by Anne Weale
THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTERS
Anne Weale
Doctor Burney had a busy household. His wife had died several years ago, but the rambling old village house hummed with the activities of three daughters. Young Suzy was still at school; Carola was the glamour girl of the family with ambitions to become a model; Rachel, the oldest, had volunteered to take on the job of housekeeping under the watchful eyes of Aunt Flo, but also found time for some free lance art work.
As might be expected, Rachel’s life was quiet, but pleasant enough—until the arrival of the new squire, Daniel Elliot, to whom she took an immediate dislike. However, liked or disliked, Daniel was not a man to be ignored, as Rachel found when he showed signs of becoming a disturbing influence in the lives of all the doctor’s family.
CHAPTER ONE
ON a bright spring morning when snowy clusters of wild may blossoms were foaming over the hedgerows, and bluebells spread an azure haze in the spinneys on the golf course, Rachel Burney strolled down Piper’s Loke, her dark hair glossy in the sunlight, her bare arms and long slim legs already tanned to a pleasing golden brown. Behind her, questing busily along the ditch, his bushy tail thrashing with enjoyment, came a stout black dog of indeterminate parentage.
The village policeman, toiling up the hill on his creaking bicycle, heard Rachel whistling before she appeared round the corner. He dismounted, taking off his helmet and mopping his glistening forehead with a large pocket handkerchief.
“Mornin’, Miss Rachel. Seems like we’re set for an early heat wave,” he said cordially.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Pickett. Yes, it does indeed. They ought to give you a lighter uniform for this glorious weather. You must be stifling in that thick tunic,” Rachel said sympathetically.
“Ah, that I am—proper broiling,” he agreed, still puffing from his exertions up the hill. “I reckon that animal of yours could do with a sight less wool on him.”
Rachel laughed. “Poor old Bolster, he’s the original hearthrug dog,” she said affectionately. “We’re just going as far as the Hall. I should be busy in the house really, but it seems wrong to stuff indoors on such a heavenly day.”
“Ah, the Hall—a rum do that is, and no error,” Mr. Pickett said ruminatively. “It’ll be three years since the old gentleman died, come September. You’d have thought they’d have found the heir by now. Proper shame, I call it, a fine old property like that going down so. Better it were sold up to some foreigner.”
“Perhaps there isn’t an heir,” Rachel suggested. “Perhaps the son is dead, too. After all, Sir Robert was over eighty when he died, so, even if his son is alive somewhere, he’ll be quite an elderly man.”
“Ah, that’s possible, I’ll agree,” Mr. Pickett conceded, now mopping his thick red neck. “But if he is dead, you’d think the solicitors would set about putting the place up for sale. I’ve heard there’s quite a few rich folk from over Branford way who’ve a fancy for it. The doctor hasn’t heard nothing new, I suppose?”
Rachel shook her head. “Not a thing. The solicitors are a London firm, you know. Apart from seeing those advertisements in The Times soon after Sir Robert died, we don’t know any more than you do, Mr. Pickett.”
“Ah well, I reckon it’ll go on standing empty, then,” the constable said regretfully. “Seems queer, not having an Elliot up at the Hall. There won’t be any gentry round these parts soon, what with Miss Wishart passing away so sudden last month, and now the Colonel being laid up. Not likely to recover, so his housekeeper was telling me yesterday.” They chatted for a few more minutes and then Mr. Pickett mounted his bicycle and pedalled laboriously out of sight.
Resuming her walk, Rachel wondered if he knew that she was going not only as far as the Hall, but actually into the grounds. He probably did and turned a blind eye, she decided. There was no harm in her enjoying the seclusion of the estate while the house stood empty, and the flowers she picked would only wither and die if left untouched.
She did not share the policeman’s regret that the executors of the property had so far failed to trace the late Sir Robert’s heir. Over the past three years, she had come to regard the grounds as her private sanctuary in times of stress or when, as now, the countryside beckoned her with bird calls and sweet scents and all the burgeoning loveliness of early summer.
To Rachel, the gardens of the Hall were far more beautiful in neglect than they had ever been while the old Squire was alive. In those days, two men and a boy had toiled all year to keep the lawns smooth, the flower beds neat and the gravelled paths swept.
To the end of his long life, Sir Robert had been almost fanatically proud of his gardens and, once a year, on the occasion of the Parish fete, the villagers had been permitted to walk about the grounds and peer through the windows of the hothouse where the Squire himself had cultivated a variety of rare plants and vines. Now, after three winters and summers of neglect, the grass grew tall and the gravel was thick with weeds, but, to Rachel, the neglected borders and overgrown shrubs had a special appeal. The place was a wilderness; but a lovely one. Each spring heightened its claim for her, and she wished it could remain deserted for ever.
After picking a bunch of narcissi, and some sycamore shoots, the pale green leaves tinged with russet, she went round to the orchard to sunbathe. Here the grass was almost waist-high and the boughs above her were heavy with rosy blossom. Taking off her sandals, she chose a patch of sunlight and sat down tucking up the skirt of her yellow dress to brown her slender thighs. As she lay on her back, listening to the distant murmur of the weir, she thought how lucky she was to be free to enjoy the morning, instead of being busy behind a counter like Carola, or bent over a school desk like Suzy. The great advantage of being a housewife, or, as in her case, a ‘housedaughter’, was that one could do one’s chores when one pleased instead of in set hours. This morning, for instance, she had got up at six o’clock to get through the washing and vacuum cleaning early enough to allow time for a stroll before preparing the lunch.
One day I’ll have a house of my own to run, she thought drowsily. I wonder where it will be—and when? With Edward? Her eyebrows contracted slightly. Somehow, although she could visualize quite clearly the house she would have—even the children—she could never fit Edward Harvey into the picture. The man who shared her dream home, who went off each morning to some unspecified job, who returned at night to find her waiting at the door with a savory aroma wafting from the kitchen, was always a vague and unidentified figure. She could picture him romping with the children on Sunday mornings, she could imagine him relaxing by the fire after a hard day while she sewed or forked on one of her drawings, she could even imagine them locking the front door and going up to bed, his arm round her waist. But she could never actually see him in her mind’s eye. Would he be tall and fair and lighthearted, or dark and stocky and serious? Was he Edward, whom she had known since childhood, or was he someone whom she had not yet met—and might never meet if chance and circumstance went awry?
She must have day-dreamed herself to sleep, as she roused with a start to hear Bolster growling at something. Stretching, she opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness of the sun. And then, as she yawned and turned her head to see what the dog was doing, her whole body stiffened and she drew in a sharp breath of alarm. Rising but of the grass, only two or three feet away from her, were two trouser-clad legs.
For a moment she was too startled to move. Then, shading her eyes, she peered upwards, slowly taking in the washed-out khaki trousers, the leather belt, the strong bronzed torso and, finally, the narrowed blue eyes which were appraising her with a glint of amusement. With one swift movement, she jerked into sitting position and hastily tugged down her skirt, her face flaming.
“Hello. Who are you—the dryad of the apple trees?” the man said, moving back a pace or two.
Rachel swallowed, wondering how long he had been standing there. Now that he was no longer almost treading on her, she saw that he was very tall with shoulders that would have been noticeably broad even if he had been wearing the faded blue shirt which hung on a nearby bush.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.
The man took a pack of cigarettes from his trousers pocket.
“Same as you, I guess—making the most of the weather,” he said casually. “Smoke?”
Rachel shook her head and got to her feet. “This is private property. Trespassers are not allowed,” she said coldly.
The man grinned, then lit his cigarette and took a leisurely draw. “You’re here,” he pointed out mildly.
It was at this point that Rachel, still muddled by her abrupt awakening, recognized the transatlantic accent. He must be an American serviceman from the big air base the other side of Branford, she supposed.
“Yes, but that’s rather different,” she replied stiffly. “I—I’m a friend of the family.”
The man arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. “From the look of the place, I wouldn’t have thought there was a family.”
She bit her lip, torn between an unwillingness to be pointedly rude to a visitor to England, and some nervousness at finding herself alone with a stranger whose appearance and manner gave no guide to his character. Had he been English, it would have been easy enough to decide whether he was a harmless sightseer or someone to avoid.
Bolster, who had stopped growling when she sat up, now advanced cautiously towards the stranger’s legs, backing away with a hostile rumble when the man dropped on his haunches and held out a hand to him.
“I shouldn’t try to touch him. He doesn’t care for strangers,” Rachel said coolly.
The man stood up again. “You sound as if you’d be happy to see him take a snap at me,” he said, with a twinkle. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’m on the run, or just edgy because I caught you having a nap? Don’t worry, you weren’t snoring.”
She flushed. “In England, people don’t wander into other people’s gardens without permission.”
He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, the discomforting gleam of laughter still lighting his blue eyes.
“I have permission,” he said.
She glared at him. “You can’t possibly,” she said crisply. “If you must know, the man who owned this place has been dead for three years.”
“Oh, sure. But there’s a new owner now—or hadn’t you heard?” he said easily.
She stared at him blankly for some seconds. Then the meaning of what he had said began to penetrate.
“You mean—it’s been sold? You’ve bought it?” she asked incredulously.
“No, it was left to me. My name’s Elliot—or doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Why, yes, of course it does,” she exclaimed bewilderedly. “But you can’t possibly be Sir Richard’s son.”
“His grandson. My father’s dead,” he explained. There was another pause while she digested this information. It did not occur to her to doubt the truth of it; all she could think of was that now she was the trespasser, that now the gardens were lost to her.
“Well, I do think you might have told me at once,” she said crossly. “I suppose you found it very funny—my telling you off for being here?”
He grinned. “If you’d had a shotgun handy, I believe you’d have driven me off by force. My first name’s Daniel, by the way. Now, how about telling me yours?”
“Rachel Burney. My father’s the local doctor.”
He held out a lean brown hand. “Can we call a truce, or are you still annoyed with me?”
“It’s never very amusing to be made to look a fool,” Rachel said flatly.
“Sorry. It wasn’t intentional. You didn’t give me much chance to explain, you know.”
With some reluctance, Rachel accepted his hand and managed a wan smile.
“I’d better be going,” she said uncomfortably. “Are—are you moving in at once, Mr. Elliot?”
“I don’t know that I’m going to move in at all yet,” he said, watching her fastening her sandals. “England is a foreign country to me. I was born in Canada. This is my first time here.”
“You mean you’re not going to live here?”
His blue eyes glinted again. “That depends on whether the natives are friendly.”
Rachel colored. “I’m sure they’ll be very glad to see you, Mr. Elliot. Your family has lived here for a long time. The people in the village miss having an Elliot at the Hall.”
“How about you? You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“Well, it takes a little time to get used to the idea,” she said awkwardly. “None of us knew you existed. It’s so long since Sir Robert died that we supposed there was no one left to inherit the place.”
“It took the lawyers quite a while to trace me,” he said.
“What made you decide to come back?” Rachel asked.
He shrugged. “I was curious to see the set-up.” He paused. “I haven’t been into the house yet. Care to take a look with me?”
Rachel wavered. She had always longed to see what lay behind the lace-shrouded windows. Since the old man’s death they had been screened by shutters. She had no idea what the house was like inside.
“Wouldn’t you rather go in alone?” she suggested diffidently.
“Why should I? I imagine it’s pretty eerie in there after being closed up for three years. They tell me it hasn’t even been opened up for an airing. We can hold hands if the family ghost turns up,” he said, with a grin.
As they walked up to the house with Bolster loping behind, Rachel was able to study Daniel Elliot more closely, although she took care not to make her appraisal too noticeable. Now that she knew who he was, she could see his likeness to his grandfather. He had the same high-bridged nose and forceful chin, the same strongly marked eyebrows.
She could remember Sir Robert reading the lesson in the parish church at morning service, his beetling white eyebrows rising as he glanced over the lectern, as if to query whether the congregation had understood the passage he had read in his slow, sonorous voice. His grandson’s eyebrows arched in just the same way.
In every other respect, however, the two men were almost ludicrously dissimilar.
Sir Robert had usually worn a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers with knitted stockings and brogues. Even in midsummer he had worn shirts of thick striped flannelette with stiff Edwardian collars and a dark tie with a jasper pin. His headgear had varied with the seasons: in winter, a tweed deerstalker, in spring and summer, a black-banded Panama. At all seasons his attire had been completed by chamois gloves and a variety of walking sticks with which he prodded livestock, children and whatever else caught his attention.
She wondered what the old gentleman would have thought if he could have foreseen that his grandson would come to claim his inheritance shirtless, and with washed-out slacks and ancient chukka boots that looked as if the soles might flap loose at any moment.
“Could I tell you something?” she asked hesitantly, as they neared the steps to the terrace.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Well ... country people are very conservative over here. They don’t accept changes too easily. If— if I were you, I wouldn’t go into the village without a shirt. At least, not until they get used to you.”
His mouth twitched. “Thanks for the tip. Maybe I’d better put it on now. It’ll be cooler inside.”
She watched him fastening the buttons, wondering if he thought she was just being prudish.
“I expect you’ll find us all rather odd by Canadian standards,” she said earnestly. “Even on a day like this, the farm hands work in shirts, you see. They’d be rather shocked to see you walking about half dressed.”
“Will they regard me as ‘the squire’ now, d’
you suppose?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she said definitely. “In spite of being a Canadian, you’re still an Elliot.”
“Being an Elliot sounds quite an onerous proposition,” he said dryly. “I thought the last remnants of the feudal system had been stamped out by the war.”
“I suppose they were—almost,” Rachel said seriously. “But there’s nothing wrong in people respecting their landowner, you know. Sir Robert didn’t just wax fat on rents. He did a tremendous amount of good for people.”
“And I’ll be expected to follow his lead, I gather?”
“Wouldn’t you like to?”
He shrugged again. “Maybe—maybe not.” They had reached the front door and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he inserted one in the lock.
“Ever been in here?” he asked.
Rachel shook her head. “Your grandfather gave a party every Christmas, but only for older people.” He pushed open the door, grimacing at the screech of corroded hinges.
“How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Twenty-four,” Rachel said shortly. It irritated her always to be taken for a teenager. Carola laughed at her, saying she was mad not to be delighted. But then nobody treated Carola with avuncular patronage.
The hall was dark and musty from long disuse. “I’ll get some windows open,” Elliot said, crossing to one of the inner doors.
Rachel told Bolster to stay outside and then advanced into the dimness, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the dusty floor. From the room he had entered, she heard Daniel Elliot knock into something and swear. Then there were sounds of the shutters being opened and he called to her to follow him.
“My, what a mausoleum!” he said, as she paused on the threshold. “With all this junk about, I should think they needed radar to get around.”
The apartment—evidently the drawing room—certainly presented a peculiar spectacle. It reminded Rachel of a reconstruction of a Victorian parlor which she had seen in a museum, except that here everything was filmed with dust. Although the room was long and lofty, it was so crowded with furniture and little tables and an extraordinary collection of bric-a-brac that it seemed incredible that people could have moved about without constantly dislodging an ornament or jolting a chair.
