The Daughter of the Manor Page 4

  The doctor didn’t hurry but tapped Sir William’s chest, listened to his heart, asked a number of leisurely questions and finally pronounced himself satisfied. ‘Stay indoors for another day or so,’ he advised, ‘and when you do go out wrap up warm.’

  Tony came out of the drawing room as they reached the hall.

  ‘Well, what’s the verdict? I’m not surprised that Sir William has been ill—this house may look a thing of beauty but it’s riddled with damp. Needs money spent on it. More sense if he found something smaller and modern.’

  Leonora gave him a surprised look. ‘Tony, you know as well as I do that Father and Mother will never move. Why should we? We’re happy here—it’s our home.’

  He took her arm. ‘Darling, of course it is. Come and have some coffee.’ He nodded at Dr Galbraith. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he observed.

  Leonora frowned. Tony was being rude. ‘Thank you for coming, Doctor. I’ll keep an eye on Father. You won’t need to come again?’

  ‘I think not, but do give me a ring if that cough doesn’t clear up within the next week or ten days.’ He shook hands, ignored Tony and went out to his car, got in and drove away.

  ‘You were rude,’ said Leonora, leading the way to the drawing room.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I can’t stand the fellow, looking down that long nose of his. Thinks he knows everything—I’ve met his sort before.’

  ‘He’s a good doctor,’ said Leonora, ‘and everyone likes him—except you.’

  ‘Let’s not argue about him. I’ve come to spend the weekend with you, so let’s enjoy ourselves. Heaven knows, it’s hard enough to get away.’

  Tony had sat down again. ‘How about getting into something pretty and we’ll go out to lunch?’

  ‘Tony, I’d love to, but I can’t. When you got here I was making beds—and when I’ve done that I must get lunch and see about making a cake and getting something made for this evening. Father has to have his coffee and his lunch, and Mother will be back presently. They like their tea at half past four and dinner has to be cooked…’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Leonora…can’t Nanny deal with all that?’

  ‘No, she can’t. The kitchen has to be cleaned, food has to be prepared, she has to answer the door and Father’s bell if I’m busy and one of us will have to go to the village and do some extra shopping.’

  ‘Well, I thought I would be welcome,’ said Tony sulkily, ‘but it seems I’d better leave as quickly as possible!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Leonora briskly. ‘You know how glad I am to see you, but what’s the use of pretending that I can sit here, nicely dressed and made up, when it’s simply not possible? We could go for a walk in the afternoon.’

  She saw his irritable frown. ‘I’m sorry, Tony…’

  ‘Let’s hope that next time I manage to get here you’ll be looking more like my fiancée and not the home help.’ He laughed as he spoke and she laughed with him, hiding her hurt. He was delightful and charming, she told herself, and she loved him, and she reminded herself that he worked very hard and had little time to enjoy his leisure.

  All the same the beds had still to be made. It was fortunate that her mother returned, delighted at the sight of Tony, grumbling prettily at the awful coffee she had had to drink at Colonel Howes’. ‘Darling,’ she begged Leonora, ‘do make me a cup—you make such good coffee.’

  She settled down in her chair and turned to Tony. ‘Now, tell me all the latest gossip…’

  Her father wasn’t best pleased to learn that Tony had come for the weekend. He loved his daughter dearly, was aware that she was missing the kind of life a girl of her age should be enjoying but was not sure what to do about it. When Tony had swept her off her feet and he had seen the happiness in her face, he had been glad for her sake, although he had had to bury the vague dislike he had for him. If Leonora loved him and he would make her happy, then that was more important than his own feelings. Tony, after all, was a successful young man, able to give Leonora the comforts and small luxuries which he, her father, had been unable to afford.

  He expressed a pleasure he didn’t feel and told her he would be down to lunch and she whisked herself away to finish the beds and tidy first the rooms and then herself. There wasn’t time to change into something more eye-catching than the sweater and skirt but at least she could do something to her face and hair.

  Going downstairs a little later, she could hear her mother and Tony laughing and talking in the drawing room, which gave her the chance to go to the kitchen and see what Nanny had found for lunch.

  Cheese omelettes, they decided, and there was a tin of mushroom and garlic soup which they could eke out with some chicken stock. Melba toast and a salad.

  ‘We’ll worry about dinner presently,’ promised Leonora. ‘I’ll do the table in a minute and after lunch I’ll go down to the village. It had better be a joint, I suppose—five of us—roast this evening, cold tomorrow.’

  That would make a hole in the housekeeping, she reflected, going to sit in the drawing room and listen to Tony being amusing about his life in London.

  A good-looking man, she reflected lovingly, and such fun to be with. She hoped that once they were married she would make him happy—live his kind of life, like his friends, enjoy the dinner parties and theatres and social occasions which he had assured her were so very important to his work.

  Presently she slipped away to see to lunch and give Nanny a hand, half hoping that he would go with her. But he merely smiled and waved a hand.

  ‘Don’t be too long, darling; I miss you.’

  Perhaps it was as well that he had stayed talking to her mother and father, she decided, beating eggs, making a salad, laying the table…

  After lunch she told him that she was going to the village. He frowned for a moment then smiled. ‘A chance for us to talk,’ he told her. ‘Not paying visits, I hope.’

  ‘No, no, just some shopping. It’ll give you an appetite for tea.’

  They met the vicar in the village street and she left them talking while she bought the meat. They were still talking when she joined them again.

  Tony put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Do we know when we want to get married, darling?’ he asked. ‘It all depends, actually, but it won’t be long now. A June wedding, perhaps. That is, if the bride agrees to that.’

  The vicar looked pleased. ‘We haven’t had a wedding for some time,’ he observed, ‘and June is a delightful month in which to be married.’

  ‘A nice old man,’ said Tony as they started back home. ‘Very keen to see us married, isn’t he?’

  ‘Did you mean that—June—you said…?’

  He took her free hand in his. ‘Why not, darling? It will be a bit of a rush—but I suppose we could get the place tidied up by then.’

  ‘What place?’

  He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘Leonora, surely you can see for yourself that that great house is too much for your father and mother? Suppose we move them out to something smaller? There’s a nice little property a couple of miles away on the road to Bath. I’ll have the house completely refurbished and it’ll be a marvellous headquarters for me—us. Weekends for clients and friends. We’ll have a flat in town, of course, but it’s an easy run. I might even give you a car of your own so that you can go to and fro whenever you want.’

  Leonora stared at him. ‘You don’t mean any of that, do you? I mean, turning Mother and Father out of their home? It’s been in the family for almost two hundred years; Father would die; it’s—it’s his blood. Mother has all her friends here and she loves the house too—she came here when she married Father. It’s a joke, isn’t it?’

  He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Darling, it’s not a joke, it’s common sense—can’t you see that? Your father isn’t exactly in the best of health, is he? Supposing he were to die—what would your mother do? Try and run this place on her own? She hasn’t the faintest idea how to do it…’

  ‘You forget me.’ Leonora
had twisted away from him. ‘It’s my home too and I won’t leave it. And Father’s almost well again—you heard what Dr Galbraith said—’

  ‘A country GP?’ Tony sounded derisive. ‘He’ll say whatever he thinks his patients want to hear.’

  ‘That isn’t true. What an abominable thing to say.’ She began to walk on and he caught up with her and took her arm.

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry if I’ve made you cross. All right, I won’t say another word about your parents leaving home, but you must know that your father is in financial difficulties, and what will happen if they foreclose the mortgage?’

  That brought her up short. ‘Mortgage? I didn’t know…’

  ‘How do you suppose he’s been able to stay here for so long?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I make it my business to know these things. Besides, I am concerned for you, Leonora.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt guilty then for suspecting him. Suspecting him of what? she wondered. ‘I’m sorry, Tony. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Father will get things sorted out once he is feeling quite well. Do please believe me when I say that nothing on earth will make Father or Mother move from the house, and that goes for me too!’

  He caught her arm again. ‘Darling, you’re going to marry me, remember?’ He laughed a gentle laugh which made her smile and then laugh with him.

  They went on their way and just as they reached the open gates to the house Dr Galbraith drove past. He raised a hand in salute, wondering why the sight of Leonora apparently so happy in Tony’s company should disturb him.

  Probably because I don’t like the fellow, he decided, and forgot about them.

  The weekend went too quickly for Leonora. Of course, having Tony there made a lot of extra work; he had admitted soon after they’d met that he was quite useless around the house and since there was no need for him to do anything for himself at his flat—a service flat where he could get his meals and a cleaner came each day—he made no effort to help. Not that Leonora expected him to make his bed or wash up, but it would have been nice if he hadn’t given Nanny his shoes to clean and expected his trousers pressed—or even if he’d carried a tray out to the kitchen…

  It would be better when they were married, reflected Leonora; she was sure that he would be only too willing to help out when necessary once he realised that help was needed.

  He went back very early on Monday morning, which meant that Leonora got up and cooked his breakfast first. It also meant that he used up almost all the hot water from the boiler and woke everyone up.

  ‘I’ll be down again just as soon as I can spare the time,’ he told Leonora. ‘And when I come do be ready for me, darling, and we’ll have an evening out. Bath, perhaps? A decent meal and we could dance after.’

  She agreed happily, ignoring the bit about the decent meal. Sunday lunch had been excellent, she had thought—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, vegetables from the garden and an apple tart for pudding. That was surely a decent meal? She kissed him goodbye and begged him to phone when he had time. ‘Or write.’

  ‘Write? My dear girl, when do I ever have time to write letters?’ He squeezed her arm and gave her a charming smile. ‘Be good.’

  She gravely said, ‘Yes, Tony,’ and he laughed as he got into the car.

  ‘Not much chance of being anything else, is there?’ he shouted at her as he started the engine.

  He would have to go carefully, he decided as he drove; no more mention of moving her mother and father out of the house. Perhaps it might be a good idea to wait until they were married. He had no doubt at all that he could persuade her to do anything he asked of her once she was his wife.

  A few weeks of comfortable living, new clothes, new faces, meals out—once she had a taste of all the things a girl wanted in the way of a carefree life she would come round to his way of thinking. The more he saw of the house, the more he intended to have it…

  Leonora, happily unaware of his schemes, went indoors, placated her parents with very early morning tea, soothed a grumpy Nanny and went up to the attics to see if the rain had come in during the night. It had.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AT ABOUT the same time as Tony was getting into his car to drive back to London, Dr Galbraith was letting himself into his house. He had been called out in the very early hours to a farm some miles away from the village where the farmer’s elderly father had suffered a stroke and he’d waited with him until the ambulance had come to take him to Bath. He had followed it to the hospital, made sure that his patient was in good hands and then driven himself back home.

  There was no question of going back to bed; he had morning surgery and a scattered round before mothers and babies’ clinic in the early afternoon. He went quietly across the square hall and up the uncarpeted oak staircase to his room at the front of the old house. He had his hand on the door when another door at the far end of the passage opened and a tall, bony man emerged.

  He was middle-aged, with a long, narrow face, dark hair streaked with grey, combed carefully over a bald patch, and an expression of gloom.

  ‘Good morning, sir. You’ll need a cup of coffee. I’ll bring it up at once. Breakfast in an hour suit you?’

  ‘Admirably, Cricket. I’m famished.’

  Cricket went back to his room, shaking his head in a disapproving manner. He never failed to disapprove when the doctor was called out at night, but that didn’t prevent him from making sure that there was a hot drink and a meal waiting for him. He had been with the doctor for a number of years now, running his house to perfection, cooking delicious meals, making sure that the cleaning lady did her work properly. In fact, he was a treasure.

  The doctor drank his coffee, showered, dressed and went downstairs to his breakfast. It was light now, a chilly, breezy March morning, and he opened the door to the garden before going into the small sitting room at the back of the house, where Cricket had laid his breakfast.

  It was a charming room, facing the rising sun, furnished comfortably with some nice old pieces and decidedly cosy, unlike the drawing room which was rather grand with its magnificent carpet, vast bow-fronted cabinets and the pair of sofas, one at each side of the marble fireplace. The drawing room also had comfortable chairs arranged here and there and a beautiful drum table in the bay window overlooking the front garden. It was a room the doctor used seldom, for dinner parties and on the occasions when his friends came to stay.

  There was a dining room too, on the opposite side of the hall, with its Regency mahogany table and chairs and the splendid sideboard, and at the back of the hall his study, the room he used most of all.

  It was a large house for an unmarried man but he was a big man and needed space around him. Besides, he loved the old place, having first seen it some years earlier when he had come to visit Dr Fleming, whom he had known for some time. It had seemed an act of Providence when he had agreed to take over Dr Fleming’s practice and Buntings had been on the market.

  He had his surgery in the village—a cottage which had been converted into a consulting room and a waiting room—although he saw patients at his home if necessary.

  This morning there were more patients than usual: neglected colds which had settled on chests, elderly people with arthritis and rheumatism, a broken arm, a sprained ankle, septic fingers. Nothing dramatic, but they kept him busy for most of the morning; he was late starting his round.

  He was barely a mile out of the village when his car phone rang. Mrs Crisp, his part-time receptionist and secretary, sounded urgent.

  ‘There’s a call from Willer’s Farm. Mrs Willer—she’s on her own except for a farm lad. The tractor driver has had an accident—a bad one, she says. Mr Willer’s away—gone to a cattle market. She phoned Beckett’s Farm but couldn’t get an answer. There’s no one else nearby.’

  ‘Tell her I’m on my way. I should be there in twenty minutes.’

  He put his large foot down and sent the car speeding along the road and the
n braked hard to avoid Leonora with Wilkins, coming round the curve in the middle of the road.

  She nipped to one side, dragging Wilkins with her, and shouted sorry and would have gone on. He had come to a halt, though, and had the car door open, so that she felt compelled to repeat her apologies.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said the doctor impatiently. ‘You’re just what I need. You know Willer’s Farm. There’s been an accident there. I’m on my way and it seems there’s no one there except Mrs Willer and a lad. I shall need help. Jump in, will you? I could use another pair of hands.’

  ‘Wilkins?’

  ‘In the car.’ He leaned over and opened the door and Wilkins got in without being asked; a lazy dog by nature, he thought the chance of a ride wasn’t to be missed.

  Leonora got in beside the doctor, remarking calmly, ‘I don’t know anything about first aid, or at least not much, but I’m strong. I was going to the shop for Nanny; would you mind if I phoned her? She’s waiting for some braising steak.’

  The doctor handed her the phone without speaking and listened to her quiet voice telling Nanny that she might be home rather later than expected and perhaps someone else could go to the village. ‘I’ve got Wilkins with me and we’ll be back when you see us.’

  She replaced the phone and sat quietly as he drove through the narrow, high-hedged lanes, wondering what they would find when they got to the farm.

  Mrs Willer came running out to meet them as the doctor slowed the car across the farmyard, which was rutted and muddy and redolent of farmyard smells.

  ‘He’s on Lower Pike. The boy’s with him; I came down to show you the way. He’s real bad. It’s ’is foot—got it caught in the tractor as ’e fell out.’

  The doctor was bending over the car’s boot, handing things to Leonora. He said merely, ‘We’ll take a look. How long has he been lying there? Is he conscious?’

  ‘Now ’e is, Doctor… Not at first, ’e wasn’t. Banged ’is ’ead.’

  They were crossing the yard now, making for the open fields beyond, which sloped gently uphill to Higher Pike, and going at a good pace. Leonora, a splendid walker, found herself making an effort to keep up with the doctor’s strides.