Perhaps he was married... About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

Perhaps he was married...

The thought was an unwelcome one which Margo thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however. Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.

“Are you married?” she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on Gijs’s face sent the color into her cheeks and she mumbled, “Sorry. That was rude of me....”

“No, I’m not married.” He ignored the mumble. “I have never found the time.”

About the Author

BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, 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 grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

The Vicar’s Daughter

Betty Neels

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a crisp, starry October night and Professor van Kessel, driving himself back home after a weekend with friends in Dorset, had chosen to take the country roads rather than the direct route to London. He drove without haste, enjoying the dark quiet, the villages tucked in the hollows between the hills, the long stretches of silent road, the unexpected curves and sudden windings up and down. There was no one about, though from time to time he slowed for a fox or a badger, a hedgehog or a startled rabbit.

The last village had been some miles back and now there were no houses by the roadside. It was farmland, and the farmhouses lay well back from the road; there would be another village presently and he could take his direction from there. In the meantime he was content; the weekend had been very pleasant and this was a delightfully peaceful way of ending it.

The road curved between heavy undergrowth and trees, and he slowed and then braked hard as a figure darted from the side of the road into his headlights, only yards from the Rolls’s bonnet. The doctor swore softly and let down his window.

‘That was a silly thing to do,’ he observed mildly to the anxious face peering at him, and he got out of the car. ‘In trouble?’

The girl stared up at him looming over her small person. Her face might be anxious but there was no sign of distress or fear.

‘Hope I didn’t startle you,’ she said, ‘and so sorry to bother you, but would you stop at Thinbottom village—it’s only a couple of miles down the road—and get someone to phone for a doctor or an ambulance? There’s a party of travellers in the woods—’ She cocked her neat head sideways over a shoulder. ‘One of them is having a baby and I’m not sure what to do next.’

A plain face, the doctor reflected, but lovely eyes and a delightful voice. What she was doing here in the middle of nowhere at eleven o‘clock at night was none of his business, and considering the circumstances she was remarkably self-possessed. He said now, ‘Perhaps I might help. I’m a doctor.’

‘Oh, splendid.’ She gave his sleeve an urgent tug.

‘Have you got your bag with you? We’ll need scissors and some string or something, and a few towels. There’s a kettle of hot water...’ She was leading the way along a narrow track. ‘I told her not to push...’

The darkness hid his smile.

‘You are a nurse?’

‘Me? Gracious me, no. First aid. Here we are.’

The travellers had set up their camp in a clearing close to the path, with a tent, a small stove, a few bundles and a hand-cart.

‘In the tent,’ said the girl, and gave his sleeve another urgent tug. ‘He’s a doctor,’ she said to the two young women, and to the man and young boy standing there. ‘Did you lock your car?’ she asked the doctor. ‘Because if you didn’t Willy can go and stand guard over it.’

‘I locked it.’ What a little busybody the girl was—probably some vicar’s daughter. ‘I’ll have a basin of that water in the tent. With a towel, if there is one.’

He bent his large frame and edged inside, and a moment later the girl crept in with a saucepan of water and a none too clean towel to make herself small on the other side of the woman, waiting to be told what to do.

The doctor had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Something in which to wrap the infant?’ He smiled reassuringly at the woman lying on top of a sleeping bag. ‘You’re very brave—another few minutes and you’ll have your baby to hold.’

The woman let out a squawk. ‘It’s early,’ she mumbled. ‘We’d reckoned we’d be in Sturminster Newton.’

The doctor was arranging some plastic sheeting just so, and getting things from his bag set out on it. He glanced over at the girl. ‘A blanket? Something warm?’

He whipped a spotless and very large handkerchief from a pocket as she took off the scarf wound round her neck and, urged on by the imminent arrival of the baby, she laid the one on the other just in time to receive a furiously angry infant.

‘You’ll have to hold her for a moment, then wrap her up tightly and give her to her mum. Right, now do as I say...’

He was quick and unfturried, telling her what to do in a quiet voice, making little jokes with the mother. Presently he said, ‘Go outside and see if anyone has a clean towel or nightie—but they must be clean.’

She crawled out of the tent, and with the other women’s help searched the bundles.

She came back with a cotton nightie. This one was being saved for when she got to Sturminster Newton.’

‘Excellent. Roll it up neatly and give it to me.’ In a moment he said, ‘Now, put your hand just here and keep it steady while I phone.’

He took a phone from his pocket and dialled 999 and began to speak.

He went outside then, and presently the husband came in to bend awkwardly over his wife and daughter while the girl knelt awkwardly, cold and cramped, her hand stiff.

The father went away and the doctor came back, took her hand away gently and nodded his satisfaction. ‘The ambulance will be here very shortly; they’ll take you to Blandford Hospital—just for a couple of days so that you can rest a bit and get to know the baby. Have you any transport?’

‘Broke down yesterday.’

He went away again to talk to the husband, and came back with two mugs of tea. He handed one to the girl and helped his patient to sit up, and held the mug while she drank. ‘If I might suggest it,’ he said in his placid voice, ‘it would be a good idea if your husband and family stayed for a day or two in Blandford. I think that I may be able to arrange that for you—it will give you time to sort things out. You’ll be quite free to go on your way, but you do need a good rest for a couple of days.’

‘If Bert don’t mind...’ The woman closed her eyes and slept, the baby clasped close to her, its cross little face now smoothed into that of a small cherub.

The doctor glanced across at the girl, still kneeling patiently. She was smiling down at the baby, and when she smiled she wasn’t in the least plain. When she looked up he saw how pale she was. ‘Are you not out rather late?’ he asked.

‘Well, it was just after seven o’clock when Bert stopped me. I was on my way home on my bike, you know. There’s not much traffic along here after five o‘clock. Two cars went by and he tried to stop them, but they took no notice...’

‘So you had a go?’

She nodded. ‘She’ll be quite comfortable at Blandford—but it’s a bit late...’

‘I’ll go in and see whoever’s on duty at the hospital.’ He sounded so reassuring that she said no more, and they crouched, the pair of them, beside the woman, saying nothing. From time to time the doctor saw to his patient, and once or twice he went to talk to her husband. He was packing up their possessions and stowing them on the hand-cart. When the doctor returned the second time he told the girl that the boy and the young women would stay the night, sleeping in the tent. ‘They say they will start walking in the morning.’

‘If they stop at Thinbottom I think I could get someone to give them and the cart a lift to Blandford.’

‘You live at Thinbottom?’

‘Me? I’m the vicar’s daughter.’

‘I’ll give you a lift as soon as the ambulance has gone.’

‘No need, thank you all the same,’ she said, and, in case that had sounded rude, added, ‘What I mean is, you’ve been awfully kind and it must have been a great nuisance to you. You’ll be very late home. Besides, my bike’s here.’

‘The boy can load it on the cart and drop it off tomorrow when they get to Thinbottom. Won’t your family be worried about you?’

‘I went over to Frogwell Farm—Granny Coffin. Mother will think that I’ve stayed the night—she’s very old and often ill.’

‘Nevertheless, I must insist on seeing you to your home,’ he said, and, when she would have protested, added, ‘Please, don’t argue—’ He broke off. ‘Ah. here’s the ambulance at last.’

He went out of the tent to meet the paramedies, and when they reached the tent she slipped out and stood on one side while they undid their equipment and saw to his patient. Then, satisfied, he stood up and walked back to the ambulance with them, his patient and the baby and the father. As he passed the girl he said, ‘Stay where you are,’ in a voice that she couldn’t ignore. In any case her bike was already roped onto the top of the hand-cart.

He came back presently. ‘Shall we introduce ourselves?’ he suggested. ‘Gijs van Kessel.’ He held out a large hand.

She shook it, feeling its firm grip. ‘Margo Pearson,’ she said, and then, ‘That’s not an English name—are you Dutch?’

‘Yes. If you will wait a moment while I have a word with this boy...’

Once he had done so, he picked up his bag and, with the boy ahead of them with a torch, went back to the road and handed her into the car. Margo, sinking back against the leather softness, said, ‘I’ve never been in a Rolls-Royce. It’s very comfortable—and large too. But then you’re a very large man, aren’t you?’ She sounded very matter-of-fact

‘Yes, I am. Miss Pearson, forgive me for mentioning it, but was it not rather foolhardy of you to rush into the road and stop a strange car? There are quite a few undesirable people around after dark.’

‘I would have screamed very loudly if you had been one,’ she told him sensibly. ‘And I dare say Bert or Willy would have come.’

He didn’t point out that by the time they could have reached her she might have been whisked away in the car or maltreated in some way.

They soon reached the village and she said, ‘It’s here on the left, by the church.’

He drew up at an open gateway. The house beyond was large and solid, a relic from the days when the parsonage had housed a cleric’s large family, and overshadowed by the church a stone’s throw from it. It, like the rest of the village, was in darkness, but as the doctor drew up a light shone through the transom over the front door.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Margo, and undid her seat belt.

He didn’t reply, but got out of the car, opened her door and walked the few yards to the house with her. By the time they had reached the door it had been opened to reveal the vicar in his dressing gown.

‘Margo—thank heaven. We had just phoned Frogwell Farm and been told that you left hours ago. You’re all right? An accident?’ He opened the door wide. ‘Come in, both of you...’

‘Father, this is Dr van Kessel, who kindly gave me a lift. There’s been no accident but he has been of the greatest possible help.’ She turned to greet her mother, a middle-aged replica of herself, as he and the vicar shook hands.

‘My dear sir, we are in your debt. Come into the sitting room—a cup of coffee? Something to eat?’

‘Thank you—but I’m on my way to Blandford to the hospital. Your daughter will explain. I am glad to have been of some help!’ He smiled at Mrs Pearson. ‘You have a very resourceful daughter, Mrs Pearson. I regret that I cannot stay and tell you of our evening’s adventure, but I’m sure Miss Pearson will do so.’

He shook hands all round again, and Margo, having her hand gently crushed, had time to study him in the dim light of the hall. He had seemed enormous back there in the woods and he didn’t seem any less so now. Not so very young, she decided. Mid-thirties, with fair hair already silvered, a commanding nose above a thin, firm mouth and startlingly blue eyes. She thought she would never forget him.

That he would forget her the moment he had resumed his journey went without saying; she had been a plain child and had grown into a plain young woman, and no one had ever pretended that she wasn’t.

Her father had assured her that one could be beautiful as well as being possessed of mediocre features, and her mother thought of her lovingly as a jolie laide, but even George Merridew, who, in village parlance, was courting her cautiously, had told her with a well-meaning lack of tact that she might not have much in the way of good looks but she had plenty of common sense and was almost as good a cook as his mother.

A remark which Margo had found unsatisfactory. Surely if George was in love with her he should think of her as rather more than a cook and a sensible pair of hands? Or was that what he wanted? He was a good farmer and a prosperous man and she liked him—was even a little fond of him—but such remarks did nothing to endear him to her. And now this man had appeared from nowhere and gone again, and had left her feeling uncertain.

She related the night’s happenings to her parents over a pot of tea and slices of bread and butter with lashings of jam. Caesar, the family cat, had curled up on her lap, and Plato, the elderly black Labrador, had got into his basket and gone back to sleep. She gobbled the last slice and sighed.

‘I’m so sorry you were worried, but I couldn’t leave them there, could I?’

‘No, love, of course not. You did quite the right thing. They will bring your bicycle in the morning?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m going to ask George to lend me the trailer, then they can put their hand-cart on it and go to Blandford.’

‘Will George do that?’ asked her father mildly.

‘Well, he won’t be using it until Wednesday, when he hauls the winter feed.’

Margo got up and tucked Caesar into Plato’s basket. She put the mugs in the sink and said, ‘It’s after two o’clock. Don’t either of you get up in the morning until I bring your tea. It’s your morning off, isn’t it, Father? I’ll get the breakfast before I go to see George.’

It was still early when she drove over to George’s farm in the worn out old Ford her father owned. His laconic, ‘Hello, old girl,’ was friendly enough, but hardly lover-like. He listened to her request without comment, only saying when she had finished, ‘I don’t see why not. I’m not needing it for a couple of days. But mind and drive carefully. Will you be at the whist drive this evening? Mother’s going.’

Margo, who didn’t like George’s mother all that much, said that she’d see, and waited while he and one of his farmhands attached the trailer. She drove it carefully back and then parked outside the vicarage in the main street, where the boy and the two young women would see it. She had just finished her breakfast when they came, pushing the hand-cart with her bike on top. They sat, the three of them, in the kitchen, drinking the tea her mother offered and eating bacon sandwiches, saying little.

The road was almost empty as she drove to Blandford Hospital, taking the by-roads she knew so well and getting there without mishap. She hadn’t had any idea what was to happen next, but it seemed that the doctor had smoothed their path for them. There was an empty house near the hospital, they were told, and the travellers were to be allowed to stay in it until the mother and baby were fit to travel again.

The man who had come to speak to Margo at the hospital looked at her curiously. He counted himself lucky to have been the casualty officer on duty when Professor van Kessel had arrived and sought his help last night. He was internationally well-known in his profession, and it had been a privilege to meet him. His fame as a paediatrician was widespread, and to have had the honour of meeting him... And he had been very accurate in his description of this Miss Pearson.

He said now, ‘Mother and baby are doing well, but they’ll have to stay for a couple of days. The professor found the empty house for her family. Don’t ask me how at that time of night—the police, I suppose. I’ll let you have the address. Oh, and he left some money for them. May I give it to you?’

‘Professor?’ asked Margo. ‘Isn’t he a doctor?’

The young doctor smiled down at her. She was rather sweet, even if plain, he thought.

‘He’s a famous man in the medical world. Specialises in children’s illnesses.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’ll take the boy and the women to this house, shall I? They’ll be all right there? I ought to get back in case the trailer is needed.’

‘That’s fine. The social services will have been told, and don’t forget it’s temporary—they can move on once the mother and baby are fit.’

It was a miserable little cottage, but it was empty and weatherproof. The boy unloaded the cart from the trailer, thanked her in a rather surly voice and, helped by the two young women, took their possessions indoors. Margo gave the money to one of the women. ‘It’s not from me. The doctor who looked after the baby left it for all of you,’ she explained.

The woman gave her a sour look. ‘We won’t be staying here longer than we must.’

It was the other woman who called across, ‘Well, thanks anyway.’

Margo drove back to George’s farm and waited while the trailer was unhitched.

‘Everything OK?’ George wanted to know. ‘Not done any damage?’

‘No,’ said Margo, and thought how delightful it would be if he would ask her—just once would do—if she was OK as well as the trailer. George, she felt sure, was a sound young man, steady and hardworking, but he hadn’t much time for what he called all that nonsense. In due time he would marry, since a farmer needed a wife and sons to carry on his work, and she suspected that he had decided that she would do very nicely—little chance of her looks tempting any other suitors, a splendid cook, and capable of turning her hand to anything.

Margo drove the short distance back to the vicarage, childishly wishing for a miracle—glossy fair curls, blue eyes and a face to make men turn to look at her twice and then fall in love with her. ‘And not just George,’ she said aloud. ‘Someone like Dr van Kessel—no, Professor van Kessel. Someone handsome, rich and important. He won’t even remember what I look like.’

He remembered—though perhaps not quite as she would have wished. His patient comfortably settled and the help of the police sought, after a friendly chat with the young doctor on call in Casualty he had been free to drive himself back to London.

He’d taken the Salisbury road, and then the rather lonely road through Stockridge until he’d reached the M3. There had been little traffic—even the city streets, when he’d reached them, had been tolerably quiet.

When he was in England he stayed with an old friend and colleague, and since his work took him to various big teaching hospitals he came and went freely, using his borrowed key. He’d stopped silently in a mews behind a terrace of townhouses, garaged his car and walked round to the street, let himself in and had gone silently to his room for the few hours of sleep left to him.

He hadn’t been tired; lack of sleep didn’t bother him unduly; it was a hazard of his profession. He had lain for a while, remembering with amusement the girl who had brought him to such a sudden halt. A small girl, totally without fear and sensible. Bossy too! He had no doubt at all that she would see her protégés safely housed. He wondered idly how she would get them to Blandford. He had no doubt that she would...

The professor had a busy week. Outpatients’ clinics where he had to deal with anxious mothers as well as sick children, small patients for whom his specialised surgery had been required to be visited in the wards and a theatre list which, however hard he worked, never seemed to grow smaller.

An urgent call came from Birmingham during the week, asking him to operate on a child with one leg inches shorter than its fellow. It was something in which he specialised, the straightening and correction of malformed bones in children and babies, and he was much in demand. Totally absorbed, he forgot Margo.

Margo was busy too, although her tasks were of a more mundane nature—lowers for the church, the last of the apples and pears to pick from the old trees behind the vicarage, getting the church hall ready for the monthly whist drive, cutting sandwiches for the Mothers’ Union annual party, driving her mother into Sturminster Newton for the weekly shopping... Unlike Professor van Kessel, however, she hadn’t forgotten.

Waiting patiently in the village shop while Mrs Drew, the village gossip, chose the cheese she liked and at the same time passed on an embroidered version of the rumpus at Downend Farm when the bull had broken loose, Margo allowed her thoughts to dwell on the man who had come into her life so abruptly and gone again without trace. She was still thinking about him as she left the shop, clutching the breakfast bacon, when she was hailed from a passing motor car.

It stopped within a few feet of her and the elderly driver called her over.

‘Margo—the very person I am on my way to see. Get in. We will go back to the house, where we can talk.’ He noticed her shopping basket. ‘Want to go home first?’

‘Well, yes, please, Sir William. Mother expects me back. Can’t we talk at home?’

‘Yes, yes, of course...’

‘I’ll not get in, then. You can park in the drive; the gate’s open.’

She crossed the narrow street and was waiting for him as he stopped by the door. Sir William Frost greeted Mrs Pearson with pleasant friendliness, accepted the offer of coffee and followed Margo into the sitting room.

‘Want to ask a favour of you, Margo. You saw Imogen in church, didn’t you?’ he asked, referring to his granddaughter. ‘Been staying with us fnr a few days. Intended to take her up to town myself, but got this directors’ meeting in Exeter. Can’t spare Tomkins; want him to stay at the house with Lady Frost. Wondered if you’d drive her up to her aunt’s place in town. Don’t care to send her by train.’

Mrs Pearson came in with the coffee and Sir William repeated himself all over again, then sat back and drank his coffee. He was a short, stout man, with a drooping moustache and a weatherbeaten face, liked by everyone despite the fact that he liked his own way with everything. And, even if from time to time he rode roughshod over someone’s feelings, his wife, a small, dainty little lady, quickly soothed them over.

He finished his coffee, accepted a second cup and said, ‘Well?’

Margo said in her sensible way, ‘Yes, of course I’ll take her, Sir William. When do you want her to go?’

‘Day after tomorrow. Get there in time for lunch. Much obliged to you, Margo.’

It was the vicar who unknowingly upset the plans. His car wouldn’t be available—he had been bidden to see his bishop on the very day Imogen was to be driven to her aunt’s house.

Sir William huffed and puffed when he was informed. ‘Then you will have to go by train. I’ll get the local taxi to take you to Sherborne. Get another taxi at Paddington. Not what I wanted, but it can’t be helped, I suppose.’

Imogen, fifteen years old, wilful, spoilt and convinced that she was quite grown-up, was delighted. Life, she confided to Margo, was boring. For most of the year she was at boarding-school while her father—something in the diplomatic service—and mother lived in an obscure and unsettled part of Europe, which meant that she was ferried to and fro between members of the family in England.

She made no secret of her boredom while staying with her grandparents—but the aunt in London offered the delights of theatres and shopping. Imogen, recovering from a severe attack of measles, intended to enjoy her sick leave before going back to school.

Of course, she disliked the idea of being taken to her aunt’s as though she were a child, but she got on quite well with Margo and it was nice to have someone to see to the boring things like tickets and taxis.

They made the journey together more or less in harmony, although Margo had to discourage her from using a particularly vivid lipstick and eyeliner the moment the taxi was out of her grandfather’s gates.

‘Why not wait until you are in London?’ suggested Margo, being tactful. ‘You will be able to consult one of those young ladies behind a cosmetic counter and get the very best and the latest.’

Imogen reluctantly agreed. ‘You could do with some decent make-up yourself,’ she observed with youthful candour. ‘But I suppose that as you’re the vicar’s daughter it doesn’t matter how you look.’

Margo, trying to think of the right answer to this, gave up and said nothing.

It was quite a lengthy ride from Paddington to Imogen’s aunt’s house—a substantial town residence in a terrace of well-maintained homes.

Strictly for the wealthy, reflected Margo, getting out of the taxi to pay the cabby. It would be interesting to see inside...

They were admitted by a blank-faced butler who informed them that they were expected and showed them into a small room furnished with little gilt chairs which looked as though they would collapse if anyone sat on them, a hideous marble-topped table and an arrangement of flowers on a tall stand.

‘Lady Mellor will be with you presently,’ they were told, and were left to perch uneasily on the chairs. But only for a few minutes. Suddenly the door was thrust open and Lady Mellor made a brisk entry.

‘Dearest child,’ she exclaimed in a penetrating voice, and embraced her niece before adding, ‘And your companion. Your grandfather said that you would have suitable company for your journey.’

She smiled briefly at Margo, then turned to Imogen and said, ‘Your little cousin is rather poorly. The specialist is with him at the moment, but as soon as he has gone we will have lunch together and a good chat.’ She turned back to Margo. ‘If you’d care to wait in the hall I’ll arrange for some refreshment for you before you return home. I’m sure I am much obliged to you for taking care of Imogen.’

Margo murmured politely that refreshment would be welcome, as breakfast had been at a very early hour. She sat down in the chair indicated by Lady Mellor and watched her walk away with Imogen. She had been thanked and forgotten.

Her stomach rumbled and she hoped for a sandwich at least.

She had been sitting there for five minutes or more when she heard the murmur of voices, and two men, deep in talk, came down the staircase slowly. One was an elderly man who looked tired, and with him was Professor van Kessel. They stood in the hall, murmuring together, with the butler hovering in the background, ready to show them out.

They were on the point of leaving the house when Professor van Kessel, glancing around him, saw Margo. He bade his colleague goodbye and crossed the hall to - her.

‘Miss Pearson. So we meet again—although rather unexpectedly.’

She didn’t try to hide her delight at seeing him again. ‘I brought Imogen—Sir William’s granddaughter—up to London to stay with her aunt. I’m going back again very shortly, but I’m to have some kind of meal first. I was told to wait here.’

‘I have an appointment now, but I shall be free in an hour,’ said the professor. ‘Wait here; I’ll drive you back. I’ m going that way,’ he added vaguely.

‘Well, thank you, but won’t they mind? I mean, can I just sit here until you come?’

‘I don’t see why not. I shall be here again probably before you have had your lunch.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go away.’

‘No, all right, I won’t. If you’re sure...’

‘Quite sure,’ he told her placidly. ‘I’ll see you within the hour.’

She watched him go, and the butler closed the door behind him and went away.

It was all right at first. It was quiet and pleasantly warm and her chair was comfortable; the minutes ticked away and she thought longingly of coffee and sandwiches. At any moment, she told herself, someone would come and lead her to wherever she was to have the refreshments offered to her.

No one came. Fifteen minutes, half an hour went past, and although from time to time she heard a door open or close no one came into the hall. If she hadn’t promised Professor van Kessel that she would wait for him she would have left the house. Margo, used to the willing hospitality of the vicarage, felt in an alien world. The magnificent long-case clock across the hall struck half past one, almost drowning the sound of the doorbell, and as though waiting for his cue the butler went to answer it.

Professor van Kessel came into the hall unhurriedly. ‘I’ve not kept you waiting?’ he wanted to know cheerfully. ‘You’ve finished your lunch?’

Margo stood up, her insides rumbling again. ‘I haven’t had lunch,’ she said with asperity. ‘I have been sitting here...’ She gave the butler a nasty look.

His poker face became almost human. ‘I am indeed sorry, Miss. We had no orders concerning you. I had assumed that you had left the house.’ He gave the doctor a nervous glance. ‘If the professor would wait, I can bring coffee and sandwiches...’

Margo, her thoughts diverted from her insides, gave the doctor a thoughtful look. ‘Should I call you Professor?’

‘It’s only another name for Doctor.’ He turned to the butler. ‘I’ll give Miss Pearson lunch. I’m sure it was no fault of yours. Explain to your mistress, will you?’

He whisked Margo out of the house then and into his car. As he drove away he asked, ‘When are you expected home?’

‘I was going to get the three-thirty from Paddington.’

‘Oh, good. We shall have time for a leisurely meal before we start for home.’

She said awkwardly, ‘Just coffee and sandwiches would do. It’s just that I had breakfast rather early.’

‘So did I. And I haven’t had time for lunch.’ He uttered the fib in a placid voice which reassured her.

‘Oh, wel—I dare say you’re hungry.’

‘Indeed I am.’ He resolutely forgot the lamb cutlets followed by the substantial apple tart that he had been offered at the hospital. ‘I know a very pleasant little restaurant five minutes from here.’

‘I expect you know Lady Mellor?’ asked Margo, making conversation.

‘Never heard of her before this morning. Her doctor asked me for a second opinion on her small son. A pampered brat who needed his bottom smacked. He got at the wine decanter and was first drunk and then sick. No one had thought to ask him what he’d had to eat or drink.’ He slowed the car. ‘A waste of my time. There’s a meter—we’re in luck.’

The restaurant was close by and only half-full. Margo gave him an eloquent glance and sped away to the Ladies’, and when she got back found him at a table by the window, studying the menu. He got up as she reached him, took her jacket and handed it to the waiter, then said, ‘You deserve a drink. Would you like sherry?’

‘You can’t have one—you’re driving—so I won’t either. I’d like tonic and lemon, please.’

He waited as she took a menu from the waiter. ‘We have plenty of time; choose whatever you would like.’

The menu was mouthwatering and, since there were no prices, probably very expensive. Margo decided on an omelette and salad, thereby endearing herself to the doctor, who chose the same, thankful that when she chose sticky toffee pudding with cream to follow he could settle for biscuits and cheese.

Presently, as she poured their coffee, he was pleased to see that she had a pretty colour in her cheeks now, and a well-fed look. Shabby treatment, he reflected, to leave her sitting there without so much as a glass of water...

He asked idly, ‘Do you often run errands for anyone who asks?’

‘Well, yes. You see, Father always helps anyone who needs it, and of course that means Mother and I help out too.’

‘You would not wish for a different life?’

‘I haven’t any training, have I?’ she reminded him.

‘I’d love to travel...’ Just for a moment she looked wistful. ‘But life isn’t dull. There’s always something happening, even in a small village like Thinbottom.’

‘You don’t hanker for life in London?’

‘Goodness me, no. Do you like living here, Professor?’

‘Don’t, I beg you, call me Professor; it makes me feel elderly. No, I don’t like living here—my home is in Holland. I only come here from time to time. I stay with an old friend and, though I’m too busy to go out much, I do have other friends scattered around the country with whom I spend my weekends when I’m free.’

‘You’re going back to Holland soon?’

Her heart sank when he said, ‘Oh, yes, in a few weeks—I have to be back there for Christmas.’

Soon after, they got back into the car, and, encouraged by his questions, she gave him an account of the travellers.

‘I went to see them in that house you found for them. The baby’s a darling. They plan to move on but they’ll be all right; they were given clothes and blankets and they didn’t seem to mind that they hadn’t a van. I wish I knew someone...’

‘They’ll probably strike lucky. The weather is good, and that should be a great help to them.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we stop for tea, or would you like to get home as quickly as possible?’

‘Well, by the time we’re home it will be teatime. If you can spare the time I know Mother would love to give you a cup. You don’t need to stay if you’re going further.’

He hid a smile. ‘That does sound delightful.’ He began to talk about the country they were passing through, careful to put her at her ease.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY reached the vicarage shortly before five o’clock, and Margo led the way in through the open front door to be met by her mother’s voice.

‘Is that you, love? You’re early...’ Mrs Pearson’s head appeared round the kitchen door. ‘Dr van Kessel, how nice to see you. You’ll stay for tea? It’s in the dining room—I thought that Margo might be hungry...’

‘You’ll stay?’ asked Margo. ‘That is, if you’d like to.’

‘Indeed I would. Thank you, Mrs Peaison—if you don’t mind having an uninvited guest. I happened to meet Margo, and it seemed sensible to give her a lift as I was driving this way myself.’

‘Now that was kind of you. Take off your coat, and you too, Margo, and go and fetch your father. You come with me, Doctor...’

‘He’s a professor, Mother,’ said Margo quickly.

‘He’s Gijs to his friends.’ He glanced at Margo and smiled. ‘And I hope Margo will allow me to call her Margo...’

‘Of course you may, if you want to. Everyone does.’

She gave him a wide smile and skimmed away to fetch her father from his study.

Sitting beside his hostess presently, Gijs reflected that it was a very long time since he had sat down to a substantial tea. At the hospital he drank the cups of tea brought to him and often drank them tepid, since he hadn’t the time to stop in his work. If he wasn’t at the hospital but at his consulting rooms, his secretary would sneak him a cup between patients—but five o’clock tea, such as this was, was a rarity. Sliced bread and butter arranged on a pretty plate, jam, honey, a covered dish of buttered toast, scones and a large fruit cake. Moreover, the tea was hot and strong, with plenty of milk.

‘I don’t suppose you have much time for tea,’ observed Mrs Pearson chattily. ‘Last time I was in London with the Women’s Institute we had tea at a hotel—little teapots barely enough for one cup and quite nasty looks from the waitresses when we asked for more hot water. And such mean little sandwiches and cakes. I dare say that’s fashionable. Where did you see Margo?’

‘At Lady Mellor’s house. I’m sure that Margo can tell you about it better than L’

Margo told. ‘I dare say Lady Mellor had a lot to worry about,’ she finished, ‘and the butler was very nice about it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, if you see what I mean.’

From anyone else, thought the professor, that would sound priggish, but somehow not from Margo—she is, after all, the vicar’s daughter, brought up to see good in everyone. Let’s hope she’ll never be disillusioned.

He said lightly then, ‘It was just our good luck that we should meet in such an unlikely place. I’m delighted to have had company driving down here.’

‘You like England?’ asked the vicar.

‘Very much.’ The two men started a discussion about the English countryside, but the professor volunteered no real information about his own country. Certainly he enlarged upon the social and commercial aspects, and enlarged too upon his homeland, albeit rather vaguely, but Margo reflected that he had told them nothing of his own home or where he lived. Perhaps he was married...

The thought was an unwelcome one which she thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however.

Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.

‘Are you married?’ she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on his face sent the colour into her cheeks and she mumbled, ‘Sorry, that was rude of me...’

‘No, I’m not married.’ He ignored the mumble. ‘I have never found the time.’

Mrs Pearson hastened to fill an awkward pause. ‘Of course one always expects doctors to be family men—I’m sure I don’t know why. A wife and children must be a hindrance to their work at times.’

He smiled. ‘I imagine that doctors’ wives quickly learn not to be that—rather, a pleasant distraction after a long day’s work. And my married colleagues are doting fathers.’

“Then you should make haste and marry,’ observed Mrs Pearson.

The vicar put his dignified oar in. ‘I’m sure that Gijs will marry when he wishes to do so, my dear.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why a patient should expect his or her doctor to be a married man? It’s an interesting point.’

So started an interesting discussion in which Margo took no part. She passed the cake, handed cups of tea round and wished herself elsewhere. Which was silly—after all, she hadn’t been very rude. She should have laughed it off for the trivial remark it had been, instead of feeling as though she had been nosey. Perhaps, horror of horrors; now he would think that she was intent on attracting him. He wouldn’t want any more to do with her. He would go away and she would never see him again. If she had been witty and pretty and charming, it might have been a different matter...

Professor van Kessel was either a man with the kindest heart imaginable or was prone to deafness; he apparently hadn’t heard her muttered apology. The conversation flowed smoothly, and presently, when he got up to go, he bade her goodbye with his usual pleasant detachment. He didn’t say he hoped to see her again, however.

Watching the Rolls-Royce gliding away towards the village, Margo told herself that he’d gone for good and she could forget him. Whether she wanted to forget him was an entirely different matter, and one she was reluctant to consider.

To her mother’s observation that it was a pity that they were unlikely to see him again, she replied airily that it had been pleasant meeting him once more and that she supposed he would be returning to Holland. ‘After all, it is his home,’ she said.

She collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. ‘I thought I’d go over to see Mrs Merridew tomorrow afternoon. George said she might like some help with the jam. They’ve a huge plum harvest this year.’

Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. Despite the fact that George’s mother had made no secret of the fact that she considered Margo to be a suitable wife for him, the woman had no affection for her. She was, thought Mrs Pearson shrewdly, under the impression that once Margo married she would be able to mould her into the kind of wife she felt her George should have. That Margo wasn’t a girl to be moulded had never entered her head. She had too good an opinion of herself to realise that Margo didn’t like her overmuch, but bore with her overbearing ways for George’s sake.

Mrs Pearson, knowing in her bones that Margo didn’t love George, told herself to have patience. Somewhere in the world there was a man for her Margo—preferably the counterpart of Gijs van Kessel...

So Margo took herself off the next day to Merridew’s Farm, intent on being nice to everyone, doing her best to keep her thoughts on a future when she would marry George and live there, and failing lamentably because she thought about the professor instead.

However, once she was at the farm, he was banished from her head by Mrs Merridew’s loud, hectoring voice bidding her to join her in the kitchen.

‘I can do with some help,’ she greeted Margo.

‘There’s an apron behind the door; you can stone the plums... You should have worn a sensible sweater; if you get stains on that blouse they’ll never come out.’

I have never known anybody, reflected Margo, rolling up her sleeves, who could put a damper on any occasion, however trivial. She began to stone the plums—a messy business—and paused in her work as the thought that she couldn’t possibly marry George suddenly entered her head.

‘Why have you stopped?’ Mrs Merridew wanted to know. ‘There’s another bucketful in the pantry. I’m sure I don’t know why I should have to do everything myself; you’ll have to change your ways when you marry George.’

Margo said nothing—there was no point at the moment. Besides, she was busy composing a suitable speech for George’s benefit.

He wouldn’t mind, she reflected. He was fond of her, just as she was fond of him, but being fond wasn’t the same as being in love. She wasn’t sure why she was so certain about that. A future with George had loomed before her for several years now—everyone had taken it for granted that when the time came they would marry, and she had got used to the idea and accepted it; she wanted to marry, she wanted children and a husband to care for her, and at twenty-eight she was sure that romance—the kind of romance she read about in novels—had passed her by.

But romance had touched her with feather-light fingers in the shape of Gijs van Kessel, and life would never be the same again.

She glanced across the table at Mrs Merridew, who was a formidable woman, tall and stout, with her iron-grey hair permanently waved into rock-like formations and a mouth which seldom smiled. She was respected in the village but not liked as her long-dead husband had been liked, and she was always ready to find fault. Only with George was she softer in her manner...

‘Fetch me the other preserving pan, Margo.’ Mrs Merridew’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘I’ll get this first batch on the stove. By the time you’ve finished stoning that lot I can fill a second pan.’

Margo went to the far wall and got down the copper preserving pan and put it on the table.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Mrs Merridew. ‘Never known you so quiet. What’s all this nonsense I heard about you and a pack of tramps?’

‘Not tramps—travellers. And it wasn’t nonsense. One of them had a baby by the side of the road.’

‘More fool her,’ declared Mrs Merridew. ‘These people bring shame to the countryside.’

‘Why?’ asked Margo, and ate a plum.

‘Why? They’re dirty and dishonest and live from hand to mouth.’

‘Well, they looked clean enough to me,’ said Margo. ‘And I don’t know that they’re dishonest—no more so than people who live in houses...’

Her companion snorted. ‘Rubbish! If any of them came onto the farm George would soon send them packing.’

‘Would he? Would he really? Or would he do it to please you?’

Mrs Merridew went red. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Margo. I hope you’re not ill—picked up something nasty from those tramps.’

She set the pan of fruit on the old-fashioned stove. ‘While that’s coming to the boil we’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go home. I dare say you’ve a cold coming.’

Margo never wanted to see another plum; she agreed meekly, drank her tea, washed the cups and saucers in the sink, bade Mrs Merridew goodbye and got on her bike. She had wanted to talk to George but she wasn’t to be given the chance. She would come up early in the morning; he would be in the cow parlour and there would be time to talk.

‘Early back, dear,’ commented her mother as she came in through the kitchen door. ‘Weren’t you asked to stay for tea?’

Margo sat down at the table and watched her mother rolling dough for scones. ‘No. Mrs Merridew thinks I may have caught a cold.’ Margo popped a piece of dough into her mouth. ‘Mother, I don’t want to marry George...’

Mrs Pearson was cutting rounds of dough and arranging them on a baking tray. ‘Your father and I have always hoped that you wouldn’t, although we would never have said anything if you had. You don’t love him.’

‘No. I like him—I’m fond of him—but that’s not the same, is it?’

‘No, love, it isn’t. When you do fall in love you’ll know that. Have you told George?’

‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow early. Do you think he’ll be upset?’

Her mother put the scones in the oven. ‘No, dear, I don’t. George is a nice young man but I think he wants a wife, not a woman to love. She’ll need to be fond of him, of course, and he of her, but that will be sufficient. And that wouldn’t be sufficient for you, would it?’

‘No. I would like,’ said Margo thoughtfully, ‘to be cosseted and spoilt and loved very much, and I’d want to be allowed to be me, if you see what I mean. I would be a good wife and have lots of children because we would have enough money to keep us all in comfort.’ She laughed a little. ‘Aren’t I silly? But I’m sure about George, Mother. I’d rather stay single...’

‘I know you are doing the right thing, love. See what your father says.’

Margo laid the table for tea and presently, over that meal, the Reverend Mr Pearson voiced his opinion that Margo was indeed doing the right thing. ‘And if you feel unsettled for a while, my dear, why not go and stay with one of your aunts? Heaven knows, your mother and I have enough relations to choose from.’

‘I’d be running away...’

‘No, clearing the decks. And you wouldn’t go for a week or two. Give the village a chance to discuss it thoroughly.’ They all laughed. ‘There’s not much happening until the bazaar; it’ll liven things up a bit.’

Margo was up early, dressed and on her bike while it still wasn’t quite light, and was in plenty of time to see George while the cows were being milked..

She leaned her bike against a pile of logs and, her heart thumping hard despite her resolution to keep calm, went into the cow parlour.

Two of the cowmen were already milking, and George was standing by the door checking some equipment. He looked up when she went in.

‘Good Lord, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Mother said you were sickening for a cold. Don’t come near me, whatever you do.’

Not a very encouraging beginning, but Margo braced herself.

‘I haven’t got a cold. Your mother just thought I might have one because I didn’t talk much... I’

‘Won’t do not to get on with Mother,’ said George. A rebuke she ignored.

‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute or two—this is the only time when we’re alone.’

‘Well, let’s have it, old girl. I’ve not got all day.’

It was being called ‘old girl’ which started her off. ‘You have never asked me, George, but everyone seems to think that we will marry. Perhaps you don’t intend to ask me, but if you do don’t bother, because I don’t want to marry you. I would make a very bad farmer’s wife—and your mother would live with us.’

‘Well, of course she would—show you how things are done before she takes her ease and you take over.’

The prospect left Margo short of breath. She persevered, though. ‘George, do you love me?’

‘What’s got into you, girl? We’ve known each other almost all our lives.’

‘Yes, I know that. That’s not what I meant. Are you in love with me? Do I excite you? Do you want to give me the moon and the stars?’

‘You’re crazy, Margo. What’s that twaddle got to do with being a good wife?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think it must have a great deal to do with it. So you won’t mind very much if we don’t get married? You’re a very nice person, George. There must be dozens of girls who’d give anything to be your wife.’

‘Well, as to that, I reckon that’s so. Mother always had her doubts, even though she liked the idea of me marrying the vicar’s daughter.’

Margo swallowed her rage. ‘Well, that leaves everyone quite satisfied, doesn’t it?’ She turned to go. ‘Pass the news around the village, will you? I’m glad your heart isn’t broken!’

She got onto her bike and pedalled home as though the Furies were after her. She knew that George hadn’t meant to be unkind, but she felt as though he really didn’t mind one way or the other—and that was very lowering to a girl who hadn’t had much of an opinion of herself in the first place.

To her mother’s carefully worded question she gave a matter-of-fact account of her meeting with George. ‘So that’s that,’ she finished briskly. ‘And if you don’t mind I would quite like to go away for a week or two.’

‘You need a change,’ declared her mother. ‘There’s so little life here for someone young. I know you’re kept busy, but a change of scene... Have you any idea where you’d like to go?’

The vicar looked up from his cornflakes. ‘Your aunt Florence, when she last wrote, expressed the view that she would be glad to see any of us who cared to visit her. Sunningfield is a village even smaller than this one, but it is near Windsor and within easy reach of London and I believe she has many friends. Your uncle was a very respected and popular man during his lifetime.’

He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘I will telephone her this morning and drive you there myself if you would like that?’

Truth to tell, Margo didn’t much mind where she went. All she knew was that she would like to get away for a little while and think. She wasn’t sure what it was she needed to think about, but think she must. She wasn’t upset about calling off the vague future George had sketched out for her from time to time, but she felt restless and she didn’t know why. A week or two with Aunt Flo would put everything back into its right perspective once more.

It was arranged that she should go in four or five days’ time, and in the meantime that gave the village the opportunity to adjust to the idea that she and George weren’t to be married after all. She would have been surprised at the number of people who expressed their satisfaction at that.

‘There’d have been no life for Miss Margo with that Mrs Merridew,’ observed the verger’s wife. ‘Nice little lady, that Miss Margo is. Good luck to her, I says!’ A sentiment which was shared by many.

Margo countered the questions from the well-meaning among her father’s congregation in her sensible way, packed a bag with the best of her wardrobe and was presently driven to Sunningfield.

Aunt Florence lived at the end of the village in a cottage which had at one time been the gamekeeper’s home on the local estate. Lord Trueman, having fallen on bad times, had prudently let or sold the lodges and estate cottages, being careful to see that the occupants were suitable neighbours. And of course Aunt Florence was eminently suitable. What could be more respectable than an archdeacon’s widow?

They arrived in time for tea and, admitted by a beaming young girl, were led across the hall where she threw open a door and said cheerfully, ‘Here they are, ma’ am. I’ll fetch the tea.’

Aunt Flo rose to meet them. A tall, bony lady with short curly hair going white, she had a sharp nose and a sharp tongue too, both of which concealed a warm heart. She embraced them briskly, told them to make themselves comfortable, and when the girl brought in the teatray offered refreshment. At the same time she gave and received family news.

It was when this topic had been exhausted that she asked, ‘And you, Margo? You have decided not to marry that young farmer? I must say I never thought much of the idea. You are entirely unsuited to the life of a farmer’s wife; I cannot imagine how you came to consider it in the first place.’

‘No one had ever asked me to marry them, Aunt Flo. ’ Well, George didn’t exactly ask; we just kind of drifted, if you see what I mean. We’ve known each other for years...’

‘That’s no reason to marry. One marries for love—or should do. You’re not so old that you need despair, although I must say it is a pity that you haven’t the Pearson good looks.’

A remark which Margo took in good part, seeing that it was true. They had supper after her father had driven away, and Aunt Florence outlined the various treats she had in store for her niece.

‘You have brought a pretty dress with you? Good. We are invited to Lord Trueman’s place for drinks after church. You will meet most of my friends and acquaintances there—a good start.’

Aunt Florence lived in some style, even if in somewhat reduced circumstances. Her little house was well furnished and Margo’s bedroom was pretty as well as comfortable. Life for Aunt Flo was placid and pleasant. The cheerful girl—Phoebe—came each day and cleaned, and did most of the cooking before she left in the evening, and an old man from the village saw to the heavy work in the garden-although Aunt Flo did the planting and planning. Even at the tail-end of the year, it was a charming little spot, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, tidied up ready for the winter.

Margo felt quite at home within twenty-four hours—joining her aunt in her daily walk and playing cards in the evening, or watching whichever programme her aunt thought suitable, with Moses, the ginger Persian cat, on her knee. On the next Sunday she accompanied her aunt to church and afterwards walked up the drive to the rather ugly early Victorian house built by Lord Trueman’s ancestor on the site of the charming Elizabethan mansion he had disliked.

‘Hideous,’ observed Aunt Florence, and added, ‘It’s simply frightful inside.’

There were a lot of people gathered in an immense room with panelled walls and a great deal of heavy furniture. Margo was taken to one group after another by Lady Trueman, a middle-aged lady with a sweet face, and introduced to a great many people whose names she instantly forgot.

‘Now do come and meet my daughter,’ said Lady Trueman. ‘She’s staying with us for a week or two. I’ve a small granddaughter too—Peggy. She’s a handful—three years old.’ She had fetched up in front of a young woman not much older than Margo herself.

‘Helen, this is Margo Pearson—come to stay with Mrs Pearson. I’ve been telling her about Peggy...’

She trotted away and left them to talk. Helen was nice, Margo decided. They talked about clothes and toddlers and babies, and presently slipped upstairs to the nursery to see Peggy, an imp of mischief if ever there was one, who took no notice of her nurse—a young girl, kind enough, no doubt, but lacking authority.

‘Such a naughty puss,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘We never know what she will do next.’

Back in Aunt Flo’s house over lunch, that lady expressed the opinion that the child was being spoilt. ‘A dear child, but that nurse of hers is no good—far too easygoing.’

The days went by with a pleasant monotony: shopping in the village, visiting her aunt’s friends for coffee or tea. And if Margo sometimes wished for a little excitement she squashed the thought at once. Her aunt was kindness itself, and she was sure that the holiday was doing her a lot of good. Taking her mind off things. Well, George for instance. The unbidden thought that she wished that it would take her mind off Professor van Kessel too was another thought to be squashed.

She thought about him far too often, although she tried not to. It wasn’t so difficult when she was with her aunt, whose conversation was of a sort to require close attention and sensible answers at intervals, but when she was on her own, doing an errand for her or in the garden, grubbing up the few weeds which had hoped to escape that lady’s eye, there was ample time for reflection.

So silly, Margo told herself one day, on her way back from taking a pot of Mrs Pearson’s jam to an acquaintance who had expressed a wish to try it. It had been quite a long walk and the afternoon was already sliding briskly into dusk. What was more, it was going to rain at any moment. Margo, taking a short cut across Lord Trueman’s park, abandoned her pleasant daydreaming and put her best foot forward.

The park was vast, and this far from the house, which was just visible in the distance, its planned trees and shrubs had given way to rough ground, a ploughed field or two and sparse woodland through which ran a small stream, swollen now by October rains. The right of way ran beside it for some way and then turned away to join a wider path, leading back to one of the lodges some half a mile away.

Margo walked fast, head down against the rain, which was coming down in earnest now, thankful that she would soon join the path. It was pure chance that she gave a quick glance around her as she stopped to turn up the collar of her jacket. It was a movement in the stream some yards away which had caught her eye—a small, scarlet-clad figure, half in, half out of the water, a small arm trailing gently to and fro, washed by the stream as it raced along.

Margo ran through the rough grass and waded across the water, slipping and sliding, losing a shoe and not noticing, bent on getting to the child as quickly as possible.

It was Peggy, her head, thank heaven, on the bank, but most of her small person in the water. She was unconscious and Margo soon saw why: there was a big bruise on her forehead. She had fallen awkwardly and Margo had a few anxious moments hauling her out of the stream and up the bank. This done, there was the necessity to cross the stream again, for behind her was nothing but wooded country going nowhere.

It’s amazing what you can do when you have to, reflected Margo, slipping and sliding across to the other bank with Peggy hoisted awkwardly over a shoulder. Once there, there was the urgent need to get to the house, for as far as she could see there was no other help nearby.

Hoisting the little girl more securely, Margo started off across the field to where, in the distance, she could see the lights of the house.

It was raining in earnest now, hard cold rain which soaked them even more than they already were. Margo squelched along in her one shoe and thought that she would never reach the outer edge of the landscaped park around the house. She paused for a moment to hitch Peggy onto her other shoulder and trudged on. Surely by now they would have missed the child and there would be a search party? It would be a waste of precious breath to shout, she decided, worried now that perhaps she should have tried to revive the child before setting out for the house. Supposing the moppet died? She had felt a faint pulse when she had reached Peggy, but she hadn’t tried to do anything else.

She was near the house now, close to its grand entrance. She climbed the broad steps and gave the iron bell-pull by the door a terrific tug. Just to make sure, she tugged again. And again...

The door opened slowly under the indignant hand of Bush, the butler, who was affronted by the misuse of the bell-pull and the excessive noise. He had his mouth open to voice his displeasure, but Margo gave him no chance to utter a word.

‘Get a doctor quickly, and get Lady Trueman or her daughter—anyone. Only hurry!’

She pushed past him and made for the stairs, dripping across the hall, short of breath, waterlogged and terrified. There was no time to give way to terror. She drew a breath.

‘Will someone come quickly? I’ve got Peggy...’

She saw the butler hurry to the phone as a door opened and Lady Trueman, followed by her daughter, came into the hall.

‘What is all this noise...?’ She goggled at Margo. ‘Peggy—she’s ill? What has happened? It’s Margo Pearson...’

Margo didn’t waste time explaining. ‘Get her clothes off. She’s been in the stream; she’s unconscious. She must be rubbed dry and put to bed. I told the butler to get a doctor. Only will someone please hurry...?’

‘My baby!’ wailed Helen. ‘Where’s the nurse...?’

We shall be here all day, thought Margo, asking silly questions. She started up the stairs, intent on getting to the nursery, calling over her shoulder, ‘Is the doctor coming? It’s urgent. And for heaven’s sake will someone give me a hand?’

This time her appeal was heard. The housekeeper, made aware of the commotion, had come into the hall and now hurried up the staircase to Margo.

‘The nursery’s on the next floor. Can you manage? I’ll go ahead and turn down the bedclothes and get the place warmed.’

By the time Margo had reached the nursery she was standing ready with towels, the fire poked up and the lights on.

‘Let me have her on my lap. Get your wet things off, miss. You’ll catch your death. In the stream? You found her and carried her here? Bless you for that, miss. Where’s that nurse of hers, I’d like to know—?’

She broke off to speak to Lady Trueman, who had just tottered in.

‘Now, my lady, keep calm. Peggy will be all right, thanks to this brave young lady. Get your maid to give you a glass of brandy and give one to Miss Helen—and send Bessy up here, please.’

Helen had joined her mother. ‘Peggy—out in all that rain—where’s the nurse?’

The housekeeper said briskly, ‘That’s the doorbell, Miss Helen. Go and fetch the doctor up, will you? No time to waste.’

Margo, dragging off her wet shoe, her jacket a sodden heap on the floor, reflected that this housekeeper and her aunt Flo would make a splendid pair in any emergency.

Bessy came, and then was sent away to fetch a glass of brandy for Margo.

‘I never drink it,’ said Margo.

‘Just this once you will, miss.’ The housekeeper was firm. ‘It’s either that or pneumonia.’

So Margo tossed back the brandy, caught her breath at its fiery strength and felt a pleasant warmth from it. Perhaps she could take off the rest of her clothes... No, not yet. The doctor, ushered in by a weeping Helen, was bending over Peggy, who was now wrapped in a warm blanket on the housekeeper’s lap.

She was still unconscious, and there was a large bump under the bruise.

‘Will someone tell me what has happened?’ The doctor was youngish and cheerful. ‘It would help if just one of you could tell me.’

‘Ask the young lady here,’ said the housekeeper, and waved towards the shivering Margo. ‘She found her and carried her here. A proper heroine.’

Margo, a trifle muzzy with the brandy, nonetheless managed a sensible account of what had happened, and then lapsed into silence.

‘You undoubtedly saved Peggy’s life.’ said the doctor. ‘She’s concussed, but she’s warm and her pulse is good. She must be X-rayed, of course, but not for the moment. Just bed and warmth and someone to be with her in case she comes round. How come she was so far from home?’

‘I don’t know where her nurse has got to. She should have been in the nursery, or playing in the garden with her. I—we—Mother and I were in the drawing room...’ said Helen feebly.

‘I want a second opinion,’ said Lady Trueman. ‘Will you get the very best consultant to come as soon as possible?’

The doctor got up. ‘Yes, certainly, Lady Trueman. If I might use your phone, I know just the man.’ He paused at the doorway. ‘I think it might be a good idea if someone were to see to this young lady. A warm bath and a hot drink, and get those wet clothes off—a warm blanket or something.’ He looked grim. ‘But for her, you might have lost Peggy.’

He went over to Margo and picked up her wrist. ‘Dr Wilcox,’ he told her. ‘I’m in the village—haven’t I seen you in church?’

‘Yes, Mrs Pearson’s my aunt.’

He gave her back her hand. ‘Well, your pulse is all right. Get as warm as you can, quickly.’

‘Will Peggy be all right?’

‘I think so—we’ll know for sure when she’s been seen by a specialist.’

He went away and Lady Trueman said, ‘My dear, you must forgive us—it was such a shock. Bessy shall help you—a hot bath and then a quiet rest by the fire while your clothes dry. I’ll phone your aunt.’ She added worriedly, ‘I do hope this specialist will come soon...’

Bessy came then, and led Margo away to help her out of her wet clothes and to run a hot bath, fragrant with bath essence. Margo sank into it thankfully.

She would have fallen asleep if Bessy hadn’t come to rouse her.

‘Your clothes are being dried, miss. If you’ll get out I’ll give you a good rub down and there’s a warm blanket to wrap you in.’

‘The specialist isn’t here yet?’

‘Like as not he’ll come from London—take him best part of an hour or more, even if he started off the moment he got Dr Wilcox’s message. He’s here still, waiting for him.’

Swathed in a soft blanket, Margo was led back to the nursery and seated by the fire, and presently Bessy brought her a glass of milk.

‘There’s a drop of brandy in it, miss, to ward off the chill. Why don’t you close your eyes for a few minutes? Lady Trueman’s phoned your aunt and you’ll be taken home as soon as your clothes are dry. There’s only one shoe...’

‘I lost the other in the stream. It doesn’t matter.’ Margo took the glass. ‘Thank you for the milk, Bessy, and all your help.’

There must have been more than a drop of brandy, for Margo, nicely warm again, dozed off. She didn’t hear the arrival of the specialist, who examined Peggy at some length, conferred with Dr Wilcox and then prepared to take his leave. He was standing having a last word with him when Dr Wilcox said, ‘The young lady who found the child and carried her in is still here. She had a soaking and a tiring walk carrying Peggy. I took a quick look at her but...’

‘You would like me to cast an eye over her?’

‘I believe Lady Trueman would like that—just in case there is further damage.’

‘Just so.’

The two men trod into the nursery and Margo opened a sleepy eye.

Professor van Kessel eyed her with a faint smile. ‘It seems that we are destined only to meet in emergencies, Margo.’

CHAPTER THREE

MARGO blinked, her delight at the sight of him. doused by the knowledge that she looked even worse than usual, cocooned in a blanket with her hair still damp. And probably, she thought miserably, the brandy had given her a red nose.

Indeed it had—contrasting strongly with her still pale face. The professor, looking at her, found himself wondering why he was pleased to see her again. He had thought about her from time to time, this plain, rather bossy girl. A typical vicar’s daughter, but one, he had to admit to himself, who would keep her head in an emergency and use the common sense she had so obviously been endowed with. Not, he had thought, the kind of girl he would want to spend an evening with. Now he wasn’t so sure. There was more to Margo than met the eye...

‘Is Peggy going to be all right?’ She had wriggled upright in her chair, nothing visible but her face and a great deal of untidy hair.

‘I think so; she is regaining consciousness. We’ll have her X-rayed in the morning. What about you, Margo?’

‘Me? I’m fine; I just got a bit wet.’

He turned easily to Dr Wilcox. ‘Margo and I have met before on occasion. I certainly didn’t expect to see her here.’

‘She’s not staying with Lady Trueman; she’s visiting her aunt, Mrs Pearson, who lives in the village.’ Dr Wilcox smiled at Margo. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow and see that you are none the worse for your soaking—’

He broke off as Bessy came in. ‘Didn’t know anyone was here,’ she excused herself. ‘I’ve brought Miss Pearson’s clothes. Lady Trueman says as soon as she’s ready she’ll be driven back to her aunt’s place.’

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