by Betty Neels
If Emma had hoped to see more of Paul during the next week she was disapointed; even at the weekend he was called away urgently to operate on a road casualty so that her wedding-day loomed without her having had the chance to get to know him better. Indeed, suspicion that he was avoiding her lurked at the back of her head and became so urgent that on the evening before her wedding, left to her own devices while he worked in his study, she put down the book she was reading, thumped on the door and then entered the study before she could change her mind.
He got up as she went in. ‘Emma—what’s wrong? You look as though…’ He paused and asked mildly, ‘Something has upset you?’
‘Yes—no, I’m not sure.’ She gave him a worried look. ‘Why don’t I see you more often? You’re always going somewhere, and even when you’re at home you keep out of my way. Don’t you want to marry me? It’s quite all right if you’ve changed your mind; it isn’t as if…I wouldn’t like you to get married to the wrong person and be unhappy.’
He came round the desk and took her hands in his. ‘Emma, my dear girl, what can I say to reassure you? Only that I want to marry you and that you are the right person. If you haven’t seen much of me it is because I’ve had a good deal of work, and I’m afraid that is something you will have to learn to live with.’ He smiled down at her, a tender smile which set her heart thumping. ‘And I haven’t changed my mind, nor will that ever happen.’
‘I’ve been silly,’ said Emma. ‘I’m sorry—and I’ve interrupted your work.’
He turned her round and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘We will sit down and go over the arrangements for tomorrow.’ He was propelling her gently out of the study and back into the drawing-room. ‘Are you feeling nervous? No need—you know almost everyone who’ll be there. The car will fetch you tomorrow morning; I know it’s only a few yards to the church but I can’t have my bride walking there…’
‘The car? But what about you?’
‘I’m spending the night at Eastrey Barton—the family are already there. It is considered very bad luck, so I’m told, for the bride and groom to spend the night before their wedding under the same roof. Mrs Parfitt will look after you and I’ll phone you in the morning.’
‘Oh, I thought we’d just have breakfast together as usual and then walk to church.’
‘I have neglected you shamefully, Emma—the truth is’
‘You forgot that you were getting married!’ she finished for him, unaware that that hadn’t been what he had been going to say.
She spoke matter-of-factly and Sir Paul gave a soundless sigh. Patience, he reminded himself—she wasn’t ready to hear his reason for avoiding her company, and, when he was with her, treating her with a casual friendliness.
Dressed for her wedding, Emma took a final look at herself in the pier glass, and even to her critical eye she considered that she didn’t look too bad. Not beautiful— brides were supposed to look beautiful—not even pretty, but the outfit suited her and the little hat framed her rather anxious face with its soft velvet brim.
She went downstairs to where Dr Treble, who was to give her away, waited, and was much heartened by his surprised admiration. He and Mrs Parfitt, who was on the point of leaving for the church, chorused their approval in no uncertain terms, so that she got into the car feeling more confident.
Her confidence faltered a little as they started down the aisle and she clutched the small bouquet of pink roses which Paul had given her in a nervous hand; she hadn’t expected the church to be full of people—the entire village appeared to be in the pews, nodding and smiling at her as she passed them. When she reached the front pews Paul’s mother looked round and smiled and nodded too, but Emma scarcely noticed her; her eyes were on Paul’s broad back—if only he would turn round and look at her…
He did, smiling a little, and her heart gave a great jump against her ribs so that she caught her breath. Her thoughts were wild; it was a bit late in the day to fall in love with him, wasn’t it? And not at all a good idea either, for now everything was going to be a bit complicated.
She stood beside him and the vicar began to speak the opening words of the service. She did her best to listen but odd thoughts kept popping in and out of her head. She had loved him for quite a while, she thought, only she hadn’t known it, and if she had would she have married him?
The solemn words the vicar was speaking cut across her reflections at last and she listened then. Never mind the future. She would make her vows and keep to them; she would be a good wife, and if Paul didn’t need her love, only her companionship, then she would do her best to be the kind of person he wanted. When the moment came, she spoke her ‘I will’ in a clear, steady little voice that everyone could hear, and then took comfort from Paul’s deep voice, as assured and certain as hers had been.
They exchanged rings then and went to sign the register, and presently were walking down the aisle and out into the bright morning, but before they could get into the Rolls they were surrounded by guests with cameras poised and had to pass through a barrage of confetti and good wishes.
Paul had been holding her hand, and as they reached the car at last gave it an encouraging squeeze. ‘So much for our quiet wedding,’ he said. ‘I’m enjoying it, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Emma. ‘It’s the most wonderful day of my life.’ She spoke with such fervour that he looked down at her, but the little hat shaded her face from his as she got into the car.
The rest of the day was like a dream; the cottage was full of people laughing and talking and drinking champagne and eating canapés. Paul had Emma by the hand, and as various friends greeted him he introduced her.
His sisters had been the first to join them after his mother and father—handsome young women who kissed her warmly and listened smilingly as their husbands flattered her gently and congratulated Paul—and after them there were people she realised she would meet again— colleagues from the hospital, several from London, old friends with their wives and of course the Herveys and Mr Dobbs and his wife.
Mr Dobbs had given her a smacking kiss. ‘Wait till I tell ‘em all about this,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure that Mrs Smith-Darcy gets the lot. I’ve taken some photos too.’ He transferred his beaming smile to Sir Paul. ‘You are a lucky man, and no mistake,’ he told him.
Since they weren’t going anywhere, the guests lingered, renewing acquaintances, plying Emma and Paul with invitations, and then at last taking their leave. The cake had been cut, the last toast drunk and Emma longed to take off her new shoes. The moment the last guest had gone, she did so. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Just for a few minutes—they’re new…’
‘And very pretty. You look charming, Emma, and I do like that hat.’ He took her arm as they went indoors to where his mother and father and sisters were waiting. ‘We’re going out to dinner—just the family—but we can sit around for a while and talk.’
‘I’ll get Mrs Parfitt to make a pot of tea…’
‘A splendid idea, although I suspect she’s already got the kettle on.’
As indeed she had, and presently she bustled in with the tea-tray and a plate of cucumber sandwiches. ‘After all that cake and bits and pieces,’ she explained. ‘Not but it wasn’t a rare fine party.’ Her eyes fell on the dogs, basking in the late afternoon sunshine. ‘Queenie’s in the kitchen having her tea.’
‘And what about you, Mrs Parfitt?’ asked Emma. ‘You’ve worked so hard; you must have your tea too…’
‘That I shall, ma’am—wetted it not five minutes ago with a nice boiled egg and a bit of toast.’
Emma, in bed that night, thought back over her wedding-day. It had ended on a light-hearted note at Eastrey Barton, where they had all dined splendidly with a great deal of talk and laughter, and she had been happy because Paul had given her a wedding-present—a double row of pearls which she had immediately worn.
When they had returned to the cottage he had kissed her goodnight—a quick, friendly kiss—almost a peck�
�� she thought wistfully, but at least it was a kiss. It had been difficult not to kiss him back, but she hadn’t. She would keep to her resolve of being a good companion, however hard it was, and perhaps in time he would come to love her. At least, she told herself stoutly, she had several advantages—she was his wife and she loved him.
The next day he took her to Exeter with him as he had promised, and she sat in the lecture hall and listened to him addressing a large and attentive audience. She understood very little of the lecture—that it was about bones went without saying, and some of it must have been amusing for the audience laughed quite often. When he had sat down they clapped for a long time before someone on the platform got up and made a speech about him in glowing terms.
Emma, sitting at the back of the hall, beamed with pride and Sir Paul, who had seen her the moment he started his lecture, smiled—his dear little Emma…
They had tea with a number of his colleagues—several foreign surgeons and members of the hospital board—and Emma—being Emma—had little to say for herself but listened to the opinions of various learned gentlemen who were quick to observe to Sir Paul that his wife was a charming young lady and a splendid listener. ‘Such beautiful eyes,’ sighed an Italian surgeon, over in England to exchange ideas with his colleagues. ‘I hope we shall meet again.’
Driving back to Lustleigh presently, Paul repeated this. ‘How fortunate that I’m not a jealous husband,’ he said lightly. ‘You were a great success, Emma.’
‘Oh, was I? I didn’t understand half of what they were talking about but they were all very nice to me.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Perhaps it was because I’m your wife and they were being polite.’
‘No, no. They all fell for you…’ He was laughing and that hurt.
‘I expect it was my new clothes,’ said Emma.
‘You enjoyed the lecture?’ he asked her.
‘Very much, although I didn’t understand very much of it. Do you lecture a great deal?’
‘From time to time. Sometimes I’m invited to other countries—you shall come with me.’
‘Oh, may I? Don’t you have a secretary with you?’
‘Yes, if it’s a long tour, but for the present I shall be in England.’
‘Not always at Exeter?’
‘No—but I’m usually only away for a day or two— not long.’
At dinner that evening he asked her if she would like to drive to Torquay in the morning. ‘It’s pleasant at this time of year—not too many people yet, and the dogs love the beach.’
She peeped at him over her glass. He looked tired and preoccupied—a carefree day by the sea would be pleasant. ‘I’d love it,’ she told him.
They left soon after breakfast, and since it was a clear day, Emma wore a skirt with a cashmere sweater and a velvet beret perched over one eye. ‘Very fetching,’ said Sir Paul. ‘You are sure you’ll be warm enough?’
He drove to the A38 and took the fork over Haldon to the coast and, as he had said, Torquay was not too crowded.
‘Coffee first or walk the dogs?’ he asked her.
‘The dogs,’ said Emma, conscious of two anxious, whiskery faces turned towards her. So they parked the car and took them down on to the beach and walked arm-in-arm for a mile or more, stopping every now and again to throw sticks for the dogs and look out to sea.
‘It looks very cold,’ said Emma, and then added, ‘I expect you can swim…’
‘Yes.’ They were standing at the water’s edge and he flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘You don’t?’
‘Well, I tried—at school, you know—and once or twice when I went on holiday with Mother and Father. I think I’m a coward.’
His arm tightened. ‘Nonsense. You haven’t had the chance to learn, that’s all. I’ll teach you. I’ve a small yacht which I keep at Salcombe; we’ll go there when I’m free.’
‘I’ve never been on a yacht.’
‘I shall very much enjoy having you for my crew,’ he told her.
He took her to the Imperial Hotel for lunch—lobster bisque and boeuf en croute, rounded off by a chocolate soufflé, and washed down by a claret handled by the wine waiter as though it were a precious baby rather than a bottle.
Emma, who knew almost nothing about wines, took a sip, then another. ‘It’s perfect—I’ve never tasted anything as heavenly.’
Sir Paul thought it unlikely that she had, but he expressed the view that it was considered a good wine and that he was glad that she enjoyed it.
The day was fine. They walked again after lunch, on the beach once more but this time in the opposite direction, with the dogs rushing about, barking at the water, begging for sticks to be thrown. Presently they turned back and got into the car and began to drive back to Lustleigh, stopping on the way at a tea-room in one of the villages. It was old-fashioned—a front room in a thatched cottage—but they had a splendid tea of muffins, oozing butter, and a large pot of strong tea, while the dogs sat under the table, gobbling the bits of muffin Emma handed them.
‘You’ll spoil them,’ observed Sir Paul.
She said at once, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it.’
He frowned, annoyed with himself for sounding as though he was criticising her. She saw the frown and guessed quite wrongly that he was vexed with her so that she became ill at ease.
The day had been heavenly—just being with him had been wonderful—but now, in her efforts to behave as the kind of wife he had wished for, she drew back from the friendly rapport they had had, still making small talk, but keeping him at arm’s length while willingly answering him when he spoke.
He, however, was practised in the art of putting patients at their ease, and by the time they reached home she was her usual, friendly self and they dined together in the easy companionship that he was so careful to maintain.
That, she was to discover, was to be the last of their days together for some time, for he left directly after breakfast each morning and was rarely home before seven or eight o’clock in the evening. She hid her disappointment and showed a bright face when he got back—ready to listen about his day, even though she understood very little of what he had been doing. She was also careful not to chat at breakfast while he was glancing through his post. True, they had been out to dine on several evenings, but she saw little of him then, though it was pleasant to meet the people he counted his friends.
She filled her days with walking the dogs, working doggedly at a piece of tapestry she had begun with so much enthusiasm, not realising the amount of work and tiny stitches it required before it was finished. She was happy because she loved Paul, but she found herself counting the hours until he came home each evening.
They had been married for several weeks when he told her at breakfast that someone would deliver a Mini that morning. ‘For you, Emma, so you can go wherever you want. I’ll be home early today and you can take me for a drive in it.’
She smiled widely at him across the table. ‘Paul, thank you—how perfectly splendid.’ She added, ‘I’ll be very careful…’
He smiled. ‘Keep to the roads around here until you’re quite used to it. I’ll be home before five o’clock so be ready for me.’
He dropped a kiss on her head as he went away.
The Mini, a nice shade of blue, arrived at lunchtime, and she got into it at once and drove to Bovey Tracey and back and then waited impatiently for Paul to come home. When he did she drove him to Moretonhampstead, very conscious of him sitting squashed up beside her.
‘It’s a bit small for you,’ she said, driving carefully past the sheep wandering across the road.
‘Indeed, but just right for you, I hope, Emma.’
‘Yes, oh, yes. It’s a wonderful present.’
Back home, as they sat at dinner he asked her, ‘Do you find the days long, Emma?’
‘Well, yes, a bit. You see, I’ve had to work all day for quite a time and I’m not really used to having so much leisure.’
‘Would you like
a little job? Voluntary, of course. There is a nursery at Moretonhampstead. It takes unwanted babies and toddlers—most of them are orphaned or abandoned. Not ill, but neglected and very underfed. Diana Pearson, who is in charge, is an old friend of mine and she tells me that she needs more help urgently. Would you like to go there once or twice a week and give a hand? No nursing, just common sense and a liking for infants.’
He wanted her to say yes, she was sure—perhaps that was why he had given her the car. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, I’d love to help,’ she told him.
‘Good. We’ll go there on Monday; I’m not operating until the afternoon. Would you ask Mrs Parfitt to have lunch ready for us at one o’clock? I’ll bring you back and have lunch here.’ He added, ‘One or two days a week and not more than four hours at a time, Emma. It has to be interesting, not tiring and demanding, and never at the weekends.’
The nursery was on the outskirts of the town—a long, low building, with cheerfully coloured walls and a large playroom and several nurseries. Sir Paul walked in as though he knew the place well and went straight to a door with ‘Office’ written on it.
The young woman who got up as he went in was tall and dark with almost black eyes in a lovely face. She was elegantly dressed and she smiled at him in a way which gave Emma food for thought. Her greeting was casual enough and when Paul introduced her she shook hands with a pleasant murmur and another smile—quite different from the first one, though.
It was obvious that she knew all about Emma, for she said pleasantly, ‘We’d love to have you here; we’re desperate for help. Paul said two days in a week and not more than four hours at a time.’ She put a hand on his arm and smiled at Emma, who smiled back, knowing that she was disliked just as she disliked the speaker. ‘Come and look around—there are a lot of small babies at the moment. The travellers bring them in for a week or two’s feeding up—the little ones get cold and quickly ill; it’s not really an ideal life for babies, although the children seem happy enough.’
