Dinner was at eight, and after that they played card games and listened to the Swiss news on the radio. There was a television set in the villa, but Mrs. Bowman never watched it and Jane found the programme unfamiliar and without much appeal for her. Her French was good enough for short conversations and shopping, and she knew a certain amount of German and a very little Italian; but plays in French and German were definitely over her head ... although Florence, with no knowledge whatsoever of any language but her own, spent hours when she was off duty glued to the television set. It was, in fact, her only real diversion.
Usually Mrs. Bowman went to bed about ten o’clock, and at that hour Jane also went to her room, and sometimes she wrote letters, and sometimes she simply drew a chair up to her window and gazed at the tranquil loveliness of the lake, and the night-enshrouded garden below her.
No visitors came to the villa during that first week, but Dr. Delacroix paid his regular visit at the beginning of the second week, and Florence warned Jane when he might be expected on the morning of the day on which he actually looked in to see his patient.
Mrs. Bowman had sat up rather late the night before, and she was still in her room at a quarter to twelve when the doctor’s car turned in at the villa gates. Apparently Mrs. Bowman objected very strongly to being visited by her doctor in her bedroom unless she was really ill, and Florence showed the doctor into the main salon to await the descent of her mistress as soon as she had finished her dressing. Jane, who had been reading in the arbour, came in from the garden wearing dark glasses and a striped cotton dress with no sleeves and a low neck, and although she had seen the doctor’s car she was not prepared to find Mrs. Bowman’s practitioner striding up and down a trifle restlessly in the salon, while his patient remained upstairs in her room.
She took off her glasses and stared at him, and he stared back ... in fact, he stared so hard that but for her surprise she would have been quite disconcerted.
She was disconcerted in any case, but it was for a different reason.
“You!” she said.
Dr. Delacroix had picked up a book and had been glancing idly through it as he prowled restlessly about the room, but now he put it down and concentrated all his attention on Jane.
“I do not understand,” he said, and his black brows met in an enquiring frown.
Jane didn’t understand, either ... but now she knew why there had been something vaguely familiar about that tall dark figure striding back to his car a week ago. She had seen him before, and she had seen him on two occasions. He was, in fact, her passenger in the taxi on the way to the Hotel Continental, and the very same man whom a beautiful young woman had delightedly welcomed as ‘Jules’.
“You must be Dr. Delacroix,” she said.
Still frowning, he bowed to her very slightly in acknowledgment.
“I am,” he said.
“And we’ve met before ... on two occasions!”
“I do recall them.” Her frock was candy pink and white stripes, and she had already acquired a delightful coating of tan which overlaid the smooth perfection of her skin in a most attractive way. Her hair was a little disordered, because a breeze from the lake had been ruffling it, but the sun had bleached it, and there were bronzish patches highlighting the blackbird darkness that was rather like the darkness of his own hair. But by contrast with his swarthy virility she was a symphony in delicate hues that quite obviously was inclined to intrigue him, for he seemed unable to remove his eyes from her. However, to prove that he was not entirely bowled over by her appearance he added with considerable dryness: “You must forgive me if I seem a little surprised, but the last time I saw you you were a tourist, and now it seems you are also a friend of Madame Bowman.”
“Madame Bowman is my employer.”
“I beg your pardon?” He simply stood and stared at her. “Did you say your employer?”
“Yes. I have come out from England to be her companion.”
“You? Her companion?”
Jane smiled wryly.
“It is obvious you don’t think I am the ideal companion for anyone,” she commented, “and most certainly not Madame Bowman. But then you don’t know much about me, do you?”
“I know even less than I thought I knew about you,” he returned, in such a tone of frozen disapproval that it was her turn to stare questioningly at him. “When we met by chance outside the railway station you gave me quite clearly to understand that you were a tourist, and I gathered you were making the Hotel Continental your headquarters for so long as you remained in St. Vaizey. Why, you even accepted advice from me concerning various expeditions you should make during your stay—”
Her face flushed.
“Oh, come now, Dr. Delacroix,” she expostulated. “I did nothing of the kind! I allowed you to offer me advice, but I never said I had the smallest intention of acting upon it. As a matter of fact, I saw no reason why I should discuss my concerns with you, and it was you who took it upon yourself to treat me as a tourist, when you had no reason whatsoever to suppose I was anything of the kind. You saw my name on a suitcase and deduced that I was a Miss Nightingale—without, I must point out, giving me the least idea who you were!—and because I was booked in at the Continental were apparently unable to believe I was anything but a tourist. Only tourists, apparently, ever arrive in Switzerland—”
“You could have corrected me when I assumed you were here on holiday.”
“It didn’t seem to me it was important enough to be made so crystal clear.”
“I see.” She could tell by the angry flash in his eyes and the sudden tightening of his lips that this unusually attractive man, who was apparently a fashionable local doctor, accepted this as a deliberate snub—which, as a matter of fact, it was intended to be. “You did not think it polite to return interest with truth? Had you done so I could have explained that I was Madame Bowman’s medical adviser, and that I highly approved of her engaging a companion to live with her. She needs someone apart from the dour Florence to look after her ... and, naturally, had I had the least idea who you were, I would have properly introduced myself.”
She tried to sound casual.
“It didn’t really matter, Doctor. We were bound to meet sooner or later.”
“Quite.” But the icy snap in the word surprised her. “However, we might have met without confusion, and without my making quite so many false assumptions. You are not a tourist, and you are, apparently, someone quite well known to Madame Bowman ... she did, in fact, discuss you with me before your arrival. I gather that there is some connection between you and a member of her family?”
“Connection?” Her vividly attractive eyes opened wide. “Now, I wonder what you mean by that?”
It was his turn to look slightly embarrassed. He turned a little away from her, and set down the book he had been holding.
“I apologise,” he said stiffly. “Your concerns are, as you pointed out to me just now, your own. I was not attempting to pry into your affairs.”
She stared at him ... and then a gradual glimmering of what he meant broke like a faint light over her. Mrs. Bowman had already made it clear to her that she more than suspected an attachment between her one and only nephew and the girl for whom he had secured a temporary respite in Switzerland, and apparently she had passed on what little information she thought she had to her doctor. Jane bit her lip, tempted to correct his wrong impression there and then.
And then—perhaps because of his attitude—she decided that it really was no concern of his, and the less he knew about her the better. He was not her medical adviser, and apart from his weekly visits she was not likely to see much of him while she was in St. Vaizey.
At any rate, she hoped not. From the very beginning he had antagonised her for a reason that was not quite clear, unless it was that she suspected him of arrogance and a kind of lofty condescension, and had particularly objected when he insisted on paying for her taxi. He hadn’t even given her the opportunity to argue with hi
m about it.
The door opened, and Madame Bowman came in. She was wearing one of her warm woollen dresses, despite the heat, with a silk shawl draped round her shoulders, and as usual she fairly sparkled with rings and brooches. She apologised in her faded, charming voice for keeping the doctor waiting, and then was apparently delighted because he had already met Miss Nightingale. It didn’t apparently strike her immediately that their getting to know one another had scarcely awakened much pleasure in their respective breasts, and she simply exclaimed in a happy tone that it was so nice that Jane had managed to prevent the doctor from becoming bored.
“You know, he is such a terribly busy man, and I feel guilty whenever I keep him waiting,” she said, addressing Jane. “But when in addition to keeping him waiting I know that he is kicking his heels down here and wondering why I refuse to open my windows in the heat of the day, and why I will surround myself with so much unnecessary furniture, why then, it really agitates me.”
And in proof of her agitation she smiled placidly at Dr. Delacroix.
He put her into her chair and smiled back at her in a restrained manner.
“It’s not the amount of furniture with which you surround yourself that I object to,” he replied, “it’s the bric-a-brac. I’m inclined to fall over it.”
Madame Bowman chuckled.
“You should see his clinic,” she said to Jane, “and his own house. So clinically clean and impartial, I call it.”
“I like to be impartial,” the doctor observed quietly.
His patient looked up at him. For the first time it struck her that he was slightly ruffled about something ... and when she transferred her attention to Jane she thought she appeared somewhat ruffled, too.
Obviously they had not made the sort of impression on one another that one would have thought.
“Well now, I am rather pressed for time this morning, so if you don’t mind my putting the usual leading questions to you I will,” he said.
He looked round with an enquiring eye at the English girl. “Do you wish Miss Nightingale to remain?” he asked stiffly.
“But of course.” Mrs. Bowman was still very placid. “She and I have already got to know one another and in the future I shall have no secrets from her. If you think my health shows signs of deteriorating she must certainly be the first to hear about it.”
He frowned.
“There is no question of your health deteriorating, Madame, and you are really very tough.” He had his finger on her pulse, and he nodded to confirm his statement. “Yes; I find you in very good health this morning, Madame.”
“Splendid.” She smiled whimsically. “Since Jane arrived I have really felt quite remarkably well, and it must be because her arrival was like a tonic. We play games after dinner until an hour you would consider quite unrespectable for one of my advanced years and frailty; and each drive Andre takes us lasts a little longer because Jane knows nothing at all about Switzerland, and I absolutely insist that we show her as much as we can. Really, Doctor, nothing that you can prescribe in tablet form can do me as much good as my new companion, I’m sure of that,” and she beamed across at Jane affectionately.
The doctor started pacing up and down the overcrowded room and looking unimpressed.
“You must be careful not to overdo it,” he said frowningly. “When I observed that you were tough I did not mean tough enough to run risks.”
“Oh, but what is life if one does not run a few risks?” Her shrewd blue eyes watched him, and she was more than ever convinced that he was annoyed about something ... and quite seriously annoyed, at that. “Sit down, Jules,” she begged, reverting to an informal mode of address which she frequently used when they were alone. “Sit down and have a glass of sherry.” She smiled at Jane. “Do ring the bell for Florence, dear child, and tell her to bring the usual refreshments.”
But Jules Delacroix insisted that he simply could not spare the time.
“I have to be at the clinic in half an hour.” He glanced at his watch. “And I have another call to make on my way there. You will simply have to excuse me, Madame.”
“Very well.” She shrugged her shoulders lightly under the silk stole. “But perhaps you will spare us a little more of your time when you make your next visit. You know I always like to have some conversation with you when you call.”
“But of course, Madame ... I understand perfectly.” But he looked as if he could barely wait to escape from the twittering lovebirds and the insidious pot plants ... to say nothing of the watchful eyes of Miss Jane Nightingale, whose candy-pink frock was as bright as a rainbow in the dim room, and whose demure composure seemed, for some extraordinary reason, to quite upset him. “I, too, enjoy our conversations as a rule,” and he looked pointedly away from Jane.
“I was thinking of giving a dinner-party next week,” his patient informed him. “I think it would be nice for Jane to meet a few of my friends, and also I’m sure my friends would like to meet Jane.” There was no doubt about the affection that streamed from her eyes as she looked at Jane. “If you are not too busy, Jules, you must accept an invitation.”
“But of course.” He bowed from the waist. “I shall be delighted.”
“Then I will see to it that you receive an invitation.” Mrs. Bowman smiled up at him and gave him her hand. “Au revoir, Doctor, and I am happy to know you consider I have taken a fresh lease of life.”
“I did not say that,” he corrected.
“But you implied that that was what I had done.”
Frowningly he emphasised:
“I said that you are very fit, and so you are. But if you are to remain fit, you must be careful.” Out of narrowed, black-lashed eyes he directed a warning look at Jane over by the window. “Do not overdo things.”
She patted his sleeve.
“I will bear in mind what you say.”
Jane accompanied him from the room, and she let him out of the front door. Before he took his departure, however, he underlined for her benefit the warning look he had given her while they were still in the salon. “Madame Bowman has an excellent constitution for someone of her age, but you must please remember that she is not young, and only recently she was quite seriously ill. I shall expect you to co-operate with me and see that she has as much rest as possible, and she should always be in bed by ten o’clock. And I do not recommend drives in the heat of the day.”
“We always wait until evening before we take our drives,” she answered glibly.
“Oh, I see.” He directed at her a look which told her plainly that from that time forth he would treat her with caution; and having already been deceived in her he would be inclined to expect deception at every turn of the road. He felt, too, she thought, that behind that demure mask of a face which she had assumed for his benefit she was inclined to laugh at him ... and his dignity as a local doctor of high repute did not take kindly to that.
The light-hearted climber who had begged— or rather, commanded—a lift from her seemed to have disappeared altogether.
“By the way,” she said demurely, before she watched him stride, out to his car, “I hope you enjoyed your celebration dinner the other night.”
“Celebration dinner?” He turned and stared at her. “Oh! ... That dinner!” His black brows crinkled. “Yes, it was very pleasant.”
“The young woman I saw you with was certainly shatteringly attractive.” She could not resist saying this, although she was not quite clear herself why she did so. “You were accorded quite a rapturous welcome after your sojourn in the mountains.”
His slate-grey eyes dwelt on her face, and she thought his shapely mouth took on a slightly derisive twist. A cool, hard twist.
“You are observant, Miss Nightingale,” he remarked., “But I agree with you, Chantal is shatteringly attractive.”
“It’s an attractive name, too,” she remarked, a little lamely, furious with herself now for having mentioned his girl-friend at all. And of course she was his girl-friend. Why, h
e had practically kissed her under the eyes of herself and the one or two other people who were in the hotel vestibule at the time.
“Yes; it is, isn’t it?” There was no doubt about the mockery in his smile as it curved his lips and put a temporary sparkle into his eyes. Those eyes swept her up and down in a dismissing, half humorous fashion, and then he turned and opened the door himself and passed out on to the steps. He saluted her casually. “If you have any time to spare apart from your duties—which must be very onerous since they seem to include a lot of card-playing! —do take my advice and see something of Switzerland while you’re here,” he urged. “I should hate to think I’d given you all that excellent advice when we met at the Continental for nothing!”
And he slipped into the driving-seat of his car—being on this occasion without a chauffeur and drove off in the direction of the villa gates.
With a slightly flushed face Jane returned to her employer. Mrs. Bowman had rung the bell for Florence and was anticipating a glass of sherry before lunch, and her expression was placidly content. But there was a faint gleam of curiosity in her eyes as she glanced upwards at Jane.
“Did Dr. Delacroix say anything to you before he departed?” she asked. “Sometimes he gives Florence a long list of instructions which she tries faithfully to carry out. But I think you are rather more sensible. You won’t try and coerce me just because my doctor chooses to be awkward.”
“No, he didn’t say very much,” Jane replied, not altogether truthfully. “Except that I am not to allow you to overtax yourself.”
Mrs. Bowman watched the slight, candy-pink figure as she bent to pour out the sherry.
“Ah,” she said, “I do believe you are one of the few people who are not immediately impressed by Dr. Delacroix. Most of his patients—particularly his women patients—think the world of him, and are inclined to make fools of themselves sometimes over him. He’s a bachelor, you know, and—naturally—they all want to marry him, if they’re not already married.”
“The knowledge that they’re all inclined to do that must have given him a kind of complex,” Jane observed thoughtfully.
The Young Nightingales Page 7
