Dearest Love Read online

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Arabella in a small voice.

  ‘Beauty is but skin-deep,’ quoth Mrs Turner. ‘Just you go back and sit by the fire and there’ll be a fresh pot of tea in a brace of shakes.’

  Arabella drank the tea and then sat back in her chair, Percy on her knee, the two dogs sprawled at her feet. The day’s happenings had been strange and they had sounded the death knell over any hopes she might have had about Titus’s feelings towards her. Geraldine had made it clear that she and Titus would have married save for her reluctance to give up her career, and although Arabella hated her she couldn’t believe that she would tell a pack of deliberate lies about it. Titus had made it plain before they married that although she and he were friends there was no question of love.

  She was still sitting there, the tea forgotten, when Titus came in. It was unfortunate that the first thing he said was, ‘Hello, where’s Geraldine?’

  Arabella sat up straight; the dogs had run to meet him and Percy set indignant claws in her skirt at being disturbed. ‘She left for Heathrow half an hour ago.’

  He sat down opposite her. ‘Rather unexpected—did she get a phone call to return, I wonder?’

  Arabella said carefully, ‘You don’t need to pretend, Titus. She told me about you and her. You said goodbye this afternoon after you’d had lunch together, didn’t you? You knew she was going back.’ She swallowed the lump of tears in her throat. ‘I’m only sorry that you must both be so unhappy. Of course it can all be put right, can’t it? It’s easy these days and it isn’t as if...’

  ‘Before you go on with this rigmarole, Arabella, let us put it into plain language.’

  He had spoken quietly but his voice was cold and his eyes, when she looked at him, were hard and cold. ‘Not to mince matters, you are telling me that Geraldine and I are in love, that we are unhappy and you are kindly planning to divorce me.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I said, didn’t I? It was plain enough for an idiot to understand. I can quite see that you need a wife—I suppose all professional men do—but why pick on me?’ She answered herself. ‘I’m undemanding and allow you to lead your own life and I don’t have any childish romantic notions—she told me that.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? Geraldine seems to have told you a great deal. And you believed her?’

  ‘I didn’t want to, really I didn’t, but someone like her—I mean, an important well-known doctor wouldn’t tell lies, would she? Besides, you said that you wished to marry for the wrong reasons—for someone to come home to each day, a companion, someone to put an end to your friends trying to marry you off. I accepted all that but only because I didn’t know about Geraldine, did I?’

  ‘You don’t want to hear my side of the story?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t, would I? But I don’t want to—I’m sure talking about it would make you feel unhappy.’

  ‘Not unhappy, my dear Arabella, but blind with rage, and if you persist in sitting there filled with sweetness and forgiveness I shall wring your little neck.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Arabella, ‘I shall go and sit somewhere else.’

  She whisked out of the room, clutching Percy, and went to the kitchen to say that she had a headache and would go to bed.

  ‘A morsel of supper?’ asked Mrs Turner.

  ‘No—no, thank you. The doctor will dine at the usual time, please.’

  * * *

  The doctor had poured himself a drink and gone back to his chair. He sat for a long time deep in thought, but presently he laughed. ‘What a pair of fools we are,’ he observed to the dogs, who mumbled an understanding and went to sleep again.

  ‘Madam’s gone to her bed,’ said Mrs Turner severely, serving him his soup. ‘Got a headache and I’m not surprised. I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but that ladyfriend of yours fair upset madam.’

  The doctor tasted his soup. ‘Delicious. Dr Tulsma and Mrs Tavener don’t have much in common, Mrs Turner, and her visit was unexpected.’ He glanced up at his faithful housekeeper. ‘I think it unlikely that she will visit us again.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, sir, for I don’t like to see madam upset—such a sweet little lady she is, as you well know, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt at all. Will you take a nice little supper upstairs presently? A little food often helps a headache.’

  ‘One of my omelettes,’ breathed Mrs Turner, and went back to the kitchen with his soup plate.

  Arabella, fortified by a delicious light supper, slept soundly and went down to breakfast. She had no wish to apologise and indeed she couldn’t see why she should—he had wanted to wring her neck, hadn’t he? He was the one to apologise. She sat down opposite him at the breakfast table and poured herself a cup of coffee, accepted the plate of scrambled eggs he fetched from the sideboard and wished him good morning in a polite voice.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he enquired in a breezy manner which annoyed her at once. ‘There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep to help one regain a normal view of things.’

  She buttered toast and ate a mouthful of egg. ‘My view of things is exactly the same as it was yesterday evening,’ she told him frostily. ‘I see no point in discussing it any more.’

  ‘Not at the moment, perhaps. You still persist in your absurd accusations, Arabella?’ His voice was smooth but it had a nasty edge to it. She reflected with a tiny shiver that he must have a nasty temper beneath that calm visage. Not that he could frighten her, she told herself silently.

  She said clearly, ‘Yes—and they are not absurd. You told me yourself in Holland that Geraldine was one of the most honest and dependable doctors you had ever met. You’re not going to accuse her of lying, are you?’

  He glanced at his watch and didn’t answer her. ‘I must go, I’ve a good deal to get through today. I’ll be home by six o’clock, barring accidents. We are to dine with the Marshalls, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. In a day or two, when you’ve calmed down, we can have a quiet talk.’

  ‘I do not want a quiet talk,’ said Arabella pettishly. ‘I can think of nothing more to say.’

  ‘That astonishes me. I, on the other hand, have a great deal to say. Time enough to say it when we are at the manor.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder as he went to the door and the touch of it sent sudden tears to her eyes. She loved him so, and she was behaving in all the wrong ways. She wasn’t sure quite how to behave; he hadn’t been very nice about her being sweet and forgiving...

  Christmas was very near now; she wrapped some more presents, arranged Christmas cards all over the drawing-room—for they had been sent any number—and spent a long time making a centrepiece for the table with holly and Christmas roses and trails of ivy and sweet-scented hyacinths. It looked pretty when she had finished it and so did the small Christmas tree standing in front of the window, with its twinkling lights and glass baubles.

  Tomorrow, she remembered, several of the doctors’ wives were coming for coffee; she had met them at the Marshalls’ and at the party and they had offered to tell her about the various festivities which would take place at the hospital after Christmas—to have them in for coffee had seemed a good idea. She was aware that they were curious about her but too polite to show it, and it would be nice if she could become one of their circle.

  She took the dogs for a walk then, and presently set out for the last of her shopping. A present for Titus. She had left it until last, hoping to gain some inspiration as to what he would like. He seemed to have everything; the only thing was to go and look in shop windows and hope to see something.

  She might be angry with him and unhappy too, but she loved him despite that. It would have to be something very special. She went from one end of Bond Street to the other and down the arcades, peering in windows—what did one give a man who
had everything?

  She found it at last in a small bookshop, crammed to the ceiling with rare editions, old maps and prints. An early edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in its original text; she remembered that he had mentioned his interest in the book and as far as she knew he had only a modern version of it. She bore it home, reflecting sadly that perhaps this would be the last and only present she would give him. She had an unpleasant feeling that the quiet talk he had suggested might disclose a future she had no wish to contemplate.

  In the meanwhile there was the Marshalls’ dinner-party that evening. She dressed with extra care—dark green velvet this time, long-sleeved and high-necked, and since she had the time she arranged her hair in a complicated topknot which was well worth the time it took to do.

  Titus was home when she went downstairs to the drawing-room. He was sitting with the dogs, reading the afternoon’s post, but he got up when she went in.

  ‘I’ll go and change. Have the dogs been out?’

  She put Percy down by the fire. ‘Yes, they’ve had their walk.’

  ‘Good. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She sat down and Percy got on to her lap and Bassett danced around her chair.

  ‘You have enjoyed your day?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Several people are coming in for coffee tomorrow morning...’

  ‘I shall be away all day, probably until late in the evening. Don’t wait up for me tomorrow.’

  ‘I expect you’re busy,’ she said politely.

  ‘Yes, I have to go over to Leiden in the morning but I shall be back in good time to drive to the manor.’

  He went out of the room, leaving her suddenly ice-cold with panic. He was going to see Geraldine, of course, and tell her what had happened, and when he came back they would have their talk and her heart would be broken.

  The dinner party at the Marshalls’ house was fairly small and she had met everyone there already. The house was decorated with holly and mistletoe and paper chains and an enormous Christmas tree and the atmosphere was decidedly festive. Dinner was leisurely and the talk was light-hearted and afterwards everyone gathered in the drawing-room, still talking. It was late when finally everyone went home, calling the season’s greetings to each other as they went.

  Back in the house Arabella said, ‘That was a lovely evening; I enjoyed it.’ She stood in the hall, looking at him. ‘I’ll go to bed. Will you be leaving early in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I give your love to Cressida?’

  ‘Oh, will you be seeing her?’

  ‘Yes. Who did you suppose I’d be seeing, Arabella?’

  ‘Well, Geraldine, of course.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He turned away to go to his study. ‘Goodnight, Arabella.’

  There he sat, doing nothing behind his great desk. A brilliantly clever man, he hadn’t been clever enough to know when he had fallen in love with Arabella. He supposed, since she had never been out of his mind for long since the moment they had first met, that he had loved her at first sight, unaware of it even when he had asked her to be his wife, knowing only that it was something which he wanted.

  He gently pulled Bassett’s small ears, for the little dog had climbed on to his knee, and then reached down to rest a hand on Beauty’s head.

  ‘When I get back,’ he told them, ‘we must talk, Arabella and I. Perhaps once we have cleared up this misunderstanding she could learn to love me.’

  * * *

  Arabella went down to her solitary breakfast, determined to fill her day so that there would be no time to sit and brood. There were the last of the presents to wrap and plans to make with Mrs Turner, who would stay in the house over Christmas. Not alone, however. Her married sister and her husband would stay with her and Arabella, prompted by Titus, had seen to it that there was an abundance of Christmas fare for them. Titus had several appointments for the day after Boxing Day and they had planned to return to Little Venice very late on Boxing Day. She wondered now, as she listened with half an ear to Mrs Turner’s plans for a meal for them on their return, if it would be a good idea if she were to stay at the manor for a while. It would seem a natural thing to do and, in the light of the present situation, sensible too.

  The day seemed long despite her efforts to keep busy. She had just got back from walking the dogs when the phone rang. Titus’s cool voice sounded very close. He would be unable to get back home that evening—he hoped to be back some time the following afternoon. He would go straight to the hospital where he had a clinic and see her later. ‘You are all right?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Arabella. Even if she could have thought of something to say he didn’t give her the chance. His goodbye was brief.

  She spent the evening deciding what to take with her to the manor, although her mood was such that packing a couple of sacks would have done very nicely. The day was neverending; the coffee morning had taken up part of it, of course, and she had laughed and talked and rather liked her guests and squirmed inwardly at their smiling remarks about brides and a rosy future. Medical men made rather good fathers, one of them had observed, amid laughter. She remembered that now.

  Titus got home early the next afternoon, coming in unexpectedly on his way to the hospital. Arabella, tying an artistic bow on the parcel in which she had wrapped Mrs Turner’s Christmas present—a handsome dressing-gown—looked up in surprise as he came in.

  ‘I need something from the study,’ he explained. ‘I’ll be home just after five o’clock. Will you be ready to leave shortly after that?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like something before we go? Sandwiches and coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’ll get tea at the hospital—we can have a meal when we get home. Phone Butter, will you? Tell him we’ll be there about eight o’clock and will need supper.’

  He had spoken pleasantly but she could see that he was impatient to be gone. Her, ‘Very well,’ was uttered in a matter-of-fact voice although her hands were shaking under the bunch of ribbons.

  They left well before six o’clock after giving Mrs Turner her present, loading the boot with things for the manor and stowing the dogs and Percy on the back seat. The streets were crowded with Christmas traffic and it took some time to reach the motorway, and all the while Titus had nothing to say.

  Arabella had tried once or twice to start up a conversation but since she received only pleasant monosyllables in reply she had lapsed into silence. Christmas, she thought bitterly. Last Christmas had been a terrible one, with her parents recently dead and the future bleak, but this one was even worse; the future was just as bleak. How could it be otherwise, loving a man who loved someone else?

  CHAPTER NINE

  THERE WAS A Christmas tree ablaze with lights just inside the gates of the manor when they reached it, and lights streamed from the many windows of the house. As they stopped before the door Arabella could hear Duke’s deep bark and then was almost deafened by the happy barks of Beauty and Bassett. Titus got out, opened her door and let the animals out of the back of the car, picking up Percy’s basket at the same time. Just for a moment Arabella stood looking around her; the door had been opened and Duke had come pelting out to greet them and then tear round the garden with the other two. Butter stood at the door and beyond him she could glimpse another Christmas tree in the hall. She heaved a sigh and Titus gave her a quick look which she didn’t see.

  Butter stood with a beaming face. ‘Welcome home, ma’am—and you, sir. There’s a nice little supper waiting for you when you’re ready and Mrs Tavener Senior hopes that she and Miss Welling may share it with you.’

  ‘Why, of course,’ cried Arabella. ‘Nothing would be nicer. I’ll just take off my things and say hello to Mrs Butter.’

  Titus had been taking Percy out of his basket; she took t
he cat in her arms and went off to the kitchen, glad to get away from Titus’s blue stare.

  They all had supper together shortly after and even Miss Welling looked cheerful and drank two glasses of wine. Old Mrs Tavener was full of questions which the doctor answered readily enough, referring often to Arabella to bear him out; whatever their differences were in private, they were to be kept that way.

  The old lady went to bed presently with the faithful Miss Welling, very slightly tipsy, in attendance.

  ‘I should like to talk,’ observed Titus, ‘but I think you have no wish to listen for the moment.’

  ‘Well, no.’ She sat down near the fire in the drawing-room with Percy curled up on her lap. ‘I think I am still angry and hurt—if you wouldn’t mind waiting a few days, until I feel all right again, I’ll listen...’

  ‘But you will agree with me that the hatchet should be buried over Christmas. I would not like Grandmother to be made unhappy nor would I like the painstaking preparations taken by the staff to be overshadowed; they have been here for so long that they are quick to sense when anything has gone wrong.’

  She said quietly, ‘Of course I agree with you. I’ll do everything to make it as you wish.’ She paused. ‘Titus, may I stay here for a few days after Christmas? Just until you come on the following weekend. I think it might be a good idea, don’t you?’

  When he didn’t reply she added, ‘It’s easier—I mean looking at something from a distance. Do you see?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but surely that depends on how you are looking at it? Clearly and honestly or blinded by all the wrong feelings?’

  ‘Feelings? Feelings?’ Arabella wanted to know in a lamentably shrill voice. ‘And you’re the one who’s blind.’ She got to her feet, dislodging Percy who stalked to the door. ‘I’m rather tired. Goodnight, Titus.’