside and Patrick’s tall figure appeared.
‘Oh…it’s you!’ she exclaimed, shocked at his sudden appearance.
Her heart clattered uncomfortably against her ribcage—why had he turned up? She wasn’t prepared, hadn’t expected to see him, and now here he was in front of her, with his dreamy looks and clean-cut image of a film-star doctor in his hospital greens that couldn’t disguise his muscular body—the man who’d actually been very rude to her.
She took a deep breath and thought crossly, Darn it, I’m not going to think of how attractive the man is. If he wants to keep me at arm’s length because I’m not classy enough for him, that’s fine with me!
‘I didn’t know you were in, Dr Sinclair,’ she said coolly. If he expected her to turn on a smile, he had another think coming.
There was something in those deep blue eyes that she couldn’t interpret when he glanced at her, then he said briskly, ‘Sorry—you’ll have to put up with me, I’m afraid. Dr Thoms is busy with a compound fracture at the moment and Mr Vernon’s off with a tooth abscess. Now, what have we here?’
‘This is Mr Westhrop and his friend, Ms Pendle. He’s just come off a long flight from Greece,’ explained Jandy crisply. ‘He’s finding it difficult to breathe and, as you can see, his leg’s very swollen and painful. He’s been like this for just over an hour since the plane landed. His BP’s up and he’s got a slight temperature.’
Patrick examined the leg carefully, noting how far the swelling went up the limb.
‘This looks like a DVT—a deep vein thrombosis,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll need a duplex ultrasound scan to get a complete diagnosis and pinpoint the exact position of the clot.’
‘Do you think it’s serious, Doctor?’ asked Gwen timidly.
‘Potentially it is serious,’ explained Patrick honestly. ‘Blood clots below the knee we usually regard as non-life-threatening, although they need monitoring. Those clots occurring in the knee’s popliteal vein or veins above the knee are more serious.’ He turned to Jandy. ‘From the look of this leg, Staff Nurse, I would think the clot could be in the iliac vein going right up to the thigh.’
Mr Westhrop gave a little chuckle and pulled his mask away for a moment. ‘You always say I don’t like to do things by halves, Gwen—now it seems I have something quite dangerous!’
Ms Pendle shook her head at him. ‘Charles, you always make light of everything. What can be done to get rid of this clot, then?’
‘The body’s natural process of clot breakdown, or fibrinolysis, will eventually help to get rid of it, but I’m going to get a vascular consultant to look at the leg. He may inject an anti-coagulant drug to disperse the clot so that it doesn’t end up in an unsatisfactory place, like the lung.’
‘Can I go home, then?’ asked Charles.
‘Not just yet, I’m afraid. We need to prevent further clots occurring and you’ll probably be put on some fairly powerful drugs. We’ll have to monitor you pretty carefully for the next few days.’
Mr Westhrop digested this information for a moment then said worriedly, ‘Oh, dear, I’m due to give a lecture on Greek temples this week and I’ve got to assemble my notes…’
‘I’m afraid that this isn’t a minor matter, Mr Westhrop. You have to realise just how serious it is.’
‘But the lecture’s most important, isn’t it, Gwen?’ he protested.
Little Ms Pendle stood up, her small figure looking much more authoratitive. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,
Charles! Putting a silly lecture before your health. I won’t have it! You look terribly ill. You’ll stay in hospital until they’ve got you better…’ Her voice wobbled suddenly and she pulled a hanky out of her pocket and blew her nose. ‘Giving me all this worry…I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’
Everyone in the room looked at the elderly lady in surprise at this unexpected outburst, then Charles smiled and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. ‘My dear, don’t get upset—I promise I’ll do as I’m told.’
The two old people gazed at each other then Mr Westhrop turned to Jandy and Patrick and said weakly but very firmly, ‘I wonder if you kind people would leave us for a minute? I have something very urgent I need to say to Miss Pendle. I’ll call you in very soon, I promise.’
Patrick and Jandy stood slightly apart outside the cubicle, both of them maintaining a distance, both of them acutely aware of each other. Patrick longed to say to Jandy that he was sorry if he had been very offhand the other day when she’d agreed the lease of the cottage, and Jandy could feel the hairs of her neck prickling at his closeness.
She looked at his tall figure under her eyelashes, and in her imagination she could almost feel his touch—the roughness of his chin against her cheek, the strength of his arms holding her against his body. Then she pushed those thoughts away crossly and tried to dwell only on the fact that he was a complete snob who had, in a way, misled her about his background, and she wanted nothing more to do with him.
At length Patrick said diffidently, ‘Mr Westhrop had better not take long—I don’t like the look of that leg at all. What on earth can he be saying to Miss Pendle?’
‘I really have no idea,’ said Jandy coldly. She could be just as stand-offish as he could!
Then Ms Pendle drew back the curtain, looking rather flushed, and said in a breathless voice and with a little giggle, ‘You can come in now. We…we’ve something to tell you.’
From Single Mum to Lady Page 8
