The Doubtful Marriage Read online

  Which was true enough, but, when all was said and done, no reason for not getting engaged.

  She started back up the lane and met Dr van Kempler. He said cheerfully, ‘Hello, I’ve come to carry your basket. Is there a longer way back or do you mind the rain?’

  ‘Not a bit. We can go down Penny Lane and round Rush Bottom. It’ll be muddy…’ She glanced down at her companion’s highly polished shoes.

  ‘They’ll clean,’ he assured her laconically. ‘What do you do in your spare time, Matilda?’

  ‘Walk, garden, play tennis in the summer. Go to Thame or Oxford to shop.’

  ‘Never to London to go to a play or have an evening out?’ He glanced at her from under heavy lids. ‘Your uncle mentioned your…fiancé, is he?’

  ‘Not yet. He is a barrister and he’d rather spend his weekends here than in London.’ She got over the stile to Rush Bottom. It was her turn to ask questions. ‘Are you married, Dr van Kempler?’

  ‘No, though I hope to be within the next months. Life is easier for a doctor if he has a wife.’

  She was tempted to ask him if that was his reason for marrying, but she didn’t know him well enough and, although she thought he was friendly, she sensed that he could be quite the reverse if he were annoyed. He didn’t want to talk about himself; he began to talk about her work as practice nurse with her uncle. That lasted until they got back to the house.

  She was in his company only briefly after that; there was the evening visit to Mrs Jenkins before she phoned the district nurse in Haddenham who would take over for the weekend. When she got back, Emma, normally so unflappable, was fussing over the supper. ‘Such a nice young man,’ she enthused. ‘I must do me best.’

  ‘You always do, Emma,’ Tilly assured her, and then, ‘He’s not all that young, you know.’ She paused over the egg custard she was beating gently over the pan of hot water. ‘All of thirty-five—older than that…’

  ‘In ’is prime,’ declared Emma.

  Her uncle had no surgery in the morning. After breakfast he and his guest disappeared into his study, leaving Tilly free to clear the table, make the beds and tidy the house, having done which she got into her newest tweed skirt and quilted jacket, tied a scarf over her dark locks and walked through the village to the Manor.

  Leslie always drove himself down late on Friday evening, too late to see her; besides, as he had pointed out so reasonably, he needed a good night’s sleep after his busy week in town. He would be waiting for her and they would decide where they would walk, and afterwards he would go with her to her uncle’s house, spend five minutes talking to him and then go home to his lunch. It was a routine which never varied and she had accepted it, just as she had accepted Sunday’s habitual visit to morning church and then drinks at the Manor afterwards. Sometimes she wished for a day driving with Leslie, just the two of them, but he had pointed out that his mother had come to depend on his weekly visits, so she had said nothing more.

  He was in the sitting-room, glancing through the papers, when she reached the Manor and for some reason his, ‘Hello, old girl,’ annoyed her very much. Normally she was an even-tempered girl and sensible; better a sincere greeting shorn of glamour than a romantic one meaning nothing.

  She paid a dutiful visit to his mother and they had their walk, he talking about his week and she listening. He was still explaining a particularly interesting case when they reached her uncle’s house, to find him and the Dutch doctor sitting in the drawing-room, deep in discussion. They got to their feet as Tilly and Leslie went in and the doctor introduced Leslie to his guest and offered him a drink. It irked Tilly considerably that Leslie should refuse and, worse, give her a careless pat on the shoulder and a ‘’Bye, old girl,’ as he took his leave. With a heightened colour she gave the Dutchman a defiant look and met a bland face which gave nothing away; all the same she was sure that he was amused.

  She wouldn’t be seeing Leslie until the next morning; he was taking his mother over to Henley to see old friends and would stay there to dine, something which she had to explain to her uncle at lunch.

  ‘Pity you couldn’t go, too. Better still, have a day out together…’

  Tilly, serving the custard, said calmly, ‘I dare say we shall when the weather’s better.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else to do, you can go with Rauwerd to Oxford. He has a mind to renew his acquaintance with the colleges.’

  Dr van Kempler came to her rescue very nicely. ‘I’d be delighted if you would,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mention it because I supposed that you would be spending the day with—er—Leslie, but I should enjoy it much more if I had a companion.’

  ‘Oh, well, then I’ll come.’ Tilly smiled at him. ‘Were you there?’

  ‘Yes, years ago. There was a splendid tea-room in the High Street…’

  ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘Then perhaps we might have tea there?’

  The afternoon was a success. The rain didn’t bother the doctor. They walked down High Street to Magdalen Bridge and looked at the river, stopped to stare at Tom Tower, peered around Magdalen College, studied Radcliffe Camera, the Sheldonian Theatre and the Rotunda and then had their tea in a tea-room which the doctor swore hadn’t altered so much as by a teaspoon since he was there. They walked back presently to where he had parked the car and drove home. He was nicer than she had at first thought, mused Tilly, sitting back in the comfort of the Rolls, and it had been pleasant to spend an afternoon well away from the village. A pity that she and Leslie couldn’t take time to do that sometimes… She dismissed the thought as disloyal.

  The doctor wasn’t going until after tea on Sunday; Tilly got up early, made a trifle for lunch so that Emma would be free to see to the main course, whisked together a sponge cake as light as air, helped to get breakfast and went to church, Uncle Thomas on one side, Dr van Kempler on the other. Their pew was on the opposite side of the aisle to the Manor pew; she caught Leslie’s eye and gave him a warm smile, and when the service was over joined him in the porch.

  Mrs Waring, waiting with him, had to be introduced and said at once in her slightly overbearing manner, ‘You must come up for a drink. You, too, Thomas—you are so seldom free.’

  There was a path through the churchyard which led to the Manor grounds, and Mrs Waring led the way with the two doctors, leaving Tilly and Leslie to follow.

  For some reason which Tilly couldn’t quite understand she didn’t enjoy herself; everything was exactly as it always was on a Sunday morning, with Mrs Waring dominating the conversation while they sat around in the rather grand drawing-room sipping the rather dry sherry Tilly had never really enjoyed. Dr van Kempler had behaved with the ease and unselfconscious poise of someone to whom good manners are as natural as breathing, yet behind that bland face she was sure that he was laughing, not at them, she conceded, but at some private joke of his own.

  The talk followed a well-worn routine: Mrs Waring’s opinion on world affairs, a severe criticism of the week’s work done or mismanaged by the government and a detailed résumé of the village life since the previous Sunday. When she paused for breath her husband muttered, ‘Quite so, my dear,’ and everyone murmured, for there was no chance to speak. It surprised Tilly when, having come to the end of her diatribe, Mrs Waring began to question Dr van Kempler. Was he married? Where did he live? Exactly what work did he do?

  She had met her match. The Dutchman answered her politely and told her nothing at all. Tilly, who had her ears stretched to hear his replies, was disappointed. Mrs Waring tapped him playfully on an exquisitely tailored sleeve. ‘You naughty man,’ she declared, ‘you’re not telling us anything.’

  ‘I have nothing to tell,’ he assured her with grave courtesy, ‘and I much prefer to hear of your English village life.’

  ‘Well, yes, I flatter myself that I take an active part in it. What do you think of our two young people? I cannot wait for Matilda to become my daughter.’

  ‘You will indeed be most fortun
ate.’ His voice was as bland as his face.

  Tilly blushed and looked at her shoes. It was a relief when Uncle Thomas declared that they must be off home otherwise Emma would have their lunch spoilt.

  After lunch she saw little of the doctor. He spent the afternoon with her uncle and after tea got into his splendid car and drove away. His goodbyes had been brief but warm to her uncle and equally brief but considerably cooler towards herself.

  She watched the car disappear down the lane with mixed feelings: regret that she couldn’t get to know him better, and relief that she never would. He wasn’t only the handsomest man that she had ever set eyes on; she was sure he was someone she instinctively trusted, even though she was still not sure if she liked him.

  The house seemed empty once he had gone. She listened to her uncle contentedly reflecting on his weekend, but when she asked where the doctor lived and what exactly he did, he was vague.

  ‘You should have asked him,’ he pointed out. ‘I dare say we’ll be seeing more of him; he’s often in England these days and we still have a great deal to say to each other. He has become successful—modest about it, too.’ He chuckled. ‘Didn’t give much away to Mrs Waring, did he?’

  For that matter, mused Tilly, getting ready for bed later that evening, he hadn’t given much away to her, either. He was as much a stranger as when she had encountered him. Yet not a stranger; it puzzled her that she felt as though she had known him for a lifetime.

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Tilly loudly and jumped into bed.

  There was precious little time to think about him during the next few days. Mrs Jenkins and the infant Jenkins, both flourishing, still needed visiting, there were several bed-ridden patients who required attention once if not twice daily, and morning and evening surgeries were overflowing by reason of the particularly nasty virus ’flu which had reached the village. The days went fast and by the end of the week she and her uncle were tired out.

  The weekend was a succession of anxious phone calls from people who had stubbornly gone on working through the week and then decided to call in the doctor on Friday evening, and morning surgery on Saturday was no better. There was no question of Sunday church; Tilly drove her uncle from one patient to the next through rain and sleet and hail and high winds. They had a brief respite until the early evening, when Tilly went to visit a couple of elderly patients in the village and her uncle was called out to a farm some miles away.

  She was back before him, helping Emma with supper, ready with a hot drink for him when he got in.

  He sat down in his chair by the fire and she thought how ill he looked.

  ‘Coffee with a spot of whisky in it. You look all in, Uncle.’

  She sped away. When she got back she took one look at him motionless in his chair. She put the tray down on the table and felt for a pulse which was no longer there. He had always told her that he hoped to die in harness, and he had.

  Everyone who could walk, and quite a few who couldn’t but had cajoled friends and family to push wheelchairs, came to the funeral. Tilly, stunned by the suddenness of it all, found that their concern for her uncle’s death almost shattered the calm she had forced upon herself. Everyone had been so kind and Leslie had come from London to attend the funeral. Mrs Waring had begged her to go and stay at the Manor house but this she refused to do; for one thing she couldn’t leave Emma on her own and for another, Mrs Waring, though full of good intentions, was overpowering.

  ‘Of course, you and Leslie can marry now,’ she pointed out with brisk kindness. ‘You can live in your uncle’s house and Leslie can commute each day; nothing could be more convenient.’ A remark which, well-meaning though it was, set Tilly’s teeth on edge.

  She was aware of disappointment that there had been no letter or message from Dr van Kempler. There had been a notice in The Times and the Telegraph as well as a short item in the Lancet. Once or twice she caught herself wishing that she had him there; she needed someone to talk to and somehow, when Leslie came, it was impossible to talk to him. She wanted to talk about Uncle Thomas and she sensed that he was avoiding that.

  He had spoken of their marriage, echoing his mother’s suggestions, and Tilly, who above all wanted to be loved and cherished and allowed to cry on his shoulder, felt lost. To his rather colourless suggestion that they should marry quietly within the next month or so she returned a vague answer. It was too soon to think of marrying; she had to get used to being without Uncle Thomas and she didn’t mind living alone in his house for the time being. She had said that defiantly to Leslie and his mother, sitting on each side of her giving her sound advice. When she said it she had no idea that she wasn’t going to have the chance to do that anyway.

  Uncle Thomas’s sister came to the funeral and with her came her son and his wife. Tilly had only a fleeting acquaintance with her aunt and almost none with her cousin and his wife. They uttered all the very conventional phrases, behaved exactly as they should and were a little too effusive towards the Warings, and, when the last of the doctor’s friends and patients had gone, followed Tilly and the family solicitor into the doctor’s study.

  Half an hour later they led the way out again. Her aunt had the smug look of someone who had found a ten pound note in an empty purse and her cousin Herbert had an air of self-righteous satisfaction which he made no effort to conceal now the funeral was over. He moved pompously across the hall and into the sitting-room where he sat down in his uncle’s chair.

  Tilly eyed him with sternly held-back feelings. He wasn’t in the least like her dear Uncle Thomas: of only average height, with a waistline already going to seed despite his thirty or so years; portly was the word which crossed her mind, and overbearingly conceited. He smoothed his thinning dark hair back from his forehead and gave her a superior smile.

  ‘Well, well, that’s been a surprise to you, I dare say, Matilda.’ He glanced at his wife, Jane, a rather timid colourless young woman. ‘We shall have to make room for our cousin, won’t we, my dear? I would be the last person to disregard the wishes of Uncle Thomas.’

  He looked around him complacently. ‘This is a comfortably sized house. There is no reason why you shouldn’t stay here, Matilda, even keep your room until you marry Leslie Waring.’ He added, ‘I could do with a cup of tea—such a very busy day…’

  Tilly said tonelessly, ‘I’ll get it,’ and went out of the room to the kitchen where she found Emma crying over a plate of cakes. ‘Oh, Miss Tilly, whatever came over your uncle? The dear man couldn’t have thought…’

  Tilly put the kettle on. ‘Well, yes, he did, and I’m sure he thought he was doing the right thing. He hasn’t seen Herbert for years; he wasn’t to know what he’s like.’ She shuddered. ‘I’m to stay here until I marry and when I do, Emma, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘Of course I will, Miss Tilly. Me stay ’ere with that nasty man? You and Mr Waring find a nice ’ouse and I’ll look after it for you.’

  She wiped her nice elderly face and put the cakes on the tea tray. ‘I dare say it won’t take too long.’

  ‘Well, no. I’d told Mrs Waring that I didn’t want to get married for a month or two, but now things are altered…’

  Her aunt and Herbert and Jane were driving back to Cheltenham that evening. He had work to do, Herbert had told her pompously, but he would write and tell her their plans within the next few days. He owned a small factory on the outskirts of the town which he supposed he could run just as well from the house he had inherited as his own smaller, modern one in Cheltenham. ‘If that isn’t satisfactory I can sell this place—it should fetch a good price.’

  Tilly didn’t say anything—what would be the good? Uncle Thomas had so obviously meant it to stay in the family and for Herbert to provide a home for her for as long as she would need one. She bade them a polite goodbye and went thankfully to help clear away the tea things and then phone Leslie.

  To her disappointment he had already gone back to London. ‘He won’t be back until the weekend, my dear
,’ his mother told her. ‘Why not give him a ring? I expect you want to tell him about the will—so very satisfactory that you can settle on a date for the wedding now.’

  Tilly held her tongue; everyone would know sooner or later but she wanted Leslie to be the first. She would phone him in the morning; better still, she would drive up to town and see him.

  She dressed carefully in the morning, taking pains with her face and hair and wearing a suit Leslie had said that he liked. It was still early when she left and she was at his rooms soon after ten o’clock. His clerk was reluctant to accept her wish to see Mr Waring without delay.

  ‘It’s most important,’ said Tilly and smiled at him with charm, so that he picked up the receiver to announce her.

  Leslie looked different—she supposed it was his sober suit and manner to go with it—but he greeted her warmly enough. ‘Sit down, Tilly—I’ve fifteen minutes or so before I go to court. Have you decided to marry me after all? I thought you would once you heard your uncle’s will.’

  There was no sense in beating about the bush. She said quickly, not mincing matters, ‘He left the house to my cousin Herbert, with the wish that I make it my home until I marry.’

  The sudden frown on Leslie’s face frightened her a little. ‘You mean to say that your uncle has left you nothing?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds. He made the request that Herbert would pay me a fitting allowance…’

  ‘Can the will be overset? I’ll see your solicitor. Why, you’re penniless.’

  Tilly stared at him. ‘That makes a difference to our plans?’ she asked, and knew without a doubt that it did.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LESLIE looked at his wristwatch. ‘I must go. This is something which we must discuss quietly. I’ll come home as usual tomorrow and we can talk everything over with my mother and father.’