Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Tangled Autumn

Tangled Autumn
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.She wanted a complete break. Sappha Devenish jumped at the chance of a job in Scotland when her romance with Andrew went wrong. The change in scenery—not to mention the presence of an attractive Dutch doctor—did take her mind off her heartbreak.But then Andrew came back—and Sappha was entangled in the past once more!



“Do you always bully people?” Sappha wanted to know.
“I?” Rolf asked. “Bully you? My dear girl, don’t you know that the Barons—the bold, bad ones, that is—only bully those who are unable to look after themselves? And from what I have seen of you, you are perfectly able to do that.” His face split into a sudden grin.
Sappha was terribly angry with him, but at the same time she was enjoying every minute of his company. She said slowly, “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t bully anyone or anything.”
Rolf stood looking down into her face, then said quietly, “A remark like that needs celebrating.”

About the Author
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Tangled Autumn
Betty Neels





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE
THE rain fell, soundless and gentle, veiling the dimming heather and all the rusts and reds and brown of the autumn countryside, and almost blotting out the distant mountains while it in no way detracted from their beauty. This view was not, however, shared by Miss Sappha Devenish, sitting behind the wheel of her red Mini. She had been halfway up a moderately steep hill when the little car had coughed, spluttered, hesitated and then continued its climb, only to come to a halt again. The road was a narrow one, the Mini had stopped squarely on its crown, and its driver, calculating her chances of steering it into the side, decided against it. The country was fairly open ahead of her—anyone coming down the hill would see her in ample time to pull up, and anything climbing behind her would be, of necessity, travelling slowly. Besides, she had no mind to ruin her expensive suit and still more expensive shoes—someone would be bound to pass one way or the other, sooner or later. It seemed as though it would be later, she had been watching the rain for more than an hour, and now turned to study the map on the seat beside her.
She had left the main road at Torridon and had passed through Inver Alligin, which according to her reckoning meant that she was a bare five miles from her destination. She glanced at her watch—it was already four o’clock, and her thoughts dwelt longingly on tea, though it was her own fault that she wasn’t going to get it. She should have filled up at that last petrol station, but she had been in a hurry to arrive at her journey’s end and she had thought that she could just do it. Foolish, and all the more so after her well-planned, effortless two-day trip from London—almost six hundred miles. Well, she had wanted to get as far away from Andrew as possible—the hospital too; it looked as though she had achieved her purpose, for the countryside she was now in was indeed far away.
She had jumped at the chance her uncle had offered her to go as nurse to a patient of his staying in this remote district of the Western Highlands, but now, suddenly, she wondered if she had been wise. Viewed from faraway London, and with the bitter aftertaste of her break-up with Andrew still to be borne, it had seemed a splendid idea, but now, surrounded by distant mountains and an unfamiliar countryside made sombre by the rain, she wasn’t so sure. She stared glumly out of the car’s windows, beset by the feeling that she shouldn’t have come; a feeling that was heightened by the nagging suspicion that she would probably be homesick for the ward she had left behind her at Greggs’.
She had been Sister of Women’s Surgical for only a year—she had been a fool to give it up; any other girl, less soft and silly than herself, would have put a bold face on things and stuck it out. She sighed, aware that however reasonable this argument sounded, she would remain soft and silly, although in the last few weeks she had succeeded in acquiring a cool impersonal shell to cover it. She interrupted her thoughts to consider the sound of a car coming up the hill, travelling rather faster than she thought either possible or wise. She turned in her seat and craned her neck to peer out of the rain-washed rear window. It was a Land Rover, coming towards her with a fine burst of speed which took no account of the possibility of there being other traffic. It came to a halt only a foot or so from her rear wheels and its driver did not immediately get out; when he did, his movements were irritatingly unhurried. He was a very tall man with broad shoulders, wearing, she observed, a shabby duffle coat and corduroy trousers stuffed into rubber boots—a farmer, she decided, then felt uncertain of this as he approached and she was able to take stock of him, for he didn’t look like a farmer at all, not with that dark fierce face, haughty and hawk-nosed above a straight mouth; dark hair brushed back from a wide forehead and a pair of winged eyebrows, so arched and thick that they gave him the look of a satyr.
She wound down the window, feeling nervous and just a little silly—justifiably so, as it turned out, for he said without preamble:
‘Of all the fool places to stop—I might have known it was a woman.’ He had a deep voice with the hint of an accent and he spoke without haste and apparently without temper, which for some reason caused her own to rise.
‘I’m out of petrol!’ she snapped, and could have bitten out her tongue the next instant, for he said at once:
‘Naturally.’ His dark eyes studied her person in leisurely fashion. ‘A stranger, of course—no one in these parts travels without a spare can, let alone allows the tank to run dry. You could have got to the side of the road, though.’
Sappha lifted her chin. Even though she was aware that she had been careless, she didn’t much care for the way he was pointing the fact out to her.
‘It’s raining,’ her glance went involuntarily to her shoes—hardly made for a muddy road in the more remote parts of the Scottish Highlands. His gaze followed hers and his rather stern mouth curved for an instant. He said with perfunctory kindness:
‘I don’t suppose that you realised that tweeds’—his gaze flickered over her beautifully cut suit, obviously he didn’t mean that kind of tweed—‘and thick boots are—er—more suitable at this time of year.’ He gave her an enquiring look. ‘But perhaps you’re only passing through? If you are, I should warn you that the road ends at Dialach.’
She stared at him, her brown eyes smouldering. ‘I know—I have a map. I’m going to Dialach.’
He received this sparse information with an expressionless face, although she was aware of the glint in his eye as he straightened up, saying: ‘In that case, I’ll put some petrol in your tank—unless you would like a tow?’
Sappha felt the stirrings of temper again and quelled them. After all, he was being helpful even though he appeared to find it tiresome.
‘No thanks,’ she said politely. ‘I’ll be OK., if I could just have the petrol,’ and watched while he fetched a can and filled her tank. When he had finished he came back to stare at her through the window once more, and she asked: ‘How much did you put in?’ and reached for her handbag. ‘I’d like to pay…’ to be interrupted brusquely by his ‘My dear good girl!’ uttered in such a tone of mocking arrogance that she coloured faintly and snatched her hand away from her handbag as though it was red hot, and when he made no further attempt at conversation, she said awkwardly: ‘Well, thank you very much,’ and switched on her engine, praying that she would make a smooth start. Anything else under those dark mocking eyes would be the last straw, but to her relief the Mini pulled away without a hitch, gathering a little speed as it breasted the hill, and at the corner, between the dripping birch trees Sappha looked in the car mirror—the man was still standing in the middle of the road watching her.
She forgot about him in the next instant, allowing the little car to run steadily while she took her fill of the scene before her. Below and a little to her left she could see Dialach tucked cosily into the trees which lined the loch. It was a small place, with its houses crowded together around the tiny harbour and a scattering of larger houses on the hill behind it. There was a causeway on the left of the town, running out across the rain-smoothed water of the loch to a little island that supported a huddle of dwellings. Sappha, straining to see them clearly through the rain, concluded that they and the causeway were in ruins, and turned her attention to the church, its square grey tower standing in Dialach’s centre. Her patient was a guest at the Manse, her uncle had said, so presumably if she made for the church it would be the quickest way of getting there.
She allowed the car to dawdle to a halt and sat, no longer looking at her destination below her, but straight ahead at nothing at all, a little pucker of unhappiness between her beautiful brown eyes. Despite the despondency of her expression, she was an extremely pretty girl, with an oval face framed by naturally dark curling hair, which although confined in a french pleat, had escaped in soft tendrils on either side of her cheeks. Her nose was straight and a little on the short side, and her mouth, released from its present downward droop, was soft and mobile. Her good looks were offset by the clothes she wore—well cut and fashionable, although not excessively so, and her hands, free of her driving gloves, were nicely shaped and beautifully kept. She leaned her rather determined chin on them now, thinking about her new job. When her Uncle John had offered it to her she had accepted without thought. To stay in London in the same hospital as Andrew was unthinkable—it offered a means of escape from an untenable position. She had given a sympathetic Matron her notice, and after a month in which she had learned to hide her real feelings under a cool, impersonal manner she hadn’t realised she possessed; she was free. She thought wearily back over the last few months, wondering where she had gone wrong—if, indeed, she had been at fault.
She and Andrew had been engaged for several months, and although the actual date of the wedding had never been discussed, everyone had taken it for granted that it would be soon. She ignored the first spiteful whispers about him; she was sensible enough to know that in a hospital the size of Greggs’, there would always be someone ready to start rumours of that sort, and when they had persisted, she had even joked about them with Andrew, because Staff Nurse Beatty, although possessed of a lush blonde beauty, was hardly his type. He had laughed with her and agreed with an apparent sincerity which had made it all the harder to bear when she had come across them in a deserted Outpatients Department. Their embrace had been so close and so long that she had gone away without them even noticing…she had waited two terrible days for him to tell her about it, during which time it had become common knowledge throughout the hospital, and when he did, making out that it had been no more than a momentary impulse on his part and certainly the same on the part of Beatty, she had swallowed her pride and forgiven him, turning a stubbornly deaf ear to her friends’ guarded hints, and a still more stubborn ear to her mother’s thinly veiled warnings. She had known Andrew for more than a year; they loved each other and she trusted him… She shifted a little behind the wheel and laughed ruefully; at least she was wiser now—it would be a long time before she trusted any man again.
She hadn’t believed the Sister from Men’s Medical when that young lady had told her, with tact and kindness, that Andrew and Beatty had been seen time and again together in various places by various people—it seemed that London, for all its size, wasn’t big enough… She had hotly denied it, because Andrew had told her that he was attending a series of post-graduate lectures, but in the end she had been forced to believe it, for she had seen them together coming out of Wheeler’s one evening as she was on her way back to Greggs’ after visiting her mother, who was staying with friends in Cumberland Terrace. She had got off the bus to cut through the complexity of small streets to reach the hospital and came face to face with them. This time she didn’t wait for Andrew to come to her; she waylaid him on the way to Outpatients the next morning and with almost no words at all had handed him back his ring and then gone straight to Matron’s office and resigned.
It was her mother who had enlisted the help of Uncle John without telling Sappha that she had done so, and in any case, Sappha couldn’t have cared less what she did. She took the job he offered her so providentially and here she was. She sighed, switched on the engine, and drove down the winding road to Dialach.
The Manse was easy to find, for it stood foursquare beside the church; a solid roomy house surrounded by a pleasant garden in which the autumn flowers and trees made a splash of colour even on such a grey day as this. Sappha drove up its neat short drive and had barely turned off the engine before the front door was opened and the minister appeared on his doorstep. He was a friend of her uncle’s, but she hadn’t expected quite such a warm welcome—it acted like a tonic upon her downcast spirits, she resolutely tucked her own troubles away in the back of her mind and greeted him with a quiet friendliness of her own which lighted up her face to a quite breathtaking loveliness.
‘You’re tired and chilly, I daresay, my dear Miss Devenish,’ said Mr MacFee. ‘My wife has tea waiting for you, and presently, when you are rested, you may like to go and see our district nurse, Miss Perch, so that she may tell you everything there is to know about Baroness van Duyren.’
He had drawn her across the hall as he spoke and now opened a door into a pleasant room with comfortable shabby furniture and a blazing log fire. Sappha, feeling that she was being treated more as a patient than a nurse, allowed herself to be led across the room to where Mrs MacFee was standing, to be greeted by a kindness at least the equal of the minister’s, and then bustled into a chair and told to undo her coat and stretch her feet to the fire. She barely had the time to do this before she was being plied with tea and hot buttered toast, while her kind host and hostess talked with gentle inconsequence of the weather, her Uncle John, the excessive rainfall and the delicate flavour of the quince preserve she had been pressed to try on a scone. It wasn’t until she had followed the scone with a teacake and that with a slice of rich fruit cake that she was allowed to enquire about her patient, ‘for’, as she pointed out, ‘Uncle John has told me a great deal about the case, and I know he will be down to see her next week, but of course he hasn’t much idea of the nursing routine.’
Mrs MacFee smiled comfortably. ‘Indeed one would scarcely expect him to, but you’ll find Miss Perch most helpful and your patient very co-operative. She and I are old friends, of course—your uncle will have told you that already. We went to school together—Switzerland, you know and we still see a good deal of each other. She and her husband used to come every year to visit us, usually with their children. She has a family of six…’ Mrs MacFee, who was childless, paused to sigh. ‘After his death she continued to come, but now of course all the children are married, save for the eldest and the youngest.’ She paused for breath, beaming kindly at Sappha, who had conjured up a picture of a desicated spinster wearing glasses following Mother wherever she chose to go…she hoped that she was going to like the Baroness.
It had stopped raining by the time she had convinced the minister and his wife that she was sufficiently rested and refreshed to visit Miss Perch. Mr MacFee went with her to the Manse door and pointed out the way she should go—a not very arduous walk as it turned out, for the district nurse lived in the end cottage in the little street behind the harbour, a bare three minutes’ walk away. Sappha knocked on the stout door, looking around her as she did so. The harbour was indeed small, and the causeway, now that she was near enough to see it properly, was nothing but a crumbling mass of rocks and stone and wood with here and there rough steps connecting its uneven surface—she wondered if it was still used, and as if in answer to her question she glimpsed smoke rising from the muddle of buildings on the island to which it led.
She turned from their contemplation as the door opened and she saw with pleased surprise that Nurse Perch was a girl of her own age, small, blonde and blue-eyed, who grinned engagingly and said ‘Hullo, do come in,’ as she put out a friendly hand which Sappha took with quite obvious signs of relief. ‘I expected you’d be a tough old battleaxe,’ she burst out, ‘but don’t ask me why.’
Miss Perch giggled. ‘And I thought you’d be some high and mighty Ward Sister for ever reminding me of the size and importance of your ward.’ They laughed in unison and as they went inside, Sappha said:
‘My name’s Sappha.’
‘Mine’s Gloria.’
The sitting room was charmingly odd, for it had been furnished largely by the better-off members of the community, but as most of the inhabitants had contributed something, there was a delightful hotch-potch of Victoriana; handsome rugs, two armchairs with rather startling covers, a modern and very efficient-looking desk crammed into one corner, and a variety of cushions of every conceivable size and shape. The walls supported a remarkable collection of pictures, dominated by ‘The Stag at Bay’ over the fireplace, on either side of which were two dim sepia-tinted photographs of elderly ladies in the heavily laden hats of a past era, and they in turn were flanked by ‘When did you last see your Father?’ on the one side and a cross-stitch text framed repulsively in plush and bearing the words ‘Flee from the Wrath to come’ on the other.
Sappha allowed her fascinated gaze to take in these samples of art before turning her attention to the third wall, which held, surprisingly, a delicate watercolour of the harbour and a pair of coloured prints each depicting a gauze-swathed young woman in the act of encouraging—or possibly repelling—the advances of a young man in a tricorne hat. Sappha was still trying to decide which it could be when her hostess spoke. ‘Shattering, isn’t it? The first day I was here I swore I’d have the whole lot down, but this place was furnished by practically everyone who lives here and if I moved a single picture I’d hurt someone’s feelings.’ She made a face and Sappha laughed.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she admitted, ‘though I love the watercolour.’
Gloria coloured faintly and looked pleased. ‘Oh, do you? Actually I did it myself.’ She grinned cheerfully and went on, ‘Come and sit down and I’ll tell you all about Baroness van Duyren. I’m so glad you’ve come to take over—I mean I’ve got my hands full and after all she is a private patient. Mr Devenish is your uncle, isn’t he? He comes out most weeks, but anything trifling he leaves to me or Doctor MacInroy.’
She said this name in such a way that Sappha was constrained to ask:
‘Is he nice—Dr MacInroy, I mean?’
‘Well, he’s—we’re engaged—that’s why I came here, to be a bit nearer him until we marry, but of course we don’t see a great deal of each other; when I’m free he’s usually up to his neck in measles or something and when he’s got a day off I’m delivering babies.’ She sighed. ‘All the same, it’s nice here, the people are dears and the countryside is heavenly.’ She eyed Sappha’s rather townish clothes with a little doubt not unmixed with envy. ‘Do you like the country?’
Sappha, to whom any part of the world would have been preferable to London at that time, replied that yes, she thought she would love it.
‘It’ll be a bit different from the bright lights of London,’ Gloria warned.
‘Yes,’ Sappha agreed, ‘but I—I wanted a change.’ She frowned. ‘Just for a few months, you know.’
Gloria’s eyes slid discreetly to Sappha’s ringless hands resting on her lap. She said airily: ‘Well, that’s all right, and it’s good fun here too. There’s always something going on here—whist drives and play-readings and dances, and when you can’t think of anything else to do you can always come here, you know. I don’t lock the door, only on my days off, and I’ll show you where I keep the key so’s you can just walk in.’
Sappha thanked her warmly. ‘I’ve got a little car,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d get out and about when I can get off.’
‘Walking’s better,’ said Gloria. ‘Now, shall we go over the notes and charts and so on? I’ve got them ready and a rough routine, though I expect you’ll change that to suit yourself. I don’t know when you’ll get your day off, but I’ll pop up and do the necessary when you do…’
‘Is she nice—the Baroness? She sounded a bit…’ Sappha left the sentence in mid air, but all Gloria said was, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to form your own opinion—she’s Dutch, you knew that, I expect? But her English is as good as yours or mine. She comes to stay with the MacFees at least once a year. She’s fifty-four and has six children—the youngest is sixteen and the eldest thirtyish. Lashings of money, though they’ve had so much for so long that you hardly notice it, if you see what I mean.’
Sappha nodded. ‘It’s a month since she had parathyroid osteodystrophy done, isn’t it? Uncle John was rather pleased with the op—he said it was a nasty tumour. Funny no one found it sooner…’
‘Well, it’s a rare condition, isn’t it? and the signs and symptoms are a bit like rheumatoid arthritis, aren’t they? It was her son—the one who’s a doctor—who suspected a tumour on a gland. He’d been away for several months, though, and she was already over here on holiday when he joined her, and he got your uncle to see her. He caught her just in time I fancy, and as it is, the poor dear has mild renal failure and to crown everything she fell down the first day she was got out of bed after the op and fractured an arm and a leg—the bones were already a bit softened because of the lack of calcium and the tumble did the rest. Still, she’s not the sort to give in and she’s on the mend, we hope, but dreadfully depressed at times, poor dear. You can see why she needs a private nurse.’ She paused and looked at Sappha. ‘Are you sorry you came?’
Sappha said slowly, ‘No, it’s quite a challenge, isn’t it? I think I shall like it.’ She got to her feet. ‘I should go back. Mrs MacFee said something about me seeing the Baroness before suppertime and I ought to run over these notes first. Is there anything else I should know? Drugs and so forth?’
They bent their heads over the charts and prescriptions and TPR sheets, and presently, promising to ring up her new friend if she found herself in difficulties, Sappha made her way back to the Manse.
Her patient had a large room on the first floor, and the small room leading out of it had been turned into a very comfortable bedroom for herself. She took off her outdoor things, tidied her hair and was led by Mrs MacFee into the Baroness’s room. Her first reaction was one of surprise; her patient wasn’t at all what she had imagined her to be. Sappha, who had a lively imagination, had conjured up a middle-aged heavily built woman with iron grey hair and a commanding manner. What she saw was a small, extremely pretty woman, whose hair was so fair that the silver in it was hard to see, and whose face, though woefully thin and colourless, was lighted by the sweetest of smiles. She was sitting very erect against her bed pillows and despite the plastered right arm and the bed cradle, managed to look as though she were dressed for a party. Mrs MacFee made the introductions, remarking: ‘Now I shall leave you two to get to know each other. Supper won’t be until half past seven, and perhaps if…’ she paused and looked at Sappha. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure what I should call you. Sister—or Nurse or Miss Devenish. I know you’re a hospital Sister, so perhaps…’
Sappha said at once: ‘I’d like it if you would call me Sappha. Sister is a bit stiff, isn’t it?’ She looked at her patient. ‘Baroness van Duyren may wish to call me something else—’
‘Indeed no,’ said the little lady vigorously. ‘We’re going to be seeing a great deal of each other for the next few weeks, aren’t we? I’d like to call you Sappha if I may.’
This important point having been settled to everyone’s satisfaction, Mrs MacFee went away and Sappha pulled a chair up to the bed. ‘I’ve some marvellously clear instructions from Miss Perch,’ she said, ‘but as she has never been here all day I thought we might fill in some of the gaps between us and then I’ll bring you your supper and perhaps you would tell me what you would like to do until bedtime.’
The day’s routine was discussed at some length and minor points such as time off and free days for Sappha were settled too. It was at the end of this discussion that the Baroness said: ‘You wear very pretty clothes, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. I’m afraid you’ll not have many opportunities to go out here, though Ida did tell me that you have a car of your own. How clever of you to drive—I must confess that I have no idea as to what is under the bonnet. Did you not find the journey from London very tiring?’
‘No,’ said Sappha. ‘I stopped overnight on the way up and the roads are good except for the last twenty miles or so. I was stupid enough to run out of petrol coming up the hill from Inver Alligin, but some man came along in a Land Rover and filled the tank for me.’ She looked annoyed as she spoke, remembering the dark stranger who had been so coolly critical of her and her clothes.
‘Dear me,’ observed the Baroness, ‘he seems to have vexed you in some way. Do tell.’
‘He looked like the Demon King—you never saw such eyebrows,’ said Sappha with ill-humour. ‘He—he said that he might have known it was a woman…and he didn’t like my clothes. I think he was laughing at me.’
She was interrupted by a tap on the door and the man she was talking about came in, this time impeccably dressed in tweeds and exquisitely polished shoes. He seemed a great deal larger at close quarters and his eyes looked quite black. Sappha sat staring at him, the picture of consternation, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her eyes round with surprise. A surprise not shared by her patient, who looked from Sappha’s face to that of her son’s and said, so softly that neither of them caught her words: ‘Enter the Demon King—how very interesting life has suddenly become!’

CHAPTER TWO
THE Baroness shook out a lace ruffle, raised her voice and said pleasantly: ‘There you are, Rolf—how nice,’ and turned to smile at Sappha. ‘This is my son Rolf, my dear—he’s on a short visit from Holland—just to see how I am, you know.’ She gave Sappha just enough time to murmur politely before she went on: ‘Rolf, this is Miss Sappha Devenish who has come to nurse me back on to my feet again—all the way from London too. I daresay you remember, dear—I did mention…’ Her voice took on a vague note. ‘I believe you have already met…’
Sappha had gone a delectable pink. She said baldly: ‘Yes, we have, I was just telling you.’ She glanced across at the man standing so quietly in the doorway, her brown eyes snapping because she suspected that behind the politeness of his expression he was laughing at her. He walked across the room without saying anything at all, kissed his mother, said in a voice deeper than Sappha had remembered: ‘Yes, Mother, I remember very well,’ and turned to shake Sappha’s hand. At close quarters he seemed very large indeed and handsome in a dark sort of way. He enquired gravely how she did and when she looked at him she could see that his eyes were alive with laughter. He said: ‘I hope you will enjoy staying here, it is—er—a little quiet.’
He allowed his gaze to sweep over her well-turned-out person so that she made haste to say with a touch of haughtiness: ‘I shall be wearing uniform,’ and was instantly furious with herself for saying anything so stupid, for his mouth curved in a faint smile and the peculiar eyebrows lifted. ‘Of course,’ he said mildly, ‘what could have made you suppose I should expect anything else?’ He sat down carefully on the end of his mother’s bed. ‘Tell me, did you have a good journey? Which way did you come?’
‘The M1—from London, you know.’ Her voice had an edge to it. ‘And at Inverness I got on to the A832, through Garve and Achnasheen and Torridon—it was a good road all the way, excepting for the last few miles.’
‘Ah, yes.’ She was sure he was laughing at her again. ‘There are very few roads around here—just the one to Torridon. You will enjoy the walking, I have no doubt.’ His voice was silky and she had her mouth open to answer him back, but he went on smoothly: ‘Am I interrupting something? Would you prefer me to come back later?’ Which was so obviously a polite way of asking her to leave that she got to her feet at once with a remark that she would unpack.
She found her way down to the kitchen presently to fetch her patient’s supper, having disposed of her clothes and changed into a crisp white uniform and perched her Greggs’ cap upon her nicely arranged hair. It was a spotted muslin trifle, goffered, edged with lace and rather fetching. Mrs MacFee, helping in the preparation of the invalid’s supper, complimented Sappha upon it. ‘Such a refreshing change, my dear, after some of these odd styles—not,’ she added hastily, ‘but what you looked charming when you arrived.’ She set a steaming pipkin of soup carefully upon the tray and added its lid.
‘Now, dear, if you wouldn’t mind taking this up. I don’t feel that I should be telling you what to do, really I don’t, but I’m sure you will find your way around in no time at all, and then you must do as you think best for your patient. I expect Dr van Duyren is with her now?’
Sappha said, ‘Yes,’ and cast around for something else to say about him. She could, of course, have mentioned that they had already met, she could even have passed a remark about his satyr’s eyebrows, but Mrs MacFee might find that a little odd. Instead she asked: ‘Does he stay here? I mean when comes to see his mother?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course he’s been coming here ever since he was a very small boy—Mr MacFee thinks of him as a son—he comes and goes as he likes and he knows everyone for miles around. He keeps a Land Rover here and many’s the time he’s gone to some outlying croft when there has been an accident or a baby arriving too soon and we couldn’t get Hamish MacInroy.’ She paused for breath. ‘They’re good friends, anyway.’
Sappha, cutting toast into neat squares, agreed that it sounded most convenient, while the unbidden thought that Andrew—a great stickler for etiquette—would never have countenanced casual help from a colleague crossed her mind. Presumably it was a different kettle of fish in these remote parts. She picked up her tray and went upstairs to find that her patient was alone and looking rather downcast, so when she had arranged everything so that the Baroness could manage with her one hand, she said: ‘I want to write up your charts—do you mind if I sit here and do them while you have your soup?’
Her patient lifted her spoon. ‘Would you?’ she asked eagerly, ‘a new face is so refreshing.’ She spooned another mouthful. ‘You were quite right, Sappha—Rolf does look like a demon king—it’s extraordinary that I have never noticed it before.’
Sappha put down her charts. ‘I must apologise, Baroness. I should never have said that—I had no intention…’
Her companion nibbled toast. ‘Why should you be sorry?’ she asked. ‘I expect he was wearing some dreadful clothes and muddy boots and probably he hadn’t shaved. I believe he went out very early this morning—a broken leg near Ben Eighe and he would have to walk part of the way you know—it was off the road. Hamish was out on a baby case and one really can’t leave a person lying with a broken leg, can one?’
Sappha said dryly: ‘No, that would be rather unkind,’ and her patient nodded before continuing: ‘Really, I hardly recognise him sometimes. At home, of course, he looks exactly like a doctor.’ She waved a hand in an expressive gesture, ‘and naturally, being the eldest, he tends to throw his weight around—is that the right expression?’
Sappha smiled. ‘Yes, though perhaps it’s a little severe.’
‘Not nearly as severe as Rolf when he’s annoyed,’ retorted his mother with spirit.
‘All the same,’ commented Sappha, ‘you must be very glad of his support.’
‘Oh, I am, child, I am. My husband died when Rolf was twenty-five, and Antonia—the youngest—was only nine. The others are married now, which means that Rolf has more leisure, though he always has time for Tonia—they’re so fond of each other.’ She smiled a little wistfully. ‘She is such a dear child and I do miss her. She’s at school and I had hoped that she would be able to come over for a day or so—it’s so long to Christmas, but anyway, I shall be home before then.’
Sappha took the empty soup bowl. ‘Good gracious, yes,’ she said bracingly, ‘but surely she could fly over for a weekend? There’s an airfield at Inverness…’ She stood deep in thought. ‘We could at least make a few enquiries.’
‘That would be lovely, but I believe Rolf thinks that it would be unsettling for Tonia—she has her studies…’
‘Oh, pooh,’ said Sappha inelegantly, ‘she can do some extra homework to make up for it—shall I talk to Doctor van Duyren and see if he will change his mind?’ She was on her way to the door and didn’t see the Baroness’s face which held an expression of mischief mixed with anticipation.
When Sappha returned after a few minutes with a fricassée of chicken and an egg custard, and having placed these delicacies before her, poured a glass of wine and put it within her reach, her patient said: ‘What a great deal of work I am going to give you, Sappha.’
‘Indeed you won’t—in hospital I ran around all day except when I had to sit at a desk and fill in forms and answer the telephone.’
The Baroness speared a morsel of chicken and asked: ‘Will you not be bored just with me to look after?’
‘Not in the least.’ Sappha spoke with a conviction which wasn’t quite genuine, for she had her private doubts on the subject; not only would her working day be far less exacting, her private life was going to be very different too. No more going out on her evenings off duty to the theatre or dinner and dancing or to the cinema. She tried to remember where she had seen the last cinema on the way to Dialach. Probably one had to go back to Inverness, or at least Achnasheen or Garve. Her speculations were brought to an abrupt end by the realisation that even if she were in London there would have been no theatres or cinema or dinners—not with Andrew, at any rate. She said rather abruptly: ‘I’ll fetch your coffee,’ and when she got back her patient had finished her supper and was lying back against her pillows, deep in thought, she roused herself, however, to say pensively: ‘Of course, you’ll have our Gloria—she’s about your age. Such a pretty girl—I expect you know that she’s engaged to Hamish—a dear boy, your uncle thinks very highly of him.’ She watched Sappha pour the coffee and then obediently swallowed the pills she was offered. ‘Loathsome things,’ she muttered crossly, and Sappha laughed and said encouragingly:
‘Yes, but think how much worse everything would be if you didn’t have them.’
‘Since no one has told me what they are or why I am taking them, how can I possibly agree with you?’ her patient wanted to know, and then on the same breath and with a suddenness which took Sappha by surprise: ‘Why are you not married or at least engaged? You’re a pretty girl, young—twenty-three or four?—intelligent and well dressed.’ And when Sappha didn’t reply: ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m just a curious old woman.’
Sappha managed a smile, ‘You’re not old, nor are you rude. I’ll tell you one day, but just for now I’d rather not talk about it.’
She went downstairs, outwardly calm, but inwardly a little ruffled. She had, after all, come several hundred miles in order to be free from just such questions as the Baroness had asked.
Mrs MacFee was in the sitting room, sitting before the fire, and Mr MacFee was standing in the window, engaged in conversation with Dr van Duyren. They paused as she went in, however, and came over to the fire.
‘You two have met, I understand,’ remarked Mr MacFee cheerfully. ‘Well, now you can sit down for a few minutes and get better acquainted.’
‘Just as though,’ thought Sappha crossly, ‘we can’t wait to tell each other how pleased we are to meet again.’ She sat down, accepted a glass of sherry and was instantly affronted by the manner in which Dr van Duyren walked as far away from her as possible, saying: ‘Oh, we shall have time enough for that, I imagine. I’m sure Nurse would prefer to rest a little.’
She gave him an open-mouthed, indignant look while Mrs MacFee observed: ‘Why, of course—such a long journey—how thoughtless we are. You must be worn out, my dear, although I must say that in that uniform you look so fresh and efficient.’
Sappha, murmuring politely, looked up and caught Dr van Duyren’s dark gaze bent upon her and it was obvious that he was laughing. She lifted her rather determined chin, nettled at his lack of interest coupled with his implication that she was a useless creature who needed a rest, or worse, that she looked as though she needed one. And calling her ‘Nurse’ too, she hadn’t been called that for eighteen months or more.
Reading her thoughts with an uncanny accuracy, he said smoothly:
‘Forgive me—I have been guilty of demoting you. You were a Ward Sister, weren’t you?’ He looked apologetic, although she was sure he wasn’t, and when he continued: ‘I shouldn’t have any idea what to call Gloria,’ the remark somehow made things seem worse because it reminded Sappha that she was a stranger in a small community where apparently everyone knew everyone else. She wondered rather wistfully if they would accept her, and then, catching his eyes on her again, unsmiling now, decided that it didn’t matter in the least.
She treated him with a cool politeness throughout supper and when that meal was over, asked him if he would spare her a few minutes as she had something to discuss with him, to which he replied that he would be delighted although she saw that he was a little surprised too, if his eyebrows were anything to go by.
Mr MacFee had urged them to make use of his study; a small dark room, cluttered with old copies of the Statesman and some dusty volumes which looked like encyclopaedias and probably were. It was furnished with a large desk upon which were laid paper, pens and a great deal of blotting paper—her host’s sermon, waiting to be written, thought Sappha as she preceded her companion into the room and took a remarkably uncomfortable chair pushed up against the wall. The doctor had the good sense to rest his bulk against the desk, from which he regarded her without speaking.
She folded her hands tidily in her lap and said austerely: ‘I should be glad of your co-operation, Doctor,’ and watched the eyebrows arch once more.
‘So soon? I am amazed—I thought that that would be the last thing you would wish.’ He sounded mildly amused.
Sappha suppressed a desire to answer him back, knowing that it would get her nowhere. She closed her pretty mouth on the words which bubbled to her lips and was silent for so long that he enquired, still very mild: ‘You wanted me to co-operate, I believe. How?’
‘Your mother is anxious to see your sister—Antonia—she feels that you wouldn’t approve because of her studies. Surely it could be arranged for her to come over by air, even for a day or so?’
He said coldly: ‘Antonia’s schooling is important. She is doing very well—probably she will go on to a university.’
‘Oh, fiddle,’ said Sappha rudely and quite out of patience. ‘Surely she can do some extra homework or something—your mother’s peace of mind is much more important.’ She shot him a sharp glance. ‘Your sister will probably marry before she even gets to university.’
His cold voice became icy. ‘Probably, but as you yourself are aware there is many a slip between the cup and the lip when it comes to marriage.’
Sappha sat very still, staring at him. She had gone rather white even though she appeared quite composed. She hadn’t realised that the man standing in front of her would know about her and Andrew, but of course Uncle John would have told him. She felt humiliation, so bitter that she could taste it, well up within her. She took her lovely eyes from his face and focused them on the wall above his head, and said quietly: ‘We are discussing your mother, I believe,’ and heard his voice, wonderfully kind and gentle saying: ‘I beg your pardon, that was unforgivable of me. I am afraid I have no excuse, only the unsatisfactory one of always having my own way with my family and taking it for granted that no one will gainsay me.’
He crossed the space between them and caught her by the shoulders so that she came to her feet, willy-nilly. ‘Forgive me—if you will, I’ll arrange for Tonia to come over whenever you say.’
Sappha studied his face; his eyes, now that she saw them so close, weren’t black at all but brown, and at that moment they looked warm and friendly. She said uncertainly: ‘I say pretty breastly things myself sometimes—and I forgive you without the bribery—or is it blackmail?’
‘Whichever you like, I’ll take the blame for both.’ He smiled at her so that his face changed completely and just for a second she caught a glimpse of someone quite different, but only a glimpse, not enough to stop her saying: ‘It’s rather difficult to put into words, but I think we should understand that…’ she paused so as to get it quite right, ‘some people don’t get on very well—I think perhaps we are all like that.’
‘Ah,’ he said blandly, ‘mutual dislike and so forth—is that what you mean? It has been known. Well, in that case, we must conceal our true feelings for each other under the guise of good fellowship, mustn’t we?’ He walked a little away from her. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult, for I go back to Holland tomorrow and you will have plenty of time to practise a friendly approach before I return. Now, shall we go back to the drawing room? I usually spend half an hour with Mother at this time if you have no objection. I’ll be gone early tomorrow morning, so you won’t need to strain your friendly approach.’
It wasn’t until they had parted with outward goodwill and she was sitting with the MacFees that she came to the conclusion that he had been laughing silently when he had made that last remark.
Sappha had expected to spend a wretched night; leaving London had been a wrench, and the peace and quiet she had anticipated in the Highlands had been strangely ruffled by her meeting with Dr van Duyren. She went to bed prepared to lie awake, and promptly slept, to awaken only when Meg, the little daily maid, came in with her morning tea.
‘It’s a fine bright day, Miss,’ she observed as she drew the curtains, revealing a glimpse of the sea and the rugged coastline beyond the rooftops. ‘The Baron left with the sun on him.’
Sappha sat up, tossed her hair over her shoulders and yawned. ‘Baron who?’ she enquired, not quite awake.
Meg turned a surprised face towards her. ‘Why, miss, the Baron, ye ken, though maybe ye call him the doctor, but here in the village he gets his rightful title.’
Sappha sipped her tea. ‘Oh, Dr van Duyren, the Baroness’s son.’
Meg nodded. ‘The Baron,’ she stated simply. ‘Breakfast is at half past eight, I was to tell you.’ She went away, leaving Sappha to ponder this titbit of information. She had never met a baron before; she supposed, after due thought, that he was very like a baron should be—the very name conjured up a swashbuckling, high-handed gentleman, for ever shouting down his inferiors and being charming when it suited him. She got up and dressed rapidly, reminding herself the while of everything about him that annoyed her.
Her patient was awake after a good night and very ready to talk while Sappha performed the few necessary tasks prior to bringing up her breakfast. Her son, she told Sappha, had left at first light to board a plane at Inverness and she wasn’t at all sure how long it would be before he would be coming again, for as well as running a practice with his two partners, he lectured in Groningen.
‘Ah, yes—somewhere in the north of Holland, then,’ said Sappha, shaking down the thermometer, and was taken back when the Baroness said touchily: ‘Not North Holland—our home is in Dokkum, which is in Friesland. Groningen, of course, is not.’
Sappha begged her pardon, made a mental note to have a look at an atlas when she got downstairs, and besought her patient to open her mouth.
Uncle John came later that morning and spent a long time examining his patient, and a still longer time talking to Sappha about her. He was pleased with the results of the operation he had performed; the tumour had been removed before it could do lasting damage and the bones were hardening once more with the increased calcium, moreover the renal failure was improving at a heartening rate, but he warned Sappha of the depression which was bound to attack the Baroness from time to time—the aftermath of her rare disease. ‘But we’ll pull her through, I have no doubt’, he said cheerfully, then asked without pause: ‘I suppose Rolf has gone?’
Sappha gave her uncle a level look. ‘You mean Dr van Duyren—or should I say Baron van Duyren?’
He returned her look with an innocent one of his own. ‘My dear, how should I know? Everyone around here calls him Rolf—the people in the town address him as Baron, I believe, but I hardly think he would expect you to address him as such. Don’t you like him?’
Sappha pinkened faintly. She said crossly: ‘How ever should I know, Uncle John? I’ve hardly spoken to him.’ She picked up a batch of forms and went on in a businesslike way: ‘Shall I fill these in for you to sign? I expect you’re taking them with you.’
Dr McInroy arrived just as her uncle was preparing to leave. He was a sturdy man in his early thirties, of middle height, and with good features and bright blue eyes. After he had greeted the specialist, he turned to Sappha with a warm smile, saying: ‘Miss Devenish—I’ve heard all about you from Gloria and I’m delighted to welcome you to Dialach.’ He sounded so genuinely pleased to meet her that Sappha found herself smiling widely as she shook hands, but even as she did so, she had a fleeting recollection of her meeting with Dr van Duyren, who hadn’t greeted her at all…but there was no time to indulge her own thoughts; the two doctors began to discuss their patient, and as they seemed to take it for granted that she should stay with them, she concentrated upon the subject in hand, so when she was drawn into their conversation from time to time she was able to join in in a manner which caused Dr MacInroy to look at her with something like respect and remark:
‘You know a great deal about osteitis fibrosa cystica—have you seen one before? It’s a rare condition.’
Sappha shook her head. ‘No, never, that’s why I read up all I could about it before I came—I picked a few brains too.’ They all laughed and presently she left them to return to her patient.
The Baroness was lying back in bed looking bored. As well she might, thought Sappha, with only one leg and one arm available. She bustled around with an exaggerated cheerfulness getting ready to bedbath her patient, and presently, while she was doing this, asked: ‘What else do you do—other than reading?’
‘Oh, crosswords—there’s nothing else with one hand…’ The Baroness spoke listlessly and Sappha made haste to say: ‘Uncle John is delighted with your progress—he wants you to do a few exercises each day, so that when your arm comes out of plaster it will be fairly strong. I’m going to get you out of bed and into a chair by the window—there’s a lovely view. I suppose you don’t paint?’
Her patient looked surprised and faintly interested. ‘Yes, I used to—how did you know?’
‘I didn’t—but I was thinking if we could get hold of some paints and a canvas or some paper, you could amuse yourself.’
The Baroness lifted eyebrows which reminded Sappha of her son. ‘With one hand?’ she enquired.
‘Why not? If I arrange everything within reach—we can find some way of keeping the paper steady, and I shall be on hand for a good deal of the day—would you like to try?’
She had been wrapping her patient in a dressing gown as she spoke; now she pulled the chair alongside the bed and lifted the Baroness in her strong young arms into it and trundled her over to the window.
‘I’ll get you some coffee and while you’re drinking it I’ll see if Mrs MacFee can help about the paints.’
Mrs MacFee, when appealed to, not only produced an elderly paintbox of her own but a sketching pad as well and spent half an hour with her friend discussing the best view to start on; while Sappha busied herself making the bed and tidying the room; with such success that Sappha was able to leave the two ladies together after lunch and take an hour or two off duty. She went first to the post office to send a hastily written letter to her mother and then explored the little town and its harbour. The day, which had started off in sunshine, had become overcast and windy, so that the waves beat against the lonely shore; only in the harbour was the water smooth although it looked cold enough.
She was on her way back when she met Gloria, who fell into step beside her saying: ‘There you are—how nice. No good me asking you to come in for tea, I’m afraid—I’m just off to see a patient.’ She waved vaguely in the direction of the causeway and Sappha asked: ‘Where? You’re pointing out to sea.’
‘Well, she is in a way,’ said Gloria cheerfully. ‘At least, I have to be rowed over because the causeway’s in ruins—there’s a baby due any time now and a good thing it’s not later in the year, for there’s a terrific current and if it’s stormy the boat can’t make it—the locals think nothing of scrambling over the causeway when the weather’s bad, but I’m no mountain goat—even they hesitate a bit unless it’s daylight.’
‘Who lives there?’ asked Sappha, interested.
‘The family MacTadd—father’s a fisherman and there are Mum, Gran and a clutch of children. There’s a plan to rehouse them, but there’s nothing suitable for them at the moment, and besides, they don’t want to go. They’ve patched up the croft very nicely, though there’s no H and C and no electricity either. Hamish has tried to persuade Mrs MacTadd to go to hospital, but she absolutely refuses, so all we can do is to keep a sharp eye open and pray for fine weather.’ She grinned cheerfully. ‘I’m going down here—Mr MacTadd will be waiting for me—let me know when you’ve fixed your days off and I’ll pop up and see to the Baroness for you. ‘Bye.’ She turned away and then paused to say over her shoulder: ‘I’ve fixed Saturday for mine, so don’t have that.’
Sappha took her day off on Friday; during the four days she had been at the Manse she had got the routine nicely settled, and in any case, she didn’t go until she had got her patient up for the day, arranged with Gloria for that young lady to call in after lunch and arranged with Mrs MacFee that the Baroness shouldn’t be left too long alone in case she moped. She then set out with the Mini. The weather was good; she suspected that before many weeks as the autumn settled into winter, she would have to spend her free day in Dialach—it seemed a good idea to explore as far afield as possible while she could. She took the road to Ullapool, where, Gloria had informed her, there was a rather delightful shop selling local handicrafts and tweeds. Besides, she intended to visit the garden at Inverewe—it wasn’t the best time of year to do so, but various of her friends in London had urged her on no account to miss it.
She thought briefly of Dr van Duyren as she drove to Torridon—his mother, beyond mentioning that he had got home safely and was very busy, had offered no further information, although she had been voluble enough about Antonia, who, from all accounts, was not only very pretty but a little spoiled and wilful as well. Sappha stopped for a late cup of coffee at the Loch Maree Hotel, feeling breathless from the magnificent scenery she had just passed through, and eager for more. The day was going to be too short. She decided to press on to Ullapool, have lunch there, take a quick look around the town and then visit Inverewe on her way back. Even so, by the time she had reached Ullapool she knew that she would have to return, not once, but several times if she were to take her fill of the scenery.
She lunched at the Caledonian Hotel, and for the first time since she had arrived in Scotland, felt almost happy. She supposed it was the magnificent country through which she had been driving which somehow had the power to make London and its pleasures seem a little unreal. She spent a pleasant half hour looking round the little town, quiet now after its summer season, but she was anxious not to miss the gardens and sped back through the forest land, resisting the urge to stop and gaze at the mountains around her. Next time, she promised herself, going downhill fast towards Gruinard, and then up the other side to Inverewe gardens.
They were lovely even though there was only an aftermath of summer’s glory in the flower beds. She left reluctantly, promising herself that she would pay another visit in some distant summer, and stopped for tea in Aultbea, and then, pleasantly tired, took the road back to Dialach. It had been a successful day, made more successful by the friendly people she had met wherever she had stopped and the openly admiring glances of the young man in the deerstalker cap who had entered the hotel while she was having lunch, and had at once engaged her in conversation while he ate his own meal at a nearby table. It was only after they had parted in mutual friendliness that she felt a twinge of regret that they weren’t likely to meet again, for as far as she could see, there weren’t many men of her own age in Dialach—Dr MacInroy couldn’t be counted, of course, for he was Gloria’s anyway, and the Baron, with his peculiar eyebrows and bossy ways, certainly had no place in her thoughts. She spent several minutes convincing herself of this as she changed back into uniform and went to seek out her patient. And felt instantly contrite when she saw her; the Baroness was in bed—Gloria had seen to that before she had left at teatime—and turned a listless tear-stained face to Sappha as she went in; it took a few minutes of patient comforting on her part before she could induce her patient to speak. ‘I—I h-hope you h-had a lovely d-day,’ she sobbed, ‘and this is s-so s-silly, because I d-don’t know why I’m c-crying,’ and then contradicted herself by adding: ‘Rolf s-said he would t-telephone and he hasn’t.’
‘Perhaps he’s been too busy,’ said Sappha, who felt strongly that the telephone was a modern blessing which had its drawbacks. How many times had she sat by the wretched instrument in London waiting for Andrew to ring, and all the while… She jerked her thoughts back to her patient; it was really too bad of the tiresome man, he should have squeezed in a call whatever he was doing. ‘He’ll telephone later,’ she said with a conviction she didn’t feel, ‘and don’t worry about being a bit tearful, Baroness—remember what Uncle John said; that you were bound to feel depressed for no reason at all. I’m going to wash your face and tidy your hair, and after supper we’ll play that game of draughts we never had.’
The evening was cheerful after all—with the fire alight in the old-fashioned grate and the chintz curtains drawn, the room looked cosy and inviting. Sappha ate a hasty supper and went back upstairs and true to her promise got out the draughts board and allowed the Baroness to beat her soundly before giving her her sleeping pill and tucking her up for the night. She had only just got downstairs to say goodnight to the MacFees when the telephone rang and Mr MacFee, who answered it, said:
‘It’s for you, Sappha,’ he smiled a little, ‘a man.’
She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she crossed the room. It could be Andrew, miraculously in love with her again, telephoning to say so because he couldn’t wait to write it. She picked up the receiver and said Hullo in a voice which shook with excitement.
But it wasn’t Andrew, although it was a man—a man with strange eyebrows who had laughed at her and thought her clothes were silly, and who had forgotten to telephone his mother. His deep voice came lazily over the wire: ‘Oh, dear, I’m not the right one, am I?’ he asked outrageously. ‘How’s Mother?’
She choked back disappointment, furious with him and with herself.
‘She’s been waiting for you to ring up,’ she said sharply. ‘She was upset…’
‘I’m sorry. I imagine you’ve given her her sleeping pill by now, that’s why I thought I’d better speak to you first.’
‘Well, it’s no good, she’s asleep.’ Sappha spoke with some thing of a snap.
‘You sound like a love-starved spinster with no looks and no prospects.’ He was laughing, and forgetful of the MacFees, sitting across the room politely not listening, she burst out: ‘How dare you!’
‘I’ll dare anything if I have a mind to,’ he said coolly, ‘and just for the record, you’ll never starve for lack of love, my good girl, and your prospects are about as good as they can be.’
Sappha drew a deep breath, let it out noisily and said helplessly:
‘Well!’ She was prevented from saying anything else because he went on at once: ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t telephone earlier—circumstances prevented it. I’ll ring in the morning—you can tell her that if she wakes. I hadn’t forgotten, it was quite impossible.’
She said: ‘Very well’ in a stiff little voice and he went on as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve arranged for Tonia to come over with me. It’s most inconvenient, but I don’t dare face you without her. That will be a week on Thursday. Goodbye.’
He rang off before she had time to open her mouth. She put down the receiver slowly and went back to the MacFees and repeated what he had said, but with a good deal of it expurgated, so that her mild version didn’t tally in the least with the heated retorts she had given. This quite escaped her, and the MacFees, beyond a mild comment on the pleasure of seeing Rolf and Antonia again, didn’t mention it.
Later on, in bed, Sappha went over all that he had said. She hadn’t understood his remarks about her not starving for love and having good prospects and she thought about it for a long time, getting more and more frustrated because it didn’t make sense, finally she said out loud: ‘Oh, he’s crazy,’ then turned over and went determinedly to sleep. The following days passed quietly enough and the boredom which she had half expected to settle upon her after a week or so, didn’t materialise. Instead, she began to find the days not quite long enough. The Baroness had taken heart again; Rolf had telephoned her several times and she was full of excitement at seeing Antonia so soon. She had never asked Sappha if she had spoken to Rolf about her daughter’s visit, nor did she do so now beyond making a comment upon his kindness and understanding. Sappha, asked to agree with her patient upon her son’s excellent qualities, agreed woodenly, remembering what he had said—she wondered if she would ever forget his words even though she had forgiven them. She pummelled the pillow she was shaking up with unnecessary vigour—he was one of the most unpleasant men she had ever met.
She had her day off on Wednesday and took the Mini in the other direction down to Balmarca, so that she might see the hills of Skye across the Kyle of Lochalsh. She had lunch at the hotel there and then went on to look at Eilean Donan Castle on the edge of Loch Duich. She followed on down the steep road to get a good view of the Kintail Mountains, but they were fast disappearing in heavy clouds, so she found a place to turn the car and started back home. She had promised to have tea with Gloria anyway, and it was already getting on for four o’clock.
Gloria wasn’t home, but Sappha let herself in, poked up the fire, put on the kettle and then went to fetch the cake she had brought from the baker’s. The cottage had a small rather cluttered kitchen, gay with gingham curtains and a collection of copper pans which Sappha coveted. She pottered around, rather enjoying herself so that she found herself reflecting, while cutting bread for the toast, that life in Dialach was so pleasant that the idea of going back to London seemed quite laughable. A fortunate thing, in the circumstances, because that was the last place she wanted to be in—probably by now Andrew had married that beastly little blonde…
She frowned and sighed at the thought, so that Gloria, coming in at that moment, exclaimed: ‘Good lord, Sappha, what’s eating you? You look ferocious—sadly ferocious—or do I mean ferociously sad? What’s the matter?’
Sappha speared bread on to a toasting fork. ‘Hullo—nothing, really.’
Gloria cast her hat on one chair, her coat on another and her case on the table. ‘Not bored, are you?’
‘No, on the contrary—I was just thinking how bored I should be in London.’
‘Well, even if you were,’ said Gloria, making the tea, ‘you won’t be after tomorrow. Rolf and Antonia will be here, you can’t be bored when they’re around. What do you think of Rolf?’
Sappha buttered toast. ‘Well, I don’t really know him—I mean we only talked a little.’
Gloria laughed. ‘But he’s not the kind of man you need to talk to—don’t tell me he didn’t make an impression on you, or you’ll be the first woman under ninety who hasn’t been bowled over.’
The two of them sat down by the fire in the little sitting room and bit into their toast. ‘If you want to know,’ said Sappha, her mouth full, ‘I found him rude, bossy—and he laughs behind his face.’
Gloria stared at her over her tea cup. ‘I haven’t asked you yet, but it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their heads that you came up here to get away from something or someone—a man, I suspect. It’s hardly fair to colour your impression of Rolf by your own experience.’ She put down her cup and held out a friendly hand. ‘That was a beastly thing to say—I’m sorry. I know how I’d feel if Hamish…’
‘I daresay you’re right,’ conceded Sappha, privately thinking her all wrong. ‘Now tell me, what are you going to do with your day off?’
‘Inverness—with Hamish. He’s coming for me about nine and we won’t be back until the late evening. There’s nothing to worry about in the village; old Mrs MacGower is off her penicillin injections and Mrs MacTadd is OK. She should go another three weeks—the babe’s a transverse lie, but there’s time enough for it to right itself—Hamish has turned it twice already. Are you a midwife? You are?—good, just in case I’m not about when Mrs MacTadd starts, I shall warn them to come for you.’ She had spoken jokingly and Sappha replied in kind, and Rolf’s name wasn’t mentioned again for the rest of Sappha’s visit. Before she went home though, Gloria said with a laugh: ‘I’m going to show you where everything is kept in the surgery, Sappha, so that if ever there is an emergency you could cope.’
So Sappha was invited to see where the key was hidden and where the midwifery bag was housed, and the gas and air apparatus, even the blood taking and giving sets—’For,’ said Gloria, ‘we just have to be prepared for everything—and by the way, there’s a litre of O blood, Rhesus positive, in the fridge—Hamish brought it with him today in case Mrs MacTadd does the dirty on us.’ She went with her guest to the door. ‘Do you want anything from Inverness?’
Sappha considered. ‘No, I don’t think so, thanks. I thought I’d drive over on my next day off and do some shopping, but there’s nothing urgent.’
She said goodbye and drove the short distance to the Manse, where she put the car in the little lean-to at the back of the house which the minister had put at her disposal, and ran indoors. The house was warm and quiet; the faint murmur of voices from the drawing room told her that Mr and Mrs MacFee were enjoying their usual evening chat together; she forbore from joining them, for she suspected that it was probably the only hour in the day when they could be reasonably sure of being uninterrupted, but went on upstairs, to pause at the Baroness’s door undecided whether to go and see her first or wait until she had taken off her outdoor things. She decided to go in; probably the Baroness was feeling lonely. She opened the door and poked her pretty head round it.
The Baroness was not lonely at all; she had company—a very pretty blonde girl curled up beside her on the bed, and the Baron, crouching on the floor, tinkering with a portable TV set. He came to his feet in a surprisingly agile manner for so large a man and said: ‘Hullo—had a nice day?’
Sappha said yes, thank you, a trifle breathless with surprise and some other sensation which, if she hadn’t disliked him so much, she would have admitted was pleasure. The Baroness beamed at her. ‘Sappha, isn’t this a lovely surprise? Rolf brought Tonia a day sooner and he’s brought a TV for me too…come and meet my daughter.’
Antonia had left the bed and had pranced over to Sappha. She really was extraordinarily pretty with great blue eyes and dimples, her hair was straight and thick and corn-coloured, cut in a fringe across her forehead. She put out a hand, remarking disarmingly: ‘You’re far too pretty to be a nurse. I don’t believe you’re much older than I am—I’m sixteen.’
Rolf said lazily from the floor: ‘Antonia, you mustn’t ask Nurse how old she is—she might not want me to know.’
‘Stuff,’ said his sister inelegantly. ‘You make her sound like some old bag in her thirties—just because you’re thirty-two yourself…’ She turned her lively little face to Sappha. ‘Tell me later,’ she invited, and bounced back to make herself comfortable by her mother once more as that lady said indulgently: ‘Tonia, you’re not to talk to Sappha like that—you hardly know her.’
‘Oh, yes, Mama, I do, you know. Sometimes you meet someone and it’s as if you’ve known them all your life.’ She appealed to her brother. ‘Rolf, people do feel like that, don’t they?’
He looked up briefly, but not at her. His dark eyes dwelt for a few seconds on Sappha, who felt herself turning slowly red under them. But all he said was: ‘Oh, yes, of course, only it’s more satisfactory if they both feel the same way at the same time.’
‘There, you see?’ Antonia addressed the room at large and smiled widely at Sappha. ‘I know we’re going to be friends.’ She studied Sappha’s heightened colour and went on with devastating candour: ‘You’ve gone very red—it makes you prettier than ever. Rolf…’
He didn’t look up and his voice was bland. ‘I’m sure Nurse wants to take off her coat.’ And Sappha cast him a look of relief mingled with the vexed thought that he had called her nurse again. She said primly:
‘I’ll be back with your supper presently, Baroness,’ and went away.
Hours later, sitting up in bed thinking about the evening, Sappha had to admit that she had enjoyed herself. Antonia had lent a sparkle to the conversation, and so too, surprisingly had Rolf. He was certainly very fond of his sister and she, for her part, was equally devoted to him, and although it was apparent that she could twist him round her little finger, it was also quite clear that she had a wholesome respect for him too. Sappha smiled to herself, thinking about her; she was spoilt and a little wilful but so good-natured and sunny-tempered that she doubted if anyone, even her eldest brother, could be annoyed with her for more than a couple of seconds at a time. And, reflected Sappha, she had been instantly obedient to the suggestion that it was her mother’s bedtime, and afterwards, sitting on the end of Sappha’s bed while the latter rearranged her hair, she had asked some remarkably sensible questions about her mother’s illness and when Sappha had hesitated to answer them, said: ‘I know a great deal about it already—Rolf said it would be better for me and for Mother if I did. And of course he’s right. He always is,’ she added simply.
Sappha thought it wise to say nothing to this; quite obviously, the Baron ruled his family with a rod of iron, albeit a well camouflaged one. She found herself speculating upon the poor girl he would coerce into marrying him and felt fiercely sorry for her. She could imagine what it would be like—’Half a dozen children,’ she muttered to herself, thumping her pillows. ‘The woman’s place is in the home, and all that, however luxurious that home might be.’ She had a sudden vivid mental picture of the Baron sitting at the head of a table lined with little barons and baronesses, all with miniature satyr’s eyebrows and herself at the end. She pulled herself up short, hastily substituting this ridiculous idea with the interesting question as to what a baron’s children were called, but before she could go deeply into the matter she was disturbed by her patient’s voice from the bedroom next door, asking if she might have another sleeping tablet because one hadn’t seemed to be enough. Sappha got out of bed, her unruly thoughts forgotten. She said soothingly: ‘It’s only because you’ve had such an exciting evening—you have been to sleep and you’ll soon drop off again. I’ll read to you, shall I? Are you quite comfy?’
She made a few deft movements amongst the pillows and bedclothes.
‘There, not a wrinkle in sight. Close your eyes—I’ll go on with Jane Eyre.’
She read for several minutes until the Baroness interrupted her to say:
‘What an arrogant man he was—but of course he loved Jane, and she loved him. Was the man you loved—still do perhaps, Sappha—arrogant?’
Sappha looked up from her reading. Her dressing gown was a soft pink, a perfect contrast to the dark hair hanging around her shoulders. She smelled faintly of Roger and Gallet’s Violet soap and she looked as pretty as the proverbial picture. Her patient, studying her closely, thought it a great shame that there was no one other than herself to see her.
Sappha said in a wooden voice: ‘No, not arrogant. It was just that he found someone else—blonde and sexy and willing to give him what I wouldn’t—I’m old-fashioned about marriage…’
‘Me too,’ said the Baroness briskly, ‘and you would be surprised at the number of men who want an old-fashioned girl for a wife—a girl who will love them and run their home with pride. And children—men want children.’ She waved her plastered arm in the air. ‘It’s no good me telling you that you will get over it and meet another man—there aren’t any other men at the moment are there? And you’re sure that you will never get over him, aren’t you?’
She took another look at Sappha, and it was a pity that Sappha, instead of looking at her companion, was looking backwards over the last few disastrous months, for the Baroness’s pretty face wore the look of someone who had just had a brilliant idea. She did, in fact, look very like her young daughter when that young daughter was plotting mischief. There was a little pause until Sappha said quietly: ‘Shall I go on reading?’
The Baroness yawned daintily. ‘I do believe I begin to feel sleepy again, dear. Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to fetch me just a little warm milk?’
Sappha padded downstairs and presently, with the milk in her hand, went back again through the quiet old house, to stop in the bedroom doorway at the sight of Rolf, still dressed, lounging over the end of his mother’s bed. He said nothing at all, but his gaze swept Sappha from head to foot. It was the Baroness who said in her soft voice:
‘Sappha, Rolf heard us talking and came to see if anything was the matter.’ She smiled at them in turn, giving her son a bright glance which dared him to imagine otherwise. He stared back at her, his eyes snapping with laughter. ‘And now that I see you are in such excellent hands, I’ll leave you to settle, dear Mother.’
He bent and kissed her, said a brief goodnight to Sappha without apparently seeing her, and went back to his room.
The Baroness accepted her milk with the blameless air of a good child.
‘You poor girl,’ she said contritely, ‘I’ve kept you from your bed, but I’m sure that I shall sleep very well now.’ She finished the milk, allowed Sappha to settle her once more, said goodnight in a grateful voice and closed her eyes, leaving Sappha to go back to bed, but not at once to sleep. It was a pity that her patient had asked her those questions—answering them had made Andrew very clear in her mind once more, and she wanted so much to forget him.

CHAPTER THREE
THERE was no sign of the Baron the next morning. Sappha busied herself with her patient, helped and sometimes hindered by the well-meaning efforts of Antonia, who, after lunch, declared her intention of sitting with her parent while Sappha went for a walk.
Sappha, who was feeling moody and restless, felt more inclined to sit and brood in her room, but she had some letters to post; she would go down to the post office and take a look at the sea at the same time, so she put on her raincoat and tied a scarf over her hair and went out into the rather wild afternoon. It was raining; not very hard, but the wind was boisterous and the mountains behind the little town stood head and shoulders in dark cloud. She walked around the harbour, shivering a little because the wind was keen as well as strong, eyeing the angry waves beyond the harbour’s mouth, they were battering the causeway too. A solitary fishing boat was battling its way in and she stopped to watch it, thankful that she wasn’t called upon to leave dry land.
It was after she had been to the post office and was on her way back to the Manse that she came face to face with Andrew. She stopped short, her eyes like saucers, her mouth, bulging with a wedge of the toffee she had purchased along with the stamps, slightly open. Andrew however didn’t look in the least surprised, nor for that matter did he look awkward or ashamed of himself, but then, some small detached part of her mind reminded her, Andrew never did. But this thought was swamped by the rush of excitement inside her, emotion caught her by the throat so that, what with her heart in her mouth as well as the lump of toffee, she was quite unable to speak.
Andrew, unhindered by either the one or the other of these encumbrances, stopped in front of her and said with all his well-remembered charm, ‘Sappha—darling, how marvellous to see you again! I had a couple of free days—it seemed a good chance to come and look you up.’
Sappha, once more in control of both her breath and the toffee, gave him what she hoped was a cool, unflustered look. She said:
‘Oh, indeed. How did you know that I was here?’
‘I wormed it out of old Mother Martin.’ Mother Martin was Home Sister at Greggs’ and a notorious passer-on of gossip. Andrew’s good-looking face broke into a smile as he caught one of Sappha’s hands in his. ‘I thought you would be glad to see me—you are, aren’t you, Sappha?’
She caught her breath. Of course she was glad, she was on the point of saying so when she felt the weight of a great arm on her shoulders and heard the Baron’s voice, mildly, amused, say: ‘Hullo, Sappha, taking an hour or two off?’ She felt the arm tighten. ‘Andrew Glover, isn’t it? Thought you’d show up—the landlord of the pub at Torridon mentioned on the telephone that you were heading this way. My name’s van Duyren, by the way.’
Sappha watched Andrew’s face as he tried to make up his mind how to treat the Baron, who, she noted, was looking ruffianly enough in a thick sweater and terrible old trousers stuffed into rubber boots—he was swinging a string of fish in one hand too. She choked down a sudden desire to laugh because Andrew had no idea who the Baron was and the Baron had equally no intention of telling him. She looked sideways up into his dark face, changing the toffee lump from one cheek to the other as she did so, a childish action which caused him to blink rapidly while the nostrils of his commanding nose quivered ever so slightly. He said carelessly: ‘Why not take the afternoon off, Sappha—or for that matter, the rest of the day? Antonia and Mrs MacFee will cope.’
Sappha frowned. For one thing Andrew had said nothing about taking her out—he’d had no time—and for another, it made her sound too eager. She was eager, she told herself, but Andrew mustn’t know that. She said icily: ‘How kind of you, Doctor, but I’ve had my off-duty for today and I see no reason for giving myself any more.’ And went pink under his mocking gaze. It was maddening that he should spoil this unexpected meeting with Andrew—it could have been something exciting and even more than that, though Andrew, at the moment, didn’t appear to be exactly carried away… He said now: ‘Are you a doctor—I had no idea…’
The Baron waved the fish and said mildly: ‘Oh, I’ve a practice—a small country town in Friesland.’
Andrew smiled with a hint of patronage. ‘Oh, a GP.’ He was contemptuous and faintly pitying. ‘I’ve rooms in Wimpole Street—consultant you know—a nice little private practice.’
‘You are to be congratulated upon your success.’ The Baron’s voice was silky, and Sapphia stirred uneasily under his confining arm, remembering dimly that the Baroness or someone had mentioned that he lectured in Groningen and hadn’t she said something about examining? With feminine unfairness she was instantly up in arms against him—he was taking the mickey out of Andrew. She said positively: ‘I really must go—there are things to do.’
If she had hoped to get rid of the Baron she was sadly mistaken, for he remarked immediately: ‘We’ll all go. Come up to the Manse for tea, my dear fellow—Mrs MacFee will love to see a new face and you and Sappha can sort out her time off.’
He turned up the lane leading to the Manse, and Sappha perforce turned with him. Andrew fell into step beside her. ‘A pity you can’t manage today,’ he remarked smoothly. ‘What about tomorrow—afternoon or evening perhaps, old girl?’
Sappha quivered with temper; not only had she been called old girl, her free time was being discussed and arranged for her without so much as a by your leave. She opened her mouth to say so, but the Baron spoke first.
‘Of course, tomorrow, why not? And I must insist that you take both the afternoon and evening, Sappha. It’s not quite the weather for a drive, but there are some splendid walks—I can lend you a pair of boots—’ he flung a friendly aside to Andrew. ‘I suppose you’re at the pub here. They make you very comfortable and Mrs MacGregor is a good cook—she’ll turn out an excellent dinner for the pair of you.’
‘I’m not sure—’ began Sappha looking at the Baron with frustrated rage, to be met with a look of such limpid friendliness that she was struck dumb; if she hadn’t been prepared to think the worst of him, she could have supposed that he was trying to make things as easy as possible for her and Andrew.
They turned in at the Manse gate and walked slowly up the short drive to the front door, and any idea Sappha may have had about keeping Andrew’s visit from her patient’s ears was scotched by the Baron, who paused and waved at the Baroness’s window. Sappha felt sure that even if she didn’t happen to be looking out at that moment, Antonia would have seen them. She excused herself in the hall and flew upstairs to change back into uniform. It was foolish, but she felt better able to cope with the situation once she had clasped the silver buckled belt round her slim waist and tucked her hair tidily under her cap.
The Baroness and Antonia were sitting by the window when she went in and although Antonia said nothing, Sappha gained the strong impression that this was because she had been told not to. The Baroness turned her still beautiful eyes upon Sappha and asked merely: ‘A pleasant walk, I hope, dear?’ Sappha, repeating her impressions of the sea and relaying the little bits of gossip she had gleaned from the post office, wondered why her patient didn’t ask about Andrew, for it was obvious from their faces that they had seen him. She hadn’t long to wait to find out, however, for very soon the Baroness told Antonia to go down to tea and tell Mrs MacFee that Sappha would be down directly, and that young lady had barely closed the door when her mother said:
‘So he came after you, Sappha. I hope he doesn’t intend to take you back with him—not,’ she added earnestly, ‘that I should dream of stopping you.’
Sappha paused in the clearing up of the bed table in preparation for the tea tray. She said a little wildly: ‘But he hasn’t asked me. I don’t even know why he’s here—I’ve had no chance…we’d only just met when Dr van Duyren joined us.’ She added bitterly: ‘He insisted on bringing Andrew back for tea and he’s kindly arranged for me to be free tomorrow afternoon and evening.’
Her patient seemed to miss the sarcasm in her attendant’s voice, for she said kindly: ‘Now, isn’t that nice? How thoughtful of Rolf. I expect they took to each other at once.’
Sappha, who had her own opinion about this, muttered: ‘Oh, well—they’re both doctors,’ and remembered the Baron’s modest admission to being a GP.
‘Exactly what does Dr van Duyren do?’ she asked.
The Baroness closed her eyes the better to think. ‘Let me see now—he has a large practice in Dokkum, but of course he has two partners, then he has consultant’s chambers in Groningen as well as being a professor at the Medical School—he has a teaching round and so on and he’s an examiner—he specialises in stomachs and I never have understood why, my dear.’
Sappha said weakly: ‘He’s busy.’
‘Too busy,’ agreed his mother, ‘I sometimes think. But he seems to like it, though I have warned him that if he’s not careful he’ll have neither the time nor the inclination to marry. When he does, of course, his wife will come before everything else,’ she sighed, ‘just as I did with his father.’ Two tears rolled down her cheeks and Sappha hurried across to her to put her arms around her and say: ‘There there—and how proud you must be to remember that, and I’ve no doubt that you were worth every second of his time.’
This remark induced the Baroness to give a watery smile. ‘Oh, yes indeed I was—and the children too,’ she added, ‘Rolf’s very like him.’
Sappha straightened up. There was no accounting for tastes, she told herself crossly, and after all the Baroness was his mother. She was on her way to the door when the Baroness observed: ‘Well, I daresay your young man will tell you why he came when you see him tomorrow. I must say he has a great deal of patience after coming all this way.’
Sappha had thought so too, but it wasn’t very nice to be reminded of it by someone else. But it was a long way, surely Andrew hadn’t driven hundreds of miles just to say hullo. Besides, there was still the question of Staff Nurse Beatty. Sappha said tonelessly: ‘I’ll get your tea, Baroness.’
She put off going down to her own tea for as long as possible, so that by the time she went into the sitting room everyone was having second cups and Andrew was explaining at some length just how important it was to have the right sort of practice. He was forced to break off while Sappha was told to sit down and asked if there was enough milk in her tea and was the toast really hot still; she sensed his annoyance at being interrupted even across the room. He had nodded briefly at her when she went in, but it was the Baron who had got up and pushed her gently into his own chair and then, taking no further notice of her, gone over to sit by Andrew, to listen, apparently tonguetied with admiration, to that gentleman’s dissertation upon his brilliant future. Sappha munched morosely at a scone and drank her tea, watching Andrew. He was enjoying himself—he had an audience who appeared to be interested in him, even though he wasn’t in the least interested in them. She glanced round the room; Mrs MacFee was listening with a charmingly attentive air, so was the minister, Antonia was gazing at him with rapt attention—and so to was the Baron, too rapt, thought Sappha. He looked up and caught her staring at him and returned it with one of his own, a long searching look which ended in a faint smile.
She dressed with care for her meeting with Andrew—a fine wool dress in a warm shade of pink with a high neckline and full sleeves gathered into bands and then ruffled over her hands. She covered it with her raincoat and tied a matching scarf over her hair. Andrew said that they would go for a run before tea and then sit in Mrs MacGregor’s parlour until dinner was ready for them. There were things, he had said, which had to be discussed. She pondered this remark while she was putting on her good shoes—a reckless act, she knew, seeing that the weather was worsening every minute, but she wanted to look nice for him.
When she was dressed, however, she sat down on the bed, reluctant to go, even though he had said he would call for her at two o’clock, and it was already past that hour. It worried her that she didn’t feel happier or more excited than she was. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Andrew again which made her so curiously apathetic about the afternoon’s outing. She got up and went to the Baroness’s room to say goodbye and found that lady straining to see out of the window from her chair. She looked round as Sappha went in and said:
‘He’s just come, dear—he seems a very smart man, I hope you’ll have a lovely time. Antonia is very taken with him, you know, not that that signifies anything—I daresay you will come back with a ring on your finger once more.’
Sappha said slowly: ‘I don’t know. I think I’d want to wait this time. I—I have to be sure.’ She picked up a pillow and put it where it belonged. ‘You’re sure you can manage? I feel it’s all wrong leaving you alone—Gloria isn’t here either…’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Baroness comfortably, ‘Antonia is dying to play nurse; you’ve put out my pills, my exercises are done, and Rolf will be in, I daresay, to make sure everything is all right.’
Sappha said goodbye and went downstairs to where Andrew was waiting, talking amusingly to Mrs MacFee. He smiled at Sappha as she joined them and said casually: ‘Hullo there,’ looking so completely at ease that she felt a small prick of annoyance because he was so sure of her. After all, it had been he who had let her down even though he had come back to her.
The afternoon wasn’t an unqualified success. Andrew was a good driver and he handled his car—a Jaguar—well, but as Sappha pointed out, the wind was now almost gale force and the rain was developing from a thick drizzle to a steady downpour. It seemed foolish to take the road through Shieldaig and Kishorn just so that they might see the heights of Skye from Auchtertyre; in any case, Sappha pointed out reasonably, in such weather there would be nothing to see. To all of which Andrew replied with a laugh. ‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘we can talk as we go and worry about the scenery when we get there.’
But talking was impossible. At first it hadn’t been too bad going down into Torridon, for there was shelter from the forests which lined most of the narrow road and later on the newly constructed road towards Shieldaig, but then the road reverted to its former width, winding up and down the hills so that Andrew had to pay attention to his driving. At Loch Kishorn Sappha suggested that they could probably see Skye from there, but Andrew said sharply: ‘What’s come over you, Sappha? Don’t you want a chance to see the country? We’ll go on to Auchtertyre—it’s not much further. We’ll go there for tea and talk.’
Naturally there was no Skye to be seen, but Andrew at least seemed to have derived some satisfaction from reaching his goal, if only for the reason that he would be able to tell the Baron about it later. They stopped for tea in Lochcarron, and although the hotel was empty the tea was delicious. Despite herself, Sappha relaxed and began to enjoy herself, Andrew could be an amusing companion and he was making great efforts to please her. They had almost finished tea when he said: ‘Sappha, you must know why I came to this outlandish spot…darling, I’m lost without you.’
‘What about Beatty?’ Sappha asked in a cool little voice which disguised the warm glow of excitement at being wanted again. She gave him a level look. ‘Did she find someone else?’
She watched Andrew grow red. ‘It was mutual—we weren’t suited. I suppose I was a fool.’ He caught her hand on the table and held it tightly. ‘Listen, darling, come back with me. Leave this awful godforsaken place, you don’t belong here. We could have such fun together.’
She stared at him across the table. It was lovely to be wanted; to be missed—London might be fun and perhaps he loved her very much to have come so far to say so. The uneasy thought that he hadn’t said so crossed her mind. She withdrew her hand gently and said:
‘Look, Andrew, don’t expect me to answer you now. I must have time to think about it.’ She saw the faint annoyance on his face. ‘My dear girl, what on earth do you have to think about? I’m doing you a favour—giving you a chance to escape.’
Sappha said quietly: ‘But I like it in Dialach. I didn’t think I should, but I do—and I can’t leave my patient just like that, where are they going to get another nurse at a moment’s notice? My patient has been very ill and she will need care for weeks yet.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Good lord, Sappha, stop being such a do-gooder. They’ll rub along, and she’s got that brigand who calls himself a doctor, hasn’t she?’
Sappha put down her cup with a hand which shook a little. ‘That’s a beastly thing to say. He doesn’t look in the least like a brigand.’ She felt guilty saying it, for had she not likened him to a brigand herself? She hurried on: ‘He’s good to her—he comes over from Holland every week or so and he helps the local doctor when he’s needed…’
Andrew was laughing at her. ‘More fool he. Are you a fan of his? Or perhaps you’ve fallen a victim to his charm?’
‘Neither,’ she snapped. ‘I—I don’t like him, but that’s no reason to be spiteful, and I won’t leave until another nurse is found to replace me.’
He smiled. ‘We’ll not argue about that now. We’ll go back and make ourselves comfortable round Mrs MacGregor’s fire and I’ll guarantee to make you change your mind.’
He gave her a look which sent the colour into her face but left her bewilderingly unexcited. She followed him out to the car in silence, puzzled at her lack of response. Three months ago she would have flown into his arms and now she felt herself moving away from the touch of his shoulder in the car. But he didn’t notice this nor her silence; he was talking about his future and how much money he intended to make, and not once did he mention her…
The journey back was tricky. The wind, now a gale, buffeted the car, while the rain, coming down in good earnest, made the windscreen-wipers useless. Even on a fine dry day the road needed care, and although Andrew was a good driver, he wasn’t a patient one. Sappha was glad when they skidded to a halt before the small brightly lighted inn. Inside it was warm and cheerful and a table had been laid for them in the little parlour behind the bar, and two comfortable chairs drawn up before the fire. Sappha took off her raincoat and scarf and hung them tidily behind the door, then followed Mrs MacGregor up the narrow staircase to one of the bedrooms so that she might tidy herself. The room was spotlessly clean and rather cold; its little window overlooked the houses lining the harbour, and she stood for a moment watching the boiling sea. There was a light twinkling at the end of the causeway and she wondered if Mrs MacTadd was all right. She wondered about Gloria and Hamish too; they surely wouldn’t be driving back in such weather, probably they would wait until the storm had quietened down or the morning light made the journey easier; listening to the wind howling outside, she didn’t blame them.
They had finished their sherry and Mrs MacGregor was in the act of placing two plates of steaming soup on the table when she was almost knocked over by a boy who darted in from the bar. He was so wet that the water ran in little rivulets down his arms and legs and formed pools on the matting, but even while Mrs MacGregor was scolding him he had pushed past her and handed Sappha a sheet of paper wrapped carefully in a scrap of plastic. She put down her glass and said in surprise:
‘For me? Are you sure?’
The boy nodded, ‘Aye, miss,’ and when she said: ‘Well, take off your wet coat while I read it,’ surprised her by saying: ‘Nay, I’ll not,’ and looked so beseechingly at her that she took the paper out of its sopping wrappings and began to read.
‘Sappha, Mrs MacTadd has jumped the gun. A shoulder presenting and well jammed. I’ll have to do a Caesar. Go to Gloria’s and fetch her midwifery bag, the gas and air, blood giving and taking sets and the vacoliter of blood in the fridge. Keep the boy with you, he’ll bring you back. Ask Glover if he’ll give a hand.’ It was signed R.v.D.
She looked up from it to find Andrew’s eyes on her. He said irritably:
‘Give the boy something and let’s get on with our meal.’
Sappha folded the paper carefully. ‘No, we can’t do that. Listen, Andrew.’ Almost before she had finished explaining he exclaimed: ‘But you’re not going, Sappha. The man must be mad. Why can’t he send the woman to hospital? He’s only a GP anyway.’
She answered him patiently. ‘How? There’s no ambulance in the village—how could she be brought over the causeway or put in a boat on a night like this, and then be driven miles?’ She added stubbornly: ‘He’s perfectly able to deal with it himself if he must.’ As she spoke she was astonished to find that she believed what she was saying.
She went to the door and took down her raincoat and started to put it on; Andrew strode across the little room and caught hold of her.
‘Sappha, you’re not to go. Let him manage as best he can.’ His voice held a faint sneer.
‘He wants your help,’ she reminded him as she evaded his hand and tied on her head-scarf. Andrew flung away and went to sit in one of the chairs. ‘I have no intention of going. I don’t even know that the fellow’s a doctor—after all, he’s a foreigner, supposing the woman were to die—my reputation—I have myself to consider.’
Sappha turned away without a word. It was funny to think that if this hadn’t happened she might have decided to go back to London, if not immediately, then in a short time, not because Andrew had wanted her to, but for some vague reason of her own which lurked somewhere at the back of her mind, and there was too much on that at the moment for her to give it a second thought. She had to help Rolf, of that she was certain. Not looking at Andrew she said. ‘Come along,’ to the boy and pausing only long enough to ask Mrs MacGregor to send a message to the Manse, she followed the boy out into the storm.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/betti-nils/tangled-autumn/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.