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The Right Kind of Girl
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.A CAREER HAD TO COME FIRST…DIDN’T IT? When Kate and her mother were left in financial difficulty, she had little choice but to become Lady Cowder’s housekeeper. Kate’s only salvation was her dream of starting her own catering business.Ideas of love and marriage would have to wait— until Lady Cowder’s nephew came to visit. James instantly knew that Kate did not belong “downstairs.” And he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her.…



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u75d75a3a-c76b-5bf9-a028-116016f10cf6)
Excerpt (#u88587f1b-290a-54e7-9e20-b8ff65cbd7da)
About the Author (#u2d8f6802-a749-56d9-90bb-134a92be5d8e)
Title Page (#uf91f5810-1b54-57bb-9cf8-947a6a0ff172)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua760fd75-0472-5936-b56d-528561d4e436)
CHAPTER TWO (#u712572a7-29b6-58a1-9bcc-16eab2eb494a)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Preview (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“You’re wasted—bullied by selfish women and changing babies’ nappies.”
“I like babies.” Emma added tartly, “It’s kind of you to bother, but there is no need—”

“How old are you, Emma?”

“Almost twenty-six.”

Sir Paul smiled. “Twenty-five, going on fifteen! I’m forty—do you find that old?”

“Old? Of course not. You’re not yet in your prime. And you don’t feel like forty, do you?”

“At the moment I feel thirty at the most!” He smiled at her and she thought what a very nice smile he had—warm and somehow reassuring.

BABY BOOM

About the Author
BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and a grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. On retirement from nursing Betty started to write, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
Mrs. Neels is always delighted to receive fan letters, but would truly appreciate it if they could be directed to Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd., 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey, TW9 ISR, England.

The Right Kind of Girl
Betty Neels






CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_67c30dc3-3e2c-5456-a32c-b3898f89ff85)
MRS SMITH-DARCY had woken in a bad temper. She reclined, her abundant proportions supported by a number of pillows, in her bed, not bothering to reply to the quiet ‘good morning’ uttered by the girl who had entered the room; she was not a lady to waste courtesy on those she considered beneath her. Her late husband had left her rich, having made a fortune in pickled onions, and since she had an excellent opinion of herself she found no need to bother with the feelings of anyone whom she considered inferior. And, of course, a paid companion came into that category.
The paid companion crossed the wide expanse of carpet and stood beside the bed, notebook in hand. She looked out of place in the over-furnished, frilly room; a girl of medium height, with pale brown hair smoothed into a French pleat, she had unremarkable features, but her eyes were large, thickly lashed and of a pleasing hazel. She was dressed in a pleated skirt and a white blouse, with a grey cardigan to match the skirt—sober clothes which failed to conceal her pretty figure and elegant legs.
Mrs Smith-Darcy didn’t bother to look at her. ‘You can go to the bank and cash a cheque—the servants want their wages. Do call in at the butcher’s and tell him that I’m not satisfied with the meat he’s sending up to the house. When you get back—and don’t be all day over a couple of errands—you can make an appointment with my hairdresser and get the invitations written for my luncheon party. The list’s on my desk.’
She added pettishly, ‘Well, get on with it, then; there’s plenty of work waiting for you when you get back.’
The girl went out of the room without a word, closed the door quietly behind her and went downstairs to the kitchen where Cook had a cup of coffee waiting for her.
‘Got your orders, Miss Trent? In a mood, is she?’
‘I dare say it’s this weather, Cook. I have to go to the shops. Is there anything I can bring back for you?’
‘Well, now, love, if you could pop into Mr Coffin’s and ask him to send up a couple of pounds of sausages with the meat? They’ll do us a treat for our dinner.’
Emma Trent, battling on her bike against an icy February wind straight from Dartmoor and driving rain, reflected that there could be worse jobs, only just at that moment she couldn’t think of any. It wasn’t just the weather—she had lived in Buckfastleigh all her life and found nothing unusual in that; after all, it was only a mile or so from the heart of the moor with its severe winters.
Bad weather she could dismiss easily enough, but Mrs Smith-Darcy was another matter; a selfish lazy woman, uncaring of anyone’s feelings but her own, she was Emma’s daily trial, but her wages put the butter on the bread of Emma’s mother’s small pension so she had to be borne. Jobs weren’t all that easy to find in a small rural town, and if she went to Plymouth or even Ashburton it would mean living away from home, whereas now they managed very well, although there was never much money over.
Her errands done, and with the sausages crammed into a pocket, since Mr Coffin had said that he wasn’t sure if he could deliver the meat before the afternoon, she cycled back to the large house on the other side of the town where her employer lived, parked her bike by the side-door and went into the kitchen. There she handed over the sausages, hung her sopping raincoat to dry and went along to the little cubby-hole where she spent most of her days—making out cheques for the tradesmen, making appointments, writing notes and keeping the household books. When she wasn’t doing that, she arranged the flowers, and answered the door if Alice, the housemaid, was busy or having her day off.
‘Never a dull moment,’ said Emma to her reflection as she tidied her hair and dried the rain from her face. The buzzer Mrs Smith-Darcy used whenever she demanded Emma’s presence was clamouring to be answered, and she picked up her notebook and pencil and went unhurriedly upstairs.
Mrs Smith-Darcy had heaved herself out of bed and was sitting before the dressingtable mirror, doing her face. She didn’t look up from the task of applying mascara. ‘I have been buzzing you for several minutes,’ she observed crossly. ‘Where have you been? Really, a great, strong girl like you should have done those few errands in twenty minutes…’
Emma said mildly, ‘I’m not a great, strong girl, Mrs Smith-Darcy, and cycling into the wind isn’t the quickest way of travelling. Besides, I got wet—’
‘Don’t make childish excuses. Really, Miss Trent, I sometimes wonder if you are up to this job. Heaven knows, it’s easy enough.’
Emma knew better than to answer that. Instead she asked, ‘You wanted me to do something for you, Mrs Smith-Darcy?’
‘Tell Cook I want my coffee in half an hour. I shall be out to lunch, and while I’m gone you can fetch Frou-Frou from the vet. I shall need Vickery with the car so I suppose you had better get a taxi—it wouldn’t do for Frou-Frou to get wet. You can pay and I’ll settle with you later.’
‘I haven’t brought any money with me.’ Emma crossed her fingers behind her back as she spoke, for it was a fib, but on several occasions she had been told to pay for something and that she would be reimbursed later—something which had never happened.
Mrs Smith-Darcy frowned. ‘Really, what an incompetent girl you are.’ She opened her handbag and found a five-pound note. ‘Take this—and I’ll expect the correct change.’
‘I’ll get the driver to write the fare down and sign it,’ said Emma quietly, and something in her voice made Mrs Smith-Darcy look at her.
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘It will set your mind at rest,’ said Emma sweetly. ‘I’ll get those invitations written; I can post them on my way home.’
Mrs Smith-Darcy, who liked to have the last word, was for once unable to think of anything to say as Emma left the room.
It was well after five o’clock when Emma got on to her bike and took herself off home—a small, neat house near the abbey where she and her mother had lived since her father had died several years earlier.
He had died suddenly and unexpectedly, and it hadn’t been until after his death that Mrs Trent had been told that he had mortgaged the house in order to raise the money to help his younger brother, who had been in financial difficulties, under the impression that he would be repaid within a reasonable time. There hadn’t been enough money to pay off the mortgage, so she had sold the house and bought a small terraced house, and, since her brother-in-law had gone abroad without leaving an address, she and Emma now managed on her small pension and Emma’s salary. That she herself was underpaid Emma was well aware, but on the other hand her job allowed her to keep an eye on her mother’s peptic ulcer…
There was an alley behind the row of houses. She wheeled her bike along its length and into their small back garden, put it in the tumbledown shed outside the kitchen door and went into the house.
The kitchen was small, but its walls were distempered in a cheerful pale yellow and there was room for a small table and two chairs against one wall. She took off her outdoor things, carried them through to the narrow little hall and went into the sitting-room. That was small, too, but it was comfortably furnished, although a bit shabby, and there was a cheerful fire burning in the small grate.
Mrs Trent looked up from her sewing. ‘Hello, love. Have you had a tiring day? And so wet and cold too. Supper is in the oven but you’d like a cup of tea first…’
‘I’ll get it.’ Emma dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek and went to make the tea and presently carried it back.
‘Something smells heavenly,’ she observed. ‘What have you been cooking?’
‘Casserole and dumplings. Did you get a proper lunch?’
Emma assured her that she had, with fleeting regret for most of the sausages she hadn’t been given time to eat; Mrs Smith-Darcy had the nasty habit of demanding that some task must be done at once, never mind how inconvenient. She reflected with pleasure that her employer was going away for several days, and although she had been given a list of things to do which would take at least twice that period it would be like having a holiday.
She spent the next day packing Mrs Smith-Darcy’s expensive cases with the clothes necessary to make an impression during her stay at Torquay’s finest hotel—a stay which, she pointed out to Emma, was vital to her health. This remark reminded her to order the central heating to be turned down while she was absent. ‘And I expect an accurate statement of the household expenses.’
Life, after Mrs Smith-Darcy had been driven away by Vickery, the chauffeur, was all of a sudden pleasant.
It was delightful to arrive each morning and get on with her work without having to waste half an hour listening to her employer’s querulous voice raised in criticism about something or other, just as it was delightful to go home each evening at five o’clock exactly.
Over and above this, Cook, unhampered by her employer’s strictures, allowed her creative skills to run free so that they ate food which was never normally allowed—rich steak and kidney pudding with a drop of stout in the gravy, roasted potatoes—crisply brown, toad-in-the-hole, braised celery, cauliflower smothered in a creamy sauce and all followed by steamed puddings, sticky with treacle or bathed in custard.
Emma, eating her dinners in the kitchen with Cook and Alice, the housemaid, savoured every morsel, dutifully entered the bills in her household ledger and didn’t query any of them; she would have to listen to a diatribe about the wicked extravagance of her staff from Mrs Smith-Darcy but it would be worth it, and Cook had given her a cake to take home, declaring that she had made two when one would have done.
On the last day of Mrs Smith-Darcy’s absence from home Emma arrived in good time. There were still one or two tasks to do before that lady returned—the flowers to arrange, the last of the post to sort out and have ready for her inspection, a list of the invitations accepted for the luncheon party…
She almost fell off her bike as she shot through the gates into the short drive to the house. The car was before the door and Vickery was taking the cases out of the boot. He cast his eyes up as she jumped off her bike.
‘Took bad,’ he said. ‘During the night. ‘Ad the doctor to see ‘er—gave her an injection and told ‘er it were a bug going round—gastric something or other. Alice is putting ‘er to bed, miss. You’d better go up sharp, like.’
‘Oh, Vickery, you must have had to get up very early—it’s only just nine o’clock.’
‘That I did, miss.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll see to yer bike.’
‘Thank you, Vickery. I’m sure Cook will have breakfast for you.’
She took off her outdoor things and went upstairs. Mrs Smith-Darcy’s door was closed but she could hear her voice raised in annoyance. She couldn’t be very ill if she could shout like that, thought Emma, opening the door.
‘There you are—never where you’re wanted, as usual. I’m ill—very ill. That stupid doctor who came to the hotel told me it was some kind of virus. I don’t believe him. I’m obviously suffering from some grave internal disorder. Go and phone Dr Treble and tell him to come at once.’
‘He’ll be taking surgery,’ Emma pointed out reasonably. ‘I’ll ask him to come as soon as he’s finished.’ She studied Mrs Smith-Darcy’s face. ‘Are you in great pain? Did the doctor at Torquay advise you to go to a hospital for emergency treatment?’
‘Of course not. If I need anything done I shall go into a private hospital. I am in great pain—agony…’ She didn’t quite meet Emma’s level gaze. ‘Do as I tell you; I must be attended to at once.’
She was in bed now, having her pillows arranged just so by the timid Alice. Emma didn’t think that she looked in pain; certainly her rather high colour was normal, and if she had been in the agony she described then she wouldn’t have been fussing about her pillows and which bed-jacket she would wear. She went downstairs and dialled the surgery.
The receptionist answered. ‘Emma—how are you? Your mother’s all right? She looked well when I saw her a few days ago.’
‘Mother’s fine, thanks, Mrs Butts. Mrs Smith-Darcy came back this morning from a few days at Torquay. She wasn’t well during the night and the hotel called a doctor who told her it was a bug and that she had better go home—he gave her something—I don’t know what. She says she is in great pain and wants Dr Treble to come and see her immediately.’
‘The surgery isn’t finished—it’ll be another half an hour or so, unless she’d like to be brought here in her car.’ Mrs Butts chuckled. ‘And that’s unlikely, isn’t it?’ She paused. ‘Is she really ill, Emma?’
‘Her colour is normal; she’s very cross…’
‘When isn’t she very cross? I’ll ask Doctor to visit when surgery is over, but, I warn you, if there’s anything really urgent he’ll have to see to it first.’
Emma went back to Mrs Smith-Darcy and found her sitting up in bed renewing her make-up. ‘You’re feeling better? Would you like coffee or tea? Or something to eat?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Trent; can you not see how I’m suffering? Is the doctor on his way?’
‘He’ll come when surgery is finished—about half an hour, Mrs Butts said.’
‘Mrs Butts? Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t speak to Dr Treble?’
‘No, he was busy with a patient.’
‘I am a patient,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy in a furious voice.
Emma, as mild as milk and unmoved, said, ‘Yes, Mrs Smith-Darcy. I’ll be back in a minute; I’m going to open the post while I’ve the chance.’
There must be easier ways of earning a living, she reflected, going down to the kitchen to ask Cook to make lemonade.
She bore the refreshment upstairs presently, and took it down again as her employer didn’t find it sweet enough. When she went back with it she was kept busy closing curtains because the dim light from the February morning was hurting the invalid’s eyes, then fetching another blanket to put over her feet, and changing the bed-jacket she had on, which wasn’t the right colour…
‘Now go and fetch my letters,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy.
Perhaps, thought Emma, nipping smartly downstairs once more, Dr Treble would prescribe something which would soothe the lady and cause her to doze off for long periods. Certainly at the moment Mrs Smith-Darcy had no intention of doing any such thing.
Emma, proffering her post, got the full force of her displeasure.
‘Bills,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy. ‘Nothing but bills!’ And went on that doubtless, while her back was turned, those whom she employed had eaten her out of house and home, and as for an indigent nephew who had had the effrontery to ask her for a small loan…’ ‘Anyone would think that I was made of money,’ she said angrily—which was, in fact, not far wrong.
The richer you are, the meaner you get, reflected Emma, retrieving envelopes and bills scattered over the bed and on the floor.
She was on her knees with her back to the door when it was opened and Alice said, ‘The doctor, ma’am,’ and something in her voice made Emma turn around. It wasn’t Dr Treble but a complete stranger who, from her lowly position, looked enormous.
Indeed, he was a big man; not only very tall but built to match his height, he was also possessed of a handsome face with a high-bridged nose and a firm mouth. Pepper and salt hair, she had time to notice, and on the wrong side of thirty. She was aware of his barely concealed look of amusement as she got to her feet.
‘Get up, girl,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy and then added, ‘I sent for Dr Treble.’ She took a second look at him and altered her tone. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’
He crossed the room to the bed. ‘Dr Wyatt. I have taken over from Dr Treble for a short period. What can I do for you, Mrs Smith-Darcy? I received a message that it was urgent.’
‘Oh, Doctor, I have had a shocking experience—’ She broke off for a moment. ‘Miss Trent, get the doctor a chair.’
But before Emma could move he had picked up a spindly affair and sat on it, seemingly unaware of the alarming creaks; at the same time he had glanced at her again with the ghost of a smile. Nice, thought Emma, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. I hope that he will see through her. At least she won’t be able to bully him like she does Dr Treble.
Her hopes were justified. Mrs Smith-Darcy, prepared to discuss her symptoms at some length, found herself answering his questions with no chance of embellishment, although she did her best.
‘You dined last evening?’ he wanted to know. ‘What exactly did you eat and drink?’
‘The hotel is noted for its excellent food,’ she gushed. ‘It’s expensive, of course, but one has to pay for the best, does one not?’ She waited for him to make some comment and then, when he didn’t, added pettishly, ‘Well, a drink before I dined, of course, and some of the delightful canapés they serve. I have a small appetite but I managed a little caviare. Then, let me see, a morsel of sole with a mushroom sauce—cooked in cream, of course—and then a simply delicious pheasant with an excellent selection of vegetables.’
‘And?’ asked Dr Wyatt, his voice as bland as his face.
‘Oh, dessert—meringue with a chocolate sauce laced with curaao—a small portion, I might add.’ She laughed. ‘A delicious meal—’
‘And the reason for your gastric upset. There is nothing seriously wrong, Mrs Smith-Darcy, and it can be easily cured by taking some tablets which you can obtain from the chemist and then keeping to a much plainer diet in future. I’m sure that your daughter—’
‘My paid companion,’ snapped Mrs Smith-Darcy. ‘I am a lonely widow, Doctor, and able to get about very little.’
‘I suggest that you take regular exercise each day—a brisk walk, perhaps.’
Mrs Smith-Darcy shuddered. ‘I feel that you don’t understand my delicate constitution, Doctor; I hope that I shan’t need to call you again.’
‘I think it unlikely; I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with you, Mrs Smith-Darcy. You will feel better if you get up and dress.’
He bade her goodbye with cool courtesy. ‘I will give your companion some instructions and write a prescription for some tablets.’
Emma opened the door for him, but he took the handle from her and ushered her through before closing it gently behind him.
‘Is there somewhere we might go?’
‘Yes—yes, of course.’ She led the way downstairs and into her office.
He looked around him. ‘This is where you work at being a companion?’
‘Yes. Well, I do the accounts and bills and write the letters here. Most of the time I’m with Mrs Smith-Darcy.’
‘But you don’t live here?’ He had a pleasant, deep voice, quite quiet and soothing, and she answered his questions readily because he sounded so casual.
‘No, I live in Buckfastleigh with my mother.’
‘A pleasant little town. I prefer the other end, though, nearer the abbey.’
‘Oh, so do I; that’s where we are…’ She stopped there; he wouldn’t want to know anything about her— they were strangers, not likely to see each other again. ‘Is there anything special I should learn about Mrs Smith-Darcy?’
‘No, she is perfectly healthy although very overweight. Next time she overeats try to persuade her to take one of these tablets instead of calling the doctor.’ He was writing out a prescription and paused to look at her. ‘You’re wasted here, you know.’
She blushed. ‘I’ve not had any training—at least, only shorthand and typing and a little bookkeeping—and there aren’t many jobs here.’
‘You don’t wish to leave home?’
‘No. I can’t do that. Is Dr Treble ill?’
‘Yes, he’s in hospital. He has had a heart attack and most likely will retire.’
She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I’m very sorry. You don’t want me to tell Mrs Smith-Darcy?’
‘No. In a little while the practice will be taken over by another doctor.’
‘You?’
He smiled. ‘No, no. I’m merely filling in until things have been settled.’
He gave her the prescription and closed his bag. The hand he offered was large and very firm and she wanted to keep her hand in his. He was, she reflected, a very nice man—dependable; he would make a splendid friend. It was such an absurd idea that she smiled and he decided that her smile was enchanting.
She went to the door with him and saw the steel-grey Rolls Royce parked in the drive. ‘Is that yours?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He sounded amused and she begged his pardon and went pink again and stood, rather prim, in the open door until he got in and drove away.
She turned, and went in and up to the bedroom to find Mrs Smith-Darcy decidedly peevish. ‘Really, I don’t know what is coming to the medical profession,’ she began, the moment Emma opened the door. ‘Nothing wrong with me, indeed; I never heard such nonsense.
I’m thoroughly upset. Go down and get my coffee and some of those wine biscuits.’
‘I have a prescription for you, Mrs Smith-Darcy,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll fetch it while you’re getting dressed, shall I?’
‘I have no intention of dressing. You can go to the chemist while I’m having my coffee—and don’t hang around. There’s plenty for you to do here.’
When she got back Mrs Smith-Darcy asked, ‘What has happened to Dr Treble? I hope that that man is replacing him for a very short time; I have no wish to see him again.’
To which remark Emma prudently made no answer. Presently she went off to the kitchen to tell Cook that her mistress fancied asparagus soup made with single cream and a touch of parsley, and two lamb cutlets with creamed potatoes and braised celery in a cheese sauce. So much for the new doctor’s advice, reflected Emma, ordered down to the cellar to fetch a bottle of Bollinger to tempt the invalid’s appetite.
That evening, sitting at supper with her mother, Emma told her of the new doctor. ‘He was nice. I expect if you were really ill he would take the greatest care of you.’
‘Elderly?’ asked Mrs Trent artlessly.
‘Something between thirty and thirty-five, I suppose. Pepper and salt hair…’
A not very satisfactory answer from her mother’s point of view.

February, tired of being winter, became spring for a couple of days, and Emma, speeding to and fro from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, had her head full of plans—a day out with her mother on the following Sunday. She could rent a car from Dobbs’s garage and drive her mother to Widecombe in the Moor and then on to Bovey Tracey; they could have lunch there and then go on back home through Ilsington—no main roads, just a quiet jaunt around the country they both loved.
She had been saving for a tweed coat and skirt, but she told herself that since she seldom went anywhere, other than a rare visit to Exeter or Plymouth, they could wait until autumn. She and her mother both needed a day out…
The weather was kind; Sunday was bright and clear, even if cold. Emma got up early, fed Queenie, their elderly cat, took tea to her mother and got the breakfast and, while Mrs Trent cleared it away, went along to the garage and fetched the car.
Mr Dobbs had known her father and was always willing to rent her a car, letting her have it at a reduced price since it was usually the smallest and shabbiest in his garage, though in good order, as he was always prompt to tell her. Today she was to have an elderly Fiat, bright red and with all the basic comforts, but, she was assured, running well. Emma, casting her eye over it, had a momentary vision of a sleek Rolls Royce…
They set off in the still, early morning and, since they had the day before them, Emma drove to Ashburton and presently took the narrow moor road to Widecombe, where they stopped for coffee before driving on to Bovey Tracey. It was too early for lunch, so they drove on then to Lustleigh, an ancient village deep in the moorland, the hills around it dotted with granite boulders. But although the houses and cottages were built of granite there was nothing forbidding about them—they were charming even on a chilly winter’s day, the thatched roofs gleaming with the last of the previous night’s frost, smoke eddying gently from their chimney-pots.
Scattered around the village were several substantial houses, tucked cosily between the hills. They were all old—as old as the village—and several of them were prosperous farms while others stood in sheltered grounds.
‘I wouldn’t mind living here,’ said Emma as they passed one particularly handsome house, standing well back from the narrow road, the hills at its back, sheltered by carefully planted trees. ‘Shall we go as far as Lustleigh Cleave and take a look at the river?’
After that it was time to find somewhere for lunch. Most of the cafés and restaurants in the little town were closed, since the tourist season was still several months away, but they found a pub where they were served roast beef with all the trimmings and home-made mince tarts to follow.
Watching her mother’s pleasure at the simple, wellcooked meal, Emma promised herself that they would do a similar trip before the winter ended, while the villages were quiet and the roads almost empty.
It was still fine weather but the afternoon was already fading, and she had promised to return the car by seven o’clock at the latest. They decided to drive straight home and have tea when they got in, and since it was still a clear afternoon they decided to take a minor road through Ilsington. Emma had turned off the main road on to the small country lane when her mother slumped in her seat without uttering a sound. Emma stopped the car and turned to look at her unconscious parent.
She said, ‘Mother—Mother, whatever is the matter…?’ And then she pulled herself together—bleating her name wasn’t going to help. She undid her safetybelt, took her mother’s pulse and called her name again, but Mrs Trent lolled in her seat, her eyes closed. At least Emma could feel her pulse, and her breathing seemed normal.
Emma looked around her. The lane was narrow; she would never be able to turn the car and there was little point in driving on as Ilsington was a small village—too small for a doctor. She pulled a rug from the back seat and wrapped it round her mother and was full of thankful relief when Mrs Trent opened her eyes, but the relief was short-lived. Mrs Trent gave a groan. ‘Emma, it’s such a pain, I don’t think I can bear it…’
There was only one thing to do—to reverse the car back down the lane, return to the main road and race back to Bovey Tracey.
‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said Emma. ‘It’s not far to Bovey…There’s the cottage hospital there; they’ll help you.’
She began to reverse, going painfully slowly since the lane curved between high hedges, and it was a good thing she did, for the oncoming car behind her braked smoothly inches from her boot. She got out so fast that she almost tumbled over; here was help! She had no eyes for the other car but rushed to poke her worried face through the window that its driver had just opened.
‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, you can help. Only, please come quickly.’ Dr. Wyatt didn’t utter a word but he was beside her before she could draw another breath. ‘Mother—it’s Mother; she’s collapsed and she’s in terrible pain. I couldn’t turn the car and this lane goes to Ilsington, and it’s on the moor miles from anywhere…’
He put a large, steadying hand on her arm. ‘Shall I take a look?’
Mrs Trent was a nasty pasty colour and her hand, when he took it, felt cold and clammy. Emma, half-in, half-out of the car on her side, said, ‘Mother’s got an ulcer—a peptic ulcer; she takes alkaline medicine and small meals and extra milk.’
He was bending over Mrs Trent. ‘Will you undo her coat and anything else in the way? I must take a quick look. I’ll fetch my bag.’
He straightened up presently. ‘Your mother needs to be treated without delay. I’ll put her into my car and drive to Exeter. You follow as soon as you can.’
‘Yes.’ She cast him a bewildered look.
‘Problems?’ he asked.
‘I rented the car from Dobbs’s garage; it has to be back by seven o’clock.’
‘I’m going to give your mother an injection to take away the pain. Go to my car; there’s a phone between the front seats. Phone this Dobbs, tell him what has happened and say that you’ll bring the car back as soon as possible.’ He turned his back on Mrs Trent, looming over Emma so that she had to crane her neck to see his face. ‘I am sure that your mother has a perforated ulcer, which means surgery as soon as possible.’
She stared up at him, pale with shock, unable to think of anything to say. She nodded once and ran back to his car, and by the time she had made her call she had seen him lift her mother gently and carry her to the car. They made her comfortable on the back seat and Emma was thankful to see that her mother appeared to be dozing. ‘She’ll be all right? You’ll hurry, won’t you? I’ll drive on until I can turn and then I’ll come to the hospital— which one?’
‘The Royal Devon and Exeter—you know where it is?’ He got into his car and began to reverse down the lane. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, she would have stayed to admire the way he did it—with the same ease as if he were going forwards.
She got into her car, then, and drove on for a mile or more before she came to a rough track leading on to the moor, where she reversed and drove back the way she had come. She was shaking now, in a panic that her mother was in danger of her life and she wouldn’t reach the hospital in time, but she forced herself to drive carefully. Once she reached the main road and turned on to the carriageway, it was only thirteen miles to Exeter…
She forced herself to park the car neatly in the hospital forecourt and walk, not run, in through the casualty entrance. There, thank heaven, they knew who she was and why she had come. Sister, a cosy body with a soft Devon voice, came to meet her.
‘Miss Trent? Your mother in is Theatre; the professor is operating at the moment. You come and sit down in the waiting-room and a nurse will bring you a cup of tea—you look as though you could do with it. Your mother is in very good hands, and as soon as she is back in her bed you shall go and see her. In a few minutes I should like some details, but you have your tea first.’
Emma nodded; if she had spoken she would have burst into tears; her small world seemed to be tumbling around her ears. She drank her tea, holding the cup in both hands since she was still shaking, and presently, when Sister came back, she gave her the details she needed in a wooden little voice. ‘Will it be much longer?’ she asked.
Sister glanced at the clock. ‘Not long now. I’m sure you’ll be told the moment the operation is finished. Will you go back to Buckfastleigh this evening?’
‘Could I stay here? I could sit here, couldn’t I? I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.’
‘If you are to stay we’ll do better than that, my dear. Do you want to telephone anyone?’
Emma shook her head. ‘There’s only Mother and me.’ She tried to smile and gave a great sniff. ‘So sorry, it’s all happened so suddenly.’
‘You have a nice cry if you want to. I must go and see what’s happening. There’s been a street-fight and we’ll be busy…’
Emma sat still and didn’t cry—when she saw her mother she must look cheerful—so that when somebody came at last she turned a rigidly controlled face to hear the news.
Dr Wyatt was crossing the room to her. ‘Your mother is going to be all right, Emma.’ And then he held her in his arms as she burst into tears.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c18271f0-ca43-5b8c-a652-91281b459eaa)
EMMA didn’t cry for long but hiccuped, sniffed, sobbed a bit and drew away from him to blow her nose on the handkerchief he offered her.
‘You’re sure? Was it a big operation? Were you in the theatre?’
‘Well, yes. It was quite a major operation but successful, I’m glad to say. You may see your mother; she will be semi-conscious but she’ll know that you are there. She’s in Intensive Care just for tonight. Tomorrow she will go to a ward—’ He broke off as Sister joined them.
‘They’re wanting you on Male Surgical, sir—urgently.’
He nodded at Emma and went away.
‘Mother’s going to get well,’ said Emma. She heaved a great sigh. ‘What would I have done if Dr Wyatt hadn’t been driving down the lane when Mother was taken ill? He works here as well as taking over the practice at home?’
Sister looked surprised and then smiled. ‘Indeed he works here; he’s our Senior Consultant Surgeon, although he’s supposed to be taking a sabbatical, but I hear he’s helping out Dr Treble for a week or two.’
‘So he’s a surgeon, not a GP?’
Sister smiled again. ‘Sir Paul Wyatt is a professor of surgery, and much in demand for consultations, lecturetours and seminars. You were indeed fortunate that he happened to be there when you needed help so urgently.’
‘Would Mother have died, Sister?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘He saved her life…’ She would, reflected Emma, do anything—anything at all—to repay him. Sooner or later there would be a chance. Perhaps not for years, but she wouldn’t forget.
She was taken to see her mother then, who was lying in a tangle of tubes, surrounded by monitoring screens but blessedly awake. Emma bent to kiss her white face, her own face almost as white. ‘Darling, everything’s fine; you’re going to be all right. I’ll be here and come and see you in the morning after you’ve had a good sleep.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Queenie,’ she muttered.
‘I’ll phone Mr Dobbs and ask him to put some food outside the cat-flap.’
‘Yes, do that, Emma.’ Mrs Trent closed her eyes.
Emma turned at the touch on her arm. ‘You’re going to stay for the night?’ A pretty, young nurse smiled at her. ‘There’s a rest-room on the ground floor; we’ll call you if there’s any need but I think your mother will sleep until the morning. You can see her before you go home then.’
Emma nodded. ‘Is there a phone?’
‘Yes, just by the rest-room, and there’s a canteen down the corridor where you can get tea and sandwiches.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Emma took a last look at her mother and went to the rest-room. There was no one else there and there were comfortable chairs and a table with magazines on it. As she hesitated at the door the sister from Casualty joined her.
‘There’s a washroom just across the passage. Try and sleep a little, won’t you?’
When she had hurried away Emma picked up the phone. Mr Dobbs was sympathetic and very helpful—of course he’d see to Queenie, and Emma wasn’t to worry about the car. ‘Come back when you feel you can, love,’ he told her. ‘And you’d better keep the car for a day or two so’s you can see your ma as often as possible.’
Mrs Smith-Darcy was an entirely different kettle of fish. ‘My luncheon party,’ she exclaimed. ‘You will have to come back tomorrow morning and see to it; I am not strong enough to cope with it—you know how delicate I am. It is most inconsiderate of you…’
‘My mother,’ said Emma, between her teeth, ‘in case you didn’t hear what I have told you, is dangerously ill. I shall stay here with her as long as necessary. And you are not in the least delicate, Mrs Smith-Darcy, only spoilt and lazy and very selfish!’
She hung up, her ear shattered by Mrs Smith-Darcy’s furious bellow. Well, she had burnt her boats, cooked her goose and would probably be had up for libel—or was it slander? She didn’t care. She had given voice to sentiments she had choked back for more than a year and she didn’t care.
She felt better after her outburst, even though she was now out of work. She drank some tea and ate sandwiches from the canteen, resisted a wish to go in search of someone and ask about her mother, washed her face and combed her hair, plaited it and settled in the easiest of the chairs. Underneath her calm front panic and fright bubbled away.
Her mother might have a relapse; she had looked so dreadfully ill. She would need to be looked after for weeks, which was something Emma would do with loving care, but they would be horribly short of money. There was no one around, so she was able to shed a few tears; she was lonely and scared and tired. She mumbled her prayers and fell asleep before she had finished them.

Sir Paul Wyatt, coming to check his patient’s condition at two o’clock in the morning and satisfied with it, took himself down to the rest-room. If Emma was awake he would be able to reassure her…
She was curled up in the chair, her knees drawn up under her chin, the half of her face he could see tearstained, her thick rope of hair hanging over one shoulder. She looked very young and entirely without glamour, and he knew that when she woke in the morning she would have a job uncoiling herself from the tight ball into which she had wound herself.
He went and fetched a blanket from Casualty and laid it carefully over her; she was going to be stiff in the morning—there was no need for her to be cold as well. He put his hand lightly on her hair, touched by the sight of her, and then smiled and frowned at the sentimental gesture and went away again.

Emma woke early, roused by a burst of activity in Casualty, and just as Sir Paul Wyatt had foreseen, discovered that she was stiff and cramped. She got up awkwardly, folding the blanket neatly, and wondered who had been kind during the night. Then she went to wash her face and comb her hair.
Even with powder and lipstick she still looked a mess—not that it mattered, since there was no one to see her. She rubbed her cheeks to get some colour into them and practised a smile in the looking-glass so that her mother would see how cheerful and unworried she was. She would have to drive back to Buckfastleigh after she had visited her and somehow she would come each day to see her, although at the moment she wasn’t sure how. Of one thing she was sure—Mrs Smith-Darcy would have dismissed her out-of-hand, so she would have her days free.
She drank tea and polished off some toast in the canteen, then went to find someone who would tell her when she might see her mother. She didn’t have far to go— coming towards her along the passage was Sir Paul Wyatt, immaculate in clerical grey and spotless linen, freshly shaved, his shoes brilliantly polished. She wished him a good morning and, without waiting for him to answer, asked, ‘Mother—is she all right? May I see her?’
‘She had a good night, and of course you may see her.’
He stood looking at her, and the relief at his words was somewhat mitigated by knowing that her scruffy appearance seemed even more scruffy in contrast to his elegance. She rushed into speech to cover her awkwardness. ‘They have been very kind to me here…’
He nodded with faint impatience—of course, he was a busy man and hadn’t any time to waste. ‘I’ll go to Mother now,’ she told him. ‘I’m truly grateful to you for saving Mother. She’s going to be quite well again, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but you must allow time for her to regain her strength. I’ll take you up to the ward on my way.’
She went with him silently, through corridors and then in a lift and finally through swing-doors where he beckoned a nurse, spoke briefly, then turned on his heel with a quick nod, leaving her to follow the nurse into the ward beyond.
Her mother wasn’t in the ward but in a small room beyond, sitting up in bed. She looked pale and tired but she was smiling, and Emma had to fight her strong wish to burst into tears at the sight of her. She smiled instead. ‘Mother, dear, you look so much better. How do you feel? And how nice that you’re in a room by yourself…’
She bent and kissed her parent. ‘I’ve just seen Sir Paul Wyatt and he says everything is most satisfactory.’ She pulled up a chair and sat by the bed, taking her mother’s hand in hers. ‘What a coincidence that he should be here. Sister told me that he’s a professor of surgery.’
Her mother smiled. ‘Yes, love, and I’m fine. I really am. You’re to go home now and not worry.’
‘Yes, Mother. I’ll phone this evening and I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you want me to bring anything? I’ll pack nighties and slippers and so on and bring them with me.’
Her mother closed her eyes. ‘Yes, you know what to bring…’
Emma bent to kiss her again. ‘I’m going now; you’re tired. Have a nap, darling.’
It was still early; patients were being washed and tended before the breakfast trolley arrived. Emma was too early for the ward sister but the night staff nurse assured her that she would be told if anything unforeseen occurred. ‘But your mother is most satisfactory, Miss Trent. The professor’s been to see her already; he came in the night too. He’s away for most of the day but his registrar is a splendid man. Ring this evening, if you like. You’ll be coming tomorrow?’
Emma nodded. ‘Can I come any time?’
‘Afternoon or evening is best.’
Emma went down to the car and drove herself back to Buckfastleigh. As she went she planned her day. She would have to go and see Mrs Smith-Darcy and explain that she wouldn’t be able to work for her any more. That lady was going to be angry and she supposed that she would have to apologise…She was owed a week’s wages too, and she would need it.
Perhaps Mr Dobbs would let her hire the car each day just for the drive to and from the hospital; it would cost more than bus fares but it would be much quicker. She would have to go to the bank too; there wasn’t much money there but she was prepared to spend the lot if necessary. It was too early to think about anything but the immediate future.
She took the car back to the garage and was warmed by Mr Dobbs’s sympathy and his assurance that if she needed it urgently she had only to say so. ‘And no hurry to pay the bill,’ he promised her.
She went home then, and fed an anxious Queenie before making coffee. She was hungry, but it was past nine o’clock by now and Mrs Smith-Darcy would have to be faced before anything else. She had a shower, changed into her usual blouse, skirt and cardigan, did her face, brushed her hair into its usual smoothness and got on to her bike.
Alice opened the door to her. ‘Oh, miss, whatever’s happened? The mistress is in a fine state. Cook says come and have a cup of tea before you go up to her room; you’ll need all your strength.’
‘How kind of Cook,’ said Emma. ‘I think I’d rather have it afterwards, if I may.’ She ran upstairs and tapped on Mrs Smith-Darcy’s door and went in.
Mrs Smith-Darcy wasted no time in expressing her opinion of Emma; she repeated it several times before she ran out of breath, which enabled Emma to say, ‘I’m sorry if I was rude to you on the phone, Mrs Smith-Darcy, but you didn’t seem to understand that my mother was seriously ill—still is. I shall have to go to the hospital each day until she is well enough to come home, when I shall have to look after her until she is quite recovered—and that will take a considerable time.’
‘My luncheon party,’ gabbled Mrs Smith-Darcy. ‘You wicked girl, leaving me like this. I’m incapable…’
Emma’s efforts to behave well melted away. ‘Yes, you are incapable,’ she agreed. ‘You’re incapable of sympathy or human kindness. I suggest that you get up, Mrs Smith-Darcy, and see to your luncheon party yourself. I apologised to you just now—that was a mistake. You’re everything I said and a lot more beside.’
She went out of the room and closed the door gently behind here. Then she opened it again. ‘Will you be good enough to send my wages to my home?’ She closed the door again on Mrs Smith-Darcy’s enraged gasp.
She was shaking so much that her teeth rattled against the mug of tea Cook offered her.
‘Now, don’t you mind what she says,’ said Cook. ‘Nasty old lady she is, too. You go on home and have a good sleep, for you’re fair worn out. I’ve put up a pasty and one or two snacks, like; you take them home and if you’ve no time to cook you just slip round here to the back door—there’s always a morsel of something in the fridge.’
The dear soul’s kindness was enough to make Emma weep; she sniffed instead, gave Cook a hug and then got on her bike and cycled home, where she did exactly what that lady had told her to do—undressed like lightning and got into bed. She was asleep within minutes.
She woke suddenly to the sound of the door-knocker being thumped.
‘Mother,’ said Emma, and scrambled out of bed, her heart thumping as loudly as the knocker. Not bothering with slippers, she tugged her dressing-gown on as she flew downstairs. It was already dusk; she had slept for hours—too long—she should have phoned the hospital. She turned the key in the lock and flung the door open.
Professor Sir Paul Wyatt was on the doorstep. He took the door from her and came in and shut it behind him. ‘It is most unwise to open your door without putting up the chain or making sure that you know who it is.’
She eyed him through a tangle of hair. ‘How can I know if I don’t look first, and there isn’t a chain?’ Her half-awake brain remembered then.
‘Mother—what’s happened? Why are you here?’ She caught at his sleeve. ‘She’s worse…’
His firm hand covered hers. ‘Your mother is doing splendidly; she’s an excellent patient. I’m sorry, I should have realised…You were asleep.’
She curled her cold toes on the hall carpet and nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep for so long; it’s getting dark.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why are you here, then?’
‘I’m on my way home, but it has occurred to me that I shall be taking morning surgery here for the next week or two. I’ll drive you up to Exeter after my morning visits and bring you back in time for evening surgery here.’
‘Oh, would you? Would you really do that? How very kind of you, but won’t it be putting you out? Sister said that you were taking a sabbatical, and that means you’re on holiday, doesn’t it?’
‘Hardly a holiday, and I’m free to go in and out as I wish.’
‘But you live in Exeter?’
‘No, but not far from it; I shall not be in the least inconvenienced.’
She looked at him uncertainly, for he sounded casual and a little annoyed, but before she could speak he went on briskly, ‘You’d better go and put some clothes on. Have you food in the house?’
‘Yes, thank you. Cook gave me a pasty.’ She was suddenly hungry at the thought of it. ‘It was kind of you to come. I expect you want to go home—your days are long…’
He smiled. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea while you dress, and while we are drinking it I can explain exactly what I’ve done for your mother.’
She flew upstairs and flung on her clothes, washed her face and tied back her hair. Never mind how she looked—he wouldn’t notice and he must be wanting to go home, wherever that was.
She perceived that he was a handy man in the kitchen—the tea was made, Queenie had been fed, and he had found a tin of biscuits.
‘No milk, I’m afraid,’ he said, not looking up from pouring the tea into two mugs. And then, very much to her surprise he asked, ‘Have you sufficient money?’
‘Yes—yes, thank you, and Mrs Smith-Darcy owes me a week’s wages.’ Probably in the circumstances she wouldn’t get them, but he didn’t need to know that.
He nodded, handed her a mug and said, ‘Now, as to your mother…’
He explained simply in dry-as-dust words which were neither threatening nor casual. ‘Your mother will stay in hospital for a week—ten days, perhaps—then I propose to send her to a convalescent home—there is a good one at Moretonhampstead, not too far from here—just for a few weeks. When she returns home she should be more or less able to resume her normal way of living, although she will have to keep to some kind of a diet. Time enough for that, however. Will you stay here alone?’ He glanced at her. ‘Perhaps you have family or a friend who would come…?’
‘No family—at least, father had some cousins somewhere in London but they don’t—that is, since he died we haven’t heard from them. I’ve friends all over Buckfastleigh, though. If I asked one of them I know they’d come and stay but there’s no need. I’m not nervous; besides, I’ll try and find some temporary work until Mother comes home.’
‘Mrs Smith-Darcy has given you the sack?’
‘I’m sure of it. I was very rude to her this morning.’ Anxious not to invite his pity, she added, ‘There’s always part-time work here—the abbey shop or the otter sanctuary.’ True enough during the season—some months away!
He put down his mug. ‘Good. I’ll call for you some time after twelve o’clock tomorrow morning.’ His goodbye was brief.
Left alone, she put the pasty to warm in the oven, washed the mugs and laid out a tray. The house was cold—there had never been enough money for central heating, and it was too late to make a fire in the sitting-room. She ate her supper, had a shower and went to bed, reassured by her visitor’s calm manner and his certainty that her mother was going to be all right. He was nice, she thought sleepily, and not a bit pompous. She slept on the thought.

It was raining hard when she woke and there was a vicious wind driving off the moor. She had breakfast and hurried round to Dobbs’s garage to use his phone. Her mother had had a good night, she was told, and was looking forward to seeing her later—reassuring news, which sent her back to give the good news to Queenie and then do the housework while she planned all the things she would do before her mother came home.
She had a sandwich and a cup of coffee well before twelve o’clock, anxious not to keep the professor waiting, so that when he arrived a few minutes before that hour she was in her coat, the house secure, Queenie settled in her basket and the bag she had packed for her mother ready in the hall.
He wished her a friendly good morning, remarked upon the bad weather and swept her into the car and drove away without wasting a moment. Conversation, she soon discovered, wasn’t going to flourish in the face of his monosyllabic replies to her attempts to make small talk. She decided that he was tired or mulling over his patients and contented herself with watching the bleak landscape around them.
At the hospital he said, ‘Will half-past four suit you? Be at the main entrance, will you?’ He added kindly, ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased with your mother’s progress.’ He got out of the car and opened her door, waited while she went in and then, contrary to her surmise, drove out of the forecourt and out of the city. Emma, unaware of this, expecting him to be about his own business in the hospital, made her way to her mother’s room and forgot him at once.
Her mother was indeed better—pale still, and hung around with various tubes, but her hair had been nicely brushed and when Emma had helped her into her pink bed-jacket she looked very nearly her old self.
‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it?’ said Emma, gently embracing her parent. ‘I mean, it’s only forty-eight or so hours and here you are sitting up in bed.’
Mrs Trent, nicely sedated still, agreed drowsily. ‘You brought my knitting? Thank you, dear. Is Queenie all right? And how are you managing to come? It can’t be easy—don’t come every day; it’s such a long way…’
‘Professor Wyatt is standing in for Dr Treble, so he brings me here after morning surgery and takes me back in time for his evening surgery.’
‘That’s nice.’ Mrs Trent gave Emma’s hand a little squeeze. ‘So I’ll see you each day; I’m so glad.’ She closed her eyes and dropped off and Emma sat holding her hand, making plans.
A job—that was the most important thing to consider; a job she would be able to give up when her mother returned home. She might not be trained for anything much but she could type well enough and she could do simple accounts and housekeep adequately enough; there was sure to be something…
Her mother woke presently and she talked cheerfully about everyday things, not mentioning Mrs Smith-Darcy and, indeed, she didn’t intend to do so unless her mother asked.
A nurse came and Emma, watching her skilful handling of tubes and the saline drip, so wished that she could be cool and calm and efficient and—an added bonus—pretty. Probably she worked for the professor— saw him every day, was able to understand him when he gave his orders in strange surgical terms, and received his thanks. He seemed to Emma to be a man of effortless good manners.
Her mother dozed again and didn’t rouse as the teatrolley was wheeled in, which was a good thing since a cup of tea was out of the question, but Emma was given one, with two Petit Beurre biscuits, and since her hurried lunch seemed a long time ago she was grateful.
Her mother was soon awake again, content to lie quietly, not talking much and finally with an eye on the clock, Emma kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ she promised, and went down to the main entrance.
She had just reached it when the Rolls came soundlessly to a halt beside her. The professor got out and opened her door, got back in and drove away with nothing more than a murmured greeting, but presently he said, ‘Your mother looks better, does she not?’
‘Oh, yes. She slept for most of the afternoon but she looks much better than I expected.’
‘Of course, she’s being sedated, and will be for the next forty-eight hours. After that she will be free of pain and taking an interest in life again. She’s had a tiring time…’
It was still raining—a cold rain driven by an icy wind—and the moor looked bleak and forbidding in the early dusk. Emma, who had lived close to it all her life, was untroubled by that; she wondered if the professor felt the same. He had said that he lived near Exeter. She wondered exactly where; perhaps, after a few days of going to and fro, he would be more forthcoming. Certainly he was a very silent man.
The thought struck her that he might find her boring, but on the following day, when she ventured a few remarks of a commonplace nature, he had little to say in reply, although he sounded friendly enough. She decided that silence, unless he began a conversation, was the best policy, so that by the end of a week she was no nearer knowing anything about him than when they had first met. She liked him—she liked him very much—but she had the good sense to know that they inhabited different worlds. He had no wish to get to know her—merely to offer a helping hand, just as he would have done with anyone else in similar circumstances.
Her mother was making good progress and Emma scanned the local paper over the weekend, and checked the advertisements outside the newsagents in the hope of finding a job.
Mrs Smith-Darcy had, surprisingly, sent Alice with her wages, and Emma had made a pot of coffee and listened to Alice’s outpourings on life with that lady. ‘Mad as fire, she was,’ Alice had said, with relish. ‘You should ‘ave ‘eard ‘er, Miss Trent. And that lunch party— that was a lark and no mistake—’er whingeing away about servants and such like. I didn’t ‘ear no kind words about you and your poor ma, though. Mean old cat.’ She had grinned. ‘Can’t get another companion for love nor money, either.’
She had drunk most of the coffee and eaten all the biscuits Emma had and then got up to go. ‘Almost forgot,’ she’d said, suddenly awkward, ‘me and Cook thought your ma might like a few chocs now she’s better. And there’s one of Cook’s steak and kidney pies— just wants a warm-up—do for your dinner.’
‘How lucky I am to have two such good friends,’ Emma had said and meant it.

Going to the hospital on Monday, sitting quietly beside Sir Paul, she noticed him glance down at her lap where the box of chocolates sat.
‘I hope that those are not for your mother?’ ‘Well, yes and no. Cook and Alice—from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, you know—gave them to me to give her. I don’t expect that she can have them, but she’ll like to see them and she can give them to her nurses.’
He nodded. ‘I examined your mother yesterday evening. I intend to have her transferred to Moretonhampstead within the next day or so. She will remain there for two weeks at least, three if possible, so that when she returns home she will be quite fit.’
‘That is good news. Thank you for arranging it,’ said Emma gratefully, and wondered how she was going to visit her mother. With a car it would have been easy enough.
She would have to find out how the buses ran—probably along the highway to Exeter and then down the turn-off to Moretonhampstead halfway along it—but the buses might not connect. She had saved as much money as she could and she had her last week’s wages; perhaps she could get the car from Mr Dobbs again and visit her mother once a week; it was thirty miles or so, an hour’s drive…
She explained this to her mother and was relieved to see that the prospect of going to a convalescent home and starting on a normal life once more had put her in such good spirits that she made no demur when Emma suggested that she might come only once a week to see her.
‘It’s only for a few weeks, Emma, and I’m sure I shall have plenty to keep me occupied. I’ve been so well cared for here, and everyone has been so kind. Everything’s all right at home? Queenie is well?’
‘She’s splendid and everything is fine. I’ll bring you some more clothes, shall I?’ She made a list and observed, ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow, for the professor didn’t say when you were going—when there’s a vacancy I expect—he just said a day or two.’
When she got up to go her mother walked part of the way with her, anxious to show how strong she had become. By the lifts they said goodbye, though, ‘I’m a slow walker,’ said Mrs Trent. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’
For once, Emma was glad of Sir Paul’s silence, for she had a lot to think about. They were almost at Buckfastleigh when he told her that her mother would be transferred on the day after tomorrow.
‘So tomorrow will be the last day I go to the hospital?’
‘Yes. Talk to Sister when you see her tomorrow; she will give you all the particulars and the phone number. Your mother will go by ambulance. The matron there is a very kind woman, there are plenty of staff and two resident doctors so your mother will be well cared for.’
‘I’m sure of that. She’s looking foward to going; she feels she’s really getting well.’
‘It has been a worrying time for you.’ his voice was kind ‘—but I think she will make a complete recovery.’
Indoors she put the pie in the oven, fed an impatient Queenie and sat down to add up the money in her purse—enough to rent a car from Mr Dobbs on the following weekend and not much over. She ate her supper, packed a case with the clothes her mother would need and went to put the dustbin out before she went to bed.
The local paper had been pushed through the letterbox. She took it back to the kitchen and turned to the page where the few advertisements were and there, staring her in the face, was a chance of a job. It stated:
Wanted urgently—a sensible woman to help immediately for two or three weeks while present staff are ill. Someone able to cope with a small baby as well as normal household chores and able to cook.
Emma, reading it, thought that the woman wouldn’t only have to be sensible, she would need to be a bundle of energy as well, but it was only for two or three weeks and it might be exactly what she was looking for. The phone number was a local one too.
Emma went to bed convinced that miracles did happen and slept soundly.

In the morning she waited with impatience until half-past eight before going round to use Mr Dobbs’s phone. The voice which answered her was a woman’s, shrill and agitated.
‘Thank heaven—I’m at my wits’ end and there’s no one here. The baby’s been crying all night…’
‘If you would give me your address. I live in Buckfastleigh.’
‘So do I. Picket House—go past the otter sanctuary and it’s at the end of the road down a turning on the left. You’ve got a car?’
‘No, a bike. I’ll come straight away, shall I?’
She listened to a jumble of incoherent thanks and, after phoning the surgery to cancel her lift with Sir Paul, hurried back to the house. Queenie, having breakfasted, was preparing to take a nap. Emma left food for her, got into her coat, tied a scarf over her head and fetched her bike. At least it wasn’t raining as she pedalled briskly from one end of the little town to the other.
Picket House was a rambling old place, beautifully maintained, lying back from the lane, surrounded by a large garden. Emma skidded to the front door and halted, and before she had got off her bike it was opened.
‘Come in, come in, do.’ The girl wasn’t much older than Emma but there the resemblance ended, for she was extremely pretty, with fair, curly hair, big blue eyes and a dainty little nose. She pulled Emma inside and then burst into tears. ‘I’ve had a dreadful night, you have no idea. Cook’s ill with flu and so is Elsie, and the nurse who’s supposed to come sent a message to say that her mother’s ill.’
‘There’s no one who could come—your mother or a sister?’
‘They’re in Scotland.’ She dismissed them with a wave of the hand. ‘And Mike, my husband, he’s in America and won’t be back for weeks.’ She wiped her eyes and smiled a little. ‘You will come and help me?’
‘Yes—yes, of course. You’ll want references…?’
‘Yes, yes—but later will do for that. I want a bath and I’ve not had breakfast. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a cook.’
‘The baby?’ asked Emma, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them on the elaborate hat-stand in the hall. ‘A boy or a girl?’
‘Oh, a boy.’
‘Has he had a feed?’
‘I gave him one during the night but I’m not sure if I mixed it properly; he was sick afterwards.’
‘You don’t feed him yourself?’
The pretty face was screwed up in. horror. ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly—I’m far too sensitive. Could you move in until the nurse can come?’
‘I can’t live here, but I’ll come early in the morning and stay until the baby’s last feed, if that would do?’
‘I’ll be alone during the night…’
‘If the baby’s had a good feed he should sleep for the night and I’ll leave a feed ready for you to warm up.’
‘Will you cook and tidy up a bit? I’m hopeless at housework.’
It seemed to Emma that now would be the time to learn about it, but she didn’t say so. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.
‘Hervey—Doreen Hervey.’
‘Emma Trent. Should we take a look at the baby before I get your breakfast?’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. He’s very small, just a month old. You’re not a nurse, are you?’
‘No, but I took a course in baby care and housewifery when I left school.’
They were going upstairs. ‘Would you come for a hundred pounds a week?’
‘Yes.’ It would be two or three weeks and she could save every penny of it.
They had reached the wide landing, and from somewhere along a passage leading to the back of the house there was a small, wailing noise.
The nursery was perfection—pastel walls, a thick carpet underfoot, pretty curtains drawn back from spotless white net, the right furniture and gloriously warm. The cot was a splendid affair and Mrs Hervey went to lean over it. ‘There he is,’ she said unnecessarily.
He was a very small baby, with dark hair, screwed up eyes and a wide open mouth. The wails had turned to screams and he was waving miniature fists in a fury of infant rage.
‘The lamb,’ said Emma. ‘He’s wet; I’ll change him. When did he have his feed? Can you remember the time?’
‘I can’t possibly remember; I was so tired. I suppose it was about two o’clock.’
‘Is his feed in the kitchen?’
‘Yes, on the table. I suppose he’s hungry?’
Emma suppressed a desire to shake Mrs Hervey. ‘Go and have your bath while I change him and feed him. Perhaps you could start breakfast—boil an egg and make toast?’
Mrs Hervey went thankfully away and Emma took the sopping infant from his sopping cot. While she was at it he could be bathed; everything she could possibly need was there…
With the baby tucked under one arm, swathed in his shawl, she went downstairs presently. The tin of babymilk was on the table in the kind of kitchen every woman dreamt of. She boiled a kettle, mixed a feed and sat down to wait while it cooled. The baby glared at her from under his shawl. Since he looked as if he would cry again at any minute she talked gently to him.
She had fed him, winded him and cuddled him close as he dropped off and there was still no sign of his mother, but presently she came, her make-up immaculate, looking quite lovely.
‘Oh, good, he’s gone to sleep. I’m so hungry.’ She smiled widely, looking like an angel. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Emma—may I call you Emma?’
‘Please do,’ said Emma. She had her reservations about feeling glad as she bore the baby back to his cot.

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