Hilltop Tryst Page 10

  Mrs Browning chuckled. ‘Poor boy; I still don’t like him—but I’m a little sorry for him, too.’

  Beatrice said nothing, but busied herself with the coffee, and the doctor said smoothly, ‘From all accounts he is a good vet; he should be able to get a job wherever he wants to go.’

  He accepted a mug of coffee and Beatrice gave him a grateful look; her mother was satisfied about the contents of the letter; he had somehow managed to dispel any suspicions she might have had about Colin, and at the same time implied that he would recover quickly enough from his professed love of Beatrice.

  When her father joined them, the doctor asked in his mildest manner, ‘You will be coming with me, Beatrice?’ He glanced across at Mr Browning, who nodded happily. ‘I’ve rushed you, rather, but I’m sure you will enjoy yourself. I don’t have much time during the day, but Miss Cross is a pleasant companion. I’ll be taking the car and we’ll go from Dover and drive up from Calais. We shall be in Utrecht for two days.’

  He glanced at Beatrice. ‘Come back to my place for lunch, Beatrice, and I’ll tell you exactly where we are going.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’d have liked to, but Mother and I are going to Bath—I must do some shopping…’

  ‘Ah, of course, you will have nothing to wear.’ His voice was bland. ‘In that case, come to lunch, then we’ll pick Mrs Browning up and I’ll drive you both there and collect you whenever you say.’ He added with a faint smile, ‘I have some shopping to do, too.’

  No one could find fault with this; Beatrice went indoors to change her dress and find Ella to beg her to take Knotty for his walk, then hurried outside again. They were still sitting over their coffee, but Oliver got up when he saw her, said his goodbyes and ushered her into the car in a businesslike manner, and drove off.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE DOCTOR had little to say as he drove to his home, and Beatrice, her head for the moment full of worried thoughts about her clothes, hardly noticed his silence. She had nice clothes; her father paid her a salary for her help at the clinic and she was able to afford them, but she didn’t go out a great deal and her stock of after-six dresses was small. ‘And something to travel in,’ she muttered, forgetting where she was for the moment.

  ‘Oh, knitted cotton or jersey that will drip dry,’ Oliver answered.

  She turned to gape at him. ‘Whatever do you know about drip-dry cotton?’

  ‘You forget that I have sisters. You should wear honey colour with that hair, or that pale apricot pink. I’m partial to pink.’

  She had to laugh, and he said, ‘That’s better. You don’t laugh enough these days.’

  He swept the car through the gates, and there was Jennings waiting at the open door with Mabel bouncing around, anxious to be made much of. Beatrice, going in to a chorus of cheerful barks and Jennings hovering, felt quite at home.

  They ate their lunch with a map spread out on the table between them, while the doctor pointed out exactly where they would be going.

  ‘And do you lecture in English?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘In Holland, yes, and in Copenhagen, but I manage to make myself understood in German and French, and of course a number of medical terms are universal.’

  ‘And do you give the same lecture each time?’

  ‘Well, basically, yes.’

  ‘You must be very clever—cleverer than I thought…’

  He said gravely, ‘Thank you, Beatrice. You flatter me.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to do that,’ she said forthrightly. ‘I dare say there are a lot of things you can’t do.’

  His, ‘Oh, dozens,’ was so meek that she gave him a suspicious look which he countered with a bland smile.

  They didn’t linger over the meal, but got back into the car, this time with Mabel on the back seat, and drove back to her home. Mrs Browning, hatted and gloved, was waiting for them, declared herself perfectly willing to share the back seat with Mabel and was ushered into the car.

  The journey took less than an hour, and was largely filled by Mrs Browning’s voice murmuring over her shopping list.

  ‘You’ll need a new dress, dear; something pretty for the evening…’

  Beatrice frowned; it sounded as though her mother was fishing for dinner invitations; if he offered her one she would refuse.

  The doctor caught the frown out of the corner of his eye and smiled a little. ‘Two, if I might suggest that. I did tell Beatrice that I am invited to attend at least one dinner in each place we visit, and I’m expected to bring my companion.’

  ‘What about Miss Cross?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Oh, the secretaries have a gathering of their own; she has what she calls her little black number, and something called her brown crêpe.’

  ‘You look awful in black,’ commented Mrs Browning from the back seat.

  Beatrice let out a very small sigh, and the doctor began to talk about the journey, so that Mrs Browning put away her list and listened. He could, on occasion, talk ‘nothings’ with great charm.

  He dropped them off at the top of Milsom Street, promised to pick them up at the same place at half-past five, and drove away with Mabel sitting beside him.

  Mrs Browning gave a satisfied sigh. ‘Now, let me see— Brown’s first, I think, darling. Your father told me that you had to have all that you needed. You buy what you want; I’ve my cheque-book with me.’

  ‘Mother, I have plenty of money—I’ve not spent anything for weeks.’

  ‘Yes, dear, but your father would like to give you a present—you’ve been so good and helpful.’

  The two of them plunged into a delightful afternoon’s shopping, emerging after an hour or so with a great many parcels and a much thinner cheque-book. Beatrice had found the knitted three-piece almost at once. What was more, it was in an apricot pink. ‘Quite uncrushable,’ declared the saleslady, ‘and so suitable.’ She didn’t say what it was suitable for, but that hardly mattered; Beatrice was well satisfied. She had found two pretty dresses too—just in case she needed them, she pointed out to her mother. ‘And since Father’s paying…’

  A patterned crêpe, very elegant with long, tight sleeves and a billowing skirt, and a blouse and skirt in satin, the blouse ivory, the skirt in a rich, dark red. To these were added a cotton dress with its matching cardigan, and a sun dress she thought she might never have the chance to wear, but which suited her so well that it seemed a pity not to buy it. They had tea at a nice teashop, and punctually at half-past five returned to the spot where Oliver was to meet them. He was already there, reading an evening paper, one arm round Mabel. No one, thought Beatrice, looking at him, would guess that he was an eminent physician at the very top of his profession. He looked far too much at ease. He looked up and, aware of them, got out of the car, ushered Mabel into the back, disposed of their parcels, tucked Mrs Browning smoothly in beside Mabel, whisked Beatrice into the front seat, climbed in beside her and drove off.

  ‘I’m sorry we are a little late,’ observed Beatrice.

  ‘Five—ten minutes? I hadn’t even glanced at my watch. Did you have a successful afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, very, thank you. Did you?’

  ‘I? Oh, yes. A consultation at Bath United.’

  ‘Oh, do they call you in there as well?’

  His firm mouth twitched with a hidden smile. ‘I get called in all over the place.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose you do.’ They were silent while she tried to think of something to say, and couldn’t. Her mother broke the long silence.

  ‘You’ll stay for supper, Oliver? Nothing much, just one of my pork pies with a salad and duchesse potatoes. Beatrice made a strawberry tart this morning—with cream, of course.’

  ‘I’m going back to London this evening, Mrs Browning; I’ve a round to do in the morning and patients to see…’

  ‘Well, you have to eat and it will be quite ready; I warned Ella. She’s almost as good a cook as Beatrice.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll stay with the great
est of pleasure. You don’t object to Mabel?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! She can have her supper with Knotty. I dare say she’ll be glad of a run around the garden. Will she go back with you this evening?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She hates London, but she hates being away from me more.’

  They talked about dogs for the rest of the journey.

  Supper was a lively meal; no one mentioned Colin, the talk was all of Mr Browning’s day at the clinic, the afternoon’s shopping and the forthcoming trip.

  Oliver could have known us all his life, thought Beatrice, watching him gently teasing Ella and carrying the dishes out to the kitchen. She thought it unlikely that the Jenningses allowed him to tidy away so much as a fork. He said all the right things to Mr and Mrs Browning, received a kiss from Ella with every sign of pleasure, waved casually to Beatrice, begged her to be ready when he came for her on the following day and drove away.

  She went away to pack her bag, make sure that she had her passport and money while she listened to Ella’s good advice about the right make-up and how to do her hair. ‘You can’t go around with a plait,’ she pointed out. ‘Do a french pleat or a chignon, and do use eye-shadow.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I had your eyelashes…’

  To all of which Beatrice listened with only half an ear; she was thinking about Colin, although her thoughts were strangely clouded by a strong mental picture of the doctor. At least, she thought, by the time she got back home Colin would have gone and she would be able to stop thinking about him. She hated him for his duplicity, but at the same time it was hard to shake off the attraction she had felt for him.

  ‘Don’t look so sad,’ said Ella. ‘You’re not old yet. You never know, you may meet a dashing Dutchman or a German professor.’

  ‘I don’t fancy either.’ Beatrice began to loop her hair into a tidy chignon. ‘Besides, I don’t expect to meet any.’

  ‘You’re going to those dinner parties Oliver hates; find him a sexy blonde and hunt around for yourself.’

  Beatrice let her hair fall round her shoulders. ‘Ella, where do you get your ideas from? You’re only fifteen…’

  ‘Darling Beatrice, you’re the one who’s fifteen—being taken in by Colin like a teenager and not having an idea how to deal with him. You’re a darling, but you’ve spent too many years with animals and not enough with men.’

  To which remark Beatrice agreed, being an honest girl.

  Wearing the new jersey outfit, she was ready when Oliver arrived.

  His greeting was decidedly casual. ‘Ah—you took my advice.’ His eyes swept over her person; the casual look of a brother for a sister, she reflected peevishly. ‘You’re ready? We must go up to town and pick up Miss Cross. I told her to be at the flat—we can have lunch there and then drive down to Dover.’

  They drove to town, making small talk in a desultory fashion, eating up the miles until the outskirts of London slowed them down. Beatrice had only the vaguest idea where the doctor lived; she supposed that it was somewhere close to his consulting-rooms in Harley Street—perhaps he lived in a flat at the same house.

  He didn’t. He drove up Park Lane, turned off into South Audley Street and, just short of Grosvenor Square, entered a quiet little tree-lined street with a terrace of Regency houses on either side. Almost at its end, he drew up.

  ‘Oh, is this where you live?’

  ‘When I’m in London, yes. Come along, we haven’t a great deal of time.’

  She was bustled across the narrow pavement to the front door, opened as they reached it by a tall, thin woman with a severe expression, made even more severe by the way her hair was drawn back into a tight bun and her lack of make-up.

  ‘Hello, Rosie,’ said the doctor cheerfully. ‘I hope you’ve got a good lunch for us. Is Miss Cross here?’

  ‘Good day to you, Doctor.’ The faintest glimmer of a smile did its best. ‘Lunch will be served in ten minutes, and Miss Cross arrived not five minutes ago.’

  ‘Splendid. This is Miss Browning. Beatrice, Rosie runs my home for me and is indispensable.’

  Beatrice shook hands and murmured and Rosie said graciously, ‘If Miss Browning will come with me, I’ll show her where she may tidy herself.’

  Beatrice wasn’t aware that she was untidy, but she went meekly enough in the wake of Rosie to the end of the narrow, elegant hall where there was a splendidly appointed cloakroom. Presently, hoping that she would fulfil Rosie’s expectations of tidiness, she went back into the hall.

  The doctor poked his head out of a door as she did so. ‘In here, Beatrice,’ he said, and drew her into a charming room overlooking the street, furnished with deep armchairs and sofas and several very nice Regency tables bearing reading-lamps. Cosy in the winter, thought Beatrice, and advanced to meet Miss Cross.

  She had imagined her to be a smart, youngish woman, exquisitely made-up, dressed with fashionable elegance and full of the social graces. Miss Cross was none of these things; she was dumpy and little and well into her forties, with a round face and twinkly eyes and a neat head of brown hair, going unashamedly grey. She was dressed neatly but unfashionably, and on the front of her dress hung her gold-rimmed spectacles. Beatrice liked her at once, and they beamed at each other as the doctor introduced them. ‘Here’s Beatrice, Ethel. Beatrice, Ethel has been with me for a long time now; she always knows where I have to go next and what I have to do—I’d be lost without her.’

  ‘Such nonsense,’ declared Ethel delightedly. ‘How nice to meet you—may I call you Beatrice?’

  ‘Oh, please—and may I call you Ethel?’

  ‘Let us drink to that,’ observed the doctor, handing round sherry.

  They lunched in a smaller room at the back of the house, furnished in mahogany and with french windows opening on to a charming little garden. There was a bird-bath at the end of the centre path, and sitting on a bench near the window was a large tortoiseshell cat, watching two kittens playing on the small lawn.

  ‘Rosie’s pet,’ observed Oliver, settling Beatrice in her chair. ‘Her name’s Popsie. She joined the household some months ago and took over the kitchen regions, and I suspect that the kittens have every intention of taking up residence with her. Rosie adores cats.’

  ‘Does Mabel mind when she comes here?’

  ‘Not in the least. But she doesn’t like London, although she comes up and down with me.’

  Rosie served lunch: lettuce soup, grilled sole and a salad, and a fresh fruit salad for afters. The coffee was delicious and served with tiny butter biscuits made, Oliver assured her, by Rosie to a secret recipe.

  He was so well served, she reflected; Rosie here, obviously devoted to him despite her severity, and the Jenningses at his home in Dorset. But he deserved it, she conceded; his was a relentless life, despite the comfort of his living, and he wasn’t a man who, having reached the top, would seek an easy life.

  They didn’t linger over the meal; Miss Cross was ushered into the back seat of the car, Beatrice got into the seat beside the doctor, and they began their journey.

  They went over on the hovercraft and, since Ethel Cross and Oliver were both immersed in papers, Beatrice opened the paperback she had had the forethought to bring with her, and pretended to read. The doctor raised his eyes once to say, ‘Sorry we’re so unsociable, but it’s an opportunity to get everything sorted out. My first lecture is tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, and we have to have some kind of plan for the day. Ethel will be with me, taking notes, but we’ll meet you for lunch. I’ll tell you where.’

  On land, he drove steadily, stopping for tea just before they crossed the Dutch border. Miss Cross had dozed for most of the journey, and he and Beatrice had carried on a conversation which needed very little effort on either’s part.

  The doctor had taken the motorway through Antwerp and Breda, and entered Utrecht from the south. As they neared the city centre, Beatrice stared round her as he threaded his way through the evening traffic, pointing out the cathedral tower and the cathedral, the canals
and the brief glimpse of the fish market. ‘There’s plenty to see,’ he told her, ‘and no difficulty with the language. I’m afraid Ethel and I will have to leave you to your own devices until the late afternoon, but we’ll go out in the evening.’

  She had expected that. ‘I’ll be quite all right,’ she assured him. ‘I like pottering.’ And indeed, the city looked worth exploring, with its old houses and tree-lined canals. She wondered where they were to stay, and got her answer almost at once when he stopped before a hotel in the heart of the city. It looked grand in an old-fashioned way, and just for a moment she had qualms, to be reassured by Ethel’s friendly voice.

  ‘This is most comfortable. We stayed here a year ago when the doctor came over to test the medical students and deliver a lecture. And everyone speaks English.’

  They had rooms on the first floor, Beatrice and Ethel beside each other and the doctor on the opposite side of the corridor. The rooms were extremely comfortable, with large bathrooms and balconies overlooking the street, and Ethel’s had a table in the window on which she put her portable typewriter. ‘We’ll have breakfast together,’ she told Beatrice cheerfully, ‘and probably lunch, but I have dinner when it suits me; I like to get my notes written up each evening.’

  Beatrice didn’t like to ask about Oliver’s arrangements; she supposed that he would meet colleagues in the evenings, so probably she would dine with Ethel. She went to her own room to unpack, mindful of the doctor’s suggestion that they should all meet in the bar in an hour’s time.

  Bathed, her hair hanging down her back, she began to worry about what she should wear. She dragged on her dressing-gown and nipped out into the corridor. There was no one about, so she put the door latch up and started the few yards along the corridor to Ethel’s door. She had her hand raised to knock when a small sound behind her sent her whizzing round. Oliver was standing at his open door, watching her.

  ‘Oh, hello. I’m just going to ask Ethel what to wear…’

  ‘You look very nice like that. I like the hair.’ He watched with interest while she blushed. ‘Wear whatever women wear to cocktail parties. I’m not a betting man, but I’m willing to wager a substantial sum on the certainty of Ethel’s wearing her little black number.’