Dearest Mary Jane. Бетти Нилс
into silence once more for the simple reason that she had no idea what to talk about, but as they neared the village she made an effort. ‘Do you live near here?’
‘No, in London. I have to live near my work.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I visit various hospitals whenever it is found necessary.’
A most unsatisfactory answer. She didn’t say anything more until he drew up before the tea-room.
He got out before she could open her door and opened it for her, took the old-fashioned key from her and opened the cottage door.
It was dusk now and he found the switch and turned on the lights before standing aside to let her pass him.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary Jane once again, and bent to pick up Brimble who had rushed to meet her.
Sir Thomas leaned against the half-open door in no hurry to go. ‘Your cat?’
‘Yes, Brimble. He’s—he’s company.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Yes.’ She peered up at him. ‘You’d better go, Sir Thomas, if you’re going all the way to London.’
Sir Thomas agreed meekly. He had never, he reflected, been told to go by a girl. On the contrary, they made a point of asking him to stay. He wasn’t a conceited man but now he was intrigued. He had wanted to meet her again, going deliberately to the hospital when he knew that she would be there, wanting to know more about her. The drive had hardly been successful. He bade her a pleasantly impersonal goodbye. They were unlikely to meet again. He dismissed her from his thoughts and drove back to London.
CHAPTER TWO
SEPTEMBER was almost over and the weather was changing. Fewer and fewer tourists stopped for coffee or tea although Mary Jane still did a steady trade with the village dwellers—just enough to keep the bills paid. Miss Mabel made steady progress and Mary Jane, graciously offered a lift in the rectory car, visited her again. Sir Thomas had been again, she was told, and Miss Mabel was to return home in a week’s time and see him when he came to the hospital in six weeks’ time. ‘Such a nice man,’ sighed Miss Mabel, ‘a true gentleman, if you know what I mean.’
Mary Jane wasn’t too sure about that but she murmured obligingly.
Miss Mabel’s homecoming was something of an event in a village where one day was very like another. The ambulance brought her, deposited her gently in her home, drained Mary Jane’s teapots and ate almost all the scones, and departed to be replaced by Miss Kemble, Mrs Stokes and after an interval Dr Fellowes, who tactfully sent them all away and made sure that the Misses Potter were allowed peace and quiet. Mary Jane, slipping through the village with a plate of teacakes as a welcome home gift, was prevailed upon to stay for a few minutes while Miss Mabel reiterated her experiences. ‘I am to walk each day,’ she said proudly, ‘but lead a quiet life.’ She laughed and Miss Emily laughed too. ‘Not that we do anything else, do we, Mary Jane?’
Mary Jane smilingly agreed; that she had dreams of lovely clothes, candlelit dinners for two, dancing night after night and always with someone who adored her, was something she kept strictly to herself. Even Felicity, on the rare occasions when she saw her, took it for granted that she was content.
The mornings were frosty now and the evenings drawing in. The village, after the excitement of Miss Mabel’s operation, did settle down. Mary Jane baked fewer scones and some days customers were so few it was hardly worth keeping the tea-room open.
She was preparing to close after an unprofitable Monday when the door was thrust open and a man came in. Mary Jane, wiping down the already clean tables, looked up hopefully, saw who it was and said in a neutral voice, ‘Good evening, Oliver.’
Her cousin, Uncle Matthew’s heir.
She had known him since her schooldays and had disliked him from the start, just as he had disliked her. She had been given short shrift when her uncle had died and for her part she hadn’t been able to leave fast enough, for not only did Oliver dislike her, his wife, a cold woman, pushing her way up the social ladder, disliked her too. She stood, the cloth in her hand, waiting for him to speak.
‘Business pretty bad?’ he asked.
‘It’s a quiet time of the year. I’m making a living, thank you, Oliver.’
She was surprised to see that he was trying to be friendly, but not for long.
‘Hope you’ll do something for me,’ he went on. ‘Margaret has to go to London to see some specialist or other about her back. I have to go to America on business and someone will have to drive her up and stay with her.’ He didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I wondered if you’d do that?’ He laughed. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that...’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Mary Jane coldly. ‘Margaret has family of her own, hasn’t she? Surely there is someone with nothing better to do who could go with her?’
‘We did ask around,’ said Oliver airily, ‘but you know how it is, they lead busy social lives, they simply can’t spare the time.’
‘And I can?’ asked Mary Jane crisply.
‘Well, you can’t be making a fortune at this time of year. It won’t cost you a penny. Margaret will have to stay the night in town—tests and so forth. She can’t drive herself because of this wretched back, and besides she’s very nervous.’ He added, ‘She is in pain, too.’
Mary Jane had a tender heart. Very much against her inclination she agreed, reluctantly, to go with Margaret. It would mean leaving Brimble alone for two days but Mrs Adams next door would feed him and make sure that he was safe. It would mean shutting the tea-room too and, although Oliver made light of the paucity of customers at that time of year, all the same she would be short of two days’ takings, however sparse they might be.
Oliver, having got what he wanted, lost no time in going. ‘Next Tuesday,’ he told her. ‘I’ll drive Margaret here in the car and you can take over. I leave in the afternoon.’
If he felt gratitude, he didn’t show it. Mary Jane watched him get into his car and pulled a face at his back as he drove away.
Oliver returned on the Tuesday morning and Mary Jane, having packed an overnight bag, got into her elderly tweed suit, consigned Brimble to Mrs Adams’s kindly hands, and opened the door to him.
He didn’t bother with a good morning, a nod seemed the best he could manage. ‘Margaret’s in the car. Drive carefully; you’ll have to fill up with petrol, there’s not enough to bring you back.’
Mary Jane gave him a limpid look. ‘Margaret has the money for that? I haven’t.’
‘Good God, girl, surely a small matter of a few gallons of petrol...’
‘Well, just as you like. I’m sure Jim at the garage will have a man who can drive Margaret—you pay by the mile I believe, and petrol extra.’
Oliver went a dangerous plum colour. ‘No one would think that we were cousins...’
‘Well, no, I don’t think that they would, I quite often forget that too.’ She smiled. ‘If you go now you’ll catch Jim—he’ll be open by now.’
Oliver gave her a look to kill, with no effect whatsoever, and took out his wallet.
‘I shall require a strict account of what you spend,’ he told her crossly, and handed her some notes. ‘Now come along, Margaret is nervous enough already.’
Margaret was tall and what she described to herself as elegantly thin. She had good features, marred by a down-turned mouth and a frown; moreover she had a complaining voice. She moaned now, ‘Oh, dear, whatever has kept you? Can’t you see how ill I am? All this waiting about...’
Mary Jane got into the car. She said, ‘Good