The Chain of Destiny

She didn’t answer, only pulled her arm away and ran from him, out of the gallery and down the staircase, through the front door and down the drive. She would have to be alone for a while to pull herself together and then think what was best to do. Fleetingly she wondered why the professor was at the manor house, and then she remembered that old Sir William wasn’t well. And anyway, what did it matter?

Back at the lodge, she sat down at the kitchen table with Horace on her lap and tried to think clearly. Two weeks wasn’t long, but if she was sensible it would be time enough. She fetched pencil and paper and began to write down all the things which would have to be done.

The professor stood for a moment, watching Suzannah’s flying figure, then he shrugged his huge shoulders and went back to the private wing, opened the door of the study and strolled in.

The girl at the desk looked up and smiled charmingly at him.

‘Phoebe, I have just met that small red-haired girl who works as a guide here, with a face like skimmed milk and tragic eyes…’

The girl shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s that woman’s niece—the one who died and lived at the lodge. The new assistant teacher will have to live there, so I’ve arranged for the girl to move out.’

He leaned against the wall, looking at her without expression. ‘Oh? Has she somewhere to go?’

‘How should I know, Guy? She’s young and quite clever, so I’ve heard; she’ll find something to do.’

‘No family, no money?’

‘How on earth should I know? Uncle William has been far too soft with these people.’

‘So you have turned her loose into the world?’

The girl frowned. ‘Well, why not? I want that lodge and there’s no work for her as a guide—I’ve got rid of that woman from the post office, too. Miss Smythe can manage on her own, and if we get more visitors in the summer I’ll get casual help.’

‘Does your uncle know about this?’ he spoke casually.

‘Good heavens, no! He’s too old to be bothered. I’ll write to Father and let him know when I’ve got time.’

‘And he will approve?’

She shrugged and laughed. ‘It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t—he’s on the other side of the world.’ She pushed back her chair and smiled charmingly. ‘Let’s talk about something else, Guy—how about driving me over to Hungerford and giving me lunch?’

‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Phoebe. I have to be back in town this afternoon.’ He strolled back to the door. ‘I came to see your uncle before I left.’

‘You’re not going? I counted on you staying for a few days…’ She got up and crossed the room to him. ‘You don’t mean that?’

He had opened the door. ‘My dear girl, you tend to forget that I work for a living.’

‘You don’t need to,’ she retorted.

‘Agreed, but it’s my life.’ He made no move to respond when she kissed his cheek.

‘We’ll see each other?’ she asked.

‘Undoubtedly, my dear.’ He had gone, shutting the door behind him.

He went back to Dr Warren’s house, made his farewells, threw his bag into the boot of the Bentley and drove away. But not very far. At the main gates of the manor house he stopped, got out and knocked on the lodge door. There was no answer, so he lifted the latch and walked in.

Suzannah was sitting at the table, neatly writing down what needed to be done if she were to leave in two weeks—the list was long and when she had finished it she began on another list of possible jobs she might be able to do. It seemed to her, looking at it, that all she was fit for was to be a governess—and were there such people nowadays? Or a mother’s help, or find work in a hotel or large house as a domestic worker. Whichever way she looked at it, the list was depressing.

She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, and for some reason she wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him. She said in a slightly thickened voice, ‘Oh, do go away…’

Despite her best efforts, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ he told her coolly, ‘and don’t, for pity’s sake, start weeping. It’s a waste of time.’

She glared at him and wiped a hand across her cheeks like a child. She wasn’t sure why he seemed to be part and parcel of the morning’s miserable happening; she only knew that at that moment she didn’t like him.

He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs before him. ‘You have to leave here?’

‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Now, if you would go away, I have a great deal to do.’

He sat looking at her for a few moments, frowning a little, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miss Davinish tells me that you have no job. Perhaps I could have helped in some way,’ his blue eyes were cold, ‘but it seems that I was mistaken.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good day, young lady.’

He went away as quietly as he had come, and she heard his car drive away.

CHAPTER TWO

SUZANNAH DID her best to shake off the feeling that the not very solid ground beneath her had been cut from under her feet. She might not like the professor, but he had offered to help her and she badly needed help, and like a fool she had turned his offer down; she hadn’t even thanked him for it, either. A pity he hadn’t had the patience to stay a little longer until her good sense had taken over from her stupid bout of weeping. She winced at the thought of the cold scorn in his eyes. And yet he had been so kind when Aunt Mabel had been ill…

As for the professor, he drove back to London, saw a handful of patients at his consulting rooms, performed a delicate and difficult brain operation at the hospital and returned to his elegant home in a backwater of Belgravia to eat his dinner and then go to his study to catch up on his post. But he made slow work of it. Suzannah’s red hair, crowning her white, cross face, kept superimposing itself upon his letters. He cast them down at length and reached for the telephone as it began to ring. It was Phoebe at her most charming, and she had the knack of making him laugh. They talked at some length and he half promised to spend the next weekend at the manor house. As he put the phone down, he told himself that it was to be hoped that Suzannah would be gone.

He spoke so forcefully that Henry, his long-haired dachshund, sitting under his desk, half asleep, came out to see what was the matter.

He had a long list the next day, and when it was over he sat in sister’s office, drinking coffee and taking great bites out of the sandwiches she had sent for, listening courteously to her rather tart observations on lack of staff, not enough money and when was she to have the instruments she had ordered weeks ago?

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘We need another staff nurse, don’t we? We didn’t get a replacement for Mrs Webb when she left. You’re working at full stretch, aren’t you, Sister?’

She gave him a grateful look. Sister Ash was in her fifties, a splendid theatre sister and, although she had a junior sister to take over when she was off duty, she was hard-pressed. Just like Professor Bowers-Bentinck to think of that, she reflected; such a nice man, always calm, almost placid when he was operating, and with such lovely manners. She thanked him and presently he went off to the intensive care unit to take a look at his patient. It was as he was strolling to the entrance, giving last minute instructions to his registrar, Ned Blake, that he stopped dead.

‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’

‘A change in treatment?’ asked Ned.

‘No, no, my dear chap—nothing to do with our patient. Keep on as I suggest, will you? I’ll be in the earliest I can in the morning, and give me a ring if you’re worried.’ He nodded goodbye and went out to his car and drove home, where he went straight to his study, sat in his chair for five minutes or more, deep in thought, and then picked up the phone.

The voice which answered him was elderly but brisk. ‘Guy, dear boy, how nice to hear your voice; it would be nicer still to see you…’

He talked for a few minutes and the voice said cosily, ‘Well, dear, what exactly do you want us to do?’

The Professor told her.

Suzannah spent several days packing up the contents of the cottage. There was little of value: a few pieces of jewellery which her aunt had possessed, one or two pieces of silver, a nice Coalport tea service… She put them into cardboard boxes and carried them down to the post office, where Mrs Coffin stowed them away safely in an attic. The new assistant teacher had called to see her too, and had been delighted to buy the furniture, which was old-fashioned but well-kept. Everything else Suzannah had promised to various people in the village. And, this done, she set to, writing replies to every likely job she could find advertised which could offer her a roof over her head. Several of her letters weren’t answered, and those who did stated categorically that no pets were allowed. It was a blow, but she had no intention of abandoning Horace, so she wrote out an advertisement offering her services in any domestic capacity provided she might have a room of her own and Horace might be with her, and took it down to the post office.

Mrs Coffin, behind the counter, weighing out oatmeal for a beady-eyed old lady, greeted her with some excitement. ‘Don’t you go posting that letter, m’dear, not if it’s a job—there’s something in the local paper this morning…’ She dealt with the old lady and then invited Suzannah to join her behind the counter. ‘Just you look at that, love.’ She folded the paper and pointed at the situations vacant column. ‘Just up your street.’

Suzannah, with Mrs Coffin breathing gustily down her neck, obediently read. A competent, educated person was required for a period of two or three months to sort and index old family documents. An adequate salary would be paid and there was the use of a small flatlet. Pets not objected to. Good references were essential. Application in the first instance to be made in own handwriting. A box number followed.

‘Well,’ declared Suzannah and drew a great breath. ‘Do you suppose it’s real?’