The Doctor's Daughters

by Anne Weale

  “Oh ... you ... you fiend!” Rachel burst out violently.

  Snatching up her basket, oblivious of the amazed faces at the surrounding tables, she stormed out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT tea time, still smouldering with anger, Rachel rang the Harveys’ house. Edward had just reached home. She would like, she said, icily, to see him at once.

  He arrived ten minutes later, to find Rachel stationed at the far end of the garden where they would be out of earshot of the house.

  “What’s up? What’s happened? I haven’t had a meal yet,” he said, mystified and a little put out by her cryptic summons.

  “Edward, how could you be such an idiot? Don’t you realize that you’ve made utter fools of both of us?” Rachel demanded, without preliminary.

  Edward continued to look blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”

  “About last night—about your going to see Daniel and behaving like some—some cheap television hero.”

  His mouth tightened. “How do you know about that? Has that Casanova been pestering you again today?” he asked sharply.

  “Of course he hasn’t. I just happened to run into him in Branford. Not surprisingly, he thought it all a very good joke. Oh, Edward, you must have been out of your mind. Of all the inept, idiotic things—”

  “On the contrary, I felt it was the obvious course of action,” Edward broke in, with dignity. “My dear Rachel, I am your fiancé. Naturally, if anyone annoys you, it’s my duty to put them in their place. I made it quite clear to Elliot that if he should attempt to—”

  “Nobody annoyed me. The whole business is nothing but absurd gossip,” Rachel flared. “What did you hear, anyway—and who told you?”

  “My mother told me,” said Edward. “She didn’t want to, but she felt it was her duty. She’s been very upset about it, I must say. She realizes that it was not your fault, of course, but all the same it’s not been very pleasant for her.”

  “For her! What about me?” Rachel exploded. “How do you think I feel? My fiancé hears some ridiculous piece of tittle-tattle and, instead of consulting me, the person concerned, he goes scorching off to perform absurd heroics. Very loyal and trusting, I must say!”

  “My dear girl, I trust you implicitly,” Edward said earnestly. “It’s true that even men of Elliot’s calibre don’t generally make advances without some encouragement. But, as I told Mother—”

  “I don’t know yet what your mother told you,” Rachel snapped. “As a matter of interest, what is supposed to have happened?”

  Edward looked pained. “Really, Rachel, I find your attitude most extraordinary. If you—”

  “Tell me, Edward. Go on—tell me!”

  He hesitated, looking curiously embarrassed. “Well, as I understand it, Elliot took advantage of your distress about Bolster, to ... to force his attentions on you. I gather that, when your aunt and Miss Vine walked in, you were having to ... to fend him off.”

  Something in his tone made Rachel’s eyes narrow slightly. “I suppose there’s no doubt in your mind that I was fending him off?”

  “Of course not!” Edward denied indignantly. “Good heavens, Rachel, what do you take me for? Whatever outsiders may think, you can’t think that I would believe—”

  “Oh, so there is a doubt in some minds,” Rachel cut in.

  Edward hesitated. “Well ... you know what people are once gossip starts. But as I said to Mother—”

  “So your mother shares the doubt, does she? She would!” Suddenly all Rachel’s suppressed dislike of Mrs. Harvey boiled to the surface.

  “Now just calm down, Rachel.” Edward had decided that it was time to take a firmer tone, to assert some masculine authority.

  But, before he could assume a more admonitory mien, Rachel gave a brittle laugh. “Calm down! I haven’t started yet. No, you listen to me, Edward Harvey. I can put up with gossip—I can overlook, your mother’s part in it. What I can’t forgive is your going behind my back to Daniel Elliot. You believed all this rubbish. You must have done. If you trusted me, you’d either have dismissed it as nonsense, or asked me what really happened.”

  She paused for breath, and Edward, beginning to lose his own temper now, said curtly, “All right—what did happen? Suppose you tell me your version of this affair.”

  “Nothing happened—nothing.”

  “You deny that Elliot had his arms round you when Miss Vine arrived?”

  “Certainly I deny it ... at least, he did have an arm round me—but not in any lover-like way. I—I’d been crying, and he was just bucking me up. You weren’t around, if you remember. You were enjoying yourself at the theatre. Oh, what’s the use of talking about it? You don’t understand—you don’t want to.”

  “On the contrary, I understand more than you think,” Edward said loftily. “Oh, I appreciate that the episode was entirely innocent on your part. I’ve never thought otherwise. But I’m afraid I can’t share your charitable views on Elliot’s motive. You can sympathize with someone without putting your arms round them, you know.” He paused to straighten his tie and brace his shoulders. “No, frankly, I feel I was quite right to have a word with him. I’ve never much cared for his attitude to you or Carola. He’s an inveterate philanderer, the type who thinks women can’t resist him. Well, now—as far as you two girls are concerned—he knows where he stands. Any more of this Don Juan technique, and unnecessary familiarity, and he’ll have me to deal with.”

  Rachel stared at him. Why, he was actually congratulating himself ... preening and puffing up his chest like some cock-a-hoop rooster.

  “Why, you silly clot, Daniel isn’t scared of you. He—he could wipe the floor with you,” she said scornfully.

  The instant the words were out, she knew that it was a hateful, a disgusting thing to have said. No man—not even mild Edward—could forgive such a slash at his pride.

  There was a dreadful pause while Edward went as red as a mulberry, and then slowly and alarmingly pale.

  “Oh, Edward, I’m sorry ... you must know I didn’t mean that. It was just my dreadful temper,” Rachel began, in an agony of contrition. She saw him swallow, the muscles at his jaw quivering.

  “Don’t apologize,” he said in a carefully controlled voice. “I would rather know your real opinion of me. It seems that your doubts are justified. We aren’t really suited to each other.”

  “You mean ... you want to break our engagement?”

  “I don’t see any purpose in continuing to delude ourselves,” he said flatly.

  There was another pause.

  “No, I suppose not,” Rachel said at last. Slowly, she drew off the diamond engagement ring and held it out to him. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Edward took the ring and thrust it in his pocket. “I hardly think it necessary to put a formal announcement in the newspaper,” he said stiffly, but with a slight tremor in his voice. “Unless you wish it, of course?”

  “No ... no, I don’t think so.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well ... I’d better go. Goodnight, Rachel.”

  “Goodnight ... Edward.”

  When he had gone, Rachel sat down under the mulberry tree and stared blankly in front of her, attempting to collect herself. The pain she felt was not the sharp agony of loss, but the sting of self-reproach. She had not loved Edward, and now that she knew what love was, she doubted if he truly loved her. Nevertheless, she felt a profound remorse for having hurt him.

  Presently Bolster came down the garden and rested his chin on her knee, looking mournful and licking her hand, as if he sensed her mood and sympathized.

  “Hello, old boy.” Rachel fondled his ears, and her glance fell on the third finger of her left hand and the faint impression in the flesh where the ring had been.

  I’m free, she thought dully. I’m free again.

  But as she walked through the kitchen garden to take Bolster for a ramble, her freedom was not much relief. Being disengaged fr
om the wrong man was no cause for hope that she would ever be engaged to the right one.

  In the house, Carola was trying out some new eye make-up, leaning close to the bathroom mirror to paint in a narrow line of iridescent green liquid close to the roots of her lashes. Both fids carefully accentuated, she capped the bottle and washed the fine sable brush. But there was little approval on her face as she stood back to appraise her reflection.

  Of late, both clothes and cosmetics had lost some of their interest for her. In fact, ever since her abrupt departure from Peter Brooke’s flat, she had been in a mood of restless dissatisfaction with the whole of life.

  “Gosh, are you still titivating?” Suzy exclaimed impatiently, coming in to wash her hair. “Honestly, the hours you spend glued to a mirror, anyone would think you were Venus or someone. What on earth’s that stuff on your eyes? You look like a decomposing corpse.”

  Carola glared at her. “Why don’t you wash your neck sometimes, you grubby little pig? It’s absolutely filthy,” she said, sweeping off to her room.

  “Or Frankenstein’s monster’s daughter,” Suzy yelled after her, with a raucous laugh.

  Carola slammed the bedroom door.

  But after fiddling in her trinket box and flipping through some old magazines, she felt that if she had to idle away the rest of the evening she would soon reach screaming point. After frowning at the wardrobe for some moments, she suddenly made up her mind.

  Ten minutes later, after shedding her housecoat and putting on tight white lounging pants and an amber silk shirt, she ran downstairs and slipped out of the house.

  It took her twenty minutes to reach the gates of the Hall and, slowing her pace, she sauntered leisurely up the drive and round the side of the house. Her gold thong sandals made no sound on the flagstones of the terrace, and Daniel did not notice her when she stopped outside the open windows of his study.

  He was stretched out in one of the deep leather chairs, reading a book and smoking. There was a whisky and soda at his elbow and a black Labrador puppy was dozing by his feet.

  Aware of the effect of the evening sunlight on her hair and of the eye-stopping effect of the narrowly-tapered white pants, Carola put on a gay, provocative smile.

  “Can I come in—or are you feeling anti-social tonight?”

  The man and the puppy raised their heads. The puppy stared at her suspiciously.

  Daniel stood up. “Oh, hello, Carola. What brings you here? Come in.”

  “I was just out for a walk in this direction, so I thought I’d call,” she said lightly, strolling into the room and perching gracefully on the arm of the big couch.

  The puppy began to make a cautious reconnaissance, while Daniel moved over to the hearth and leaned his shoulders against the high mantelshelf. “A walk? I thought you only walked in the event of dire necessity,” he said teasingly.

  Carola laughed. “I have my athletic moments. If you’re longing to get back to your book, I’ll be off again.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad to see someone. Can I get you something to drink? A sherry, or something long and iced?”

  “Oh, don’t bother to get something special. A whisky will do,” Carola said airily.

  Daniel’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but he made no demur.

  “No soda, thanks. I don’t like it,” Carola put in, as he held the glass to the syphon.

  “Have a cigarette? What do you think of this little fellow?” Daniel asked, offering the cigarette box and then bending to scratch the puppy’s ears affectionately.

  “He’s a sweetie. What’s his name?” As he held the lighter for her, Carola rested her fingertips on his strong brown wrist and gave him a smiling upward glance.

  “His kennel name is Gaylord Fitzroy of Tarascon, but at the moment I’m calling him Fatso. But he’ll fine down later, won’t you, boy?”

  “Mm, Bolster was like that when Rachel first had him. Not as blue-blooded, of course.”

  Carola sipped the whisky and managed not to make a face. After a moment, it made a warm glow inside her. “By the way, did you and Rachel have a row this morning in the restaurant? I heard her say something in an awfully loud voice and saw she hadn’t drunk her coffee.”

  Daniel shrugged. “We generally strike a few sparks, you know. It was nothing serious.” He sat down on the other end of the couch and crossed his legs. “You look very glamorous this evening.”

  “Thank heavens for a man who notices one’s efforts.” Carola slid off her perch and settled on the squabs beside him. “Most men never bother. They think being complimentary suggests that they’re fearful roués, or something.” She laughed at him. “Perhaps you are, of course.”

  “Are you hoping that I am?” Daniel enquired, with a rather enigmatic expression.

  Carola wasn’t sure what he meant. She had never been quite certain of Daniel’s attitude to her. She knew that he thought she was pretty and admired her figure, and he had always treated her agreeably and with the assured manners that men never seemed to acquire under thirty. But there were moments when she suspected him of laughing at her, of treating her like a woman but privately regarding her as a child. Anyway, she would soon find out.

  “Well, are you?” she asked mischievously.

  “That depends on the point of view, doesn’t it? When one is seventeen, forty seems sere and yellow. By the time one is seventy, forty is young.”

  “So though Aunt Flo regards you as a shocking rake, by my standards you’re really quite harmless.”

  Daniel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Are your standards so different from Miss Burney’s, d’you think?”

  “I should hope so. Aunt Florence thinks a bit of mild necking is the next thing to an orgy, poor old pet. I suppose, in her day, even a peck on the cheek was madly daring.”

  “Whereas nowadays—anything goes,” Daniel said smoothly. He leaned towards her suddenly and, before she could stop herself, Carola had stiffened and retreated slightly.

  “Mm ... nice scent you’re wearing,” he said, straightening again.

  “Oh ... do you like it? It’s ‘Scandale’.” Carola took another sip of the whisky. She found she was trembling inside.

  “How appropriate,” Daniel said, in an expressionless tone, and she had an embarrassing conviction that he had noticed her sudden shrinking and knew that she was less composed than she appeared.

  “Where are the rest of the family tonight?” he enquired, after a pause.

  “Oh, pottering about at home. Dad still in the surgery, Aunt Flo studying horoscopes, Rachel and Edward in the garden.”

  “The course of true love is still running smoothly, then?”

  Carola looked blank. “I suppose so. Why not? Rachel and Edward aren’t the rowing type.” She put down her glass and went to the radiogram. “Can I play some of your records?”

  “Of course.” Daniel lit another cigarette, and moved to the window where he stood with his back to her, staring out into the garden.

  Carola found a newly issued Frank Sinatra album and set it on the turntable. She waited till the needle was halfway through the first number, then followed him to the window and touched his arm.

  In the moment before he looked down at her, she saw something in his face which was strange and curiously chilling. It was as if his normal expression was a mask, a social pretense. And now, for one instant, she had glimpsed the man he really was.

  Or was that only her fancy? When her touch roused him from his abstraction, he was at once the same as he had always been—friendly, courteous, sometimes flatteringly gallant.

  “Can we dance?” she asked gaily.

  “If you like.” He slipped his arm round her waist and waited for the second number to begin.

  Carola moved nearer to him, her forearm high on his shoulders. She thought briefly and bitterly of Peter, and felt the chill core of desperation grow colder inside her. Then, with closed eyes and parted lips, she gave herself up to the music and Daniel’s arms.

  Rachel was
in the bedroom when she heard the car pull up below. She looked out of the window just in time to see Carola hurrying into the house from Daniel’s coupe. He had not got out to open the door for her sister, and he drove away without calling a last goodnight or waving his hand.

  A few minutes later Carola burst into the bedroom, stopped short when she saw Rachel there, then flung herself on the bed and burst into tears.

  “Carola, whatever is it, darling?” Rachel exclaimed in concern. She hurried across the room, sat down on the bed and put a comforting arm round her sister’s heaving shoulders. “What’s happened? What’s upset you?”

  Carola buried her face in the counterpane, her clenched fists pounding angrily into the mound of the pillow. Her weeping was so abandoned and so violent that, after a moment or two Rachel became seriously alarmed and wondered if she ought to fetch her father. But at last the storm of sobs began to slacken, and the younger girl’s body grew less taut.

  Rachel went to the bathroom to get a glass of water, and she also borrowed one of her father’s large handkerchiefs from a pile of clean laundry which she had left on the landing window ledge.

  When she returned, Carola was sitting in a hunched-up position, wiping away her tears with her knuckles. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara and she was still breathing in shuddering gasps.

  “Have a sip of this,” Rachel said gently, offering the glass.

  Carola sipped, sniffed and blew her nose. Then she slid off the bed, looked at her reflection in the mirror and shuddered.

  “That beastly Daniel Elliot!” she burst out savagely. “I never want to see him again. I hate him. I hate all men!”

  “But ... what happened? What has Daniel done?” Rachel asked sharply, feeling a chill thrust of apprehension run through her.

  Carola opened her make-up drawer and took out a length of crepe bandage and a large jar of cleansing cream.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said curtly, binding the bandage over her hairline. She dipped her fingers into the cream and began to smear it on her face.