“You wouldn’t like to live here?”

Just for a moment she forgot that she didn’t like him overmuch. “Oh, but I would.” Then continued sharply, “Why do you ask?”

She was annoyed when he didn’t answer. Instead he observed in a silky voice that annoyed her very much, “You would find it very tame after London.”

Judith said sharply, “No, I wouldn’t. And now if you’ll let go of my arm, I should like to go.” She added stiffly, “I shan’t see you again, Professor Cresswell. I hope your book will be a success. It’s been nice meeting you.” She uttered the lie so unconvincingly that he laughed out loud.

“Of course the book will be a success—my books always are. And meeting you hasn’t been nice at all, Judith Golightly.”

She patted the dogs’ heads swiftly and went down the path without another word. She would have liked to have run, but that would have looked like retreat. She wasn’t doing that, she told herself stoutly. She was getting away as quickly as possible from someone she couldn’t stand the sight of.

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. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Judith
Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

HALF PAST two o’clock in the morning was really not the time at which to receive a proposal of marriage. Judith Golightly swallowed a yawn while her already tired brain, chock-a-block with the night’s problems, struggled to formulate a suitable answer. She was going to say no, but how best to wrap it up into a little parcel of kind words? She hated hurting people’s feelings, although she was quite sure that the young man sitting in the only chair in her small office had such a highly developed sense of importance that there was little fear of her doing that. Nigel Bloom was good-looking in a selfconscious way, good at his job even though he did tend to climb on other people’s shoulders to reach the next rung up the ladder, and an entertaining companion. She had gone out with him on quite a number of occasions by now and she had to admit that, but he had no sense of humour and she had detected small meanesses beneath his apparent open-handedness; she suspected that he spent money where it was likely to bring him the best return or to impress his companions. Would he be mean with the housekeeping, she wondered, or grudge her pretty clothes?

He had singled her out for his attention very soon after he had joined the staff at Beck’s Hospital as a surgical registrar, although she hadn’t encouraged him; she was by no means desperate to get married even though she was twenty-seven; she had had her first proposal at the age of eighteen and many more besides since, but somehow none of them had been quite right. She had no idea what kind of man she wanted to marry, for she had seldom indulged in daydreaming, but of one thing she was sure—he would have to be tall; she was a big girl, splendidly built, and she had no wish to look down upon a husband, if and when she got one.

She leaned against the desk now, since there was nowhere for her to sit, and remarked with a little spurt of unusual rage, ‘Why do you sit down and leave me standing, Nigel? Do you feel so very superior to a woman?’

He gave a tolerant laugh. ‘You’re tired,’ he told her indulgently. ‘I’ve been on the go all day, you know, and you didn’t come on duty until eight o’clock last evening—and after all, you don’t have the real hard work, do you? Two night Sisters under you and I don’t know how many staff nurses and students to do the chores.’

Judith thought briefly of the hours which had passed, an entire round of the Surgical Wing—ninety beds, men, women and children—every patient visited, spoken to, listened to; the reports from each ward read and noted; at least five minutes with each nurse in charge of a ward, going over the instructions for the night, and all this interrupted several times: two admissions, one for theatre without delay, a death, anxious relatives to see and listen to over a cup of tea because that made them feel more relaxed and gave them the impression that time was of no account, a child in sudden convulsions; housemen summoned and accompanied to a variety of bedsides, phone calls from patients’ families—it had been never-ending, and there were more than five hours to go.

Her rage died as quickly as it had come; she was too weary to have much feeling about anything, and meanwhile there was Nigel, looking sure of himself and her, waiting for his answer. He must be mad, she told herself silently, asking a girl to marry him in the middle of a busy night.

She looked across at him, a beautiful girl with golden hair, sapphire blue eyes and a gentle mouth. ‘Thank you for asking me, Nigel, but I don’t love you—and I’m quite sure I never shall.’ She rushed on because he was prepared to argue about it: ‘Look, I haven’t the time…I know it’s my meal time, but I wasn’t going to stop for it anyway…’

He got up without haste. ‘The trouble with you is that you’re not prepared to delegate your authority.’

‘Who to?’ She asked sharply. ‘Sister Reed’s in theatre, Sister Miles is on nights off, there’s a staff nurse off sick and Men’s Surgical is up to its eyeballs—you’ve just been there, but perhaps you didn’t notice?’

Nigel lounged to the door. ‘Mountains out of molehills,’ he said loftily. ‘I should have thought it would have sent you over the moon—my asking you to marry me.’ He gave her one of his easy charming smiles. ‘I’ll ask you again when you’re in a better temper.’

‘I shall still say no.’

His smile deepened. ‘You only think you will. See that that man who’s just been admitted is ready for theatre by eight o’clock, will you? And keep the drip running at all costs. I’m for bed.’

Judith watched him go, but only for a moment; even though she was supposed to be free for an hour she had no time to do more than write up her books and begin on the report for the morning. She yawned again, then sat down behind the desk and picked up her pen.

A tap on the door made her give an almost inaudible sigh, but she said, ‘Come in,’ in her usual pleasant unhurried manner, already bracing herself for an urgent summons to one or other of the wards. Her bleep was off, a strict rule for her midnight break, but that had never stopped the nurses bringing urgent messages. It wasn’t an urgent message; a tray of tea and a plate of sandwiches, borne by one of the night staff nurses on her way back from her own meal. Judith put down her pen and beamed tiredly at the girl. ‘You’re an angel, Staff—I wasn’t going to stop…’

‘We guessed you wouldn’t, Sister. Sister Reed’s just back with the patient, so you can eat in peace.’

‘Bless you,’ said Judith. ‘Ask her to keep an eye on that new man’s drip, will you? I’ll be circulating in about twenty minutes.’

The second half of the night was as busy as the first had been. She went off duty at last, yawning her pretty head off, gobbling breakfast, and then, because it was good for her, going for a brisk walk through the dreary streets to the small park with its bright beds of flowers and far too cramped playing corner for the children. She had the Night Superintendent for a companion, a woman considerably older than herself and into whose shoes it was widely rumoured she would step in a few years’ time. Judith preferred not to think about that, indeed, when she had the leisure to consider her future, she found herself wondering why she didn’t accept the very next proposal of marriage and settle the matter once and for all.

Sister Dawes was speaking and Judith struggled to remember what she had said; something about measles. She turned a blank face to the lady, who laughed and said: ‘You’re half asleep, Judith. I was telling you there’s a measles epidemic on the way—a nasty one, I gather. We must keep our eyes open. I know you’re on Surgical, but even measles patients can develop an appendix or perforate an ulcer—for heaven’s sake, if you see a rash on anyone, whisk them away. You’ve had measles, of course?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ declared Judith. ‘I should think so—everyone has, and besides, I never catch things.’

She remembered that three nights later. Earlier in the evening a young boy had been admitted with a suspected appendicitis; he had been flushed, his eyes and nose were running and his voice hoarse. Judith eyed him narrowly and peered inside his reluctantly opened mouth. Koplik’s spots were there all right; she thanked heaven that he had been admitted to a corner bed and that only she and the staff nurse on duty had been anywhere near him. They moved him to a side ward, made him comfortable, and Judith left the nurse with him while she telephoned—the houseman on duty first, Sister Dawes next and finally the Admission Room. The Casualty Officer was new and it was his first post and he might be forgiven for overlooking symptoms which showed no rash at the moment, but the staff nurse should have been more alert. Judith was brief, severe and just as pleasant in her manner as she always was. She gave instructions that everything that had come in contact with the boy should be disinfected and that the nurse should change her uniform. ‘I’ll send someone down,’ she ended, ‘but don’t let her touch anything until you’ve dealt with it.’

It took a little organising to find nurses to take over while the surgical staff nurse went away to do the same thing, and then Judith herself went to change, making sure that everything went into a laundry bag with a warning note pinned to it. It took a small slice out of her night and left her, as usual, short of time.

During the next ten days there were three cases of measles—the nurse who had been on duty in the Admission Room, a ward maid and one of the porters. Another four days to go, thought Judith with relief, and they’d all be in the clear.

It was on the very last day of the incubation period that she began to feel ill; a cold, she decided, only to be expected, since although it was late spring, the weather wavered from cold and wet to fine and warm; no two days had been alike, enough to give anyone a cold. She took some aspirin and went to bed when she came off duty instead of taking her usual walk, but she didn’t sleep much. Her head ached and so did her eyes and her throat felt sore; she got up and made tea and took more aspirin. She felt better after that, and presently dressed and went down to her meal, to be greeted with several candid opinions as to her poor looks from her friends. It was the Medical Wing Night Sister, a rather prissy type Judith didn’t much like, who observed smugly: ‘You’ve got the measles.’

She was right, of course—she was one of those infuriating young women who always are. Judith was examined by the Senior Medical Consultant, who happened to be in the hospital, told to go to bed and stay there, and warned of all the complications which might take over unless she did exactly as she was told.

As she was a sensible young woman, she obeyed him to the letter, and was rewarded by an attack of severe conjunctivitis and, just as that was subsiding, broncho-pneumonia. It took a couple of weeks to get the better of these, but she was a strong girl and disinclined to lie about in bed feeling ill, and in a minimum of time she was on her feet once more, still beautiful but a little on the pale side and a good deal slimmer than she usually was. The tinted glasses she still wore lent her a mysterious air and what with her wan looks she presented a picture to wring any man’s heart. At least, Nigel seemed to think so; he had kept away from her until she was free of infection, but once she was back in the Sisters’ sitting room, waiting to see what lay in store for her, he came to see her, more tiresomely cocksure than ever, quite certain that the mere sight of him would be enough for her to agree to marry him. She still tired easily; ten minutes of his self-important prosing gave her a headache, and she said rather crossly: ‘Look, Nigel, I’m not quite myself yet, but I haven’t changed my mind. Do go away and find someone else—there must be dozens of girls longing to marry you.’

He took her seriously. ‘Oh, yes, I know that—I could have anyone of them whenever I liked, but I’ve made up my mind to marry you and I dislike being thwarted.’

‘Well, I’m thwarting you,’ she declared with something of a snap, and then: ‘Nigel, why do you ask me at such unsuitable times? The middle of a busy night—that time I was taking a patient to theatre, and now…’

He had got to his feet huffily. ‘I can see you’re determined to be irritable. I won’t bother you until you’ve recovered your temper. I’ve got tickets for that new Burt Reynolds film this evening—I shall take Sister Giles.’

‘Have fun,’ said Judith, and meant it, although how anyone could have fun with Ruth Giles, a spiteful cat of a girl if ever there was one, was beyond her.

She was given a month’s leave the next day. She telephoned her parents, threw a few clothes rather haphazardly into a case, took leave of her friends, got into her Fiat 600, a tight squeeze but all she could ever afford, and set off home through a June morning the brilliance of which made even the streets of London look lovely.

The country looked even lovelier. Judith was making for Lacock in Wiltshire, and once through London and its suburbs and safely on to the M4, she kept going briskly until she turned off at the Hungerford roundabout on to the Marlborough road; it wasn’t very far now and the road, although busy, ran through delightful country, and at Calne she turned into a small country lane and so to Lacock.

The village was old and picturesque, a jumble of brick cottages, half-timbered houses and jutting gables. Judith went down the High Street, turned into a narrow road and stopped in front of a row of grey stone houses, roomily built and in apple pie order. The door of the centre house was flung open as she got out of the car, and her father crossed the narrow pavement, followed by an elderly basset hound who pranced ponderously around them both and then led the way back into the house. The hall was long and narrow with a staircase at one side and several doors. Judith’s mother came out of the end one as they went in.

‘Darling, here you are at last! We’ve been quite worried about you, although that nice doctor who was looking after you said we had no need to be.’ She returned Judith’s kiss warmly, a woman as tall as her daughter and still good-looking. ‘You’re wearing dark glasses—are your eyes bad?’

‘They’re fine, love—I wear them during the day if the sun’s strong and it makes driving easier. It’s lovely to be home.’ Judith tucked a hand into each of her parents’ arms and went into the sitting room with them. ‘A whole month,’ she said blissfully. ‘It was worth having measles!’

After tea she unpacked in the room she had had all her life at the back of the house, overlooking the long walled garden which her father tended so lovingly and already filled with colour. Judith sighed deeply with content and went downstairs, looking in all the rooms as she went. The house was bigger than one would have supposed from the outside: too big just for her parents, she supposed, but they had bought it when they had married years ago and her father had been a partner in a firm of solicitors in Calne, and when he retired two years previously there had been no talk of moving to something smaller and more modern. Her mother had said that it would be nice to have enough room for Judith’s children when she married, and meanwhile the extra bedrooms could be kept closed; if she was disappointed that they were still closed, she never mentioned it.

The weather was fine and warm. Judith shopped with her mother, helped her father in the garden and renewed her acquaintance with the large number of friends her parents had. The gentle, undemanding life did her good. Her pallor took on a faint tan and the slight hollows in her cheeks began to fill out. Before the first week was up she assured her mother that she felt fit for work again and played several vigorous games of tennis to prove it.

‘You’re not bored?’ her mother asked anxiously. ‘There’s nothing to do except take Curtis for his walks and do the shopping and the garden, and you ought to be having fun at your age. We love having you, but what you need is a complete change of scene, darling.’

It was the next morning when the letter came from her father’s brother, Uncle Tom. He had known about Judith’s measles, naturally he had been told, since he was a doctor as well as her godfather. Now he wrote to ask if she could see her way to going to Hawkshead for a couple of weeks; his housekeeper had had to go home to look after her daughter’s children while she was in hospital and he needed someone—perhaps Judith would be glad of an easy little job? keeping her hand in, so to speak. Two weeks would be enough, went on the letter persuasively, she could have the last week at home. There was a girl from the village to do the housework; all he wanted was someone to run the house, answer the telephone and do the shopping. Besides, he would like to see her again.

They read it in turns, and Judith had just got to the end of it when the telephone rang and Uncle Tom added his voice to the written word. Judith found herself agreeing to drive up that very day and stay for two weeks. ‘Even if I leave in an hour,’ she warned him, ‘I shan’t be with you much before supper time— I’ve only got the Fiat 600, you know.’ She added: ‘It will be more than an hour—I’ve got to pack and fill up…’

Uncle Tom dismissed this easily enough. ‘Two hundred and fifty miles, more or less, even in that ridiculous little car of yours you should be here for high tea.’ He chuckled richly. ‘Do your best, girl, because I’m counting on you to get here.’ He hung up on her.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Golightly triumphantly, ‘isn’t that exactly what I said?—that you needed a complete change? We’re going to miss you, darling, but you’ll be back for your last week, won’t you? And Uncle Tom is such a good kind man, and a doctor too.’ She added delicately: ‘Is there anyone who might telephone or write to you? I mean, someone you’d want to know about?’

‘No, Mother. Well, you might send on the letters, but if anyone rings just say I’m on holiday, will you?’ She gave her parent a rather absentminded kiss and went upstairs to pack her bag.

Her father had fetched the Fiat from the garage tucked away behind the houses, her mother had cut sandwiches and filled a flask with coffee and they had both asked her if she had sufficient money. She hugged the pair of them; she would really much rather have stayed at home for the whole of the month, but perhaps she would enjoy the last week with them even more for having been away. She started off down the street as the church clock chimed eleven; Uncle Tom would have to wait for his high tea.

She went north from Lacock through Chippenham and then on to the M4 until it reached the M5, when she took the latter to begin the long drive to the Lakes. The motorway was monotonous; if she hadn’t been anxious to reach Hawkshead by early evening, she might have chosen a different, more interesting route. At the Birmingham roundabout she switched to the M6 and presently pulled in for petrol and sat in the car, eating her sandwiches and drinking the coffee, glad of a respite, watching with envy the powerful cars tearing along the fast lane. Once more on her way, pushing the little car to its utmost, she thanked her stars that she liked driving even at the sedate pace that was the Fiat’s best, otherwise the journey would be an endless one. All the same she heaved a sigh of relief as she left Preston behind her and knew that her long day was almost over. Once past Lancaster and Carnford and she could look forward to turning off the motorway at last.

The turn came finally and at the sight of a small hotel standing by the quiet road, she stopped the car and had tea, a delicious tea with scones and sandwiches and little cakes, all extra good after her long drive. She was reluctant to leave, but the afternoon was almost over and she still had something under an hour’s driving to do. But now the country was wide, almost empty of traffic, the mountains ahead looming over the fields and copses, golden in the sunshine. Judith went slowly through Kendal and out on to the Ambleside road. There was a ferry at Bowness, crossing Lake Windermere and shortening the road to Hawkshead, but she wasn’t sure when it ran, so it was safer, if longer, to go round the head of the lake and take the road to Hawkshead. The village lay between Windermere and Coniston Water and had at its southernmost tip yet another lake, but a very small one, Esthwaite Water, and Judith slowed the car, for the country here was beautiful. Grizedale Forest lay ahead, beyond the village, and on either side of the green wooded valley were the mountains. The village lay snugly, a delightful maze of narrow streets and stone cottages. She remembered it with pleasure as she turned into one of its small squares and stopped before a house, larger than its neighbours with a flight of outdoor steps and small latticed windows. As she got out of the car one of these windows was flung open and her uncle’s cheerful voice bade her go inside at once.

She had been before, of course; his voice came from the surgery, which meant that he would be unable to welcome her. She went through the half open door and along the stone-flagged passage to the door at the end and opened it. The kitchen, a good-sized low-ceilinged room, was not modern by glossy magazine standards, but fitted with an old-fashioned dresser, a well scrubbed table and Windsor chairs on either side of the Aga. Judith dumped her case on the floor, opened up the stove and put the already singing kettle to boil, for she wanted a cup of tea above everything else, and then went back down the passage and into the sitting room. Large, untidy and comfortable—no colour scheme, just a collection of easy chairs, tables, a fine old cupboard against one wall and rows of books filling the shelves against another wall. Judith opened the cupboard doors, collected china and a teapot, found a tray and took the lot back to the kitchen. She had her head in the pantry looking for something to eat when her uncle joined her.

He greeted her heartily and then studied her at leisure. ‘Too thin,’ he observed at length, ‘too pale, too hollow-cheeked. A couple of weeks of good Cumbrian air and plenty of wholesome food will make all the difference.’

‘That reminds me—I’ve put the kettle on. Have you had tea, Uncle Tom?’

‘I was waiting for you, my dear.’ His voice was guileless, his nice elderly craggy face beamed at her. ‘And a nice meal after surgery, perhaps?’

‘Seven o’clock do?’ asked Judith, buttering bread, spreading jam and piling sandwiches on a plate. ‘High tea, I suppose?’

Her uncle rubbed his hands together. ‘Boiled eggs, and there’s a nice ham Mrs Lockyer left in the larder…’ He took the tea she offered him and began on the sandwiches.

‘Did you have any lunch?’ asked Judith.

‘Coffee—or was it tea?—at the Gossards’ farm—the old man has got a septic finger.’

Judith glanced at the clock. ‘Surgery in ten minutes. Have another cup of tea while I change—the same room, is it? Then I’ll give you a hand if you need one.’

She went upstairs to the room over the surgery, low-ceilinged and very clean with its old-fashioned brass bedstead, solid chest of drawers and dressing table. She opened the window wide and breathed the cool air with delight before opening her case and getting out a denim skirt and a cotton tee-shirt. She had travelled up in a linen suit and silk blouse, both of them quite unsuitable for the life she would be leading for the next week or two, and tied back her long hair with the first bit of ribbon which came to hand. She discarded her expensive high-heeled sandals too and scampered downstairs in a sensible flat-heeled pair which had seen better days.

It was a good thing she wasn’t tired now, for what with answering the telephone, laying the table in the rather dark dining room behind the surgery and going to the door a dozen times, she was kept busy until the last patient had gone, but once they had had their meal and she had cleared away and laid the table for breakfast she was more than ready for bed. All the same, she stayed up another half hour talking to her uncle and before long found herself telling him about Nigel. ‘He’s very persistent,’ she finished. ‘I sometimes wonder if I should marry him—I’m twenty-seven, you know, Uncle Tom.’

‘God bless my soul, are you really? You wear very well, my dear. You’re a very pretty girl, you know.’

She went to bed soon afterwards, yawning her head off but looking forward to her visit. Her mother had been right, she had needed a change; her mother had reiterated her opinion when she had telephoned home that evening, sounding triumphant. ‘And perhaps you’ll meet some interesting people,’ she had ended hopefully, meaning of course a young man ready and willing to fall in love with Judith and marry her.

Breakfast over the next morning and her uncle in his surgery, Judith left the girl who came daily to Hoover and polish and went along to the shops. She crossed Red Lion Square, passed the church and turned into one of the narrow streets, making for the butcher’s. She didn’t hurry, it was a glorious morning and the little cobbled squares glimpsed through low archways looked enchanting; she had forgotten just how lovely they were.

They all knew about her in the shop, of course. Uncle Tom or his housekeeper would have told them and news spread fast in such a small place. Shopping was a leisurely affair carried out in a friendly atmosphere and a good deal of curiosity. It was, the butcher pointed out, a good many years since Judith had been to visit her uncle, but no doubt she was a busy young lady and very successful by all accounts, although London didn’t seem to be an ideal place in which to live. Several ladies in the shop added their very decided opinions to this, although two of them at least had never been farther from home than Carlisle. Judith went on her way presently, back in time to make coffee for her uncle before he started on his rounds and to help with the rest of the housework before starting on their midday dinner.

She pottered in the garden during the afternoon and gave a hand with the evening surgery before getting their meal. A busy day, she reflected as she made a salad, but yet there had been time to do everything without hurry, stop and talk, sit in the sun and do nothing…hospital seemed very far away; another world, in fact.

It was on the third morning that Uncle Tom asked her to take some medicine and pills to one of the houses on the edge of the village. ‘They’re for Mrs Turner,’ he told her. ‘I could drop them off myself, but I’m not going to that end of the village this morning and she really ought to have them.’ And as Judith took off her apron: ‘Don’t hurry back, my dear, it’s a charming walk and such a lovely morning.’

The house stood well back from the lane, a few minutes’ walk from the village’s heart; grey stone and roomy under a tiled roof covered with moss. Uncle Tom had told her to go in by the back door and she walked round the side of the house, admiring the beautifully kept garden—Mrs Turner must be a splendid gardener—until she came to the kitchen door, a stout one standing a little open. No one answered her knock, so she went in and stood a minute wondering what to do. The kitchen was the best of both worlds: flagstone floor, a beamed ceiling, lattice windows and geraniums on the sills, and cunningly disguised behind solid oak doors and cupboards were all the modern equipages that any woman could want. Judith took an appreciative glance around her. ‘Mrs Turner?’ She called softly, and then a good deal louder: ‘Mrs Turner?’ And when no one answered said louder still: ‘I’ve brought your medicine.’

The silence was profound, so she tried again. ‘Mrs Turner, are you home?’

A door at the back of the kitchen was flung open with such violence that she jumped visibly, and a furious face, crowned by iron-grey hair, cropped short, appeared round its edge.

The voice belonging to the face was just as furious. ‘Young woman, why are you here, disturbing the peace and quiet? Squawking like a hen?’

Judith gave him an icy stare. ‘I am not squawking,’ she pointed out coldly, ‘and even if I were, it’s entirely your own fault for not answering me when I first called.’

‘It’s not my business to answer doors.’

She studied the face—the rest of him was still behind the door. It had heavy-lidded eyes, an arrogant, high-bridged nose and a mouth set like a rat trap. She said coolly, ‘I don’t know what your business is, Mr Turner, but be good enough to give your wife these medicines when she returns. The instructions are on the labels.’ She walked to the door. ‘You’re a very ill-mannered man, Mr Turner. Good day to you!’

CHAPTER TWO

UNCLE TOM was in the surgery, sitting at his desk, searching for some paper or other and making the chaos there even more chaotic. Judith put down her basket and leaned comfortably over the back of a chair.

‘I delivered Mrs Turner’s bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t home, so I gave them to her husband.’

Her uncle glanced up briefly. ‘She’s not married, my dear.’

‘Then who’s the ill-mannered monster who roared at me? He needs a lesson in manners!’

Uncle Tom paused in his quest for whatever it was he wanted. ‘Charles Cresswell—an eminent historian, highly esteemed by his colleagues, with a first-class brain—at present writing a book on twelfth century England with special reference to this area. I daresay you disturbed him…’

Judith snorted. ‘He was insufferable! He ought to mind his manners!’

Her uncle peered at her over his spectacles. ‘These scholarly men, my dear, should be allowed a certain amount of licence.’

‘Why?’ snapped Judith.

‘You may indeed ask,’ observed a voice from the window behind her. ‘Tom, it’s a waste of breath whitewashing my black nature—I see I’m damned for ever in this young lady’s eyes. We haven’t been introduced, by the way.’

He left the window and came in through the door, a very long lean man with wide shoulders.

Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘My niece, Judith Golightly—Judith, this is Professor Charles Cresswell, eminent his…’

‘You told me,’ said Judith, and said, ‘How do you do?’ in a voice to freeze everything in the room solid.

Professor Cresswell lounged against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his elderly slacks. ‘I do very well, Miss Golightly. Of course my ego is badly damaged, but only briefly, I believe.’ He spoke with a careless indifference which annoyed her as much as his temper had. ‘Tom, if you’re visiting up at the Manor would you mind making my excuses for tennis this afternoon? The phone’s out of order…better still, I’ll ring from here if I may.’

He stretched out a hand and lifted the receiver and sat himself down on the edge of the doctor’s desk. He said softly: ‘Miss Golightly, you really shouldn’t slouch over that chair—you have a beautiful head and a splendid figure, and neither of them show to their best advantage if you will droop in that awkward manner.’ He took no notice of her quick breath but dialled a number and started a conversation with somebody at the other end. Judith most regrettably put her tongue out at the back of his head and flounced out of the room. She was seething enough to scorch the floor under her feet.

The Professor finished his conversation and replaced the receiver.

‘Married?’ he asked casually. ‘Engaged? Having a close relationship?—that’s what they say these days, don’t they? I seem to remember my granny calling it living in sin.’

Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘Times change, Charles, and no, Judith is heartwhole and fancy free at the moment. Which is not to say that she hasn’t been in and out of love, or fancied that she was, a great many times. She’s a handsome girl and she meets young men enough at that hospital of hers.’

‘And they fancy her, no doubt—let’s hope that some day soon, she’ll make one of them happy.’ He wandered to the door, then said with some concern:

‘She’s not here permanently, is she?’

‘No, no, two weeks only while Mrs Lockyer’s away. And since she’s not exactly taken to you, Charles, you needn’t worry about meeting her.’ The doctor’s tone was dry, but his eyes twinkled.

‘Thank God for that,’ declared the Professor in a relieved voice.

At lunchtime Judith made no mention of the Professor, indeed, she talked animatedly about everyone and everything else, and when her uncle assured her that he had no calls to make that afternoon, and would be home to answer the telephone, she told him that she would take the Fiat and drive over to Coniston and look round the village and visit Ruskin’s house there. “‘Mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery,’” she quoted rather vaguely. ‘I expect he was inspired by the view from his house.’

‘And what about Wordsworth—only a step across the street to the school he attended, my dear, as well you know, not to mention the cottage where he lodged.’

‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten him, Uncle—only I thought a little drive round might be nice.’

‘Of course, my dear. Why not go on to Rydal and take a look at Wordsworth’s house? Although perhaps you might save that for another day.’

‘Yes, I think I will.’ For some reason she wanted to be out of the village away from the chance of meeting Professor Cresswell. She hoped most devoutly that he wasn’t going to spoil her stay at Hawkshead, but if he really was writing a book perhaps he would stay in his house all day…

She set off after their lunch, going slowly, for it was but two miles to Coniston. Once there, she parked the car and set off for the John Ruskin Museum, then wandered off to inspect his grave in a corner of the churchyard, and then on to Brantwood to make a leisurely inspection of Ruskin’s house. And after that she had to decide whether to have a cup of tea or drive on to Tarn Hows. She decided on the later, and was rewarded by the magnificent views of the mountains when she got there. She stopped the car for ten minutes and sat back, enjoying it all, and then drove on again, past white Cragge Gardens and through Clappergate and so back to Hawkshead, just in nice time to get her uncle his tea.

Next week, she reflected as she boiled the kettle, she would go to Ferry Nab and across Lake Windermere to Bowness, and there was Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home and Kendal…all easy runs in the Fiat, and if she had the chance, she could go walking—there were paths to the top of the Old Man, towering over Coniston, as well as less strenuous walks through the Grizedale Forest. It was a wonderful place for a holiday; it was a pity that Professor Cresswell’s face, so heartily disliked, should interfere with her musings.

Not that she had much time to muse—Uncle Tom, called away to an emergency, left her to keep his evening patients happy until he returned, and by that time, there was little of the evening left.

The gentle routine of her days suited her very well; she was busy enough, but there was always time to stop and chat in the village shops, or spend half an hour with her uncle while he drank his coffee and checked his list of visits. It was several days later when he suggested that Judith might like to go to Kendal directly after breakfast. Mrs Lockyer went once a month, he explained, sometimes more often, and there were several things he wanted—books, a particular tobacco which the village didn’t stock, and his whisky was getting low. Nothing loath, Judith agreed happily, made sure that things would go smoothly while she was away, made a neat list of things to be bought, and went to her room to put on something other than the denim skirt and blouse she had been wearing. She hadn’t brought many clothes with her; she chose a silk shirtwaister in a pleasing shade of blue, brushed her hair smooth, found her handbag and went round the back to get the Fiat. She was in front of the house, with the engine running, waiting for Uncle Tom to give her some last-minute instructions about the books she was to fetch, when Professor Cresswell put his head through the window beside her.

Judith frowned. She hadn’t met him since their first encounter—well, church, of course, but one couldn’t count that. He had been in a pew on the other side of the aisle from Uncle Tom and her and she had been careful not to look at him, but all the same she had been very aware of him, for he sang all the hymns in a loud, unselfconscious baritone voice. And after church, by dint of engaging old Mr Osborne the chemist in a long-winded conversation she had been able to avoid him.

‘Going into Kendal?’ he wanted to know, without a good morning, and at her frosty nod. ‘Splendid, you can give me a lift.’

‘I’m going shopping—I’m not sure how long I shall be there.’

It was a pity that Uncle Tom should choose that moment to come out of the house, exclaiming cheerfully: ‘You’ll be back for lunch, won’t you, Judith? I want to go out to Lindsays’ farm early this afternoon.’ He glanced across at the Professor. ‘Giving Charles a lift? In that case bring him back for a sandwich.’ He beamed across the little car. ‘Judith makes a splendid beef sandwich.’

‘Thanks, Tom, but Mrs Turner’s doing something she calls giving the house a good do and I can’t possibly work until she subsides again.’ He opened the Fiat’s door and inserted himself into the seat beside Judith; the result was overcrowding but there was nothing to be done about that. She waved her uncle goodbye and drove off.

She had intended to go to Sawry and take the ferry to Bowness on the other side of Lake Windermere and then drive the eight or nine miles to Kendal. There would probably be delays on the ferry, although the season was only just beginning, but the alternative was a much longer drive round the head of the lake; besides, she particularly wanted to go that way and she saw no need to tell her unwanted passenger.

They drove in silence until they reached Sawry, and Judith instinctively slowed down, because it was here that Beatrix Potter had lived and she had promised herself a visit to Hill Top Farm before she went back home; if it had been anyone else with her, she would have had something to say about it, but the Professor hadn’t uttered a word, which, she told herself was exactly as she wanted it. They drove on to Far Sawry and joined the short queue for the ferry and he still had said nothing at all, and the eight miles on the other side were just as silent. They were actually in Kendal before he spoke.

‘Go through Highgate,’ he told her. ‘Into Stricklandgate—you can park the car there.’

And when she did, pulling up neatly in a half full car park, he opened his door and got out. ‘I’ll be here at twelve,’ he told her, and stalked off, leaving her speechless with rage. ‘Just as though I were the hired chauffeur!’ she muttered. ‘And why hasn’t he got a car of his own, for heaven’s sake?’

And he could have offered her a cup of coffee at the very least, not that she would have accepted it, but it would have given her pleasure to refuse him…

The town had changed since she had been there last, many years ago. The M6 had taken all the traffic nowadays, leaving the old town to its past glory. Judith pottered round the shops, carefully ticking off her list as she went, and when she came across a pleasant little café, went in and had coffee, and because she was feeling irritable, a squashy cream cake. She felt better after that and went in search of the books her uncle had ordered, did a little shopping for herself and made her way, deliberately late, to the car.

The Professor was leaning against the car, reading a book, outwardly at least in a good frame of mind. Judith said flippantly: ‘Finished your shopping?’ and opened the door and threw her parcels on to the back seat.

‘I never shop,’ he assured her blandly. ‘I wanted to visit Holy Trinity Church, there are some Megalithic stones in the vault I wanted to examine.’

Judith had no idea what Megalithic meant. ‘Oh, really?’ she said in a vague way, and got into the car.

‘You have no idea what I’m talking about,’ he sighed, ‘Not my period, of course, but I felt the need of a little light relief.’

Judith turned a splutter of laughter into a cough. ‘What from?’ she asked.

‘My studies.’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘Surely, Professor, you stopped studying some years ago?’

‘I’m a scholar, Miss Golightly, not a schoolboy. What an extraordinary name you have.’ He added gently: ‘And so unsuitable too.’

Judith clashed the gears. ‘Don’t ever ask me for a lift again!’ she told him through clenched teeth.

They had to wait quite some time for the ferry, and Judith, determined not to let the wretched man annoy her, made polite conversation as they sat there until she was brought to an indignant stop by his impatient: ‘Oh, Miss Golightly, do hold your tongue, I have a great deal to think about.’

So they didn’t speak again, and when they arrived at her uncle’s house she got out of the car and went indoors, leaving him to follow if he pleased.

And if he does, she thought, I’ll eat my lunch in the kitchen, and since she found him sitting in the dining room with Uncle Tom, drinking beer and smoking a pipe and listening with every sign of pleasure to his host’s opinion of illuminated manuscripts of the twelfth century, that was exactly what she did.

Before he left he poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘Your uncle is quite right, you make an excellent sandwich—you must both come to dinner with me one evening and sample Mrs Turner’s cooking.’

Judith didn’t stop washing up. ‘That’s very kind of you, Professor Cresswell, but I’m here to enjoy peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, we’ll make no noise, I promise you—I don’t run to a Palm Court Orchestra.’ He had gone before she could think up another excuse.

It was the next morning, just as she was back from the butchers with a foot or so of the Cumberland sausage her uncle liked so much, that he wandered into the kitchen when surgery was over for the moment.

‘No cooking for you this evening, my dear— Charles has asked us to dinner.’

A surge of strong feeling swept over Judith—annoyance, peevishness at being taken unawares and perhaps a little excitement as well. She said immediately, ‘Oh, Uncle, you’ll have to go without me—I’ve got a headache.’ She was coiling the sausage into a bowl. ‘I’ll stay at home and go to bed early.’

‘Oh, that won’t do at all.’ Her uncle was overriding her gently. ‘I’ve just the thing to cure that—by the evening you’ll be feeling fine again.’ He bustled away and came back with a pill she didn’t need or want, but since he was there watching her, she swallowed it. ‘It’s a splendid day,’ he went on, ‘so after lunch I suggest that you get into the hammock in the garden and have a nap.’

Which, later in the day, she found herself doing, watched by Uncle Tom, looking complacent. This reluctance to meet Charles he considered a good sign, just as he was hopeful of Charles’ deliberate rudeness to her. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen such an exhibition of ill manners towards a woman on the Professor’s part. He knew all about his unfortunate love affair, but that was years ago now—since then he had treated the women who had crossed his path with a bland politeness and no warmth. But now this looked more promising, Uncle Tom decided; his niece, with her lovely face and strong splendid figure, had got under Charles’ skin. He pottered off to his afternoon patients, very pleased with himself.

Much against her inclination, Judith slept, stretched out in the old fashioned hammock slung between the apple trees behind the house. She slept peacefully until the doctor’s elderly Austin came to its spluttering halt before the house, and she just had time to run to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea before he came into the house.

It would be nice, she thought, if they had a frantically busy surgery that evening, even a dire emergency, which would prevent them from going to the Professor’s house, but nothing like that happened. The surgery was shorter than usual; Uncle Tom put the telephone on to the answering service, told the local exchange to put through urgent calls to the Professor’s house and indicated that he would be ready to leave within the next hour.

‘And wear something pretty, my dear,’ he warned her. ‘There’ll probably be one or two other people there— Charles doesn’t entertain much, just once or twice a year—they’re something of an event here.’ He added by way of an explanation: ‘Mrs Turner is an excellent cook.’

She was dressing entirely to please herself, Judith argued, putting on the Laura Ashley blouse, a confection of fine lawn, lace insertions and tiny tucks, and adding a thick silk skirt of swirling colours, her very best silk tights and a pair of wispy sandals which had cost her the earth. For the same reason, presumably, she took great pains with her face and hair, informing Uncle Tom, very tidy for once in a dark blue suit, that she just happened to have the outfit with her. Which was true enough, although she hadn’t expected to wear it.

They travelled in the doctor’s car, driving up to the house to find several other cars already there. The house, Judith saw, now that she was at its front, was a good deal larger than she had supposed. It was typical of the Lake District, whitewashed walls under a slate roof, with a wing at the back and a walled garden, full of roses now, encircling it. She went inside with her uncle into a square hall with four doors, all open. There was a good deal of noise coming through one of them; they paused long enough to greet Mrs Turner and were shown into a room on the left.

It was considerably larger than Judith had imagined, running from the front of the house to the back, where doors were open into the garden; it was furnished with a pleasing mixture of old, well cared for pieces and comfortable chintz-covered chairs. It was also quite full of people; women in pretty dresses, men in conventional dark suits. And the Professor, looking utterly different in a collar and tie and a suit of impeccable cut, advancing to meet them.

He clapped Uncle Tom on the shoulder, bade Judith a brisk good evening and introduced them round the room. Uncle Tom knew almost everyone there, of course, and presently, when the Professor had fetched them their drinks, he excused himself and left the doctor to make the introductions himself. Judith, making small talk with a youngish man who said that he was a cousin of the Professor’s, took the opportunity to look round her. There were a dozen people, she judged, and only a few of them from Hawkshead itself. And all the women were pretty and smart and, for the most part, young. She thanked heaven silently that she had worn the silk outfit; it might not be as smart as some of the dresses there, but it stood up very nicely to competition. The cousin was joined by an elderly man whom she vaguely remembered she had seen in church; the local vet, he reminded her jovially, and pointed out his wife, talking to the Professor at the other end of the room. ‘I’ve just given her a Border terrier and I daresay they’re comparing notes.’

‘Oh, has he got one?’

‘Lord, yes, and a nice old Black labrador as well. They’re in the garden, I expect, but they will roam in presently, I daresay—they have the run of the house.’

‘I should have thought that having dogs would have been too much of a distraction for Professor Cresswell—he spends a great deal of time writing, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he takes them out early in the morning before starting work—I believe they sit with him while he’s actually at his desk, so they can’t bother him much.’ He smiled at her. ‘How do you like this part of the country?’

The Professor’s cousin had turned aside to speak to a young woman and presently joined them again, this time with his arm round the girl’s shoulders. ‘You have met?’ he wanted to know. ‘Eileen Hunt, an old friend of the family.’ He laughed. ‘One might say, almost, very nearly one of the Cresswell family.’

The girl laughed too, and Judith smiled politely and wondered if they were on the point of getting engaged. She glanced down at the girl’s left hand: there was a wedding ring but nothing else. Eileen caught her eye and smiled with a hint of malice. ‘I’m not going to marry this wretch—he’s got one wife already. You’re not married, Judith?’

The malice was still there. ‘No,’ said Judith carefully. ‘There always seems to be so many other things to do—I daresay I’ll get round to it one day.’

It was a relief when Mrs Turner opened the door and, accompanied by the two dogs, marched across the room to where the Professor stood talking to a small group of people. Dinner, it appeared was ready.

The dining room, on the other side of the hall, was every bit as pleasant as the sitting room. Judith, sitting between the vet and a rather prosy elderly man who had little to say for himself, glanced round the big oval table. Eileen was sitting beside her host, leaning towards him with a laughing face and what Judith could only describe as a proprietorial air. Was that what the cousin had meant? Was the Professor going to take a wife? Judith felt the vague dislike she had had for the girl turn to something much stronger, which considering she didn’t like Charles Cresswell one little bit seemed strange.

The prosy man, having delivered himself of a lengthy speech about local weather, applied himself to his soup, and Judith did the same. It was excellent, as was the salmon which followed it and the saddle of lamb which the Professor carved with precise speed. The prosy man seemed disinclined for conversation; she and the vet carried on a comfortable, desultory chat which took them through the delicious trifle and a glass of the Muscat which had followed the white Bordeaux and the claret, before the ladies rose from the table and trooped back into the sitting room.

‘Very old-fashioned,’ commented the vet’s wife, ‘but Charles is too old to change his ways, I suppose. Besides, I rather like it, don’t you?’ She tucked a friendly hand into Judith’s arm and strolled to the still open doors. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Such quiet, and a heavenly view. We only get a chance to come here about twice a year, you know. Most of the time Charles shuts himself up and writes and the rest of the time he’s travelling around looking for bits of mediaeval history. Your uncle tells me you’re a nurse. That must be interesting.’

‘Yes, it is, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bear London after this.’

‘You live there?’

‘I work there, my parents live in Lacock—that’s in Wiltshire. It’s lovely there too.’

Some of the older women joined them then, and the talk became general until the men came in and her uncle came over. ‘Enjoying yourself, my dear?’ he wanted to know. ‘The headache’s gone? Do you mind very much if we leave within the next few minutes? I’ve explained to Charles that I might get a call from the Lindsays later on this evening.’

He turned away to speak to one of the other men and Judith, finding herself with the prosy man again, listened with outward politeness and an inner peevishness to a lengthy diatribe against the local government. She would be glad to leave, she decided silently; she had no interest in Charles Cresswell or his house, or his friends. It crossed her mind at the same time that he hadn’t any interest in her either. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since his brief greeting; he had invited her out of politeness because Uncle Tom wouldn’t have come without her, but he made no attempt to hide his dislike. And she disliked him too—heartily.

‘A delightful evening,’ she told her host as she and her uncle left a little later, and gave him a smile as insincere as her words. She was greatly put out at his laugh.

‘Was it, Judith?’ His voice was bland. ‘Such a pity that you have to go back to London so soon. You’ve had very little time to get to know us—you’ll forget us, I’m sure.’

She said nothing to this but stood silently while Uncle Tom and his host arranged a date for a day’s climbing. She would be gone by then, of course, but she doubted very much if she would have been included in Charles Cresswell’s invitation.

They drove the short way back in silence and when she had seen to the small bedtime chores and left a thermos of hot coffee ready in case her uncle was called out during the night, she went up to bed. The evening hadn’t been a success—but then, she argued with herself, she hadn’t expected it to be. All the same, she was filled with disappointment that she couldn’t account for. And she didn’t like Eileen; she hoped she wouldn’t have to meet her again, although that wasn’t very likely. The girl lived in Windermere and she would take great care not to go there.

She went the very next day, much against her will. One of her uncle’s patients, an elderly lady of an irascible nature, had driven over from Bowness to consult him. Her car was a vintage Austin and she drove badly. She had reversed into the doctor’s stone wall and shaken up the old car’s innards so badly that she had been forced to leave it at the village garage and then, considering herself very ill used, had demanded some kind of transport to take her home. It was a pity that Judith should go through the hall while she was making her needs known in no uncertain manner to Uncle Tom who, in what Judith considered to be a cowardly fashion, instantly suggested that his niece would be only too glad…

So Judith had ferried Mrs Grant back home, a pleasant house nearer Windermere than Bowness, and would have made her escape at once, only Mrs Grant remembered an important letter which simply had to go from the main post office in Windermere and would Judith be so kind…

She found the post office, posted the letter and remembered that she hadn’t had her coffee, so she left the car parked and went to look for a café. There were any number, and she chose the Hideaway, largely because of its name, and the first person she saw as she went inside was Eileen Hunt.

It was impossible to pretend that she hadn’t seen her, and when Eileen beckoned her over to share her table she went over, wishing she’d chosen any café but that one. But Eileen seemed pleased to see her. ‘Such a pity you had to go early yesterday,’ she observed with apparent friendliness, ‘but I daresay you find our little dinner parties rather dull after London.’

‘I don’t go out a great deal—at least not to dinner parties. I found this one very pleasant.’ Judith ordered her coffee and changed the subject. ‘What a lovely morning.’

Eileen sipped coffee. ‘Yes. I expect you go out a good deal with the doctors in the hospital, don’t you?’

‘Occasionally,’ said Judith coolly.

‘How romantic,’ said Eileen, and flicked a quick glance at Judith. ‘I daresay you’ll marry one of them.’

Judith thought very briefly of Nigel. Her mother had forwarded two letters from him and she hadn’t answered either of them; she went faintly pink with guilt and Eileen smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it be thrilling if he came all this way just to see you?’

‘Very thrilling,’ said Judith, refusing to be drawn. She finished her coffee. ‘I must go—I hadn’t intended coming out this morning and I’ve a mass of things to do.’ She smiled a polite goodbye, got to her feet and turned round, straight into Professor Cresswell. He sidestepped to avoid her and with a quick good morning, she went past him and out of the café. So much for those learned hours at his desk, brooding over the twelfth century! It rankled that he had found her visit to the house so disturbing—squawking like a hen, she remembered with fury—and yet he could spend the morning with that giggling idiot of an Eileen. Well, he’d got what he deserved, she told herself as she drove back to Hawkshead, and it was no business of hers, anyway. And in three days’ time she would be going home.

On her last day, with Mrs Lockyer safely back in the kitchen, Judith took herself off to Coniston. She had promised herself that she would climb the Old Man of Coniston, and although it was well past lunchtime by the time she got there there were several paths which would take her to the top without the need to hurry too much. She parked the car in the village and started off. She enjoyed walking, even uphill, and she was quite her old self again by now, making an easy job of the climb, and once at the top, perched on a giant boulder to admire the enormous view. It was warm now and presently she curled up and closed her eyes. It would be nice to be at home again, she thought sleepily, and there was still a week before going back to hospital—which reminded her of Nigel. She dozed off, frowning.

She slept for half an hour or more and woke with the sun warm on her face. She didn’t open her eyes at once, but lay there, frowning again. Nigel was bad enough when she was awake, but to dream of him too was more than enough. She sighed and opened her eyes slowly, and looked straight at Charles Cresswell, sitting on another boulder a foot or two away.

‘Why were you frowning?’ he wanted to know.

Judith sat up. Denim slacks and a T-shirt did nothing to detract from her beauty, nor did her tousled hair and her shiny face, warm from the sun still. She said crossly: ‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked.’ He whistled softly and the Border terrier and the labrador appeared silently to sit beside him. ‘The dogs like it here.’

Judith tugged at her T-shirt with a disarming unselfconsciousness. ‘I must be getting back.’ She got to her feet. ‘Goodbye, Professor Cresswell.’

‘Retreat, Judith?’ His voice was smooth.

‘Certainly not—I said I’d be back to give a hand at evening surgery.’

‘You leave tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ She started to walk past him and he put out a hand and caught her gently by the arm.

‘There’s plenty of time. I should like to know what you think of Hawkshead—of Cumbria—what you’ve seen of it?’

She tried to free her arm and was quite unable to do so. ‘It’s very beautiful. This is my third visit here, you know—I’m not a complete stranger to the Lakes…’

‘You wouldn’t like to live here?’

Just for a moment she forgot that she didn’t like him overmuch. ‘Oh, but I would,’ and then sharply: ‘Why do you ask?’

She was annoyed when he didn’t answer, instead he observed in a silky voice which annoyed her very much: ‘You would find it very tame after London.’

Eileen Hunt had said something very like that too; perhaps they had been discussing her. Judith said sharply: ‘No, I wouldn’t. And now if you’ll let go of my arm, I should like to go.’ She added stiffly: ‘I shan’t see you again, Professor Cresswell; I hope your book will be a success. It’s been nice meeting you.’ She uttered the lie so unconvincingly that he laughed out loud.

‘Of course the book will be a success—my books always are. And meeting you hasn’t been nice at all, Judith Golightly.’

She patted the dogs’ heads swiftly and went down the path without another word. She would have liked to have run, but that would have looked like retreat. She wasn’t doing that, she told herself stoutly; she was getting away as quickly as possible from someone she couldn’t stand the sight of.

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