Tulips for Augusta

by Betty Neels

  She had never felt further from napping. It was quite obvious that something was occupying his mind; it was equally obvious that he had no intention of telling her about it. When he came back, and this time it was ten minutes, and sat down again, his face was calm enough, but his pale eyes were hooded as he repeated his question just as though they had never been interrupted, but this time she had no intention of accepting; she said instead, ‘Do you mind awfully if I go back to St Jude’s? I really am tired.’ She smiled and felt her heart lurch and drop at the relief, quickly concealed, which showed briefly in his eyes. All the same, he looked at his watch and said, ‘I mind very much, but I’m not going to keep you out of your bed. By the way, this was propped up on the telephone table for you—for the post, I expect, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t have it now.’

  He dug a hand into a pocket and took out an envelope addressed to her in Lady Belway’s copperplate handwriting. It was an invitation to Miss Susan Belsize’s twenty-first birthday dance in ten days’ time, and the old lady had written on the back, ‘You must come, Augusta. If you have any difficulty in getting the evening off, let me know and I will arrange something. Susan will be disappointed if you refuse, and so shall I.’

  Augusta looked up from reading it and found Constantijn’s eyes upon her. He said, ‘You’ll come, of course.’ She hesitated—there was no reason why she shouldn’t accept, so she said slowly, ‘Yes, I think I can get the evening off, unless Sister already has any plans for herself.’ She studied the invitation card, not thinking of the dance at all but of Constantijn, who only a few days ago had told her that he was more than a little in love with her and that he was ready to wait—for her to make up her mind to marry him, presumably. Now, somehow, she wasn’t sure if he had meant that at all. Perhaps he was in love with Susan and hoped to make her jealous. She looked up and found him looking at her.

  He said, half laughing, ‘Augusta, I believe you’re weaving your tangled plots again.’ He got up and came to sit beside her again. ‘And not half an hour ago you told me that you loved me.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes, I wonder? I had thought that this evening—but not now.’ He turned her round to face him and she saw that he wasn’t smiling. ‘But when I do…you do love me, Roly?’

  She answered quite crossly, for she was tired and doubtful and almost ready to burst into tears, ‘Yes, I do, and I can’t think why,’ and was at once swept close and kissed as gently as he had spoken. Presently he said, ‘Don’t mind if you don’t see or hear from me for a few days; I have to go up to Cumberland—I’ll let you know when I get back.’

  Augusta, her head snugly against his shoulder again, thought sleepily that Uldale was in Cumbria—what could there be there that was so important? Her mind refused to grapple with the problem; she was lulled into a feeling of security by his calm nearness, and sat quietly without speaking until with an effort she roused herself. ‘I shall be asleep in a minute. I’d better go, or you’ll have to carry me like poor little Meek.’

  He took her to the door of the Nurses’ Home and under Valky’s delighted gaze, kissed her again.

  ‘When are you going to Cumbria?’ asked Augusta sleepily. ‘Not tonight?’

  ‘Probably—it depends on a number of things. I must telephone Paris first. Don’t worry your head about it now.’ He kissed her again lightly and she went inside and up to her room and got ready for bed, wanting to think about why he needed to telephone Paris but too tired to do so. She got into bed and was asleep as her head touched the pillow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE SAW HIM the very next day, for her services had been borrowed by the Accident Room to escort a man with a fractured spine to Stoke Mandeville. They were approaching the A40 when the ambulance they were in was held up in a traffic block and the Rolls with Constantijn driving, slid to a halt beside them. It was so close that she could have opened the window and touched the car with her hand, instead she sat staring at him and at Susan sitting beside him. They were talking—arguing—she thought, and once he turned away and stared up at the darkened windows of the ambulance, and although she knew that he couldn’t see her she drew back instinctively. He looked tired and angry and worried, and Susan had been crying. The ambulance moved on as the traffic ahead sorted itself out, and presently when the road was clear the Rolls shot past them and disappeared within seconds.

  It was only much later, when she had returned to St Jude’s, that she was able to think about it, for she had had the patient to look after and on the return journey she had sat in front with the ambulance men, and they had talked cheerfully and without pause all the way back. But now in her room, still in uniform, she tried to sort out her thoughts. Constantijn had told her that he was going to Cumbria but that he would telephone Paris first—to Susan, no doubt—and she had come back; probably she was going to Cumbria with him, Augusta wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely that the A40 joined up with the M6 somewhere or other. She was a little hazy about that part of the country, but she was almost sure that that was so.

  But why had Constantijn looked so angry and why had Susan been in tears, and above all, why hadn’t he told her at least something of the truth? Surely, she thought drearily, if a man loved a girl, even only a little, he trusted her too? Perhaps he didn’t love her… She cried about this for quite some minutes, then resolutely washed her face and did her hair and sat down to think again, this time about Lady Belway—why had it been so necessary for her to go to Paris just to see Susan?—no light undertaking with a wheelchair and the nurse and sticks to walk with; and was it because of her visit that Susan was back in England, or because of something Constantijn had said to her?

  Augusta gave up at last, for she was unable to think of any more answers. She lay in bed remembering how she had told Constantijn that she loved him, and wished with all her being that she hadn’t. She turned and twisted, trying to get away from the memory of it, and at last went to sleep.

  She felt better in the morning, for common sense told her that there must be some logical explanation for it all, and all she had to do was to wait until she saw Constantijn again. She posted her acceptance of Lady Belway’s invitation and was so determinedly bright and cheerful that her friends became a little puzzled; not that she wasn’t bright and cheerful by nature, but this was something different and almost painful in its persistence. But the cheerfulness wore a little thin after four days had gone by, during which time she hadn’t heard a word from Constantijn. He had told her she wouldn’t hear from him, but that made it no easier. She entered, rather half-heartedly, into the various discussions as to what she should wear to the dance and was at length persuaded to buy a new dress—a dream in aubergine pleated chiffon. She bought sandals too with pearl tassels on the insteps, and held a dress rehearsal that evening, and Wilkes, who was rather good with hair, made a complicated pile of curls on top of her head, while several friends offered a variety of evening wraps. Augusta thought that they were probably enjoying it all far more than she was.

  It was the following day over a hurried breakfast that Bates mentioned that she had seen Susan Belsize the previous day. ‘Coming out of Cartier’s, my dears, and very dishy too. She had that tall fair man with her—the one who used to come and see Lady Belway when I was on PP. Very wrapped up in each other they were too.’ She glanced down the table to where Augusta was sitting. ‘He dangled after you a bit, didn’t he, Gussie? Well, my dear, you’ve got some stiff opposition there.’

  Everyone laughed and Augusta laughed with them because no one knew how she felt about Constantijn and it was only a joke, but like so many jokes, it had a sting in its tail, because even if he had dangled after her it hadn’t come to much. She got up with the others and went along to the ward to start the day’s work—there was nothing like work to stop one thinking.

  Everything went wrong from the start—it was one of those mornings when charts got mislaid, X-rays which should have been there weren’t and a precious
specimen for the path. lab. was thrown away by an overzealous nurse, and Mr Rogers, when he did his round, found fault with everything. When he had gone, Augusta went with Sister to the office and poured the coffee which they drank in a gloomy silence, but presently Sister said more cheerfully, ‘Thank God for my weekend—which reminds me, I quite forgot to ask you—I don’t suppose you feel like adding a half day to your days off and coming back at one on Saturday? You’ve some time due to you from that night’s work you put in—you could go after second dinner. Only Reg’—Reg was her boy-friend—’ is coming down for the weekend…’

  Augusta agreed at once. She would go home, even for so short a time and forget all about Constantijn. ‘If I could just fly over and telephone home so someone can meet me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course—you’re sure you don’t mind? It’s such short notice, but you’re off next weekend, aren’t you?’ Augusta nodded, not really minding very much. What was the use of being off duty if Constantijn was miles away and didn’t care anyway? She thought she probably wouldn’t go to the wretched dance at all. She resolutely tore her thoughts away and attended carefully to Sister’s instructions for the morning and presently followed her back to the ward, telling herself how lucky she was to have an unexpected day at home and ignoring the small voice at the back of her head demanding to know what would happen if Constantijn called and she wasn’t in the hospital. ‘Serve him right,’ she muttered as she scrubbed up to do dressings.

  Her mother met her at Sherborne and Augusta drove the Morris home, while she told, at some length, of the happenings of the last few days. She took pains to recount everything in great detail, although she touched so lightly on Constantijn’s visit to the ward and their tea together that anyone listening might have deduced that the occasions were of such minor importance that they had all but slipped her memory. But her mother, who wasn’t just anyone, drew her own conclusions. When Augusta at length came to the end of her story, she said:

  ‘How very exciting, Roly darling. Are you going to marry Constantijn?’

  Taken off her guard, Augusta changed gear with an appalling grinding sound and sent the elderly car thundering round a curve. Only then did she decide to answer her mother’s question.

  She said slowly and rather inadequately, ‘He hasn’t asked me—I mean not so that I can say yes or no.’

  ‘But you’ll say yes?’

  She nodded. ‘Well, I let him see…but something’s holding him back. Oh, I know I’ve been cross and tired and it must have put him off—but it’s more than that.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘No, Mother dear, I don’t—you understand, don’t you?’ She went on, with determined brightness, ‘How’s everyone? I had a long letter from Tante Emma—have you heard too?’

  The talk settled down to a casual exchange of everyday family happenings until Augusta turned the car in through the gate and pulled up before the open door.

  The house stood, warm and quiet in the afternoon sunlight, surrounded by its lovely, rather untidy garden. The dogs came bounding to meet them followed by Maudie and Fred, and they all trooped into the house together. Augusta went up to her room, with Fred, who had a loving nature, draped over one shoulder, and thought how nice it was to be home with time to think quietly.

  But by mid-morning the following day, she had done no thinking at all. The afternoon and evening had gone like a flash, and contrary to her expectations, she had slept all night. She worked away at Bottom’s plump sides, putting a gloss on to his coat and singing odds and ends of tunes under her breath. When Bottom turned his head at the sound of footsteps she stopped her singing to look as well and saw Constantijn making his way in a leisurely manner towards them. When he was near enough, he said, ‘Hullo, my darling Miss Brown—how is it you’re not lying back in a hammock in your yellow dress, dreaming of me?’

  Augusta waited a minute to allow her breath to become normal.

  ‘If I’d known that you were coming,’ she began, ‘I would have done just that.’ She sounded a little cross, as indeed she was, aware that slacks and a cotton sweater of a much washed blue did very little for her appearance, and aware too that the sight of him had tumbled all her doubts and muddled thought out of her mind and that all that mattered was that he had come and she was overjoyed to see him again.

  He came close and when Bottom lifted an ear invitingly, obliged the beast by scratching it gently while he studied Augusta. He said after a pause, ‘You’ll do very well as you are,’ and leaned forward over Bottom’s furry head and kissed her cheek. ‘If you don’t mind going back to St Jude’s this evening instead of tomorrow morning, I’ll drive you up—we could have a meal on the way.’

  Augusta stroked the donkey’s soft nose and said rather uncertainly, ‘Oh, are you going back to London again?’

  ‘Yes, until after Susan’s dance.’ His voice had been light and he had smiled, but all the same she had the impression that any questions she might ask would be ignored or at least circumvented. She said:

  ‘All right. Thank you very much,’ and knew that her words were trite; she wished that her voice didn’t sound so stiff and unfriendly despite her feelings, and when he said gently, ‘I thought you would be pleased to see me,’ she changed colour slightly, longing to ask a dozen questions of him although common sense told her that it would be unwise to do so. She allowed common sense to take over. ‘I’m very pleased to see you,’ she said. ‘You took me by surprise,’ and smiled at him. He stared back at her, half-smiling himself. ‘That’s better,’ he said, and abandoned Bottom’s ear, picked up the curry-comb from the wall and took her arm.

  ‘Are you going to invite me to lunch?’

  Augusta, feeling the touch of his hand on her arm, would have invited him to anything at that moment. ‘Yes, of course—only isn’t Doctor Soames expecting you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t get back to town until very late last night and I came straight here from St Jude’s.’

  Augusta gave him a questioning look and he went on in a comfortably ordinary voice, ‘I went there to see when you were off duty. I tried to get back in time to see you last night, but I got held up and I couldn’t very well have broken into the Nurses’ Home at two o’clock in the morning. As it was you weren’t there anyway.’

  They started to saunter across the paddock towards the house. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself, my dear girl.’

  It was the very question she would have liked to put to him herself, but he had, after all, come hotfoot down to Dorset. ‘Oh, very dull,’ she said, to be interrupted blandly with his ‘Well, yes—naturally. I wasn’t there, was I?’

  It seemed the conversation was to be kept light, so she laughed. ‘Yes—if you need your ego boosted, which I doubt. Actually it wasn’t all that dull. I bought a new dress for Lady Belway’s party, and borrowed a cloak from one of the girls and practised a new way of doing my hair.’

  He stopped. ‘How are you going to do it?’

  ‘Not me—I’m incapable of doing more than screwing it up on top—one of the girls is super at doing hair.’

  She took a step forward, but he held her with a detaining hand. ‘Dearest Miss Brown,’ he said, ‘will you—just for me—leave your rusty locks as they are? I like them that way.’

  Augusta looked astonished. ‘Just any old how?’ she inquired.

  He laughed. ‘Well, put a few extra curls in if it will make you happy.’

  He was staring at her again; his eyes, which she had always thought so strangely light, looked dark and deep. She said, a little breathless, ‘If—if you want me to. It doesn’t really matter—it won’t make any difference to my face, you know.’

  Constantijn pulled her close without haste. He said seriously, ‘No, nothing could make any difference to your face—or to you.’ He smiled suddenly and his eyes lost their strange darkness. ‘What is this dress like?’ his voice was light, almost teasing.

  Augusta replied prompt
ly, ‘Oh, gorgeous. A Jean Allen model—pleated chiffon in aubergine. It makes my hair less carroty.’

  ‘That’s a pity, for I find that carroty hair is my favourite colour after all.’

  She stared up at him. ‘You said you didn’t like it,’ she stated flatly and then, catching the twinkle in his eyes, went on hurriedly, ‘Come on, we shall be late for lunch and I promised I’d lay the table.’ She looked down at her person. ‘And now I’ll have to change too.’

  ‘For me? Why? I’m not a stranger, am I? At least, I hope not.’

  They had walked on as they talked, now he stopped again and deliberately pulled her to him, and uncaring of her mother’s interested gaze from the kitchen door, kissed her with slow pleasure.

  Luncheon was a gay meal with a great deal of laughter and talk and not so much as a raised eyebrow when Constantijn referred to her as his darling Miss Brown, but presently he went away, saying that he had to see his godfather and had several important telephone calls to make besides, and as he said it Augusta watched the furrow of worry come and go between his brows and then forgot about it when he said he would be back after tea to pick her up. He smiled at her as he said it so that her heart turned over.

  He had mentioned a meal on the way—it seemed an excellent chance to wear the yellow dress, especially as he remembered it. She packed her few things directly he had gone, laid the dress ready on the bed, and went into the garden to do some quite unnecessary work. She had been poking around with her trowel for half an hour or so when her mother, who had been lying with her feet up in the hammock, opened her eyes. Augusta cast down the trowel and said without preamble, ‘Mother, there is something, isn’t there?’

  Mrs Brown had no difficulty in interpreting this statement. ‘Dear Roly, yes, I think there is—but forgo my egg money if it’s anything he’s ashamed of.’ Her daughter heaved a sigh of relief. Mrs Brown’s egg money was, though not exactly riches, a nice little sum, largely due to the fact that she had long ago persuaded her husband that he should pay for the hens’ feed, and for the boy who cleaned out the hen-house, thus leaving her a splendid profit—it was a token of her faith in Constantijn that she should even suggest giving up this handsome addition to her allowance. She arranged herself comfortably in the hammock and went on in a soothing voice. ‘Your father likes him, Roly. Could you not stop worrying about whatever it is that’s worrying you, darling? You’re so obviously…’ She stopped and started again. ‘Enjoy your evening—I should think he’s great fun to be with.’