Lucy Lamb Doctor's Wife

by Sara Seale

  “I wish,” she said, “you could have told me that story sooner. I—I was made so unhappy by the belief that your love was still with the past.”

  “Were you, Lucy? Perhaps it was never love. I asked a great deal of you in the circumstances, my poor child.”

  “Never too touch. Never too much—at any time,” she said.

  He leaned forward in his chair and his face was revealed in the firelight, infinitely tired, but with a look in his eyes that probed her own with a searching question.

  “You understand, I hope, why I’ve told you all this,” he said. “If we are to come to terms on last night’s issue, you should know, at least, that you have no ghost for a rival. Think it over while I’m gone.”

  She blinked up at him with eyes that were wide and a little uncertain. He was, she knew, accepting the offer she had made him of herself, and was appealing for tolerance. He had not said that in time he might come to love her; perhaps he never would, and perhaps it did not matter.

  “I’ll do that,” she told him gravely, and put her arms round his neck to kiss him as a token of good faith.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  THERE was a note from Bart on her breakfast tray the next morning, and Lucy opened it with eager hands; he had never written to her before.

  Take things easy, my lamb, she read, and spare an occasional thought for your stupid and unpreceptive husband. Bless you. It was unsigned, but the neat, precise writing brought him very close, and she read the brief note over and over again, unaware that Smithers watched her with a satisfied eye.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” he informed her. “Real summer, you might say, but it won’t last.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Smithy,” she laughed, thinking that the return of summer was symbolic of her own fresh hopes. “I must hurry and get out of doors.” Pierre was already in the garden with Abel when she came down, and for a moment she stood watching them affectionately, the old man, bent with rheumatism, and the young boy, straight and sturdy as a sapling, who would grow up to enjoy his inheritance as his father had before him. She went to meet them across the sparkling lawn, the sun warm on her bare legs, the sky a miracle of unbroken blue above her.

  “What a wonderful morning, Abel,” she said. “And how lovely after all that rain and mist. I’d almost forgotten how good things could look.”

  “Can’t beat the west country in proper weather,” he chuckled. “You’m growin’ a proper Cornish maid, m’dear, and bonny, too. Been dabblin’ in the dew?”

  “Is that another of your charms?” she laughed.

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. There’s a west country song that says ‘tes dabblin’ in the dew makes the milkmaids fair, and I do know when I were a young lad, the maids did use to creep out early mornings and bathe in the dew for to make their skins white, see? But you don’t need none of that, ma’am.” He bent to his digging, still chuckling.

  “She’s like the white lily before the earth had touched it,” said Pierre solemnly, then flung his arms round Lucy’s knees with a burst of joy. “Shall we have a picnic today, Baba, just you and me?”

  “I don’t see why not,” replied Lucy, smiling.

  “And can we go to Gannet Cove?”

  “No, not there. I don’t like it.”

  She spoke more sharply than she intended, and the old man looked up from his digging.

  “Haven’t ‘e touched the Corn Rock yet?” he asked slyly.

  “Yes, once—but that was only a game with Mr. Paul.”

  He spat on his hands and resumed digging.

  “Ar! ‘E baint the one to go visiting Corn Rock with,” he said in disgust. “Good thing ‘e’s, gone, I’m thinking. I used to watch ‘e a-chasin’ of you across the grass and catching ee as like as not. ’Twasn’t proper.”

  “Oh, Abel!” she said a little helplessly. “That was just play—like a couple of children.”

  “Then visit Corn Rock and get childer of your own to play with,” he retorted grumpily.

  “She has me!” Pierre exclaimed a little indignantly. “And if we will find more children at Corn Rock then I do not wish to go to Gannet Cove. Come, Baba, we will find Gaston and arrange the picnic, and he will, perhaps, have something nice in the oven for us to eat now.”

  They went in the back way through the open kitchen door. Gaston’s herbs were spread out on the warm ‘cobbles in the sun, and he himself stood in his shirt-sleeves, mopping the sweat from his bald forehead.

  “My young lady looks a treat in them cotton dresses with petticoats tacked inside of ‘em—very jurn-fee, as you would say,” Smithers was observing conversationally, upon which the cook threw up his hands:

  “Your young lady pouff!” he exploded. “Have I not shown her—with much delicacy, you understand—the ways l’amour?”

  “I doubt if you frogs could be delicate on the subject of larmoor, Monsoor Dupont,” Smithers retorted coldly, and it took Lucy a moment to realize that it was she herself who was under discussion.

  She stepped into the kitchen before they could embark on one of their violent altercations, and made her request for a picnic, but she smiled at them both gratefully. It was pleasant and warming to know that the servants had accepted her so whole-heartedly.

  “Gaston—Smithy,” she said impulsively, “I would like to buy Mr. Travers a present. You have both known his tastes for years—what can I get?”

  They were delighted at being consulted and took the matter very seriously. It was decided, after the rejection of several rather wild suggestions, that she should give him a new briefcase with his initials inscribed, for, said Smithers disapprovingly, the old one was past praying for and not fit for a gentleman of Mr. Travers’ professional standing.

  “I will go into St. Minver when we come back from the picnic,” said Lucy happily, and Gaston suddenly leaped to his feet with a shriek.

  “Vilain! Saboteur! My gateau she will not rise!” he shouted, for Pierre, bored with the discussion, had opened the oven door to look inside. In the end they all ate the cake, half-cooked though it was, and Lucy fell to giggling as childishly as Pierre, so bright was the day and so warm her heart.

  They picnicked on the headland with the scent of the gorse all about them, and when Pierre had been tucked up for his afternoon rest with the promise of another picnic tomorrow, Lucy took the bus into St. Minver to choose her present for Bart.

  The little town was warm and sleepy in the sunshine. Already Lucy had acquired an affection for it, and she remembered with faint surprise the days when she had hurried on errands for old Miss Heap and hated the streets which had seemed so grey and unfriendly. She chose the briefcase, made a few purchases for herself then turned into a cafe for a cup of tea before catching her bus home.

  There were no empty tables, and, as Lucy stood hesitating, a voice called her by name. Matron was sitting alone at a table for two, and Lucy could do no other than join her without appearing rude.

  “Well, how nice!” Mary Morgan said. “I’ve been meaning to come out to see you, Lucy, but there’s been so little time. I have news of you from Bart, of course, but it’s not the same thing, is it?”

  Lucy felt a little embarrassed. That dinner date which Bart had said she was to make with Matron had somehow never materialized, and, remembering the results of Mary Morgan’s well-meaning interference upon another occasion, Lucy wished the meeting could have been avoided. They made desultory talk and Mary remarked: “You’re looking well, Lucy—better than when I saw you last. I hear that young man has left Polvane.”

  “Paul? Yes, there wasn’t really enough for him to do,” Lucy replied guardedly, wondering whether Bart had disclosed the real reason for Paul’s dismissal.

  “A very good thing,” Matron said briskly. “Bart can be very near-sighted at times, or have you discovered that for yourself?”

  Lucy missed the kindliness in Mary’s eyes and saw only a feminine desire to gossip.

  “Perhaps we all a
re, upon occasion,” she answered evasively, and Mary smiled.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you, Lucy?” she said in her blunt fashion. “A pity, because I take a great interest in your well-being. I think, in spite of your youth, Bart has made a good second choice, and I’ve told him so.”

  Lucy’s eyes were suddenly wide and a little strained. She was not enjoying her tea.

  “I don’t want to sound rude, Matron, but I think, perhaps you’ve discussed me too much with Bart,” she said carefully, and Mary sighed. These touchy young women, she thought impatiently, did they always take well-intentioned advice for interference?

  “Look, my dear,” she said, “I’ve realized that a great many things have probably been misconstrued since the night of the Hospital Ball—that’s why I’ve been meaning to get out to see you. Bart, no less than you, can be pigheaded, and I—well, perhaps I’m not always as tactful as I might be, but I’m not a mischief-maker. I do want you to understand that.”

  It was a difficult admission for a woman of Matron’s standing to make, and came near to an apology, Lucy realized. She said at once, with the spontaneous warmth that another’s appeal could always draw from her:

  “Of course I understand that, Matron. I—I’m sorry if you thought me impertinent.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve thought about me?” Mary retorted, but there was humour in her smile. “You’ve grown up quite a bit, little Lucy Lamb. I was right, after all, in urging Bart to what many people considered to be an act of folly.”

  Lucy raised startled eyes to her and saw the humanity which lay behind the shrewdness in Mary’s.

  “You mean his marriage? But that was for Pierre’s sake,” she stammered.

  “Not so far as I was concerned,” Matron retorted with amusement. “I believed that his being forced into a relationship with a thoroughly nice, unspoilt young woman who wouldn’t ask too much of life would pave the way for nature. Don’t look so shocked Lucy. No man of your husband’s temperament should go celibate through life on account of an old tragedy, besides—I don’t believe he ever loved that woman. She was selfish to the core.”

  “Well!” said Lucy, then threw back her head and laughed, and Mary observed with an odd tenderness the long, delicate lines of the girl’s neck and throat, the youth and spontaneity in her laughter.

  “Poor Bart!” said Lucy. “How little he knew of your schemings—I wouldn’t have dared!”

  “Because,” Mary replied with a twinkle, “you held him in awe like my silly young nurses who can only admire from a respectful distance. Now you must do a little scheming yourself, if you haven’t already. You are in love with him, I hope?”

  Lucy’s gentle mouth curved in a slow smile but, although she did not answer, she no longer resented the older woman’s outspokenness, and Mary called abruptly for her bill and insisted on paying for both their teas.

  “Well, I must be getting back to the hospital. It’s supposed to be my afternoon off, but there’s always something to attend to,” she said prosaically, and Lucy got politely to her feet.

  “Please come and see us soon,” she said shyly. “I would like—I would like one of Bart’s oldest friends to be mine, too.”

  Matron’s eyes were soft.

  “Would you, Lucy? That’s very charming of you,” she said, and, gathering up her parcels, made her way out of the shop leaving Lucy alone.

  II

  The second day was as warm and cloudless as the first, and Pierre, waking in a holiday mood, was once more insistent that this time they should picnic in Gannet Cove. Lucy gave in, chiding herself for her unreasoning reluctance to visit the place again. Today Bart would be coming home, and she would follow Abel’s advice and make a wish at the Corn Rock against his return.

  Since it was a little way to walk, she took Pierre’s old push-chair to relieve her of the luncheon basket and save the boy’s short legs when he got tired. They set out singing and shouting with happy abandon, and Abel watched them into the distance, one eye on the sky.

  “Ar! Storm before nightfall, thought ’twouldn’t last,” he muttered to himself, and went off to his potting-shed.

  The tide was out and Lucy and the child paddled in the pools and built sand-castles and, when they were tired, lay down together in the shade of a rock. It was really a very pleasant little cove, Lucy thought contentedly; after lunch she would effect her pilgrimage to the Corn Rock and make her wish. They lingered pleasurably over Gaston’s excellent provisions, and afterwards Pierre curled up in the shade and fell asleep.

  Lucy looked down at him with tender eyes. He was so small, so strangely beautiful, she thought, and, aside from his black hair, so unlike his father. He had his mother’s beauty, she supposed, and, sighing a little, left him there asleep and walked across the wet sands to the Corn Rock.

  She touched the rock with solemn hands and wished passionately for the children Bart might give her, and just as little feathery clouds began to drift across the flawless sky, so her happiness became .unaccountably dimmed; what certainty had she that she could measure up to his demands; what courage would be needed to give a love which could not be told and receive only affectionate tolerance in return? Had he not said, himself, that night when he would have taken her in bitterness and anger, that desire need have nothing to do with love? For a man things were different, but for a woman the need for love was instinctive and inherent.

  Lucy leaned against the Corn Rock, shaken suddenly with tears. The solitariness of the granite cliffs and the waiting, cruel ocean pressed down on her spirit, and her strange dislike of Gannet Cove returned to plague her. She turned to run back to Pierre and say they must be going, and noticed how much nearer the water line was. The tide had turned and was coming in.

  There was no sign of the boy, and Lucy began to pack up the luncheon basket He was hiding, of course, a favourite game of his when her back was turned. In a little while she must go and look for him and express great surprise and pretend alarm at his disappearance.

  Her alarm, however, became real when she could find no trace of him. The small inlets and hollows in the cliffs were empty of life, and she began to call, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice. At last she got an answering shout which held glee that he had fooled her, and presently she saw him peering at her round a raised platform of rock which jutted out into the sea.

  “You did not know about the caves, yes?” he shouted as she ran to meet him. “Come, I will show you.”

  “Oh, not now, poppet,” she protested. “I’ve no idea what the time is and I think we should be going.”

  “Papa must buy you a watch,” he said, and continued firmly, “But now you must see the caves.? They are quite famous and have sticklebacks hanging on the roof.”

  “Sticklebacks? Oh, you mean stalactites,” she laughed, and climbed up after him into the opening above the rock. She could not cheat him of his surprise, besides which caves had always fascinated her. She and those other children had never found the Gannet Caves all those years ago.

  “Look! Look!” Pierre shouted, pointing to all the marvels he had discovered for himself. “There are hundreds of eaves all leading out of each other and they come out on the other side.”

  “The other side of what?”

  “I do not know, but it does not matter. We will not walk so far. Is it not wonderful, Baba?”

  The caves were certainly worth exploring, she thought, gazing in wonder at the phosphorescent stalactites which lit the place with a dim, eerie light. She followed in Pierre’s wake, going from one cave to another, and became caught up in a spirit of adventure. They sang and shouted, delighting in the echoes that came back to them, and Pierre chanted Abel’s charm for snake-bite in case there were adders which swam in the dark little pools they encountered. He was still singing as they approached the mouth of the first cave on the return journey.

  “Underneath a hazlin mote

  Lies a braggarty worm with speckled throat—”

  He b
roke off at Lucy’s startled exclamation and looked with astonishment at the changed scene before them. The sun and the sands had vanished, and all round them a heaving mass of water boiled with angry implacability. “What has happened?” Pierre cried.

  “The tide has come up,” Lucy said, and remembered Bart saying: “Gannet Cove is harmless enough if you remember the currents and the tides.”

  “Do the caves fill at high water?” she asked, and the boy drew back at the sharpness of alarm which she could not keep out of her voice.

  “I do not know,” he said. “Baba—you are afraid?”

  “No, of course not,” she said quickly.

  The stretch of water between them and the remaining bit of beach where the path led up the cliffs looked alarmingly wide, but it could not yet be very deep, she thought. She could wade and carry the boy to, the safety of dry land. “Come along, poppet, we’ll have to get wet. If the water’s too deep for you I’ll carry you.”

  “No!” he said, running back into the cave, and at that moment the storm which Abel had foreseen broke over them.

  It was not, Lucy supposed, very severe, but the sudden deluge of rain turned the sea into a frightening whirlpool of foam-flecked water, and the lightning was incessant.

  “Pierre! We must go while we can!” she shouted, but he was already out of earshot and she remembered that he was frightened of storms. She found him cowering by one of the many pools which answered her question as to whether the caves filled at high water, and she gathered him into her arms for comfort.

  “Listen, darling, you said the caves came out on the other side. Are you sure? she asked.

  “I think so—I do not really know,” he whispered, beginning to cry.

  “Well, we’d better find out,” she said, and took him by the hand.

  It seemed that they walked endlessly, slipping and scrambling over rough places, cutting their knees on stalagmites and barnacles, and when at last they reached the last cave there was nothing but rock. If there had ever been another entrance, the sea’s slow shifting of rock and granite had blocked it long ago.