by Betty Neels
They walked for an hour or so, Henrietta taking great sniffs of sea air and stopping every now and then to stare out to sea, while Watson raced to and fro fetching the sticks Adam threw for him. They didn’t talk much.
She was a restful companion, he thought, not fussing about spoiling her shoes or minding that the wind was tossing her hair all over the place. Indeed, he reflected with amusement, she quite forgot him from time to time, bending over a little pool of water or collecting shells and pebbles.
When they turned for home again he observed, ‘I think that you must come here again—an hour or so isn’t enough, is it?’
She gave him a rapt look. ‘Even if I never come here again, I’ll never forget it...’
They had tea with Matty—scones and jam and cream and a dough cake—and when they had finished Henrietta cleared away the tea things and went into the kitchen and shut the door, declaring that it was time she did her share.
Matty looked doubtful. ‘There’s no need for the child to wash up the tea things; I’ve all the time in the world.’
‘I think Henrietta feels that we might like a little talk together without her. And indeed I should be glad of five minutes alone with you, Matty. There isn’t time to tell you about Henrietta; suffice it to say that she had a hard time of it until she got this job at Lady Hensen’s place. Believe it or not, she hadn’t seen the sea...
‘She has a day off on Saturday, and Sunday mornings free; would you consider having her to spend the night just once in a while? The invitation would have to come from you; if she knew it was I who’d suggested it she would refuse at once. She’s stiff with pride—understandably. I’ll bear expenses, of course, and it will have to be when I have a weekend free. That can be arranged later.’
‘There’s nothing I’d like better—a bit of company from time to time and a nice chat.’ Matty gave him a shrewd look. ‘Like her, do you, Mr Adam?’
‘She interests me, Matty, and I’d like to see her making a secure future for herself. She’s earned it.’
‘She’s gently bred,’ said Matty softly. ‘Never mind the clothes—bought to last, I shouldn’t wonder, and no money to spare for all the pretty things girls want. Let’s hope she meets some good man who’ll look after her.’
Mr Ross-Pitt frowned and agreed rather testily.
They got into the car presently and Watson, much refreshed by a splendid tea after his exercise, sprawled on the back seat and snored gently.
Matty came to the door to see them off. She had kissed Henrietta and pressed a pot of home-made marmalade into her hands. ‘I do hope I’ll see you again—perhaps we can think of something...’
Henrietta gave her a little hug. ‘When I have my holidays perhaps I’ll come for the day, if you’ll have me?’ she said. ‘After the tourist season is over.’
She thought about her day as they drove back; Mr Ross-Pitt was silent and she made no attempt to talk; the silence wasn’t unfriendly and if he wanted to start a conversation she was quite ready to join in.
Eventually he said, ‘Matty is a dear old lady, isn’t she? She loves visitors although she says she’s never lonely. My mother wanted her to have a cottage close to the house, but she was born around here and she had set her heart on ending her days in Tollesbury. I so wish I could spare the time to see her more often.’
‘Has she no family?’
‘A very old brother somewhere in Wales. Nephews and nieces in Australia.’
He relapsed into silence once more, and she wondered what he was thinking about. He wasn’t anxious exactly, she decided, stealing a loving glance at his profile, but something was making him thoughtful. Perhaps he had a serious operation that he was worried about...
* * *
MR ROSS-PITT NEVER worried about his work—his surgery came to him as naturally as breathing; he might worry about a patient, but never about his skill with a knife. He wasn’t worried, only impatient at the thought that he had engaged to take Deirdre out to dinner that evening. That the invitation had been more or less forced upon him by her, good manners making it unavoidable, made the prospect of an evening with her most unpleasing.
He glanced at Henrietta’s unassuming profile. She had very long, curling eyelashes. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before; he hadn’t noticed that her small nose had the smallest tilt to it either. A pity it wasn’t she he would be dining with...
* * *
IT WAS JUST after six o’clock when he stopped outside the lodge. Henrietta leaned over to say goodbye to Watson and got out when Adam opened her door. She held out a hand. ‘Thank you for a lovely day,’ she said, and smiled up at him. How tiresome it was to love someone so unobtainable, she thought as she did so, but, never mind, she had a whole day to treasure.
‘I enjoyed it too,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, and for a moment she thought that he had more to say, but he shook her hand briefly, got into his car and drove off for all the world as though he had had enough of her. Well, perhaps he had, she reflected, turning her back on the magnificent car and smiling at Mrs Pettifer waiting at the open door.
Henrietta told her about their day over supper, and Mrs Pettifer agreed that it had been very kind of Mr Ross-Pitt to take her to the sea, and kept her thoughts to herself.
Henrietta was a nice girl—just the kind of girl to lose her heart to someone like Adam Ross-Pitt, something which wouldn’t do at all. She was sure that he wouldn’t dream of encouraging Henrietta in any sentimental notions, but Mrs Pettifer considered that he was a man who wasn’t aware of his own power to charm females... Besides, there was this rumour that he was to marry Deirdre Stone.
‘Which wouldn’t do at all,’ said Mrs Pettifer aloud. A remark which made Henrietta look at her with surprise.
* * *
ADAM DROVE HIMSELF to London in a thoroughly bad temper. He would, of course, have to suppress it later, but now with only himself to reckon with he could give vent to his annoyance. His weekend was spoilt for a start and, heaven knew, he didn’t get one very often. To take his mind off the evening ahead of him he pulled over to the side of the road, picked up the car phone and rang his registrar, who told him in some surprise that to date there was nothing urgent.
‘I thought you’d be buried in your village,’ he observed.
‘So did I—unfortunately I’ve had to come back to town to keep an engagement. I’ll give you the number of the restaurant. You’ll know where I am if you should need another pair of hands.’
‘Let’s hope not. Burrows has just rung to say he won’t be available—his small daughter’s come down with measles despite her jabs.’
‘You’ve got a couple of housemen lined up for Accident and Emergency, Peter?’
‘Yes. As long as it’s only the usual Saturday night rush we’ll be OK.’
Adam drove on, threaded his way through the City and the West End and stopped before a house in Chelsea. He was admitted by a sulky-looking maid and shown upstairs to the drawing room where Deirdre was waiting for him. ‘Adam—how lovely to see you—it seems ages. Mother’s gone to play bridge.’ She came and stood close to him. ‘Shall we have a drink before we go?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I booked a table for eight o’clock; I think we had better go.’
She pouted and then smiled. ‘Very well. We can talk over dinner. Have you had a busy week? It must be good for you to enjoy an evening away from all that illness and those dreary wards.’
They went out to the car and he found her perfume overpowering. Henrietta, he reflected, had smelled of the sea and a faint whiff of shampoo and soap...
Deirdre took a long time deciding what she would eat, querying each dish as she did so. ‘I have to be so careful of my diet,’ she told Adam. ‘I’ve always been fussy with food.’
He wondered if she had ever been really hungry as she picked delicately at
a lobster claw.
He was called to the phone halfway through their noisettes of lamb. His senior registrar’s apologetic voice said, ‘I feel awful dragging you away from what must be a delightful evening; we’ve been inundated—there’s been some sort of fracas. The CO asked me to take a look at some of the casualties and there is one whom I’d like you to see. I’ve had him X-rayed—a depressed fracture of the base of the skull—blow with a pickaxe seems likely. There’s a fragment lodged in the temporal lobe.’
‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ Adam went back to his table. Deirdre was still nibbling at her lamb and she looked up as he reached it.
‘What a tiresome life you do lead, Adam,’ she said playfully. ‘I can see that someone will have to alter your ways—being interrupted in the middle of dinner indeed...’ She smiled up at him, and then said sharply, ‘Well, sit down, do—I’m bored on my own.’
‘I’m afraid I must go—that was the hospital. I’m sorry, Deirdre. I’ll see the maître d’ as I leave. Please finish your dinner—he’ll get a taxi for you.’
She was furious. ‘I’m expected to stay here on my own?’ Her voice had grown shrill with temper. ‘The least you can do is drive me home—’
‘While I am doing that a patient might die,’ he reminded her quietly. ‘I’m afraid this is one of the hazards of spending an evening with a member of the medical profession. Do please forgive me.’
She was white with a rage that she was trying to contain. ‘I can see that it is certainly high time that someone took you in hand, Adam; you need a wife.’
He didn’t answer that but wished her goodbye, had a word with the maître d’ and went out to his car. The streets were comparatively quiet; he was at the hospital only a short time after the fifteen minutes he had promised and Peter was waiting for him.
Once he’d examined the man he decided to operate. ‘For the man hasn’t a chance otherwise, and it will be touch and go as it is. Tell Theatre, will you? I’ll be up in ten minutes.’
He had no other thought but his work for the next few hours, and when at last the man was wheeled away to Intensive Care he was surprised to find that it was past midnight—too late to drive home. He decided to stay the night at his flat, see his patient early in the morning and then go home for the rest of Sunday.
* * *
IT WAS BARELY six o’clock when Mr Ross-Pitt left the hospital the next morning. His patient was holding his own and there was nothing more to be done for the time being. He drove through the quiet Sunday streets and out of London into early-morning sunshine, and presently there were green fields and trees. There was almost no traffic; he was unlocking his door an hour later, to be greeted by Watson’s cheerful bark and Mrs Patch’s voice.
‘There you are, Mr Adam. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.’ She gave him a sharp glance as she came into the hall, but she smiled with relief when she saw him. He’d been up half the night; she’d seen that look on his face before—not enough sleep and concerned for whoever it was. She wondered what had happened to Miss Stone—he had told her that he was taking her out to dinner...
She said now, ‘I’ll have breakfast on the table by the time you’re showered and changed. Eggs and bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes...’
‘A couple of sausages? I had to miss most of dinner.’
‘Bless the man—and a nice slice of fried bread?’
‘I’ll be ten minutes.’ He whistled to Watson and went up to his room and came down presently, wearing well-cut tweeds and a tie.
‘Church?’ asked Mrs Patch, laying a piled-up plate before him.
‘Yes—it’s my turn to read the lesson.’
He walked Watson before walking to church. He saw Henrietta at once, sitting in her usual pew at the back of the church, but she was listening to old Mr Pike from the almshouses and didn’t see him. After the service, he promised himself, they might walk back together.
By the time he reached the church porch on the way out she had disappeared, and he walked back feeling vaguely disappointed. He would have liked to have told her about his long night—a notion which surprised him, for he seldom talked about his work, but the memory of their day together with Matty still lingered and he wanted to see her again.
She had seen him, of course, and had slipped away and out sight, fearful that if she lingered she might look as though she was imposing on his good nature after their day together. It was a good thing that there were more visitors than usual in the afternoon, so that she had no time to think about him.
It was in the kitchen, having a late tea after the last tourist had been ushered out, that Henrietta heard Cook telling Feathers that Mr Ross-Pitt had been seen arriving home just after seven o’clock in the morning. ‘And I did hear from Mrs Patch that he was dining with that Miss Stone in London. Looks as though there’ll be wedding bells, don’t it? Out all night...’
Feathers said repressively, ‘That is something we don’t know, Cook. I do not think that Mr Ross-Pitt would disport himself in an ungentlemanly fashion, even with the young lady he intends to marry. I think it more likely that he was engaged at the hospital.’
Henrietta hoped Feathers was right, but Deirdre had to be reckoned with. She was after all, good-looking, well dressed and shared the same lifestyle as Mr Ross-Pitt. At least, she did when he wasn’t at the hospital or seeing patients. She would make a bride to be proud of, in white—no, not white, she wasn’t young enough for that—in cream satin and someone’s priceless old lace veil, and she would know just how to behave.
Indeed, thought Henrietta, trying to be fair, she would make a splendid wife for an eminent surgeon, knowing all the right people and holding intimate dinner parties and wearing the right clothes.
I hate her, thought Henrietta, sitting there listening to the kitchen gossip.
* * *
SINCE IT WAS Mrs Pettifer’s day off on Monday, Henrietta got up early, saw to the needs of Dickens and Ollie, took her a cup of tea and got her own breakfast before going up to the house.
There was plenty of work waiting for her—polishing the fine old furniture, rubbing up some of the silver, running to and fro with tea and sugar and milk for the ladies getting ready for the teas that they would serve that afternoon-and Henrietta, who had learnt that work was an antidote to many of the less pleasant things in life, was glad to be kept busy.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t prevent Mr Ross-Pitt’s handsome visage dancing before her eyes from time to time. It was a pity that there was only a bare handful of visitors in the afternoon. She would have welcomed a crowd to distract her thoughts.
There was no sign of him during the week, although Feathers mentioned at dinner one day that Sir Peter and Lady Hensen were dining with him on the following evening.
On Saturday Henrietta took herself off to Saffron Walden—further away than Thaxted, but larger and with more shops, Mrs Pettifer had said. Since the days were warmer and summer wasn’t far off, she decided to find the skirt and blouse that she had intended to get when she had met Mr Ross-Pitt, and perhaps a pretty dress...
The shops were all that Mrs Pettifer had said and Henrietta loved the town; she would have to come again, she promised herself before she began her shopping.
She found a skirt almost at once—finely pleated and of thin material in a sober navy blue; she found two blouses too, short-sleeved and neatly collared, after which sensible choice she ignored prudence and bought a sage-green dress in cotton—the saleslady described it as a safari dress—but Henrietta could see that it would pass muster for any occasion during the day.
Not that she expected to lead a social life, but just supposing Matty should ask her to visit her again? And there was church on Sundays. A good investment, she told herself, and five minutes later succumbed to a simply cut floral dress, so plain that it wouldn’t date. It was uncrushable to
o, said the friendly saleslady—just right for taking on holiday.
Henrietta thought it unlikely that she would have a holiday, but she didn’t say so. Perhaps a day out later on, when her nest egg had swollen to sufficient proportions...
* * *
MR ROSS-PITT WAS in church on Sunday, but beyond a friendly nod he had nothing to say to her. She hadn’t expected it, but all the same she felt a pang of disappointment, instantly suppressed; loving him couldn’t be avoided, but encouraging her love would do no good at all. Perhaps it would be a good thing if she didn’t go to church, she thought, but that was something she didn’t want to miss. She might only be on nodding terms with other people in the congregation but it made her feel that she belonged and she enjoyed singing the hymns.
At the back of her head was the vague idea that if Deirdre Stone were to marry him and come to live in the village then she—Henrietta—wouldn’t be able to bear to live there too. There had been no more gossip about them in the kitchen, though, so perhaps it had been just that—gossip!
It surprised her that the staff at the manor knew so much about everyone living in the village, and although she didn’t pay much heed to it she did listen when Cook remarked over coffee the next morning that Mr Mike Hensen was in India.
‘Gone on a long holiday, I heard Sir Peter telling Mr Ross-Pitt when he was here the other evening. There’s some talk about Sir Peter and Lady Hensen going to the States to visit Miss Trudy—expecting again, I hear—and her husband away so much.’
‘Hearsay, Cook,’ said Feathers loftily. ‘If this is true then we shall be informed at the proper time.’
No more was said and the days slipped by, bringing their quota of visitors and polishing, dusting and mending. If it hadn’t been for the fact that, try as she might, Henrietta couldn’t rid herself of Mr Ross-Pitt’s vast image, she would have been completely happy.
* * *
IT WAS AT Sunday midday dinner that Feathers made his announcement. ‘Sir Peter and Lady Hensen will be travelling to the States in ten days’ time. The house is to be closed for a period of two weeks. We are each of us to have one week of our annual holiday, and for reasons of security I shall remain for the first week with Agnes, Cook and Henrietta. On the following week Mrs Dale, Mrs Pettifer and you, Addy, and Maud—’ he nodded at the kitchen maid ‘—will return here. You may remember Fletcher, who left when he married—he will be here for the two weeks, and Jimmy—the gardener’s elder son—will do the same.’
