“The man I marry must dote on me…”

Rosie already knew the sort of man she wanted to marry—and Fergus Cameron couldn’t be further from that ideal! Arrogant and determined to always get his own way, he was much too sure of himself for Rosie’s peace of mind.

Yet he had also made it clear that he, too, had decided on the girl he wanted to marry…but did his plans include her? Only time would tell.

He stood studying her, looking down his long nose in a manner that she found annoying. “Married?”

“No.”

He smiled. “A woman of refreshingly few words.” Then, to her surprise he added, “Are you all right for money?”

“Why, yes, thank you. It is kind of you to ask.”

“Nothing kind about it—common sense in the circumstances. It would have gone on the bill.”

She ignored this. “Will you come to see my grandmother again? She is old. It must have been a shock….”

“I’ll be over tomorrow, in the morning.” He stared at her and added,“Unless you would rather Dr. Finlay took over the case?”

“Why do you say that? Granny is perfectly satisfied—”

“Good.” He spoke carelessly. “Perhaps by tomorrow you and I will like each other a little better. Good day to you, Miss Macdonald.”

He had gone, leaving her bewildered and decidedly ill-tempered.

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, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.

A Kind of Magic

Betty Neels

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER ONE

THE bright sunshine of early May, pouring through the latticed windows of the old house, shone on to the short dark curls of the girl bent over the case she was packing with a kind of controlled ferocity.

She was young, built on Junoesque lines, and tall with a lovely face and dark eyes heavily fringed with black lashes. The face was marred at the moment by her heavy frown.

‘I cannot think what Granny is about,’ she observed to the middle-aged lady—an older, gently faded version of herself sitting and watching her. ‘Mother, she is eighty years old; why on earth does she want to go trekking across the Highlands of Scotland…?’

‘Not trekking, Rosie—she won’t have to move from the train if she doesn’t wish to!’ Mrs Macdonald heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘I think it is rather touching that she should want to see the surroundings of her childhood.’

‘Well, she won’t see much from the train.’ Rosie then added because of her mother’s unhappy look, ‘Well, if it makes her happy. But why me? There’s Aunt Carrie…’

‘Your granny and Aunt Carrie don’t get on, dear. It is only for a week, and I dare say there will be some interesting people on the train.’ She paused. ‘Aren’t you going to take the cream jersey? You look so nice in it, and it doesn’t take up any room…

‘Anyway, you never know,’ continued her mother vaguely, and Rosie, guessing her parent’s thoughts, said baldly,

‘There will be Americans on the train, Mother, and possibly a German or two, all married and over fifty.’

‘Oh, I do hope not,’ said Mrs Macdonald. She had never quite understood why Rosie, at twenty-five, was still unmarried. She was as pretty as a picture, had any number of friends and, to her mother’s knowledge, had turned down—in the nicest possible manner—several offers of marriage.

‘Don’t you want to get married?’ she voiced her thoughts out loud.

‘Oh, yes, Mother, dear. But I haven’t met him yet…’

‘There was that nice Percy Walls,’ said Mrs Macdonald.

‘Pooh!’ replied Rosie strongly. ‘He only talked about food and how clever he was. If I had married him I would have been a doormat, everlastingly cooking snacks.’

‘He did like his food,’ conceded Mrs Macdonald, ‘but he was keen on you, darling.’

‘Just because I can cook.’ Rosie rolled up a pleated skirt in a ruthless fashion, and stuffed it into her case. ‘Very surely being keen isn’t enough, Mother. The man I marry must dote on me, cherish and love me for always, even when I’m bad-tempered or sneezing my head off.’ She closed the case, and added briskly, ‘I don’t imagine there is such a man…’

‘He sounds worth waiting for,’ said Mrs Macdonald. ‘I must admit that a man’s love can be tried to the utmost when one has a heavy cold. Though I must say that your father is an exception.’ She sounded a little smug, and Rosie laughed and dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek as she went to the dressing-table. ‘Mother, Father is the nicest man I know… How much money shall I need to take, do you think?’

‘Your granny said not to take any, but I think you had better take some; she forgets sometimes. Are you not looking forward to this trip at all, love?’

‘Well, it will be nice to be in Scotland again, only a week isn’t long enough—I’d love to stay up in the Highlands for a long time, walk perhaps, or drive around. But I’ve only got two weeks’ holiday, and Miss Porter wants to go away in June, so I’ll have to be there to do some of her work.’

Rosie had spoken cheerfully; she disliked her job as a shorthand typist at Messrs Crabbe, Crabbe and Twitchett, the leading solicitors in the small country town in Wiltshire where she lived, but she had never said so; her father had lost almost all of his capital some years previously when the shares he held became almost worthless, and in order to keep his home in Scotland intact he had handed it over to a cousin and taken the job of agent on a large estate in Wiltshire. Neither he nor her mother had ever complained, although Rosie knew that they missed their home as much as she did. She had set about learning shorthand and typing, got herself a job, and consoled herself with the thought that their home in Scotland was, at least, still in the family.

Her grandmother lived in Edinburgh with her unmarried daughter who was older than Rosie’s father—a wispy lady who was seldom able to complete a sentence, and was possessed of a meekness which irritated the old lady, a forceful person who browbeat her despite the care Aunt Carrie took of her. Rosie was able to see her very seldom; the journey to Scotland was expensive and long, and she suspected that her parents were reluctant to visit their old home now that her father’s cousin lived there. Now she had been bidden to accompany the old lady on a train tour of the Highlands. ‘To revive old memories,’ her grandmother had said, and had explained her plan more fully by letter.

‘I hear that the train is splendidly equipped and very well staffed. I shall not need to exert myself, but of course I need a companion. You will come with me, Rosie.’

‘Of course you must go,’ her father had observed. ‘It will be a pleasant holiday for you; besides, it will give Carrie a week of peace and quiet.’ He hadn’t seen his sister for some time but he had vivid memories of his mother keeping her under her thumb. A week of freedom would do her good. So all the arrangements had been made; Rosie was to travel up to Edinburgh by train, spend the night at her grandmother’s house, and escort her to the station on the following day. There wouldn’t be many passengers, she had been told, and she had been sent the brochure so that she would have some idea what to expect. It had looked rather fun, and they would see many of the places she had known so well as a child, only she thought it unlikely that she would have much chance to poke around on her own. Granny had made it quite clear that she expected constant attention and companionship.

She and her mother went downstairs presently into the kitchen, and began to get supper while they argued amicably as to whether Rosie’s jersey suit would be better than her lovat corduroy skirt and country shirt with her matching gilet over.

‘It could be quite chilly still,’ argued Mrs Macdonald. ‘On the other hand the jersey is useful. I wish you could have had some new clothes…’

‘No need—I’ve got several thin tops with me, and I’ll take the skirt and gilet. There’s the shirtwaister if it gets really warm.’

Her father came in presently, and she went to lay the table in the small dining-room, seldom used, but this evening seemed a special occasion.

Her father drove her to the station the next morning in the rather battered Land Rover. He hadn’t much to say; he was a quiet man, tall and thin and hardworking; he looked after the estate with the same care with which he had run his own family home in Scotland. Rosie wished with all her heart that he and her mother could have been coming with her; more than that she wished that they could go back to her home there. She sat up straighter; it did no good to repine. It would be nice to see Granny again even though she was a tartar; she listened carefully to her father’s last-minute messages, kissed him goodbye, and got into the train.

‘I’ll be back in a week,’ she told him. ‘I’ll phone and let you know which train I’ll be on.’

Her grandmother had sent enough money for her fare and for a taxi to get her to King’s Cross Station, and she joined the long queue. She was seldom in London, she didn’t like it much, and she was glad when she finally reached the station with time to spare for coffee before she needed to get on to the train. It was more than six years since she had been at King’s Cross; that was when they had left Scotland, and Rosie remembered how unhappy she had been. Her spirits lifted at the thought of going back, even if only for a week, and she got on to the train, found a corner seat, and prepared to while away the journey with a paperback until the train had left London and its suburbs, and begun its race to the north.

Waverley Station hadn’t changed; it was in the heart of Edinburgh, and she gave an unconscious sigh of pleasure as she went in search of a taxi. Her grandmother lived on the other side of Princes Street, in a grey granite house, tall and narrow, one of a terrace of such houses in a narrow, winding street near Queen Street Gardens, surprisingly quiet although there was the constant hum of traffic from Princes Street and Queen Street. She got out of the taxi, and stood for a moment on the pavement looking up at her grandmother’s house. It hadn’t changed at all; there was the same solid door, the same dark green curtains at the narrow windows. She mounted the steps to the door and banged the knocker, and after a few moments it was partly opened by Elspeth, the elderly maid who had been with her grandmother ever since Rosie could remember.

She must be all of seventy, thought Rosie, embracing her warmly, but she seemed ageless, her iron-grey hair scraped back into a stiff bun, her bony frame erect in its black dress.

Elspeth led the way into the narrow hall, and opened a door. ‘Yer granny’s waiting. I’ll leave ye a wee while before I bring in the tea.’

She gave Rosie a little push and shut the door on her. Old Mrs Macdonald was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair. She was an imposing figure, tall and stout with dark hair only lightly streaked with silver. She was handsome, with dark eyes and a straight nose above an obstinate mouth. She hadn’t changed, thought Rosie, crossing the room to kiss her.

‘You had a good journey?’ asked her grandmother, the question uttered in a voice which expected no reply. ‘Your mother and father are well?’

‘Very well, Granny. They sent their love.’

‘Sit down, child, and let me look at you. Still not wed? There is, perhaps, a young man?’

‘No—not one I wish to marry. Where is Aunt Carrie, Granny?’

‘She got it into her head to make a cake for your arrival. She will be in the kitchen.’

The door opened as she spoke, and Aunt Carrie came in. Rosie remembered her as a pretty, rather faded woman who adored her brother and sister-in-law. She was still pretty, but she looked dispirited and worn out. She probably was, reflected Rosie as she went to greet her, living with Granny day in and day out. She would have a week to herself now, and not before time.

Aunt Carrie kissed her fondly. ‘I made a cake, it seemed… You look well, dear, and not a day… You’re not…?’

‘No, Aunt Carrie. I’m waiting for a millionaire, handsome and generous, who will lavish the world’s goods upon me.’

Mrs Macdonald gave a ladylike snort. ‘That is a worldly attitude to be deplored, Rosie.’

Rosie winked at Aunt Carrie and said, suitably meek, ‘Yes, Granny.’

They had tea presently, and Rosie lavished praise upon the cake while she listened to her grandmother’s plans for the train journey, which would start in the morning. Her plans concerned herself and her comfort, for she was a selfish old lady. Rosie, listening to them, wondered if they clashed with their journey; she had read the brochure with its carefully planned itinerary, and it allowed little room for independent plans for the passengers, and as far as she could see the whole journey was so meticulously arranged that only the most discontented and selfish person could take exception to it. Of course, her grandmother was both discontented and selfish.

‘This is, of course, a great treat for you, Rosie,’ observed her grandparent complacently.

Rosie replied suitably, wondering silently just how much of a treat it would be.

She managed to have a word with her aunt the next morning. ‘Do have a good time, Aunt Carrie,’ she urged. ‘You’ve a whole week, think of all the things you can do. You must have friends?’

‘Well, your grandmother doesn’t care for visitors, dear, but I meet them from time to time while I’m shopping.’

She had gone a pretty pink, and Rosie said, ‘Is he nice, Aunt Carrie?’

The pink deepened. ‘A retired solicitor, dear, but of course I have your granny to look after.’

‘Stuff!’ retorted Rosie fiercely. ‘There is Elspeth, and Granny can afford a companion. Does she know?’

‘No. And there’s not much point… I mean, we’re just friends.’

‘Well, make the most of him.’ They stood listening to her grandmother’s voice giving brisk orders. ‘It’s time we went—we have to be on the platform before nine o’clock.’

They were met at the station by two pleasant young men, who whisked away their luggage and took them to one of the lounges to wait for the train. The room was full, and a score of faces turned to them as they were introduced, before Mrs Macdonald was seated with suitable care in a chair, and offered coffee. Rosie sat down not too near her, and over coffee exchanged names with those around her. Americans mostly, a sprinkling of Germans, and a haughty-looking woman with a meek husband who had flown up from London. All very VIP, thought Rosie, making suitable replies to friendly questions. She had been right; there was no one there under fifty. They were all prosperous-looking couples, well dressed and pleased with themselves. Within five minutes they had asked her name, and from then on she was ‘Rosie’, despite the look of affront upon her grandmother’s face.

They boarded the train in style, with a piper to lead them, and once there, sitting convivially in the observation car, they were offered champagne. Rosie, careful not to look at Mrs Macdonald, enjoyed hers. Later, after the train had got under way, Rosie led her grandmother to their cabins. The old lady had taken a long time deciding whether Rosie should share a cabin with her or whether they should be apart. Rosie was glad now that she had made up her mind to be on her own; doubtless it would mean that she would have to nip to and fro a good deal, but it would be worth it. She sat her grandmother down in the beautifully appointed cabin, and unpacked for her, and rang the bell for the stewardess so that orders might be given concerning morning tea, a tin of biscuits in case of hunger during the night and a warm drink before retiring. The stewardess had a soft Highland voice and a gentle face. Everything would be done just as Mrs Macdonald wished, she promised.

‘You can unpack later,’ said Mrs Macdonald. ‘I will go back to the observation car, but you must go with me—I find the corridors difficult. I must see someone about our table…’

‘I heard someone say that we sit where we like,’ remarked Rosie. ‘Rather nice, for we can get to know everyone.’

Her grandmother gave her a steely look. ‘I shall ask for a table for two to be reserved for us. And now come along, Rosie, we have wasted enough time sitting here idly.’

Rosie, who hadn’t sat down once, said nothing, merely led the way back to the observation car where a good many of the passengers had forgathered. She sat the old lady down in a small armchair so placed that if she didn’t wish to talk to anyone there would be no need, accepted the sherry they were offered, and sat down to drink it. It was good sherry but she didn’t waste time drinking it. With a muttered excuse she skipped away back to her cabin, where she unpacked and tidied everything away, did her face and hair and, armed with the itinerary, went back, just in time to join her grandmother for lunch.

The old lady had had her way, of course; they were to sit at a table for two for the entire journey. Rosie, listening to her grandmother’s annoyed remarks concerning the lack of companionship which it was evident she would be called upon to endure, wished she could have joined in the cheerful talk at the larger tables. She spoke soothingly, promised constant attendance in the future and, being a sensible girl, enjoyed the excellent meal while making suitable conversation.

‘I shall rest,’ declared Mrs Macdonald as they finished their coffee. ‘There is a visit this afternoon, I believe. We stop at Spean Bridge in order to drive there, but I shall not go—I know the house and I should have enjoyed meeting old friends again, but I have to think of my health. You will stay with me, Rosie—I like to be read to while I rest.’

Rosie swallowed disappointment, and said, ‘Yes, Granny,’ in a voice carefully devoid of expression. The train had turned north at Craigendoran Junction, the country was dramatically beautiful, with mountains still snow-capped ringing the horizon, and soon they would be crossing Rannoch Moor. Years ago she had walked part of its lonely road with her father, and she wanted to see it all again.

‘You don’t wish to see the moor? We are almost at Bridge of Orchy—’ She glanced out of the window. ‘There are several people on the walkway…’

‘My health is more important than sentimental remembrances at the moment. Tomorrow I shall have recovered sufficiently to look around me.’

So they made their way back to Mrs Macdonald’s cabin, where Rosie finally settled her on her bed and obediently opened the book she was to read. It was a dull book, full of long words, and she read badly because she was listening to the cheerful departure of everyone else. She ventured a peep out of the window, and saw them climbing aboard the special coach which was to carry them to the various places to be visited. There was a lot of laughing and chatter, and she longed to be there too. She reminded herself sternly that she had come to look after Granny, and went back to the book.

Ten minutes after the coach had left Mrs Macdonald went to sleep, and presently Rosie closed the book, opened the cabin door quietly, and went to stand in the corridor to take stock of her surroundings. The train would leave for Fort William soon, and wait there for the coach, and after making sure that her grandmother was sleeping soundly she went to the observation car and through its doors to the platform beyond. It was a fresh day, threatening rain, and she stayed there until the train started on its way to Fort William where it would pick up its passengers. But before that she was summoned back to her grandmother’s cabin, to find that lady wishing to be tidied after her nap and to take tea.

They had just finished when the rest of the party got on to the train again, full of their pleasant afternoon. They gathered round Mrs Macdonald and Rosie, not noting the former’s icy lack of interest, but Rosie listened happily, glad to talk to them, and rather taken aback when a cheerful matron from Chicago remarked that it was a shame that her granny was sick, and wouldn’t they like to sit with them at dinner?

Rosie listened to her grandmother explaining in well-modulated tones that conversation gave her a headache, and it was essential that she should take her meals without distraction. The Americans were nice; they offered sympathy with a friendliness which Rosie would have liked to have reciprocated.

So they dined presently, she and her grandmother, sitting in a near silence, Mrs Macdonald in black crêpe and pearls, and Rosie in silk jersey, the old lady apparently oblivious of the convivial atmosphere around them. Rosie was quite glad when the old lady said that she would go to bed shortly after dinner. Of course, an hour passed before she was in her bed, and another half-hour before Rosie was told that she might go to her own cabin.

‘A pleasant day,’ commented Mrs Macdonald. ‘I hope you’ll make sure that I am called with China tea at half-past seven, Rosie?’

Rosie simply said, ‘Yes, Granny’ to both remarks, and sped back to the observation car to spend the next hour or so exchanging light-hearted views and opinions with everyone there.

The next day the train took them to Mallaig, and although Mrs Macdonald refused to get out of the train Rosie was dispatched into the village to get postcards and stamps—an excuse to walk briskly down to the harbour and watch the ferry from Skye come in, where she was swept into a friendly group of passengers. The pleasant little interlude cheered her before going back to her grandmother, to sit with her, watching the familiar countryside and listening to the old lady’s reminiscences. They were going back over Rannoch Moor again to stay for the night at Bridge of Orchy, and the scene was familiar. Rosie’s old home wasn’t far away—a nice old house tucked away at the foot of the mountains behind Oban. She longed to see it again, but her grandmother, who had never approved of her father allowing it to pass into the hands of his cousin, had stated categorically that she had no wish to see it. It was a pointless remark, for the train didn’t go within a dozen miles of it.

There was another visit to a local country estate that evening, but Mrs Macdonald declared herself too tired to go. She and Rosie dined alone to the great inconvenience of the train staff, Rosie thought, although they presented smiling faces when her grandmother requested dinner to be served at the usual time. Everyone else had gone off in the coach and would have a buffet supper at the house they were to visit.

Rosie settled her grandparent for the night, went back to the observation car, and was presently overwhelmed by the returning passengers, eager to tell her about the house they had seen, and the buffet super. They were kind, and concerned that she was having such a dull time of it.

‘But tomorrow we’re all going to the wildlife park,’ one woman remarked. ‘Your grandmother could come in the coach and be put down at the hotel in Aviemore, Rosie. That would be nice and quiet for her, and you could come with us…’

It sounded a splendid idea, Rosie agreed. ‘But I’ll have to see how Granny feels about it,’ she reminded them.

She had been too hopeful. In the morning Mrs Macdonald declared that she intended to visit the hotel by the station where she had stayed years ago. ‘With your grandfather, dear—a sentimental visit I have long looked forward to.’ When Rosie said hopefully that she might like to be on her own there, she was told at once that probably the emotion stirred up by fond memories might upset her grandmother; it was essential that she had Rosie beside her.

Rosie watched the coach drive away once more and, presently warned by Jamie, the guide, as he got into the coach, that the train would leave in an hour’s time for Perth and Stirling, the pair of them walked the very short distance from the train to the hotel.

It had of course, changed hands. Which didn’t stop her grandmother insisting upon seeing round the hotel, pausing from time to time to make some blistering remark about the changes in the rooms. The owner was patient and courteous, but even his politeness wore thin when Mrs Macdonald criticised the colour scheme in the dining-room in no uncertain terms.

Time I did something, decided Rosie, and asked if they might have coffee.

They drank it in the pleasant lounge on the other side of the foyer and after a short time she said, ‘We should be going back, Granny, the train’s due to leave in ten minutes…’

‘I cannot be hurried, my dear. I intend to take a quick look at the gardens at the back of the hotel—five minutes only I promise you—and I wish to be alone. Wait here.’

Rosie paid the bill, and went to the hotel entrance. She could see the train clearly enough, five minutes would suffice to get her grandmother back on board. She knew that the schedule was strict, for the train had to fit in exactly with the normal timetable, and they had been warned in the nicest possible way by Jamie that if anyone missed it they would have to find their way to the next stopping-place. She glanced at her watch—her grandmother had been gone for five minutes and there was no sign of her.

The gardens behind the hotel were neatly laid out with a variety of shrubs and beds of flowers, petering out into rough grass hedged with gorse and broom, ferns and, later in the year, heather. She found her grandmother there huddled on the ground, one leg bent awkwardly. Mrs Macdonald’s face was paper-white, but she had lost very little of her brisk manner.

‘My leg,’ she explained ‘I tripped. The ankle…’

‘I’ll get help,’ said Rosie, who when necessary could be just as brisk as her granny, and sped back to the hotel, where she sent the owner and one of the waiters to carry her grandmother in, and then turned and ran back to the station.

Will, one of the stewards, was on the platform.

‘We’re off in just under five minutes, Miss Macdonald,’ he began.

Rosie told him what had happened, and before she had finished the train manager had joined them.

‘We shall have to stay behind,’ she told him. ‘We’ll never be able to get my grandmother on to the train, and she needs a doctor quickly. I know that you have to leave on the dot. Could someone pack our things and send them back here on one of the local trains? I can’t think of anything else to do…’

‘I’ll come to the hotel.’ The manager glanced at his watch, and began marching her back. ‘I’m so very sorry, but you do see that the journey can’t be delayed or altered…?’

‘Yes, of course. We shall be quite all right here, but I think that if it’s a sprain or a break we shall have to stay for a while until something can be arranged.’

They had reached the hotel, and found Mrs Macdonald laid out on a big sofa. She had lost her shoe when she fell, and the ankle was badly swollen. She opened her eyes as they reached her, and said peevishly, ‘I intend to remain here until a doctor has examined me. Rosie will make the necessary arrangements. Good of you to come.’

The manager was a nice youngish man; he said all that was proper and, with his eye on the time, wished her a speedy recovery, and promised that she would hear from him.

‘I’ll phone you from Stirling,’ he promised, ‘and I’ll see about your luggage. Has someone phoned for a doctor? There should be one at Crianlarich and several in Oban.’

‘Don’t worry, the hotel owner will know.’ Rosie added urgently, ‘Don’t, for heaven’s sake, miss the train.’

‘I hate to leave you both—’ he shook her hand ‘—but there’s nothing else for it.’

The train gave an impatient toot, and he turned and ran.

There were several people fussing around her grandmother, not quite sure what to do first.

‘Scissors, please,’ said Rosie, ‘a bowl of cold water and a napkin. How long will it take the doctor to get here?’

She took her grandmother’s hand and gave it a heartening squeeze. ‘I’m so sorry, Granny, we’ll have you comfortable in a little while.’ She was carefully cutting the black stocking, and easing it off the swollen foot.

‘I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it’s broken. I’m going to lay a cold cloth over it. There…and if someone will help me we’ll put some cushions behind you; you’ll feel easier sitting up a little.’

One of the waitresses came in with a cup of tea, and the hotel owner came back to say that most fortunately Dr Finlay at Crianlarich had just returned from early-morning fishing, and was driving over. They were to make the patient comfortable, but were not to move her.

Rosie studied her grandmother’s pale face anxiously. ‘How far away is Crianlarich?’ she asked,

‘Twelve miles, but it’s a good road. He’ll be a wee while yet; ye’d best have a cup of tea while waiting.’

She drank her tea gratefully, applied more cold cloths, and made quiet, heartening small talk—to be interrupted suddenly by Mrs Macdonald.

‘We are so near home…’

‘Would you like me to telephone Uncle Donald, Granny? Perhaps we could…?’

‘Certainly not. When your father saw fit to let Donald have his family home I washed my hands of the whole affair.’

Rosie murmured a nothing. She knew that her grandmother had blamed her father for leaving Scotland, and that he had never told her how he had come to lose most of his capital and been forced to make the heart-rending decision to hand over the house to his prosperous cousin. Privately Rosie had never understood why her uncle couldn’t have lent her father the money to come about, but he was a hard man, made harder by the wealth he had acquired by marrying an heiress. She had never liked him anyway; years ago when she had been on a visit to his house she had come upon him beating one of his dogs. She had caught his arm and hung on to it and kicked his shins, calling him a brute, and then screaming at the top of her voice until several people came running to see what was the matter. He had never forgiven her for that.

Her grandmother was looking alarmingly pale. Rosie renewed the cold compress, persuaded her grandmother to take a sip of brandy, and prayed silently that the doctor would come soon.

Her prayers were answered; the slight commotion in the hotel entrance heralded the doctor’s arrival.

He came in unhurriedly, an immensely tall, broad-shouldered man, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a long straight nose and a firm mouth. He wasted no time.

‘Doctor Cameron,’ he stated. ‘Doctor Finlay was called to a birth, and he asked me to take over. What is the trouble?’

He gave Rosie a nod and a quick questioning glance; she could have been yesterday’s newspaper, she reflected with a touch of peevishness.

‘My grandmother fell. Her ankle is swollen and very painful…’

He took Mrs Macdonald’s hand. ‘A nasty shock for you, Mrs…?’

‘Macdonald,’ said Rosie. ‘My grandmother is eighty years old.’

He gave her a look which put her in her place. ‘Let’s look at it.’

He was very gentle, keeping up a steady flow of quiet questions as he examined the swollen joint. ‘A sprain—a nasty one, but I think nothing is broken. It will be best if you stay here in bed for a few days with your ankle bandaged, and when you are more yourself you must go to Oban and have an X-ray. You live in Scotland?’

‘Edinburgh. My granddaughter and I were taking the train tour of the Highlands.’ Mrs Macdonald opened her eyes and studied his face. ‘And where are you from, may I ask?’

He didn’t answer directly. ‘I’m staying with Doctor Finlay for some fishing.’ He smiled at her suddenly and with great charm. ‘Now I want you to rest quietly while that ankle settles down. I shall write you up for something to relieve the pain, and within a couple of days or so you should be well enough to go for an X-ray. If it is, as I think, a sprain, then there is no reason why you shouldn’t go home and rest there. Now I am going to strap it firmly, and later, when you may get up, a viscopaste stocking must be applied.’

Mrs Macdonald might be a crotchety, selfish old lady but she had courage; she uttered no sound as he attended to the ankle, and when Rosie said urgently, ‘Oh, Granny’s fainted!’ the doctor said calmly, ‘Good, pass me that crêpe bandage and let us get finished before she comes round.’ He gave her a quick look. ‘You have arranged to stay here?’

‘Not yet.’ She spoke sharply, ‘I’ve had no time.’

‘Well, see about it now, will you? Get a room, and I’ll carry Mrs Macdonald up, then you get her undressed and in bed, and I’ll take another look at her before I go.’

There were two rooms on the first floor, she was told, with a communicating door and, providing she was prepared to pay for it, fortunately room service was available.

‘Good, we’ll have them. Could someone get the bed ready for my grandmother? The doctor will carry her up…’

There were plenty of willing helpers; Mrs Macdonald was carried up to her room and laid on the bed, and a chambermaid stayed to help get her into bed, offering a nightie and extra pillows, and helping Rosie to arrange a chair at the foot of the bed so that the bedclothes might be draped over it.

The doctor nodded approvingly when he came to see his patient again.

‘Your grandmother will do very well,’ he observed. ‘I can see that you’re a sensible lass. From these parts?’

‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Well, I was born near here but we live in England now.’

He stood studying her, looking down his long nose in a manner which she found annoying. ‘Married?’

‘No.’

He smiled. ‘A woman of refreshingly few words.’ Then he added to surprise her, ‘Are you all right for money?’

‘Why, yes, thank you. It is kind of you to ask.’

‘Nothing kind about it—common sense in the circumstances. It would have gone on the bill.’

She ignored this. ‘Will you come to see my grandmother again? She is old, it must have been a shock…’

‘I’ll be over tomorrow, in the morning.’ He stared at her, and added, ‘Unless you would rather Dr Finlay took over the case?’

‘Why do you say that? Granny is perfectly satisfied…’

‘Good.’ He spoke carelessly. ‘Perhaps by tomorrow you and I will like each other a little better. Good day to you, Miss Macdonald.’

He had gone leaving her bewildered and decidedly ill-tempered.

CHAPTER TWO

ROSIE was kept busy for the rest of the morning; she telephoned Elspeth and promised to ring again that evening, then she phoned her mother.

‘Are you going to let Uncle Donald know?’ she asked, ‘Inverard is barely a dozen miles from the hotel; you could go there…’

‘Granny won’t hear of it. Oh, Mother, I’d love to see it again, only not with Uncle Donald there, and I think Granny feels the same. She never did like him…’

‘Will you be all right? Is there anything we can do, Rosie?’

‘Nothing, Mother, for the moment. I’ll phone you tomorrow when the doctor’s been again.’

She spent the rest of the day with her grandmother, leaving her only for long enough to have a meal and answer the anxious enquiries of the train manager. Their luggage had been sent back to Bridge of Orchy in the late afternoon, and was there anything that he could do to help them? He added that the crew and passengers on the train sent their best wishes for Mrs Macdonald’s speedy recovery.

‘We shall be doing this same trip next week,’ he reminded her, ‘and if you are still at the hotel we shall call on you both. Perhaps you will leave a message if you depart before then?’

She thanked him; he had been kind and more than concerned for their welfare, although it had been no fault of his or his staff. She felt even more grateful when their luggage arrived, and with it a splendid basket of fruit for her grandmother with the train staff’s best wishes.

Dr Cameron had left sleeping pills for her grandmother so that the old lady slept for a good part of the night. All the same, she woke in the early morning wanting her pillows rearranged, a cup of tea, and Rosie’s company.

The hotel bedrooms had tea and coffee, sugar and milk arranged by an electric kettle. Rosie made tea for them both, and sat with her grandmother until that lady dozed off once more, enabling her to return to her own room, shower and dress, and do the best she could with a tired face.

Dr Cameron came soon after breakfast. Mrs Macdonald, refreshed after a wash, a changed nightie and a light breakfast, greeted him with a tart, ‘Well, young man, and what do you intend to do this morning?’

His expression remained professionally calm. ‘Merely a quick look at that ankle. How did you sleep?’

He glanced at Rosie standing on the other side of the bed. ‘Rather wakeful?’

‘I have had considerable pain,’ said Mrs Macdonald waspishly. ‘Rosie gave me tea—oh, about four o’clock this morning, I suppose, and another of your pills; I dozed off eventually.’

The old lady then asked her granddaughter, ‘At what time did you leave me, Rosie?’

‘Ten to six, Granny.’

Dr Cameron gave her a hard stare; that would account for her pallor and her cross face. ‘If I might see this ankle?’ he prompted gently.

The limb was inspected, pronounced as satisfactory as circumstances allowed, and made comfortable.

‘Quite satisfactory,’ pronounced Dr Cameron, ‘but I believe that you will benefit from a change of sleeping tablets. A good night’s sleep is essential.’ He forbore from looking at her heavy-eyed granddaughter as he spoke. ‘I have a busy day ahead of me; perhaps it might be as well if your granddaughter were to return to the surgery with me now, collect them, and return with me—I have to go further along the road to a shepherd’s croft on Rannoch Moor.’

He didn’t wait for Mrs Macdonald to object to this. ‘If you could come right away?’ he asked Rosie. ‘I have Finlay’s patients to visit…’

It would be simply lovely to have a breath of air. ‘You’ll be all right, Granny?’

‘It seems that I shall have to be. Tell someone that I shall be alone until you return; I can only hope that I shall not need your services.’

‘Try and have a nap,’ said Rosie, ‘I shan’t be long.’

She fetched a cardigan, and followed the doctor out of the hotel, to squeeze into the small, shabby car, hardly suitable for two splendidly built persons, and be driven away without more ado.

It was a bright clear morning, the country through which they drove was remote and grandly rugged, snow-capped mountains filled the horizon, late primroses carpeted the rough grass. The lonely moor was at their backs as they climbed to Tyndrum Upper and over the viaducts towards Crianlarich.

Rose sighed with the pleasure of it all, and the doctor asked,

‘You know this part of the world?’ He glanced at her. ‘You said you were born near here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you not like to return?’

‘Yes.’ She looked out of the window at the grandeur all around her; not a soul in sight, and they hadn’t passed a car, only slowed once or twice for a leisurely sheep with her lambs. She knew that if she got out of the car there wouldn’t be a sound—only the quiet breath of the wind and the birds. She wanted above all things to stay in this magnificent solitude.

‘Then why don’t you? I imagine you could get a job easily enough—the hotels are always short-staffed.’ He sounded uninterested, carrying on some kind of conversation out of politeness.

Rose said stonily, ‘I already have a job, and I live with my parents. Why did you ask me to come with you? There was no need; you could have handed in the pills on your way back, since you have to go and see a patient on the moor.’

‘You looked as though you needed a change of scene. Your disturbed night appears to have left you decidedly whey-faced and peevish.’

She said hotly, ‘I don’t like you, Dr Cameron.’

‘I dare say not. That’s only because you’re such a cross-patch. I think you must be quite a nice girl in kinder circumstances.’ He slowed the car as they reached the outskirts of Crianlarich—a scattering of cottages on either side of the road, and then the main street.

‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked as he stopped before a solid house opposite the church. ‘I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

‘Thank you, no.’ She turned an exquisite profile to him, and didn’t see his smile.

She regretted her words; he was all of ten minutes.

‘A small boy with a bead in his ear,’ he told her, squeezing in beside her again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, and his mother was upset.’

‘You got it out?’

His firm mouth twitched. ‘Yes. Take these, will you? See that your grandmother has one at bedtime; that should ensure that you both have a good night’s sleep.’

He dropped the small bottle of pills into her lap and started the car. He had very little to say after that, apart from the bare minimum of conversation good manners dictated.

She got out of the car at the hotel, and then poked her head through the window. ‘I’m sorry I was cross, and thank you for the ride.’

‘Think nothing of it, Miss Macdonald. In these sparsely populated parts it behoves one to offer a helping hand to all and sundry, does it not?’

She wasn’t sure if she liked being called ‘all and sundry’. She said starchily, quite sorry that she had apologised, ‘We shall expect you in the morning, Dr Cameron.’

He nodded coolly, and shot away, and she watched the car disappear along the lonely road.

She was in time to pour oil on the troubled waters of her grandmother’s insistence that she should interview the chef so that she might order exactly what she wanted for her lunch.

‘A light meal, Granny,’ said Rosie soothingly. ‘Dr Cameron told me that if you kept to a light diet for a few days it will make your recovery much quicker.’

She took the menu from the huffy chef’s hand. ‘There is salmon—now, poached salmon with a potato or two would be delicious, and I see there is clear soup…just right.’ She caught the man’s eye. ‘And perhaps the chef would be so kind as to make you a junket? If I were to have the same perhaps that would be less trouble?’

The chef went away appeased, and she sat down and regaled Mrs Macdonald with an account of her brief trip. Not that there was much to say, but she took care to make it sound as though she and Dr Cameron were on the best of terms.

Presently her grandmother dozed, and Rosie went down to the hotel lounge for coffee. There weren’t many people there. The guests at that time of year were for the most part walkers along the walkway between Glasgow and Fort William; they spent a night or stopped for a meal before taking to the road again. There was a party of them sitting on the hotel steps, resting their feet while they drank their coffee, and they called her to join them. They were a cheerful lot, and she envied them, going at their own pace, taking perhaps three days over the walk, stopping where they wanted to with the leisure to stand and stare as much as they wanted. The vague idea that perhaps she might manage a day to walk a few miles crossed her mind, although she had no idea how that could be arranged; it depended very much on how her grandmother progressed, and it was more than likely that as soon as she was fit enough to leave for a few hours she would want to go back to Edinburgh. She drank her coffee, wished her companions a pleasant journey, and went back to the invalid.

Mrs Macdonald was at her most pernickety. Nothing was right; she was too hot, too cold, bored, and then peevishly wishing to be left in peace and quiet. Rosie did her best to cope with this variety of moods; her grandmother, despite her age, was an active person, and to lie inactive in bed was almost worse than the pain of her sprained ankle. Rosie read until she was hoarse, listened to her grandmother reminiscing about the days of her childhood and youth, and ventured to suggest, not for the first time, that her Uncle Donald would visit her if she cared to let him know of her accident.

‘Certainly not,’ declared the old lady indignantly. ‘I’m surprised that you should suggest such a thing.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Your Uncle Donald never writes. I am, after all, his aunt, but he has cut himself off from his family.’

‘Did you quarrel?’

‘That is my business, Rosie.’

As she got ready for bed that night Rosie made up her mind to speak to Dr Cameron in the morning. Surely her grandmother was well enough to be taken back to Edinburgh? Elspeth and Aunt Carrie would be there and, if necessary, a nurse. She had phoned her mother that evening, making light of everything, assuring her that she would be home just as soon as possible. In any case, she reflected, she would have to go home at the end of two weeks; she would be needed at the office, and one week had gone already. She slept badly, and woke to a morning dark with tumultuous clouds racing across the sky, bringing a fine rain on a strengthening wind.

Dr Cameron came during the morning, examining the ankle, which was now all the colours of the rainbow, and pronouncing himself satisfied with it.

‘The swelling is going down nicely,’ he said, probing the joint with gentle fingers. ‘Another few days and you may get up—I’ll bring crutches with me when the time comes.’ He opened his bag. ‘You are sleeping, Mrs Macdonald?’

She gave a grudging assent as he took out his stethoscope. ‘I’ll just go over your chest,’ he explained and, at her look of surprise, added smoothly, ‘It is usual after a fall such as you have had, it may take a day or so before the shock of it wears off.’

He took her blood-pressure too, and although Rosie watched his face closely she could detect no change in its calm blandness.

Dr Cameron didn’t hurry away, but stood leaning against the door, his hands in the pockets of his elderly and excellently tailored tweed jacket, listening to Mrs Macdonald’s tetchy opinions of modern youth, fast food and microwave ovens. He gave her his full attention, and they parted, if not the best of friends, at least on speaking terms.

Rosie, intent on getting him alone, followed him out of the room. ‘I want a word with you,’ she told him urgently, ‘if you can spare a moment.’

His, ‘of course,’ was non-committal as he followed her down to the lounge, crowded with frustrated anglers and walkers because of the heavy rain. They found a table jammed up against a wall, and ordered coffee, and she began without preamble.

‘How soon can Grandmother go home? Could we get an ambulance or a car to take her to Edinburgh? She has a daughter living with her, and a splendid housekeeper, and I could arrange for a nurse if you think it necessary.’ At his faintly surprised look, she added, ‘I sound as if I want to get rid of her, don’t I? But, you see, I have a job at home, and I have to be back by the end of next week…’

Their coffee came, and she poured out and handed him a cup.

‘As far as the ankle is concerned there is no reason why Mrs Macdonald should not be taken back to her home. Unfortunately there is a complication. She has a heart condition, and the shock of the fall has made it worse. Rest in bed is absolutely necessary for several more days—even a week. Her blood-pressure is far too high, and she is not by nature a calm person, is she? A placid life is essential to her well-being. Ideally she should stay where she is. Perhaps the housekeeper or your aunt could come here and take your place?’

‘Then she would want to know why…’

‘Indeed, yes. Is your job very important to you? Do you stand a risk of losing it if you were to stay on here?’

She nodded and said, ‘yes,’ slowly, thinking that her mother would miss her share of the household expenses until she could find another job. Messrs Crabbe, Crabbe and Twitchett, a young, rather pushy firm, would show no compunction in finding someone to replace her. Shorthand typists were quite thick on the ground.

She said out loud, ‘But of course I’ll stay.’ She gave him a direct look. ‘She is my granny.’

‘Good, but I think that we must establish some sort of routine. You must have some leisure during the day. Do you get enough sleep?’

‘Well, Granny takes quite a time to settle, and she wakes early and likes a cup of tea and then goes to sleep again.’

‘So it is essential that you should have a few hours each day to yourself. I suggest that you settle her for a rest after lunch, arrange for her to have her tea, and return to her around five or six o’clock. I dare say there is a sensible chambermaid who would undertake to cast an eye over your grandmother from time to time and give her tea.’

‘I did come to Scotland especially to be her companion on the train trip…’

‘Indeed, but not to nurse her for twenty-four hours of the day and night for a week or more.’

Dr Cameron smiled suddenly at her, and just for a moment she liked him very much.

‘Get through today, and tomorrow I will have a talk with her. Now I must go—I have someone to see at the youth hostel at Loch Ossian.’

He lifted a finger for the bill, wished her goodbye, and left the hotel.

Rosie went back to the invalid presently, and read the Daily Telegraph from end to end before lunch, and after that meal, since her grandmother declared that she needed her company, sat quietly while the old lady talked. Mostly about her youth and the early years of her marriage and, when that topic was exhausted, politics and the shortcomings of the younger generation.

Mercifully tea gave her pause, and Rosie produced a pack of cards and suggested Patience before being allowed to go down to the dining-room for her dinner. There was still an hour or so before bedtime, and Mrs Macdonald, far from being tired, became chatty.

‘Quite a pleasant man, Dr Cameron,’ she allowed. ‘I am inclined to take his advice. He is not so young, and must have had some experience. Is he Dr Finlay’s partner, I wonder? There surely can’t be enough work for the pair of them.’

‘It’s a scattered practice,’ said Rosie, and stifled a yawn, not caring in the least where the man came from.

Her grandmother gave her a sharp glance. ‘Married, do you suppose?’

‘I’ve no idea, Granny. I should think that very likely he is; he’s not young.’

Her grandmother spoke with a snap. ‘Not a day over thirty-five, I should imagine. You’re not so young yourself, Rosie.’

The kind of remark which made it hard for Rosie to love her Granny as she ought.

She had to admire Dr Cameron’s tactics the next morning. He was later than usual, and he looked tired. But he was as immaculate as usual, and just as impersonally pleasant, reassuring Mrs Macdonald that she was making a steady progress, explaining that the longer she stayed in bed off her foot, the sooner she would be able to walk without pain.

‘Another few days,’ he warned her, ‘and then I will see about getting you home. You are making the most remarkable recovery.’

Mrs Macdonald gave a smug smile. ‘I pride myself upon my fortitude and common sense,’ she told him.

It was an easy step from there to point out that Rosie, if she were to give her grandmother her full attention, should take necessary exercise.

‘If I might suggest,’ said Dr Cameron at his most urbane, ‘two or three hours in the fresh air each afternoon? I am sure that there is a chambermaid able to bring you your tea and answer your bell, but I hope that for your own good you will rest quietly after your lunch. Shall you be willing to try this for a day or so? Now that you are feeling so much better I dare say you have been thinking along these lines yourself.’

To Rosie’s astonishment her grandmother replied quite sharply that of course she had.

‘Then that is settled, if—er—Rosie feels able, there are some splendid walks around the hotel.’

Of which she was well aware, although she had no intention of saying so. She still didn’t like him, she told herself, but she had to admit that he was doing his best for her.

He went away presently giving her a casual nod. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow—I have to pass the hotel.’

She accompanied him down to the foyer, and as he went he said, ‘Be sure and get out for a walk each day.’ He stopped unexpectedly so that she almost tripped up.

‘You’re not very happy, are you?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

‘A good thing, too,’ muttered Rosie crossly, ‘for it’s none of his business.’

The new regime worked well; her grandmother offered no opposition when, having settled her for her afternoon nap, she got into her gilet and sensible shoes, reassured her that she had warned the chambermaid, rearranged the pillows, adjusted the window curtains to her grandmother’s taste, and at last took herself off.

She took the road towards Loch Tulla, walking briskly. It was a fine afternoon, but it wouldn’t last—the sky above Ben Dorian behind her was ominously grey, but she didn’t care; to be out walking in well-remembered country was enough to make her happy. That evening, she reflected, she would phone her mother and tell her that nothing had changed in the wild and lonely countryside around her. Just for a little while she was blissfully happy, and some of the happiness was still with her when she returned to soothe a disgruntled grandparent who declared that she had been bored, in pain, and neglected.

‘Kirsty came to see you,’ said Rosie. ‘I met her as I came in, and she said that you had had a long nap and a splendid tea.’

She wished she hadn’t repeated that, for her grandmother declared loudly that no servant was to be trusted. ‘Of course if you wish to disbelieve your own kith and kin…’

It took her the rest of the evening to coax Mrs Macdonald into a good frame of mind again.

When Dr Cameron came in the morning she half expected her grandmother to object to being left on her own in the afternoon, and she couldn’t help but admire his handling of her recalcitrant grandparent so that grudging permission was given once more with the rider that it was to be hoped that the state of affairs wouldn’t last.

‘Just as soon as you are fit to be moved, Mrs Macdonald,’ said the doctor, at his most soothing, ‘I will arrange your return home. You are doing splendidly, due largely to your co-operation and fortitude.’

Rosie, watching the old lady’s pleased smile at that, thought Dr Cameron was a cunning rascal, obviously used to getting his own way once he had made up his mind.

Beyond a civil good day as he went he had nothing to say to her, which rather annoyed her. Even if she didn’t like him their barbed conversation made her day more interesting.

Two more days went by, and Rosie’s lovely face took on a healthy glow from the energetic walks she took each day. It was a pity that the weather was changing; there was more persistent rain and a strengthening wind—hardly a day for a tramp—but Dr Cameron had said that morning that her grandmother was well enough to return home, and this might be her last chance to take a last look… She borrowed an old mac from one of the maids, tied her head in a scarf, assured her grandmother, with not a vestige of truth, that the weather was clearing, and left the hotel.

The steady drizzle didn’t bother her, nor did the great gusts of wind. The sky was leaden and the mountains loomed, grey and forbidding, but she had been brought up in surroundings such as these, and wasn’t deterred from her resolve to walk as far as possible towards Rannoch Moor. She had no hope of actually getting there, but at least she would be able to reach its very edge. She would walk for an hour and then turn back.

The hour was almost up and she was a good four miles from the hotel when the drizzle turned to torrential rain. There was no escaping it; she was on a lonely stretch of road bordered by coarse grass and last year’s bracken, patterned with the vivid green of the new growth. The low-lying shrubs offered no shelter, and there was nothing to do but turn round and walk back. She paused to wipe the rain from her face with an already sopping hanky, and didn’t hear the Land Rover come to a halt on the other side of the road. Its door opened and Dr Cameron roared, ‘Over here, Rosie, and look sharp about it!’

She sloshed across the road, her shoes full of water, relieved to see him, and at the same time vexed that he should bawl at her in such a fashion. He had the door open, and she climbed in and squelched into the seat beside him, and he drove off, far too fast she considered, before she had fastened her seatbelt. She mopped her face, glad that she would be back soon.

‘An emergency?’ she asked, and when he didn’t do more than grunt, ‘Thank you for picking me up, I’ll be glad to get out of these wet clothes.’

They were approaching Bridge of Orchy; she could see the hotel, standing back from the station and the road. A cup of tea and a hot bath would be more than welcome. She gave a sigh of relief which turned to a surprised gasp as he drove down a side-road which joined the road to Oban.

‘Sorry I can’t stop,’ said Dr Cameron in what she considered to be a heartless manner. The next minute she felt ashamed of herself; what were hot baths and cups of tea compared with emergencies?

She peered through the driving rain as he turned off the road on to a narrow country lane running through fir trees. She knew the lane, for it was within a few miles of her old home. They would pass close to Inverard unless he turned off again, and side-roads were few and far between.

He didn’t turn off, but presently raced through an open gateway and slowed then because the drive was steep and narrow and winding.

‘Why are you coming here?’ She strove to keep her voice quiet.

‘Dr Finlay is out on a case. The medical men at Oban are tied up—I got a call on the car phone.’

They had reached the end of the drive, and the house came into view. It hadn’t changed—white walls, gables, tall chimneys, shallow steps to the wide front door standing ajar, sitting cosily within its circle of trees and gardens, facing the mountains across a wide grass meadow.

She gave a small sigh, and he turned to look at her.

‘Know this place? Who lives here? I was only given the address…’

‘Macdonald,’ and at his sudden understanding look, ‘I was born here. Donald Macdonald is my uncle.’

He had the doors open. ‘Out you get and inside with you, and don’t waste my time. You can dry off somewhere…’

He mounted the steps and went into the square hall with doors on all sides. One of them opened now, and a small elderly woman in a flowered pinny came to meet them.

‘The doctor—thank God for that. He’s in the drawing-room, we’ve not dared to move him.’ Her eyes lighted on Rosie, and her face broke into a wide smile. ‘Miss Rosie—in with ye, lassie, while I take the doctor along.’

The doctor had cast down his Burberry and followed the woman through the door, and Rosie stopped to take off her mac and headscarf, and made haste to follow. Nothing had changed, she saw that at a glance as she crossed the charming room to the vast sofa where her uncle lay.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ She looked at the unconscious face of her uncle, and felt a pang of pity; he had treated her father with unkindness and she had never liked him, but now he lay, a lonely elderly man with no wife and no family to be with him.

‘Open my bag and get out the syringe in a plastic envelope, the small bottle with spirit written on it, and one of the woollen swabs beside it. Put them where I can reach them, and get someone to get a bed ready.’

He didn’t look at her; he was bending over his patient, listening to his chest, so she did exactly as she had been told and then, leaving Mrs MacFee with him, hurried through to the dining-room through the open archway and up the small second staircase leading from it. Old Robert, the odd-job man, and a young girl with a tear-stained face were standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, and Rosie said, ‘Come up with me, will you, and help me get a bed ready?’

Her uncle’s room was at the front of the house; if he was to be carried upstairs, then it would be easier if they used the main staircase in the inner hall leading up from the drawing-room. Rosie ran through the passages and opened the door wide. ‘We’d better take the bedclothes off.’ She gave the girl a reassuring smile. ‘What is your name?’

‘Flora, miss, I’m the housemaid.’

‘Well, Flora, would you switch on the lights? And I should think one pillow would do.’ She frowned. ‘Perhaps you’d better fetch several more, though, for I’m not sure if Mr Macdonald should sit up or not.’

She gave a quick look round, moved a bedside table to make it easier to reach the bed, and said, ‘I’m going downstairs again to tell the doctor to use the main staircase.’

Dr Cameron was still bending over her uncle. He didn’t look up as she went in, but said in his calm way, ‘Is the bed ready?’ and when she said ‘yes’ he lifted his patient with apparent ease.

‘Lead the way…’

She went ahead, turning every few steps to make sure that the doctor was all right. ‘Pillow?’ she asked urgently as they reached the bedroom.

‘One,’ Dr Cameron laid his patient on the bed. He was breathing rather fast, but that was all. He must be all of fifteen stone, reflected Rosie and, being a practical young woman, began to ease off her uncle’s shoes.

Her uncle was still unconscious.

‘We will get him undressed,’ stated the doctor. ‘Trousers and jacket, leave everything else.’

When that was done he turned to Rosie and said, ‘Go and telephone the hotel, reassure your grandmother. Will it upset her to be told?’

‘She hasn’t spoken to Uncle Donald since he came here to live, but I’d rather not tell her—not yet, anyway.’

‘Tell her what you think is best, and then come back here.’

She was still wringing wet and with no hope of getting dry, at least for the moment. When she got downstairs she kicked off her shoes, stripped off her tights, and went to the telephone. It took a minute or two to explain to the manager where she was and why.

‘If you could tell my grandmother,’ she asked, ‘that I am quite safe, and will be back just as soon as Dr Cameron can leave his patient.’

Mrs MacFee was at her elbow as she put down the phone.

‘You’ll get these wet things off you, Miss Rosie. Ye can sit in my dressing-gown while they dry—it’ll take but a wee while.’

‘I can’t just yet, Mrs MacFee, the doctor might need help.’ She raced back upstairs, and the housekeeper, tutting indignantly, went back to the kitchen to warm up the soup she was sure would be needed.

‘A fine, strong lass,’ she grumbled at Old Robert. ‘It won’t be my fault if she catches her death of cold—and why should she be here after all this time and them not speaking, her father and him?’ She nodded her head towards the ceiling. ‘That’s a braw man, that doctor. Fetch in some more peat, Robert, will you? The fire’ll need banking for the night.’

‘Woman, it’s but five o’clock.’

‘And a long night ahead of us, Robert.’

‘Stay here, will you?’ asked Dr Cameron as Rosie reached the bedroom. ‘I’ve some phoning to do. No need to do anything, but give a yell if he comes round.’

She sat down close to the bed, her eyes glued to her uncle’s unconscious face. It was quiet in the room save for his slow breaths, so quiet that she had to strain her ears to hear them. It seemed an age before the doctor came soft-footed through the half-open door. He said nothing, checked his patient’s pulse once more, and then sat down on the other side of the bed.

Presently he looked across at her.

‘Go down and get those wet things off; your Mrs MacFee is seething with anxiety for fear you will catch cold. Then come back here—I might need you.’

He could have been giving orders to a nurse on a hospital ward. Polite, impersonal, and quite sure he would be obeyed.

She did as she was told, and didn’t say a word. In the kitchen she was given a scalding cup of tea, and was told to go up the back stairs to Mrs MacFee’s room, strip off her clothes, and put on the dressing-gown she would find behind the door. It was a voluminous garment, very woolly, and she wrapped it around her person with a sigh of relief as Mrs MacFee came trotting in with her tights.

‘You put these on, my lass, and button up that gown all the way down. Come and sit in the kitchen by the fire—your things will dry in no time.’

‘I’m to go back upstairs,’ Rosie insisted.

‘Like that? Whatever next…?’

‘He’s a doctor, Mrs MacFee,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s concerned with Uncle Donald—I could be there with nothing on at all and he wouldn’t notice!’

She gave the elderly cheek a quick kiss, nipped through the upstairs passages, and slid into the room without a word.

If the doctor noticed her appearance he gave no sign. ‘He is regaining consciousness. Sit where he can see you.’

So she sat close to the bed again, and sure enough her uncle’s eyelids soon fluttered and opened. He closed them again at once, and then after a minute opened them again. ‘Rosie?’ His voice was a thread of sound.

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Strange you’re here—I’ve been thinking about you…your father…’ He closed his eyes again, and she looked at the doctor, who looked calmly back at her and didn’t speak.

‘Never liked me much, did you?’ went on the weary voice. ‘Kicked me when I beat that dog. Sorry about that. So long ago. I’ve been a fool.’

Rosie took one of his hands in hers. ‘That’s all over and done with, Uncle… The doctor’s here, you were taken ill.’

The tired face turned slowly on the pillow. ‘Don’t know you. Married to Rosie, are you?’

Dr Cameron looked faintly amused. ‘Indeed not. Your own doctor was out on a case, and I got your housekeeper’s message on the car phone. Dr Douglas will be with us very shortly and it is to be hoped that you can be taken to hospital in Oban as soon as you are fit enough to move.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию 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.