Nurse in Waiting

by Jane Arbor

  “But you will come in? In this country they have not—” he corrected himself carefully—”do not have—the custom of the five o’clock tea, but Madame ‘Agerty know I find her potato-cakes delicious, and at about this hour they often await me. You will share them with me, no?”

  “Well, just for a minute.” Joanna’s healthy appetite, stimulated by her walk, was registering considerable interest in the matter of potato-cakes. By now she was no stranger to them. They would be hot, with butter oozing out at the sides ... Besides, her curiosity about Justin McKiley extended to the house where he lived and this was her opportunity to see it.

  René Menden stood aside as she passed into the hall before him. Then he flung down the hedge-stake he had been using as a walking-stick and going to the head of a flight of basement stairs at the back of the hall, called down them: “Aggy, chérie!” a summons to which there was no immediate response. René unbent so far as to make a face at Joanna over his shoulder before he tried again: “Aggy, my cabbage!”

  This time the fat Irishwoman whom Joanna knew to be Mrs. Hagerty, Justin McKiley’s housekeeper, came hurrying up the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron as she came.

  “Now, Menden,” she said, pronouncing each syllable to rhyme with ‘ten,’ “ye’ve no call to be addressin’ a Christian woman by thim vegetable names. What is it ye want, now?”

  René spread his hands. “But potato-cakes, surely? and perhaps tea for Mademoiselle Merivale?”

  “There’s no tea but what I had to me dinner. There’d be a lick of it left—”

  Joanna shuddered. “Not for me,” she said hastily. “A—a glass of milk will do.” (At least they couldn’t stew milk for a couple of hours and turn out the result as a black, viscous broth!)

  “Alors! Milk and potato-cakes, very hot!” ordered René. He turned to Joanna. “This way. It is here that we eat.”

  He led the way into a room off the hall, where a small peat-fire burned in the grate and where the tablecloth had an air of being more or less permanently laid. A couple of Dublin newspapers hung over the arms of the worn leather chairs by the fire, but there seemed to be no books anywhere. A castor-oil plant stood on a bamboo table in the window embrasure, and the room looked as if its interior decoration had been inspired more by Mrs. Hagerty’s standards of taste than those of anyone else.

  René Menden looked at Joanna’s dismayed face and laughed. “Tous les conforts modernes—every modern convenience, no?”

  “Well—” began Joanna. She had not expected the debonair Justin McKiley to be contented with this.

  René shrugged. “It is nothing!” he declared. “We are not much here, Mr. McKiley and I, after the morning. And he has his own room over there.” He nodded across the hall to a closed door. “It is there that he does a great deal of his work, sees his friends, has parties.”

  “And you—what about your friends?” put in Joanna gently.

  The boy looked startled. “I? But in Ireland I have no friends. Here—I am the stranger, Mademoiselle Merivale!” He spoke without a trace of self-pity, but Joanna felt as sorry for him, the alien, as she did for the ancient grace of the house which, so far as she could see, had been betrayed into dinginess.

  She said slowly: “For you then, Ireland is no more than a—a kind of corridor in your life?” She was thinking that for her, when her work with Roger Carnehill was done, her stay here would appear as no more than that—a passage between one part of her life and the next.

  But René was shaking his head. “No. It is more than that. I shall stay here for a time, learn my work and then go home. But when I return to Belgium I shall at least take memories—perhaps even something more!”

  They looked at each other, both knowing that he was speaking of Shuan. Then the boy laughed quickly and make a gesture embracing the room. “It is terrible, this! Do you know, one day Mademoiselle Shuan and I have amused ourselves, giving the whole house a new decor, as for a newly wedded pair of lovers coming to live here? We have begun at the front door and have finished at the tiny attics under the roof. We have given it everything—but everything!” He sighed reminiscently. “That day she has been interested—as but rarely since! And even then, when all was done, she has said crossly: ‘But this is silly! For a pair of married lovers will never live here. When Roger marries, it will be the Dower House again and Madame Carnehill must retire to it!”

  “But it was fun, furnishing it?” asked Joanna, enjoying the fantasy.

  “Oh, yes, it was droll. But I think it was she who most enjoyed the artistry of it and I, the sentiment.” He turned about to take from Mrs. Hagerty a tray containing a jug, two tumblers and a dish of potato-scones. Then he and Joanna sat at adjacent sides of the table and fell to upon the impromptu meal.

  “This,” commented René between munches, “is—as you would say—‘fun.’ ”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Joanna picked up her glass confidently, then after the first mouthful, choked and set it down hastily.

  “What?” began René, then burst out laughing. ‘Ah, it is le lait-du-beurre—the buttermilk! I always have it. Do you not like it?”

  Joanna grimaced. “I’m sorry—not a bit!”

  “You do not have it in England?”

  “No—I suppose we don’t make enough butter!”

  “That,” said René gallantly, “I find it difficult to believe. For it is the buttermilk which gives the exquisite complexion, and yours. Mademoiselle—!”

  Then, laughing, he picked up the jug and Joanna heard him clatter down the stairs to the kitchen.

  She glanced at her watch. Soon she must go back to relieve Colonel and Mrs. Kimstone. But just then there was a sound in the hall and Justin McKiley appeared at the open door of the room. With legs apart he stood regarding her, while he bent a riding crop-bow-wise between his hands.

  He said: “So you came to find me after all! Didn’t I suggest that you would?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Joanna said coolly: “I was out for a walk and I came to look at the outside of the Dower House. René met me and invited me in to share potato-cakes with him.”

  Justin McKiley glanced distastefully at the half laid table. “To share also, I see, the squalor of the dining arrangements imposed on us by Mrs. Hagerty. Come to my room, and I’ll see that you get tea, properly served, English fashion.”

  “No, I can’t stay,” Joanna told him. “René has gone to get some fresh milk, because I can’t drink buttermilk. When he comes back I must finish my scones and go.”

  “But you’ll come again. Having once escaped from bondage, you’ll repeat the experience?”

  “I have time off regularly every day,” lied Joanna. “I don’t feel in need of any really dramatic escape.”

  “No? Well, perhaps the tediousness of work like yours has a cumulative effect and I must’nt expect results so soon! Where did you go for your walk?” His tone held only a careless interest.

  “Across the park. What a wealth of lovely old trees!”

  “M’m. Too many. For too long the Carnehills have pursued a policy of ‘The timber of Carrieghmere is not for sale.’ I’m remedying that.”

  “So I saw,” commented Joanna dryly.

  “You noticed the felling we’re doing over by the east well? Obviously it was criminal to keep it, considering the price timber is fetching.”

  “Does Mr. Carnehill approve?” Joanna heard herself asking.

  McKiley shrugged. “I dare say. I don’t know that I’ve urged the necessity on him particularly. But as agent in sole charge I must make my own decisions in certain matters for the good of the place.”

  “I should have thought,” said Joanna, surprised at her own temerity, “that the felling and sale of his timber was something which shouldn’t be undertaken without certainty of Mr. Carnehill’s full consent!”

  Justin McKiley looked at her quizzically. “Are you taking me to task?” he inquired amusedly.

  “No, only—” Joanna was uncomfortably aw
are that she was launched upon something which she had not sent out to do and for which Roger, particularly, would despise her. She was appealing for him to his agent with whom he had no sympathy.

  “Only what?”

  “Well—he isn’t told enough of what is going on. I’m his nurse and I believe it would help towards his recovery. Dr. Beltane thinks so too. You and Mrs. Carnehill tell him just so much and not enough. He wants details, figures—”

  “And he sent you to get them from me—unofficially, of course?”

  “No!” The denial was indignant. “My conviction about it is—is professional. After all, he is no child—he’s a man—even if he is a sick one!”

  “And a sick man appeals to the emotions?” put in McKiley quickly. “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s by Mrs. Carnehill’s wish that he isn’t worried about the estate.”

  “But isn’t there some department which he could take over, feel himself responsible for?” persisted Joanna. “You could convince Mrs. Carnehill of that, surely?”

  “And force him into feeling that he is the child you claim he isn’t? ‘Here, Roger dear, is a teeny-weeny duty that’s all your own’—how d’you suppose he’d react to that? No, the overall, general picture is best—”

  It was a shrewd point, but Joanna did not feel convinced. However, as she was about to reply, René came back with the milk, and she had to swallow a glassful hastily as she finished her scone.

  She said to him: “I must go. Thanks awfully for the invitation.” But when she went to the door it was not René, but McKiley who accompanied her.

  “Next time you come,” he remarked casually, “you will take tea with me?”

  “Yes. One day I’d like to.” It was a social evasion as much as it was an acceptance. For Joanna had begun to feel that she understood something of Roger’s lack of sympathy for his agent. Since her first impressions of them the two men seemed to have changed roles in her mind. At first she had thought of Roger as the enigmatic, unpredictable one, and Justin McKiley as the more direct. She still did not understand Justin McKiley. But Roger, she felt, she was beginning to understand better every day—an impression which, however, she was to doubt before that particular day came to an end!

  She hurried back to the house to find her patient making no secret of the fact that he had already had enough of his visitors. The Colonel, sitting on the window-sill with his hands in his pocket, seemed placidly unmoved by Roger’s overbrief replies to his remarks, but Mrs. Kimstone was sitting by his bedside, tight-lipped and disapproving.

  “You’ve been a long time!” accused Roger unceremoniously at sight of Joanna.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been having potato-cakes and milk with René Menden at the Dower House.” She smiled at Mrs. Kimstone. “Thank you so much for keeping Mr. Carnehill company while I was away!”

  The older woman unbuttoned her lips so far as to say: “Nonsense! We often come over and sit with him. Don’t we, Roger?”

  “Yes, often,” said Roger, looking as if he had only just stopped short of adding: “Too often.”

  Mrs. Kimstone made an effort and went on, with a sort of supercharged brightness: “But, my word, you’ve made some changes since we were last here! All the furniture in this room—it has disappeared! There’s practically nothing left to sit on!”

  “They’ve probably heard the price Americans will pay in Grafton Street for antiques, and they’ve sold the lot,” suggested the Colonel facetiously.

  Roger said: “Joanna disapproved of it and turned it out. If you must sit on it, you’ll find it in the attic,” he added pointedly.

  Mrs. Kimstone ignored the invitation and asked archly: “Who disapproved of it?”

  “I did,” put in Joanna briskly. “As furniture it was excellent, but none of it was very suitable for a sickroom. It all had to be dusted, you know!”

  Mrs. Kimstone looked slightly taken aback by this direct challenge. “Yes, well I suppose it had. But it makes such a bareness—just like a hospital ward!”

  “That,” murmured Roger “was the idea. Or so I gathered.”

  Colonel Kimstone levered himself off the windowsill. “We’d better go Marty, and leave Roger to—to Joanna.” And he winked broadly.

  “Are you staying to dinner?” inquired Roger, almost cordial at the prospect of release.

  “We’ve been asked.” The Colonel gave his wife a little push towards the door. “Have to give Mrs. Carnehill a chance to try out her latest recipes, eh Nurse?” he grinned at Joanna as they left the room.

  When they had gone Joanna said, because she was beginning to be able to say such things to Roger: “You weren’t being very gracious, were you?”

  “If you mean I was being a complete boor, why don’t you say so?” he snapped.

  “Perhaps because I’ve seen you behave even worse,” she said, though she was surprised at the violence of his reply.

  “The woman is like a mosquito—her mind follows you around, deciding where to nip you next!”

  Joanna thought she understood. “Oh, you mean—about the furniture?” she began laughingly.

  “No, I do not mean about the furniture. That’s nothing to the snooping she does into the more remote corners of people’s private lives—” He paused, frowning, and Joanna was wondering whether he would be more explicit when, characteristically, he abandoned the subject and asked abruptly:

  “Well—you saw René? What could he tell you?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t ask him.” At risk of angering him further, she added: “Don’t you see that it would put the boy into an awkward position? It—it’s too much like spying. I’d rather go straight to Mr. McKinley himself.”

  “That would get you a long way!” put in Roger sarcastically.

  “Well, as a matter of fact I did speak to him. He came in while I was at the Dower House.” She parried Roger’s look of inquiry with a question of her own. “Did you know about the timber that’s being felled over by the east wall of the park?”

  He frowned. “Yes—I did.”

  “Oh. Well, Mr. McKiley said that it was a good thing to do, considering the price that timber is fetching, but he didn’t seem to think that you approved.” Joanna was finding this very heavy going.

  “So you discussed my approval or disapproval of the disposal of my property with McKiley? I must say, Joanna, that you go rather far!”

  Joanna flushed. “I didn’t know you had been consulted about the felling. And I supposed it was one of the things you wanted to know about—”

  “ ‘A good price for it’!” fumed Roger. “What’s the good of that to me, when I don’t know what price it fetches—when I never see an account book?”

  “I put that to Mr. McKiley too,” said Joanna quietly. “I suggested that you wanted and ought to have more control—”

  He made a resigned gesture. “Joanna, you’re impossible. And I thought you were an ally! As if McKiley, at this stage of things, would listen to the sweet reasonableness of inviting my co-operation! But leave it—it doesn’t matter.”

  Joanna’s heart sank. She too had begun to think of herself as an ally. And here they were, through her well-meant efforts on his behalf, at the edge of another of his despairs.

  With her hand upon the bell-rope which would summon help for his bedmaking, she said slowly: “There’s one way in which you could get your way and run the estate as you please. You could determine to get well sooner than anyone expects.”

  “Oh, that? I have a lot to say in the matter, don’t I?” His tone was bitter.

  “Well, you could begin by trying to believe in the new treatment they are going to give you in Dublin.”

  “Yes, and if I ever do get on my feet again, when all’s done there’ll be the Marty Kimstones of this world watching me like hawks to see what I’ll do with my freedom!”

  Joanna did not reply. She did not understand the implication of his last remark and it was useless to try to argue with him in such a mood.

  It was
Shuan who answered the summons of the bell. She was full of having gained a pupil for riding lessons and chattered away to Roger, though Joanna thought that he answered with scant interest.

  “My dear,” she exclaimed, “the woman’s got a seat like a sack of potatoes and she uses her hands like a couple of flatirons. Roger—you’re not listening!”

  “Yes. I am. Potatoes. Flatirons. What else?”

  But it seemed to Joanna that it was his eyes that followed Shuan about the room, rather than that his mind followed her chatter. It was almost as if he was seeing the girl afresh, in some new light. Joanna did not understand it, but it was clear that for the moment his whole interest was absorbed.

  Was it possible that Mrs. Kimstone had talked about the girl, had criticized her or praised her, and now he was silently assessing the matter for himself? Before the evening was out Joanna was to know.

  After dinner—which consisted of an excellent soup, grilled trout and a savoury—she was left alone with Mrs. Kimstone while the other three went off in search of confirmation of a piece of Irish history which was in dispute.

  Mrs. Kimstone took from a handbag as big as a holdall a piece of shapeless grey knitting upon which her needles clicked vigorously.

  “You don’t knit, Nurse?” she inquired sharply.

  “Sometimes. But I’m not doing anything at the moment,” admitted Joanna.

  Mrs. Kimstone began to count stitches, did some calculations, frowned, and then launched herself upon some frenzied unravelling.

  “I always say it’s so soothing!” she said tritely.

  “It is—when it goes well!” replied Joanna demurely, and was careful not to meet the inquiring glance of the small eyes as their owner wondered if she was being laughed at.

  There was silence until the grey mass was once more dangling from the pins. Then Mrs. Kimstone said, with the same arch brightness which she had used with Roger: “It’s so nice, isn’t it, to think that when Roger gets better Mrs. Carnehill’s plans for her two young people will probably have a happy ending after all?”