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Only by Chance
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.So near…yet so far… Life had not been easy for Henrietta Cowper, but she hoped to improve her lot. Then, shortly after she met consultant neurosurgeon Adam Ross-Pit, Henrietta fell seriously ill—and her small world changed forever.She had him to thank for her new job, and she was very grateful…and perhaps a little in love. But Adam didn’t need to know that—even if he did continue to come to her rescue!







He guessed what she wanted to hear first (#ude8b145a-d1b6-5be5-bb7c-28c7dabb8981)About the Author (#u52e85435-ddf0-5cbc-97a6-f0e43adb42c6)Title Page (#u51dd7629-9091-5830-97d8-08e97d35eb3b)CHAPTER ONE (#u046220b1-e117-5118-84b3-1db5f5df0a68)CHAPTER TWO (#ucd38bf20-d071-5ee0-a623-babf638d3e32)CHAPTER THREE (#u2f3c3547-8f4d-5e5b-95bd-f60d10ec354e)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


He guessed what she wanted to hear first

“Your cats are with my housekeeper, happy and safe.” He paused while a large pot of tea was put before her. It looked heaven-sent, but she didn’t take her eyes off his face.

“If you would consider it, there is a job waiting for you. The pay is small, but you’ll be fed and housed.”

“Well,” said Henrietta, and took a sip of tea. “I thought that you had said things you hadn’t meant just to be rid of me, but it’s not like that at all. I have been thinking awful things about you, and all the time you’ve been kind and helpful and there was no need—you don’t even know me.... I’m very grateful.”

Mr. Ross-Pitt concealed his feelings admirably. “Be brave, Henrietta. Burn your boats.”

She smiled then—she had a lovely smile, lighting up her whole face. “Yes, all right, I will.”




About the Author


BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and a grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals—she owns two cats—old buildings and writing. Betty began to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romance novels.


Only By Chance







Betty Neels













CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS Monday morning and the occupational therapy department at St Alkelda’s Hospital was filling up fast

Not only were patients being trundled from the wards to spend a few hours painting and knitting, making paper chains ready for a distant Christmas, learning to use their hands and brains once again, but ambulances were depositing outpatients in a steady flow, so that the staff had their work cut out sorting them out and taking them to wherever they were to spend the morning.

The occupational therapist was a large, severe-looking woman, excellent at her job but heartily disliked by those who worked for her, for she had an overbearing manner and a sarcastic tongue, always ready to find fault but rarely to praise. She was finding fault now with a girl half her size, with an unassuming face, mousy hair and a tendency to slight plumpness.

‘Must you be so slow, Henrietta? Really, you are of little use to me unless you can make more of an effort.’

The girl paused, an elderly lady on either arm. She said in a reasonable voice, ‘Neither Mrs Flood nor Miss Thomas can hurry, Mrs Carter. That’s why I’m slow.’

Mrs Carter looked daggers, but, before she could think up something to squash this perfectly sensible remark, Henrietta had hoisted the elderlies more firmly onto their feet and was making for the room where the paper chains were being made.

Mrs Carter stared after the trio. Really, the girl was impossible, making remarks like that, and always politely and in a tiresomely matter-of-fact voice which it was impossible to complain about.

Not even trained, Henrietta was a mere part-timer, dealing with the more mundane tasks which the qualified staff had no time for—helping the more helpless of the patients to eat their dinner, escorting them to the ambulances, setting them in their chairs, finding mislaid spectacles, and, when she wasn’t doing that, showing them how to make paper flowers, unravelling their knitting, patiently coaxing stiff, elderly fingers to hold a paintbrush.

Doing everything cheerfully and willingly, thought Mrs Carter crossly. The girl’s too good to be true.

Henrietta, aware that Mrs Carter disliked her and would have liked to get rid of her if possible, was glad when her day’s work ended.

The last of the elderlies safely stowed in the last ambulance, she began to tidy the place ready for the next day, thankful that she wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Three days a week was all that was required of her, and although it was hard to make ends meet on her wages she was glad to have the job, even though there was no guarantee of its permanence.

The last to leave, she locked the doors, took the keys along to the porter’s office and went out into the cold dark of a January evening. The side-door she used opened out of one side of the hospital, and she began walking over this deserted area towards the lighted forecourt, only to stop halfway there, arrested by a very small mewing sound. It came from a tiny kitten, wobbling unsteadily towards her, falling over itself in its anxiety to reach her.

Henrietta got down on her knees, the better to see the small creature. ‘Lost?’ she asked it, and then added, ‘Starved and dirty and very frightened.’ She picked it up and felt its bird-like bones under the dirty fur. ‘Well, I’m not leaving you here; you can come home with me.’ She rocked back on her heels, stood up, stepped backwards and discovered that she was standing on a foot.

‘Whoops,’ said Henrietta, and spun round. ‘So sorry...’ She found herself addressing a waistcoat, and looked higher to glimpse its owner—a large, tall man, peering down at her. Not that he could see much of her in the gloom, nor, for that matter, could she see much of him. ‘It’s a kitten,’ she explained. ‘It’s lost and so very thin.’

The man put out a hand and took the little animal from her. ‘Quite right; he or she needs a home without a doubt’

‘Oh, that’s easy; he or she can come home with me.’ She took the kitten back. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt your foot?’ When he didn’t answer she added, ‘Goodnight.’

He watched her go, wondering who she was and what she was doing there. Not one of the nurses, he supposed, although he hadn’t been able to see her very clearly. He would remember her voice, though, quiet and pleasant—serene was the word he sought for and found.

Henrietta tucked the kitten inside her coat and walked home. Home was a bedsitting room in a tall, shabby old house ten minutes away from the hospital. There was nothing fashionable about that part of London, but for the most part it was respectable, the houses which lined the streets mostly divided into flats or bedsitters. It was lonely too, for its inhabitants kept themselves very much to themselves, passing each other with only a brief nod, intent on minding their own business.

Henrietta mounted the steps to the front door, entered and went up the staircase in the narrow hall to the top floor, where she unlocked her own door. It opened directly into a large attic room with small windows at each end of it. A large, rather battered tabby-cat got off the window-sill of the back window and came to meet her.

‘Dickens, hello.’ She bent to stroke his elderly coat. ‘You want your supper, don’t you? And we’ve got ourselves a companion, so be nice to him or her.’

She put the scrap down on the shabby rug before an old-fashioned gas fire. Dickens first backed away and then began to examine the kitten. He was still sniffing cautiously when she went back with his supper, turned on the fire and fetched a towel to clean some of the dirt off the kitten. Then she offered it a saucer of warm milk, which it licked slowly at first and then with speed.

‘There’s plenty more,’ said Henrietta, and went to hang her coat behind the curtain screening off the far end of the room. There was a divan bed there too, with a bedside table, and under the front window another table covered with an old-fashioned chenille cloth.

There was a small easy chair, two wooden chairs at the table and another basket chair enlivened by a bright cushion. Nothing matched; they looked as though they had come from an Oxfam shop, or one of the secondhand shops close by. As indeed they had.

Still, it was home to Henrietta, and it had certain advantages. Beyond the back window there was a small balcony, sufficient for Dickens’s needs, and she had a pot of catmint there, another of grass, and a cut-down branch which she had tied to the iron railing surrounding the balcony so that he could sharpen his claws. In the spring she planted daffodils in an old broken-down earthen pot which she had found unused in the back garden of the house.

She had been there for a couple of years now, and as far as she could see she had little chance of finding something more congenial. Rents, even in that shabby-genteel part of London, were high, and it was an effort to make ends meet. Her hospital job barely covered the rent, gas, electricity, and the most basic of food, and she relied on her other job to keep the wolf from the door.

Each morning she left the house just after six o‘clock, took a bus to the block of offices a mile away and joined a team of cleaners, working until half past eight and then going home again. On the days she worked at the hospital it was rather a rush, but she worked there from ten o’clock until the late afternoon, and so far she had managed to get there on time.

Her days were full and sometimes tiring but, despite her smallness, she was strong and healthy and possessed of a cheerful disposition, and if at times she thought with longing of a home life and a family she didn’t dwell on them.

She couldn’t remember her father or mother; they had both died in an air disaster when she had been no more than a year or so old. She had been left with her grandparents while her mother—their daughter—had accompanied her father on a business trip to South America, and, since they had stubbornly refused to countenance her marriage and had agreed only with great reluctance to look after their small granddaughter, any affection they might have felt for Henrietta had been swallowed up in resentment and anger at their daughter’s death.

A nursemaid had been found for her and she had seen very little of her grandparents. When her grandmother died, her grandfather had declared that he was quite unable to care for her and, since there had been no relations willing to have her, Henrietta had been sent to a children’s home.

She had been almost six years old then. She’d stayed until she was eighteen and, since it had been a well-run institution and the supervisor a kind and intelligent woman, Henrietta had taken her A levels and stayed on for three more years, teaching the little ones and making herself useful. It had been a restricted life, but the only one she’d known, and she’d been tolerably happy.

Then the supervisor had retired and her successor had been able to see no point in keeping Henrietta there. She had been told that she might go out into the world and earn her living like everyone else. ‘You can teach,’ she’d been told. ‘There are plenty of jobs if you look for them.’

So she’d left the place that she had regarded as home for almost all her life and, armed with the small amount of money that she had been given to tide her over, she’d gone looking for work. In this she had been lucky for the first job she’d gone after—office cleaner—had been hers for the asking.

She’d taken it and, helped by one of the other cleaners, had rented this attic room, eking out her wages with her tiny capital, taking on any job to keep her going—serving at a stall at the market on Saturday afternoons, babysitting for her landlady’s daughter, distributing circulars. Bit by bit she’d furnished her room, and, since she had a nice dress sense, had acquired a small wardrobe from Oxfam. She’d acquired Dickens, too...

Things had looked up; she’d answered an advertisement for an assistant at the occupational therapy department at the hospital only a few streets away, and she had been there for more than a year now. There was always the hope that one or other of the full-time work ers would leave and she would be able to apply for the job.

She took another look at the kitten, wrapped in an old scarf, and left it to sleep, watched by Dickens, while she got her supper.

Later, when she turned the divan into a bed ready to get into it, she lifted the kitten onto the end where Dickens had already curled up. It made a brave effort to purr, scoffed some bread and milk and fell asleep, and Dickens, who had a kind heart under his ferocious appearance, edged closer so that the small creature could feel his warm and furry body.

Henrietta got into bed. ‘You’re a splendid fellow, Dickens,’ she told him as she put out the light and heard his raucous purr.

She had to be up early, of course, but once she was dressed and on her way even on a miserably cold and dark morning it wasn’t too bad. She would go home presently, and have breakfast and do her small chores, initiate the kitten into the pleasures of the balcony and do her careful shopping.

The other cleaners greeted her cheerfully as they started their work but there wasn’t time to gossip, and once they had finished they wasted no time in getting back home. Henrietta, standing on a crowded bus, thought of her breakfast—toast and a boiled egg and a great pot of tea...

The cats were still on the bed, but they got down as she went in. She lighted the fire and, since the room was cold, gave them their breakfasts and fetched the cardboard box lined with old blanket that Dickens regarded as his own. She watched while he got in, to sit washing his face after his meal, and presently, when the kitten crept in beside him, he took no notice. Then, his own toilet completed, he began to clean the kitten and, that done to his satisfaction, they both went to sleep again.

Henrietta, lingering over her own breakfast, was doing her weekly sums. Each week she managed to save something—never very much, but even the coppers and the small silver mounted up slowly in the jamjar on the shelf beside the gas stove in one corner of the room. It was a flimsy shield against the ever present threat of being out of work.

Presently she tidied up, got into a coat, tied a scarf over her head and went to the shops, where she laid out her money with a careful eye. Since the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood liked her, because she never asked for credit, the butcher gave her a marrowbone to add to the stewing steak she had bought, and the baker threw in a couple of rolls with the yesterday’s loaf she bought.

She bore her purchases home, fed the cat and kitten, ate her snack lunch and set about cleaning the room. It didn’t take long, so that presently she drew the armchair up to the fire and opened her library book, waiting patiently while Dickens made himself comfortable on her lap.

When he had settled she lifted the kitten on too, and he made room for it, rumbling in his hoarse voice in what she hoped was a fatherly fashion. Apparently it was, for the kitten curled up as close as it could get and went to sleep at once.

Henrietta worked at St Alkelda’s on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday of each week and did her cleaning on each weekday morning—a monotonous round of dull days enlivened by her free Sundays, when she took herself off to one of London’s parks and then went to evensong at any one of London’s churches. She was by no means content with her lot, but she didn’t grumble; she had work and a roof over her head, and things would get better.

She was saving every penny so that she could enrol at night school and learn shorthand and typing. The course didn’t cost much, but it meant bus fares, notebooks, pens and pencils, and perhaps hidden extras that she knew nothing about. Besides, she needed to have money to fall back on should she find herself out of work. She had as much chance of being made redundant as anyone else.

It was a good thing that the owner of the fruit and vegetable stall at Saturday’s market had taken her on in the afternoon. He paid very little, but she didn’t blame him for that—he had to live as well—and he allowed her to take home a cauliflower or a bag of apples by way of perks. The jamjar was filling up nicely—another six months or so and she could start on plans to improve things.

‘A pity you haven’t any looks worth mentioning,’ she told the looking-glass hanging above the rickety chest of drawers. ‘No one—that is, to speak plainly, no man—is going to look at you twice and whisk you off to the altar. You have to become a career girl, so that by the time you’re thirty you’ll be carrying one of those briefcases and wearing a tailored suit and high heels.’ She nodded at her reflection.

Later, as she gave Dickens and the kitten their suppers, she uttered aloud a thought which had been at the back of her head for quite some time. ‘I wonder who he was—the man whose foot I trod upon? He had a nice voice...’

Dickens paused in his gobbling to give her a thoughtful look, but the kitten didn’t want to waste time—he ate up and then mewed for more.

‘I shall call you Oliver Twist; you’re always asking for second helpings,’ said Henrietta, filling his saucer. So the kitten acquired a name twice as big as itself which inevitably within a few hours had been shortened to Ollie.

She heard the voice again on the following Monday afternoon, towards the end of a tiring day, and most unfortunately she was quite unable to turn round and see its owner. She was sitting facing the wall between two old ladies who, what with having trouble with their dentures and shaking hands, needed a good deal of help with the tea and buns they were enjoying.

If there had been no one else there, Henrietta would have turned round and taken a look, but Mrs Carter was with him, droning on about something or other, she was always complaining bitterly to any of the medical staff who might have come to the department to see how a patient was getting on.

The owner of the voice was listening patiently, his eyes on the back of Henrietta’s mousy bun of hair, recognising her at once—which upon reflection surprised him, for he hadn’t seen her clearly. Perhaps it was her voice, quiet and cheerful, urging the old ladies to enjoy their tea.

Mrs Carter paused for breath and he said, ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Carter,’ which encouraged her to start again as he allowed his thoughts to wander. Not that he allowed that to show. His handsome face was wearing the bland listening expression he so often hid behind when he was with someone he disliked, and he disliked Mrs Carter. She was efficient, ran her department on oiled wheels, but he had upon occasion seen how she treated her staff... He became aware of what Mrs Carter was saying.

‘I need more trained staff, sir. I’m fobbed off with anyone who chooses to apply for a job here. That girl there, sitting between those two patients—she does her best but she’s not carrying her weight, and when she’s reproved she answers back. No manners, but what can you expect these days? She’ll have to go, of course.’

She had made no effort to lower her rather loud voice and the man beside her frowned. It was obvious that the girl had heard every word; probably she had been meant to.

He said clearly, ‘It appears to me that she is coping admirably, Mrs Carter. One does not need to be highly skilled to be patient and kind, and the young lady you mention appears to possess both these virtues...’

Mrs Carter bridled. ‘Well. I’m sure you are right, sir.’ She would have liked to argue about it, but although she would never admit it, even to herself, she was a little in awe of him.

He was a senior consultant—she had heard him described as a medical genius—who specialised in brain surgery. He was a giant of a man with more than his share of good looks and, it was said, the world’s goods. Not that anyone knew for certain; he rarely spoke about himself to his colleagues, and if they knew about his private life they never spoke of it.

He said now, ‘I should like to take a look at Mrs Collins. Is she making any progress? There was a certain lack of co-ordination after I operated, but there should be some improvement.’

Henrietta heard Mrs Carter answer as they walked away, but she still didn’t turn round. She knew who he was now; at least, she knew that he was someone important in the hospital. He had put Mrs Carter neatly in her place, and Henrietta was grateful for his kindness, but she hoped that she would never meet him face to face—she would die of shame...

As usual she was the last to leave. She locked up and hurried across to the porter’s office to hand over the keys. It was another dark and wet evening, and she couldn’t wait to get home and have a cup of tea. Mrs Carter’s remarks had worried her, she didn’t think that she would be sacked unless she had done something truly awful, and although Mrs Carter was always finding fault she had never threatened her with dismissal.

She bade the porter goodnight and made her way to the side-door, ducking her head at the sudden gust of wind and rain until brought to a sudden halt by something solid. An arm steadied her.

‘Ah, I was afraid that I might have missed you. I feel that I owe you an apology on Mrs Carter’s behalf. But let us be more comfortable in the car while I give it.’

‘I’m going home,’ said Henrietta, ‘and there is really no need...’

She could have saved her breath. The arm, solid as a rock but gentle, was urging her across the forecourt to the sacred corner where the consultants parked their cars. Her companion opened the door of one of them—a Bentley—popped her inside, got in his side and turned to her. “That’s better. What is your name?’

Was he going to give her the sack? she thought wildly. She had been told that the consultants had a good deal of influence. She sat up straight, her nose twitching at the faint whiff of good leather upholstery. ‘Henrietta Cowper.’

He offered a large hand. ‘Ross-Pitt.’

She shook it. ‘How do you do, Mr Ross-Pitt?’

She gave him an enquiring look and he said at once, ‘You will have heard every word Mrs Carter uttered this afternoon. I can assure you that there have been no complaints about your work. Mrs Carter is an excellent organiser, and knows her job inside out, but she can be rather hard on people. I’m sure she didn’t mean all she said!’

Henrietta, who knew better, didn’t contradict him and he went on, ‘You like your work?’ His voice was friendly but detached.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You’re not full-time?’

‘No, no, three days a week.’ She paused. ‘It is kind of you to explain, Mr Ross-Pitt. I’m grateful’ She put a hand on the door. ‘Goodbye.’

‘I’ll drive you home. Stay where you are; it’s pelting down—you’ll drown.’

‘I live very near here...’

The engine was purring almost silently. ‘Where?’

‘Well Denvers Street; it’s a turning off the main road on the left-hand side, but there’s no need...’

He took no notice of that, but drove out of the fore-court into the busy main road. ‘The third turning on the left,’ said Henrietta, and then added, ‘It’s number thirty, halfway down on the right.’

When he stopped she started to scramble out, only to be restrained by his hand. ‘Wait.’ He had a very quiet voice. ‘Have you a key?’

‘The door isn’t locked; it’s flatlets and bedsitters.’

He got out and opened her door, and waited while she got out. ‘Thank you very much.’ She looked up into his placid face. ‘Do get back into your car, you’ll get soaked.’ She smiled at him. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

He gave a little nod. ‘Goodnight, Miss Henrietta Cowper.’ He waited in the rain until she had gone into the house.

A funny little thing, he reflected as he drove away. Lovely eyes, but an ordinary face. Of course, wet hair hanging around a rain-washed face hardly helped. He liked her voice, though. He turned the car and drove back to the main road, making for the motorway which would take him to his home.

He had a flat above his consulting rooms in Wimpole Street, but home was a rambling old house just south of Thaxted, and since the hospital was close to the M11 he chose to travel to and fro. After a day in the operating theatre or a session in Outpatients he enjoyed the drive, and the drive to the city in the early morning, even in midwinter, was no problem—the Bentley swallowed the miles with well-bred silent speed while he considered the day’s work ahead of him.

He joined the motorway and sat back, relaxed behind the wheel, reviewing several of his patients’ progress, weighing the pros and cons of each case and, that done, allowed his thoughts to roam.

Miss Henrietta Cowper, he reflected, at first glance was a nonentity, but he suspected that there was more to her than that. A square peg in a round hole, perhaps? Was there an intelligent brain behind that small, plain face? He thought that there was. Mrs Carter had seen that and resented it.

So why didn’t the girl train as a nurse, or, for that matter, go into computers or something similar? Her home had looked shabby from the outside, but the street was a quiet well-kept one, despite it being in one of the East End’s rundown areas.

He turned the car off the motorway and drove for another ten minutes or so along a country road, until he slowed between a handful of cottages and turned again past the church, up the main street of the village and then through his own gates. The drive was short, widening out before the front of the house. He got out and stood a moment looking at it—white walls, half timbered, with a tiled roof, charming lattice windows, glowing with lamplight, a porch and a solid wood door.

Its Tudor origins were apparent, although since then it had been added to from time to time, but nothing had been changed during the last two hundred years. It stood overlooking the wintry garden, offering a warm welcome, and when the door was opened a Labrador dog galloped out to greet him.

Mr Ross-Pitt bent to greet the eager beast. ‘Watson, old fellow—wanting a walk? Presently.’

They went in together to be greeted by his housekeeper. Mrs Patch was elderly, stout and good-natured. She ran his home beautifully, with the help of a girl from the village and Mrs Lock, who came to do the rough work twice a week. She said comfortably, ‘There you are, sir. I’ve just this minute taken a batch of scones out of the oven—just right for your tea.’

He put a hand on her plump shoulder. ‘Mrs Patch, you’re a treasure; I’m famished. Give me five minutes...’ He went along a short passage leading from the roomy square hall and opened the door at its end.

His study was at the side of the house, its French doors opening onto the garden. Now its crimson velvet curtains were closed against the dark night and a fire burned briskly in the steel grate. He sat down at his desk, put his bag beside his chair and turned on the answering machine. Most of the messages were unimportant, and several were from friends—they could be dealt with later.

He left the room and crossed the hall to the drawing room-an irregular-shaped room with windows on two sides, an inglenook and a ceiling which exhibited its original strapwork.

The furniture was a pleasing mixture of comfortable armchairs and sofas, lamp-tables placed where they were most needed, and a bow-fronted cabinet which took up almost all of one wall. It was filled with porcelain and silver, handed down from one generation to the next. He remembered how as a small boy his grandmother had allowed him to hold some of the figurines in his hands.

He had inherited the house from her, and had altered nothing save to have some unobtrusive modernising of the kitchen. He disliked central heating, but the house was warm; the Aga in the kitchen never went out and there were fires laid in every room, ready to be lighted.

He went to his chair near the fire and Mrs Patch followed him in with the tea-tray.

‘It’s no night to be out in,’ she observed, setting the tray down on a table at his elbow, ‘nor yet to be in a miserable cold room somewhere. I pity those poor souls living in bedsitting rooms.’

Was Henrietta Cowper living like that? he wondered.

Each week he spent an evening at a clinic in Stepney; only the two young doctors who ran it knew who he was and he never talked about it.

It had given him an insight into the lives of most of the patients—unemployed for the most part, in small, half-furnished rooms with not enough warmth or light.

On occasion he had needed to go and see them in their homes and he had done what he could, financing the renting of an empty shop where volunteers offered tea and soup and loaves. No one knew about this and he never intended that they should...

Presently he got into his coat again and took Watson for his evening walk. It was still raining and very dark, but he had known the country around his home since he’d been a small boy; he followed well-remembered lanes with Watson trotting beside him. The country, even on a night such as this, was vastly better than London streets.

If, during the following week, Mr Ross-Pitt thought of Henrietta at all it was briefly; his days were full, his leisure largely filled too. He rode whenever he could, and was much in demand at his friends’ and acquaintances’ dinner tables, for he was liked by everyone, unfailingly good-natured and placid. Too placid, some of his women-friends thought; a delightful companion, but never showing the least desire to fall in love.

It was on the next Monday morning that he went down to the occupational therapy unit to check on a patient’s progress since he had operated on him to remove a brain tumour. His progress was excellent, and he told Mrs Carter so.

‘Well, I’m sure we do our best, sir, although it’s hard going—there’s that girl, not turned up this morning. I knew she would be no good when she was taken on—’

‘Perhaps she is ill?’

‘Ill?’ Mrs Carter snorted in disgust. These young women don’t know the meaning of a good day’s work. she’ll turn up on Wednesday with some excuse.’

He answered rather absentmindedly and Presently went away, his mind already engrossed with the patient he was to see that afternoon—a difficult case which, would need all his skill.

It was on Wednesday evening that he went along to the clinic, after being at the hospital for most of the day. It was another wet night, cold and windy with a forecast of snow, and the dark streets were gloomy. There was a light over the clinic door, dispelling some of the dreariness.

He parked the car and went inside, past the crowd in the waiting room, to the two small rooms at the back. Both doctors were already there. He greeted them cheerfully, threw his coat onto a chair and put on his white coat.

‘A full house,’ he observed. ‘Is there anyone you want me to see?’

‘Old Mr Wilkins is back again—blood pressure up, headaches, feels giddy...’

Mr Ross-Pitt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look.’ He went into the second room, cast his eye over Mr Wilkins’ notes and then fetched him from the waiting room. After that he worked without pause; the clinic was supposed to shut at eight o’clock, but it never did. As long as there was a patient waiting it remained open, and that evening it was busier than usual.

It was almost nine o‘clock when the younger of the two doctors put his head round the door. ‘Could you cast an eye over this girl? She’s just been brought in—came in a greengrocer’s van. Looks ill. Not our usual type of patient, though; ought to have gone to her own doctor.’

‘Let’s have a look...’ Mr Ross-Pitt went into the almost empty waiting room.

His eye passed over the two elderly women who came regularly, not because they were ill but because it was warm and cheerful; they were the first to arrive and the last to leave. It passed over the young man waiting for his girlfriend, who was with the other doctor, and lighted on the small group on the bench nearest the door—a shabby young man with a kind face and an elderly woman with beady black eyes, and between them, propped up, was Henrietta, looking very much the worse for wear.

Mr Ross-Pitt bit back the words on his tongue and went to bend over her.

‘Miss Cowper, can you tell me what happened?’

She lifted her head and looked at him hazily. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ she said unhelpfully, and the woman spoke up.

‘Bin ill since Saturday night—got a room at my ’ouse, yer see—never see ’er on Monday and Tuesday, and then she went to work this morning same as usual and they brought ’er back. Fainted all over the place, she did.’

He frowned. Why hadn’t they kept her at the hospital if she had been taken ill there? His thought was answered before he could utter it. ‘They couldn’t bring her back at once, see? They ’as ter get the offices cleaned before eight o‘clock, and someone ’ad ter finish ‘er jobs for ’er.’

‘Yes, yes. How far away is this job? How was she brought home?’

‘On a bus, o’ course; there ain’t no money for taxis for the likes of us. Put ‘er ter bed, I did; leastways, got ’er ter lie down and put a blanket over ’er. Thought she’d pick up, but she ain’t much better.

‘You didn’t take her to the hospital?’

‘Brought ’er ’ere, ’aven’t we?’

‘You have done quite right I’d like to see her in the surgery, please.’

He scooped Henrietta up, nodded to the woman to come too, and carried her to the second empty room.

Ten minutes later he sat down at the desk to write up his notes while Henrietta was wrapped up in her elderly coat and a scarf was tied over her head.

‘A rather nasty influenza,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt. ‘She’ll be all right in a few days, provided she takes these tablets regularly, stays in bed and keeps warm.’

Henrietta opened her eyes, then. ‘I’m never ill; I’D be all right at home.’

‘You’ll look after her?’ asked Mr Ross-Pitt, taking no notice of this. ‘She should have gone to her own doctor, you know.’

‘Couldn’t, could she? He don’t see no one on a Sunday, unless they’re at their last gasp, and on weekdays she ’as ter be at the offices by half past six.’

‘In the morning?’

‘O’ course. Them clerks and posh businessmen don’t want no cleaning ladies mopping floors round ‘em, do they?’ She gave him a pitying look. ‘Don’t know much, do yer?’

Mr Ross-Pitt took this in good part. ‘I’m learning,’ he observed placidly, and smiled so that the woman smiled too.

‘I dare say you’re a good doctor,’ she conceded. ‘We’ll get ‘er back ’ome.’

‘I have a car outside. Supposing I drive Miss Cowper back and you go ahead and get her bed ready and the room warm?’

‘If yer say so.’

Henrietta opened an eye. ‘I’m quite able to manage on my own.’ She added with weary politeness, ‘Thank you.’

He quite rightly ignored this remark too, and, since she felt too peculiar to protest, he carried her out to his car after a brief word with his two colleagues, laid her gently on the back seat and followed the greengrocer’s van through the murky night. Henrietta, her eyes tight shut against a ferocious headache, said crossly, ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

‘Close your eyes and be quiet,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt.

‘You aren’t going to be all right for a couple of days, but you’ll feel better once you’re snug in bed.’

Henrietta made a half-hearted sound which sounded like ‘pooh’ and slid back into uneasy dozing. She really was too weary to bother.


CHAPTER TWO

MR. ROSS-PITT slid to a gentle halt behind the van and got out of his car to find the van’s owner waiting for him. ‘Mrs Gregg’s gone up ter see ter the room,’ he explained. ‘Do you want an ’and?’

‘I think I can manage. The room is upstairs?’

‘Top of the ’ouse, mate. Bit of a climb, but she’s not all that ‘eavy.’ He grinned. ‘And yer no lightweight.’

Mr Ross-Pitt smiled. ‘I’ll carry Miss Cowper upstairs. Thanks for your help—quick thinking on your part to bring her to the clinic.’

‘My old lady’s been on and off. Thinks ’ighly of it.’

‘Thank you.’ Mr Ross-Pitt opened the door of the car and lifted Henrietta out.

She roused herself from a feverish doze to protest. ‘I’m very comfortable, thank you, if I could just go to sleep...’

Mr Ross-Pitt trod up the narrow stairs, his magnificent nose flaring at the all-pervading smell of cabbage, cooked to its death, mingled with a strong whiff of onions. By the time he reached the top floor the smell was fainter, but it was a good deal colder and the room he entered, the door obligingly left open by the landlady, was icy.

‘I’ve lit the fire,’ Mrs Gregg told him unnecessarily. She was smoothing the rumpled bed and shaking out Henrietta’s nightgown—a sensible garment chosen for its warmth rather than its glamour.

He took a quick look round the room, laid Henrietta on the bed, and said, ‘I’ll be outside on the landing. I’ll take another look at Miss Cowper when you’ve put her to bed.’

He paused as he went to the door. Sitting in his cardboard box, Dickens was glaring at him, the kitten huddled against him. ‘Well, well,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, and went downstairs to find the van driver.

‘Will there be a shop open?’ he wanted to know. ‘Miss Cowper will need milk and eggs, some kind of cold drink, and there are two cats which will need to be fed.’

‘Two now, is it? Me shop’s shut, but I’ll bring what you want for her—I’m in the next street.’

Mr Ross-Pitt produced money. ‘That’s good of you. I take it Miss Cowper is on her own?’

‘Yes-‘as been ever since she came ’ere. And as nice a young lady as you could find in a month of Sundays. Never says nothing about ‘erself, though. Proper lady she is, too. I’ll be off. Bring it upstairs, shall I?’

‘Please.’ Mr Ross-Pitt went back upstairs, knocked on the door and was admitted. Henrietta was in her bed. Her appearance reminded him of a wet hen, and he studied her with no more than a professional eye. She was flushed and hot, and her hair, of which there seemed to be a great quantity, covered the pillow.

He took her wrist and frowned over her rapid pulse. If he had known that she lived in an attic with, as far as he could see, few comforts, he would have driven her to St Alkelda’s and had her admitted. She opened her eyes and he said kindly, ‘You’re back in your bed. Stay there for a couple of days and take the pills I’m going to leave with you.’

‘Dickens,’ she whispered from a sore throat, ‘and Ollie. Don’t let them out.’

‘No, no, they are sitting in a box. I’ll feed them before I go; that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Please.’ She turned her head and saw Mrs Gregg on the other side of the bed. ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance...’ She added anxiously, ‘Don’t let them out...’

Mr Ross-Pitt took her hand. ‘I promise you your cats will be taken care of until you feel better. Mrs Gregg is going to keep an eye on you and them, and someone will be along to see how you feel tomorrow.’

There was a knock on the door and the milk and groceries were handed in. Mr Ross-Pitt took them, refusing to accept the change with exactly the right casual air. ‘Certainly not, my dear chap; we’re beholden to you.’

‘Oh, I’ll nip off ’ome then; the missus will be wondering where I’ve got to. So long, guv.’

‘So long.’ Mr Ross-Pitt went back into the room and stowed everything away tidily, fed the animals and then thoughtfully put them on the end of the bed. Henrietta didn’t open her eyes but he saw her little smile.

‘Will you leave a small light on, Mrs Gregg? Perhaps we might have a word downstairs.’

The word, accompanied by the handing-over of suitable financial support, didn’t take long. ‘Miss Cowper should be in hospital, but I am sure that you will take good care of her. Someone will visit her tomorrow to make sure that she is quite comfortable, but I know I can depend on you, Mrs Gregg.’

Mrs Gregg fingered the notes in her pocket and assured him that she would look after Henrietta like a mother.

Which she did. She wasn’t one to bother about her various tenants—as long as they paid their rent and kept quite quiet she felt no concern for them—but Henrietta was a good tenant, paid her rent on the dot and was as quiet as a mouse. No gentlemen-friends, either. Mrs Gregg would have done her best for her even without being paid for it.

As it was, she rose to the occasion, going upstairs several times during the night and following morning, warming milk, offering cold drinks, feeding the cat and kitten. She washed Henrietta’s face and hands and straightened the bed while Henrietta tottered, wrapped in her dressing gown, down to the floor below to the loo, where she was quietly sick, to return, very wobbly on her feet, and climb thankfully back into bed.

The doctor with whom she had registered came to see her later that day. He was a busy man with a large practice but, asked courteously by Mr Ross-Pitt to visit Henrietta, he had consented to do so. He had agreed, too, to let him know if she showed signs of improvement.

He had been taken aback at the sight of the attic; she had been to his surgery once or twice and he had formed the vague opinion that she was a cut above his usual patient, probably living in one of the new blocks of flats springing up on the bulldozed sites of abandoned terraced houses.

He examined her carefully, wondering why Mr Ross-Pitt, whom he had met once or twice at the hospital, should take an interest in her. He had said something about her working at St Alkelda’s, which would account for it, he supposed.

He phoned the hospital later and, since Mr Ross-Pitt wasn’t available, he left a message. Miss Cowper was suffering from flu and not feeling too good, but she seemed a sensible young woman, taking her antibiotics and staying in bed, and her landlady appeared to be a good sort.

His message was received with a grunt as Mr Ross-Pitt bent over the operating table; the girl was in good hands now, so he forgot about her, absorbed in a tricky bit of surgery which demanded his powerful concentration.

At the end of the day Mr Ross-Pitt remembered Henrietta again, though. It would do no harm to make sure that Mrs Gregg was looking after her. He stopped the car outside a small flower shop near the hospital gates, picked a bunch of daffodils and narcissi at random and drove to Mrs Gregg’s house.

Waiting for her to open the door, he felt impatient; he had had a long day and he would have to spend the night at his flat It was imperative that he visited his patient later that night and if necessary in the early morning; the quiet evening that he had been looking forward to would have to be curtailed.

The door opened at last and Mrs Gregg stood aside and allowed him to enter.

‘Upstairs I was, sir; came as quick as I could. Do you want to see Henrietta?’

‘Please. I understand her doctor has been?’

‘S’ right. In a bit of an ‘urry, but took a look at ’er. Told ‘er ter take them pills regular and come and see ’im if she wasn’t well in a few days.’

They had been climbing the stairs as she spoke; now she opened the attic door and stood aside to let him into the room. ‘Ere’s yer doctor, love.’ She went on, ‘And while yer ’ere I’ll see to them cats.’

Henrietta sat up in bed, aware that she wasn’t looking her best. Her hair felt like damp seaweed, she was hot and sticky, and she was wearing a grey cardigan over her nightie. She said, ‘Hello,’ in a gruff voice and eyed him with peevishness. ‘I’m much better...’

‘I am glad to hear that. I was passing and hoped you wouldn’t mind me calling to enquire.’ He laid the flowers on the bed and she put out a gentle finger to touch them.

‘For me? How very kind. They’re beautiful. Thank you, and thank you for calling. I really am feeling better. I shall get up tomorrow.’

‘You will stay in bed tomorrow,’ he told her quietly, ‘and on the following day, if you feel well enough, you may get up. You will take things easily for the rest of the week. Presumably your doctor will sign you off as fit for work when he thinks it right.’

‘Well, yes, I’m sure he will. I must write to Mrs Carter...’

‘I’ll leave a message with Reception.’

‘Oh, will you? How kind.’ She smiled at him from a white face, and he thought uneasily that she should be in more comfortable surroundings.

‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked.

‘A few years.’ She didn’t enlarge on that, and he didn’t ask any more questions for he guessed that she wasn’t going to tell him anything. Presently he wished her goodnight and went away, escorted by Mrs Gregg.

‘I’ll look after ’er,’ she assured him. ‘Independent, that’s what she is. Never a word about where she came from nor nothing about ‘er family. Always ready to give an ’and—elps that greengrocer on ’is stall of a Saturday afternoon. Well, every little ‘elps, don’t it?’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, putting a hand into his pocket.

Two days later Henrietta got up, assuring Mrs Gregg that she felt fine and that there was no need for that lady to toil up and down the stairs any longer. ‘There’s plenty for me to eat in the cupboard. I must owe you a lot of money...’

‘That doctor wot brought you ’ere, he asked Mr Biggs where ‘e could get milk and such and, Biggs being a greengrocer, ’e fetched what was wanted.’

‘So I owe Mr Biggs?’

‘Well, that doctor paid for everything.’

‘Oh, dear, I’ll have to write him a note and ask him how much I owe him. Mrs Gregg, I don’t suppose there was a message from the offices?’

‘Yes, there was. One of the girls wot brought you ’ere sent a note ter say yer job’s still waiting for yer.’ Mrs Gregg eyed her anxiously. ‘But you’ll not be going back until the doctor says so.’

‘Of course not,’ said Henrietta, not meaning a word of it. ‘Thank you for looking after Dickens and Ollie.’

Monday was only two days away. Over the weekend Henrietta swallowed her pills, ate the contents of her cupboard, shutting her mind to what they had cost and how she was ever going to pay for them, washed her hair and made her plans.

She didn’t think she had better go back to the hospital on Monday. She hadn’t been to the doctor, and she supposed that she would have to wait for him to tell her that she might go back to work. No one knew about the offices, though—only Mrs Gregg, and she didn’t get up very early. Henrietta reckoned that she would be back in her room by the time her landlady was up and about.

She had to admit to herself that she didn’t feel as well as she had hoped as she caught the early bus on Monday morning. Probably the weather, she told herself; bitter cold and an icy wind. ‘Going to snow,’ said the conductor, taking her fare.

The other cleaning ladies were glad to see her back. ‘Cor, we was afraid you’d get the sack,’ she was told. ‘Lucky you came this morning; there’s plenty wanting to step into yer shoes. OK, are yer?’

Henrietta agreed that she was perfectly OK, donned her apron and got to work. It was the prospect of losing her job which kept her on her feet. The vacuum cleaner was like lead, the bucket of soapy water she needed to clean the paintwork weighed ten times as much as it usually did, and when she polished the desks they danced drunkenly under her eyes.

She managed to finish on time, however, put away her cleaning equipment, assured everyone that she felt fine, and, wrapped in her elderly coat, left the building to catch the bus.

Mr Ross-Pitt, driving himself home after an urgent summons to the clinic to do what was possible for Mr Wilkins, who had been found moribund in the street by one of the volunteer helpers, saw Henrietta walking with exaggerated care along the icy pavement. He stopped the car and got out and faced her, and since her head was bent against the wind she didn’t see him.

‘You little fool,’ he observed, in a voice so cold that her head shot up to meet his eyes, which were as cold as his voice. ‘Have you no sense? Are you doing your best to get pneumonia?’

He took her arm and bundled her into the car. ‘You will go back to your room and go back to bed and try for a little common sense.’

He started the car and drove in silence, and Henrietta sat without saying a word; she felt peculiar for one thing, and for another she really couldn’t be bothered to think of anything suitable to say. Besides, Mr Ross-Pitt was angry—coldly and quietly furious with her. She closed her eyes and dozed off.

He turned to look at her as he stopped before the house. She was asleep, long lashes curling onto her pale cheeks, her mouth slightly open. In no way was it possible to consider her pretty, even passably good-looking, and yet he found himself smiling a little, wishing that she would open her eyes. Certainly she couldn’t go back to that attic room.

He got out of the car and knocked on the house door. Mrs Gregg, dressed but with her hair still in curlers and a pink net, opened it.

‘Well would yer believe it? What’s up, Doctor?’

‘I have brought Miss Cowper back to her room. I cannot think why she should be out in the streets at this hour.’

‘Lor’ bless yer, sir. Coming ‘ome from her cleaning job. Goes every morning, though she didn’t say nothing ter me about going terday.’ She peered past him to the car. ‘In the car, is she? Well, she won’t be going to the ’ospital this morning, that’s a cert.’

‘Indeed not. Would you be so good as to pack a few necessities for her? She should be in hospital for a day or so until she is quite recovered. Obviously she isn’t capable of looking after herself.’

Something in his voice warned Mrs Gregg to keep quiet about that. ‘I’ll pop upstairs and bring a bag out to the car,’ she promised. ‘Wot about them cats?’

Mr Ross-Pitt sighed. ‘The cats... I’ll return within the hour and collect them; my housekeeper will look after them until Miss Cowper returns here.’

‘Suits me. I got enough ter do without being bothered with cats.’

He went back to the car and found Henrietta still asleep. She was a nasty colour, and every now and then she gave a little rasping cough. He picked up the car phone and dialled the hospital. He had had an almost sleepless night and a heavy day’s work ahead of him; now he had saddled himself with this foolish girl and her cats. He glanced at his watch and asked to speak to the medical officer on duty.

Mrs Gregg came presently and handed over a cheap cardboard case. ‘You’ll be back?’ She sounded anxious. ‘I’ll ’ave ter know if she’s going ter be away long—‘er rent’s due—and then there’s the cats.’

He put the case in the boot. ‘I’ll be back, Mrs Gregg, and we can settle things then. Expect me in an hour.’

He drove to the casualty entrance of St Alkelda’s and watched as Henrietta was wheeled away, awake now but not at all sure of where she was. Indeed, she felt too ill to bother.

‘I suspect pneumonia,’ observed Mr Ross-Pitt to the young medical houseman on duty. ‘Good of you to admit her. Entirely her own fault; she had flu and went back to work at some unearthly hour this morning. I’ll speak to Dr Taylor presently.’

He got back into his car, leaving the houseman agog with curiosity. Mr Ross-Pitt was liked and respected; he expected his students to work hard and his standards were high, but he had never been known to rebuke any of them before anyone else and he was fair. He was always ready to listen to the young surgeons in his team and he was a splendid lecturer. On the other hand no one knew anything about him.

The houseman, making his way to the women’s medical wards, decided that he would say nothing. Probably some employee—a domestic working for him, wherever he lived.

He wasn’t so sure about that when he examined Henrietta. She was awake now, feverish and fretful, but she answered his questions in a small, husky voice and thanked him politely when he had finished. A pretty voice, he decided, despite the huskiness, and an educated one.

He wrote up his notes ready for Dr Taylor, went to see the ward sister and took himself off to breakfast, uneasy at Henrietta’s anxious enquiry as to Dickens and Ollie, whoever they were. He had told her easily that they would be taken care of, but the memory of her anxiety stayed with him.

Mr Ross-Pitt, back at Mrs Gregg’s house, wasted no time. He suggested once more, in a voice which compelled her to agree, that he should take the cats with him. ‘My housekeeper will look after them until Miss Cowper is well again,’ he repeated. ‘Is there any rent owing?’

That was more like it. She said at once that there would be two weeks to pay on Wednesday. He was aware that this wasn’t true, for she didn’t look at him as she said so, but she probably needed the money. He paid her and fetched the cats, with Dickens indignant at having a cloth tied over his box while the kitten cowered beside him.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, and drove himself to his flat. He deposited Dickens and Ollie by the fire, offered refreshment and went to bath and change, wasting no time over it as he was due to operate later that morning. Over breakfast, cooked by the cleaning lady who came each day, he applied his powerful brain to his problems.

Henrietta was, for the moment, dealt with. There remained the cat and kitten, sitting by his fire, watching him anxiously. There also remained Henrietta’s future. It was unthinkable that she should go back to that attic room, where she would probably get ill again unless there was someone on hand to make her see sense. Another job was the answer, of course—somewhere where she could have the cats and work reasonable hours. That would settle the question nicely.

He gave careful instructions to the cleaning lady about Dickens and Ollie and then left for the hospital. There was no time to do more than go straight to Theatre, where he became at once immersed in his list—a lengthy one—starting with a craniotomy to arrest haemorrhage from a meningeal artery and ending hours later with a delicate operation on an elderly man with Parkinson’s disease.

He was in Sister’s office, having a cup of coffee and a sandwich before he went to the outpatient’s clinic at three o’clock, when Dr Taylor phoned him.

‘I’ve examined this girl you brought in, Adam. Pneumonia. I’ll keep her in on antibiotics—they should do the trick. A bit under the weather, though; she could do with a week or two off work, whatever she does.’

‘She works part-time in Occupational Therapy, and I believe she has an early-morning job, cleaning offices.’

‘Really? She doesn’t seem the type. No family?’

‘I believe not. If someone comes to visit her, perhaps Sister could find out?’

‘Yes. I’ll keep you posted.’

“Thanks, Bob. Next time I’m at Occupational Therapy I’ll see if Mrs Carter can’t give her a full-time job. There’s always the chance that she has friends or family who will help her.’

He put the phone down; Henrietta was all right for the moment; he had done what he could for her. But surely there were friends...? He went off to his clinic.

It was after six o’clock by the time he had seen his last patient, and he thought with relief of his drive home, with Mrs Patch waiting with a delicious meal. First, though, he had to go and see Henrietta.

She was awake, her face flushed, her hair plaited severely, a hospital nightie several sizes too large hardly adding to her appearance. Mr Ross-Pitt accompanied Sister to her bed and stood looking down at her.

‘I’m glad to see you looking more comfortable,’ he told her kindly. ‘I hope you will do exactly as Sister says so that you may get well as quickly as possible.’

She stared up at him. He made it sound as though she had been a naughty small girl, but how could she expect him to understand? He lived in a different world, where there was always money in his pocket and abundant food and drink in the larder. She said, ‘Dickens and Ollie...’

‘Ah. yes, I have them safe. If you agree I will let my housekeeper look after them until you are well again.’

‘You’re kind. Thank you. She won’t mind?’

‘Not in the least. When you are discharged I’ll arrange for them to be brought back to you.’ He sounded brisk and impersonal. ‘Goodbye, Miss Cowper.’

She closed her eyes as he walked away. She wasn’t going to see him again, after all; he had been kind, especially taking Dickens and Ollie to his home, but she had sensed his impatience. Of course, he didn’t want to be saddled with her; he had been angry and she thought that he still was. She must hurry up and get well and get back to work again...

It was a good thing that she didn’t know that her cleaning job had already been given to someone else, and Mrs Carter, when apprised of her illness, had immediately gone to see the hospital manager and demanded that she had a replacement at once.

‘She’s bound to be off sick for some time,’ she pointed out, ‘and I simply must have more staff.’ She added mendaciously, ‘Her family will want her to go back home; she can probably get a job out of London.’

Mr Ross-Pitt drove to his flat, spent ten minutes with his secretary in his consulting rooms on the floor below, and then fed Dickens and Ollie, put them back in the cardboard box and took them down to the car, making a mental note to purchase a suitable cat-basket. Not that either of them gave him any trouble. They had had a bewildering day and huddled together on the back seat, making no sound.

He drove fast, anticipating a quiet evening with no need to return to his consulting rooms until the following early afternoon. He would have to call in to the hospital to check on his patients, but even so he wouldn’t need to leave home until noon. It was with quiet pleasure that he saw the lighted windows of his house, and a moment later Mrs Patch opened the door, allowing Watson to dash past her to greet his master.

Mr Ross-Pitt stopped to fondle him. ‘Hello, old fellow. I’ve a surprise for you.’ He picked up the box and bore it indoors. ‘Mrs Patch, you have no idea how pleasant it is to be home—and I have brought a problem with me.’

The box he was holding heaved, and Mrs Patch said, ‘Lawks, sir, an animal—?’

‘Two. A cat and a very small kitten. I will tell you about them presently. Could they stay in the kitchen for the moment? If I put their box by the Aga, perhaps they could have a saucer of food? They’ve had a tiresome day.’

He went along to the kitchen, leaving a puzzled Watson in the hall, and undid the cloth over the box to meet Dickens’ baleful eye. Mrs Patch, without asking questions, found a saucer, chopped up cold chicken from the fridge and set it close to the box. A saucer of milk was put down too, and then Dickens and Ollie were left to themselves.

Over a glass of sherry Mr Ross-Pitt explained. ‘There was really nothing else to be done,’ he observed, topping up his housekeeper’s glass. ‘I hope that it will be for a short time only. I suppose I could find a cattery...’

‘No need, sir. Once Watson’s seen them and they’re a bit used to us they’ll be no trouble. I’ll be sure and keep them indoors to start with. And the young lady? What about her? Poor child.’

‘Well, it’s really no concern of mine, Mrs Patch, but unfortunately she appears to have no family, and her living conditions are appalling. Perhaps I should ask around and see if there is more suitable work for her.’

‘Young, is she?’ asked Mrs Patch. ‘A young lady?’

‘Both young and ladylike, if that isn’t too old-fashioned a word to use.’

Mrs Patch tut-tutted, then asked, ‘Pretty?’

‘No. No, not in the least. The cat and kitten are our immediate problem; you are sure you can manage?’

‘Lord bless you, sir, of course I can. Watson and I will look after them.’

Rather to his astonishment there were no difficulties. Dickens, introduced cautiously to Watson—thoroughly upset since his little world had come adrift—accepted the dog’s friendly approach, and the kitten, too small to know better, wound himself round Watson’s legs. If his friend Dickens accepted Watson, then he would too.

The next afternoon Mr Ross-Pitt drove himself back to London; Henrietta and her cats could be shelved for the moment He enquired as to her condition when he got to the hospital, was reassured that she was responding to treatment, and promptly forgot about her. It wasn’t until he was on the point of driving home that he remembered to leave a message for her to say that Dickens and Ollie were safe and well.

They had settled down nicely, Mrs Patch told him when he got home that evening, and Watson had adopted them without fuss.

‘Splendid,’ said Mr Ross-Pitt, and spent an agreeable evening catching up with his reading, Watson draped over his feet, a wary Dickens sitting before the log fire, and Ollie bunched up beside him.

‘I only need a wife sitting on the other side of the hearth,’ mused Mr Ross-Pitt, ‘to be completely domesticated.’

It was two days later that he chanced to meet Dr Taylor in the consultant’s room. ‘That patient of yours, Adam—she’s doing very well. Up and trotting round the ward. Fit to go home in another three or four days. Asked her if she had family or friends to go to; she was a bit vague—said she would be quite all right, had somewhere to go. Nice little thing.’

That afternoon Mr Ross-Pitt found time to go to Occupational Therapy. Mrs Carter came to meet him. ‘You’ve come to see Miss Jenkins? She’s doing splendidly.’

He spent some time with that lady, expressed his pleasure at her progress, and as he went away asked, ‘Mrs Carter, is there a chance that Miss Cowper could be employed full-time? She has been ill, as I’m sure you know—’

Mrs Carter laughed. ‘They say it’s an ill wind... I wouldn’t wish the girl harm, but from my point of view things couldn’t have turned out better. I saw the hospital manager as soon as I heard about it, and I have a full-time replacement. Henrietta will get a week’s notice when she leaves hospital—paid up, of course.’

She glanced up at him, smiling with satisfaction, and took a step back. He wasn’t frowning—there was no expression on his face—but she knew that he was very angry. All he said was, ‘Ah, yes, quite so, Mrs Carter. Good day to you.’ He had gone before she could say another word.

He contained his rage with an iron hand and went to see the medical ward sister. Henrietta was doing well, she told him; did he wish to see her? ‘No, there is no need, but will you let me know when she is to be discharged?’ He smiled suddenly. ‘My housekeeper has charge of her cats.’

Sister smiled too. ‘I’ll leave a message at Reception, sir. And she’s been a good patient.’

There was something else which he had to do. That evening he went to see Mrs Gregg, who opened the door to him looking so guilty that he knew what she was going to say.

‘Let ’er room sir; couldn’t ‘elp meself, now could I? Need the cash, and not knowing when she’d be back. ’Er bits and pieces are in a case, and the furniture’s in the basement. Got somewhere to go, ‘as she?’

‘No, Mrs Gregg, she hasn’t,’ he said gently, ‘but I don’t suppose that will worry you unduly.’ He turned to go and she called after him.

‘Wot about ’er furniture? It can’t stay here...’

‘Dispose of it, Mrs Gregg.’

He was glad of the drive home; it gave him time to think. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed that he was saddled with Henrietta and her cats. A job and a home for them must be found within the next few days, and there was no likelihood of either.

Beyond a ward round and a handful of private patients in the morning, Mr Ross-Pitt had little to do the following day. He drove back directly after lunch to spend an afternoon walking Watson and catching up on his post.

In the evening he had been bidden to dine with the owners of the big mansion which dominated the other end of the village. He knew them well, for they had lived there all their lives, inheriting it from ancestors and managing somehow to preserve it for their children by opening the house and grounds to the public on several days of the week.

Their youngest daughter had just become engaged, and the dinner was to be a black-tie affair in her honour. When he arrived there he found the sweep in front of the house already full of parked cars.

He was too old a friend to stand on ceremony, greeting their elderly butler with a gentle slap on his shoulder and going straight to the drawing room.

Lady Hensen put up her cheek for his kiss. ‘Adam, how nice to see you—Peter’s at the other end of the room with Felicity and Tony. I suppose you’re up to your eyes in work; we don’t see enough of you. It’s time you found a wife; I’m longing to dance at your wedding.’ She laughed up at him, still a pretty woman, with kind eyes and a serene manner.

He found Sir Peter, congratulated Felicity and her fiancé, and then wandered around greeting other friends. He was well-known and popular, and Lady Hensen had seen to it that he was seated between two of the prettiest girls there. They were intelligent and amusing as well as pretty, and he enjoyed his dinner.

It was some time later that he found himself with Lady Hensen. She patted the sofa beside her. ‘Sit down for a while, Adam; here is a chance to talk, for probably we shan’t see you again for weeks. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself, other than bending over the operating table.’

‘Very little, I’m afraid. I quite often need to stay in town overnight, and it’s difficult to arrange anything in case I’m wanted. When I’m here there is the garden to see to and Watson to take for walks.’ He smiled. ‘I think I must be solitary by nature.’

‘Only until you find the right girl. Did you know that we are planning to open on five days of the week instead of four? We did quite well last year and hope to do even better. Of course, the difficulty is finding people to work for us. Not everyone is keen to be buried in the country...’

‘What kind of people?’ he asked idly.

‘A girl Friday! Isn’t that what they are called? Someone who will turn her hand to anything, and I mean just that. The young just don’t want to know; they want bright lights and discos and money to buy clothes, and the wages we offer are paltry.’

Mr Ross-Pitt turned a suddenly thoughtful face to her. ‘She would live in and get her food and so on?’

‘Well, of course. She’d have to share one of the lodges, but we certainly feed our employees...’

‘In that case, Lady Hensen, I believe I know of just the right person.’


CHAPTER THREE

LADY HENSEN gazed at him. ‘You mean you actually know of someone who might like a job? A girl?’

‘Let me explain...’ Which he did, giving her the facts in an impersonal voice. ‘She is normally a healthy girl, surprisingly tough. Used to hard work and looking after people.’

He hesitated. ‘I suppose she is that old-fashioned thing—a lady fallen on bad times, I imagine. There is one problem; she has a cat and kitten.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I’ve got them at present—there was nowhere else for them to go. She is to be discharged from hospital in a few days’ time and has nowhere to go.’

‘The poor child. I’ll speak to Peter, and if he agrees she can come here and see how she gets on. A week’s notice on either side and she’s welcome to bring the cat and kitten. She can have a room in the south lodge with Mrs Pettifer. She will have to work hard—make her understand that.’ She paused. ‘Not physical hard work so much as being at everyone’s beck and call...in a nice kind of way.’

‘You are very kind; I’m sure she will be delighted to have work and a roof over her head. Also away from London.’

‘She doesn’t like town?’

‘Not that part of town where she is living at present—or rather was living. You would wish to see her before you employ her?’

‘No. No, Adam—you vouch for the girl; that’s good enough for us. As I said, let her come and see how she gets on. Will she be fit to start work in a week’s time?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘Then I’ll speak to Peter this evening. Shall she find her own way here?’

‘I’ll bring her.’

He went back home with the pleasant feeling that everything had been nicely settled. He would have to find out when Henrietta was to be discharged. If that was to be before the week was out he would have to arrange for her to stay somewhere. Tiresome, he thought with impatience, but the last of the obstacles before she could be settled and hopefully become a vague memory.

He told Mrs Patch his plans the next day. ‘We shall have to keep Dickens and Ollie for another few days. I’ll bring Miss Cowper with me once everything is arranged, and we can collect them on the way to Lady Hensen’s.’

‘When will that be, sir?’

‘Oh, within the week, I hope. If she is discharged before then I’ll get my secretary to find her lodgings for a couple of days.’

Which was exactly what happened.

Four days later, Henrietta, warned that she was to be discharged on the following day, was swallowing sudden panic when Sister said, ‘You’re to go to the manager’s office; he’ll explain things.’

She was a busy woman, so Henrietta didn’t waste time asking questions but presented herself before a bad-tempered-looking girl who looked up from her computer long enough to say, ‘Through that door.’

The man on the other side of the door looked just as bad-tempered. ‘Miss Cowper? You’re leaving us, I’m told. Here’s your back pay, and you can apply for a reference if you should need one.’

‘Leaving?’ Henrietta drew a breath and willed her voice to remain steady. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Lack of communication somewhere. The chief told me that Mrs Carter had said you had family who wanted you home again. I sup- pose no one told you since you weren’t well... Is there somewhere...? You’re going home now?’

She gave him a steady look. ‘Yes, I’m going home now.’ She even smiled. ‘Good afternoon.’

She went back to the ward and found Sister. ‘Will it be all right if I go home now?’ she wanted to know. ‘It would be much more convenient for my family if I went today. I’ll get a taxi...’

Sister looked doubtful. ‘We did say tomorrow. On the other hand I do need your bed. You’ll be all right? There will be someone there when you get home?’

Henrietta thought of Mrs Gregg—she was someone, wasn’t she? So she wasn’t fibbing, just being a bit misleading, perhaps, but Sister wanted her bed anyway. ‘Yes, there’ll be someone there. I’ll be in nice time for tea.’

Sister, picturing a happy family reunion round the tea-table, gave her permission. Henrietta didn’t waste time; she said hurried goodbyes to her fellow patients, thanked the sister and took herself off. She had two weeks’ pay in her purse, but she wasn’t going to squander any of it on a taxi. She joined the queue and stood at the bus stop.

Mr Ross-Pitt, a satisfactory afternoon’s work behind him, remembered that Henrietta was to be discharged on the following day. He would have to go and see her and arrange to pick her up and take her to the respectable boarding-house that his secretary had found for him. In two days’ time he would collect her once again—hopefully for the last time, he reflected—and take her to Lady Hensen’s.

He should have gone to see her and explained that there was a job waiting for her, that Mrs Gregg had let her room and that she had got the sack from Mrs Carter, he thought, but he had had busy days and busy nights, and it would be easier to explain to her in person, rather than sending a message or a note.

Sister was in her office writing the report.

‘May I see Miss Cowper for a few moments? I’ve not had a minute to talk to her.’




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