Dearest Love Read online

  As for Miss Welling, she was to see him the next morning despite her timid objections that he was a busy man and she was perfectly well. ‘Well, of course you are,’ he had told her kindly, ‘but since you are here it is a splendid opportunity to have a check-up. It won’t take too long and I’ll put you in a taxi afterwards so that you can come straight back here.’

  * * *

  Arabella, checking Miss Baird’s list of patients, noticed that Dr Tavener had added a name at the end of Miss Baird’s list. A Miss Welling—and not until eleven o’clock. Usually on Wednesday he left soon after ten o’clock to take an outpatients clinic at one of the hospitals. She had seen him only briefly on Monday and Tuesday and he had acknowledged her good morning with a brisk nod; she would try to avoid him in future since he seemed to dislike her so much. She puzzled over that, for he had been kind about Bassett and when she had had tea with him he had been so friendly that she had quite forgotten that she was his caretaker...

  Wednesday morning was dark and cold and drizzling with rain, and those patients she admitted were short-tempered as a result. To her pleasant good morning they either grunted or let loose a string of complaints while they shook umbrellas over her pleasingly polished floor or hung their damp raincoats over her arms. It was a bit depressing, so when the bell rang once again and she opened the door it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted cheerfully by the elderly lady wishing to enter. She was accompanied by a lady considerably younger with a woebegone face who none the less answered Arabella’s cheerful greeting with a smile.

  ‘Miss Welling? If you would see the receptionist and then go down the passage to Dr Tavener’s waiting-room. Shall I take your coat?’

  The elderly lady gave her companion a poke in the ribs. ‘Yes, go along, do. I’ll be in the waiting-room.’

  She turned to Arabella. ‘A wretched day, is it not? London can be horrid in this weather. You live here, I expect?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m the caretaker. Would you like me to have your coat too?’

  ‘No. No, thank you. You don’t look very much like a caretaker.’

  Arabella blushed but the lady was old and perhaps she was just being inquisitive. ‘I’m very content; it’s a good job. Shall I show you to Dr Tavener’s waiting-room?’

  ‘By all means, and here is Miss Welling back again. Good day to you.’

  Mrs Tavener swept away with Miss Welling at her heels and Arabella went downstairs. Miss Welling was the last patient; she would have a quick cup of coffee before seeing her out presently.

  * * *

  Miss Welling, emerging from Dr Tavener’s consulting-room some twenty minutes later, was accompanied by him to the door. ‘I’ll arrange a taxi—’ He broke off at the sight of his grandmother sitting very erect in the waiting-room. Her ‘Good morning, Titus,’ was graciously said but she smiled as she spoke.

  He said nothing for the moment but smiled a little in his turn before crossing the room and taking her hand. ‘What do you think of her?’ he asked. ‘For that is why you are here, is it not?’

  ‘Of course, you are quite right, Titus, she is most unsuitable. You will have to think of something else. As you said, she is quite without good looks. Although, of course, good looks don’t matter if one is a good cook.’ She stood up. ‘Did you find Miss Welling in good health?’

  ‘On the whole, yes. May we discuss that this evening? I’m late for my clinic.’

  His nurse was in the examination room so he saw the two ladies to the door and a few minutes later left himself, so that when Arabella came upstairs again there was only his nurse there, grumbling because he intended to come back that afternoon and she had hoped to be free to go home early.

  * * *

  Arabella, nipping through the rain to the shops, reflected that Dr Tavener probably worked too hard. She hoped that he had time to eat proper meals and had enough sleep. It was difficult to tell because he was always beautifully turned out and he had the kind of face which gave away nothing of his feelings.

  Choosing carrots and turnips with a careful eye, she reminded herself to stop thinking about him—it was such a waste of time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DR TAVENER DID not know when the preposterous idea first entered his head. Perhaps at a dinner party as he sat with a charming woman on either side of him, both looking for a husband and both divorced. Not a conceited man, he was aware all the same that he had good looks, a splendid physique and more than enough money to satisfy the greediest of women. Or it might have been one early morning, when he had gone to his manor for a weekend and taken the dogs out into the garden before breakfast. It had been a cold night and the frost had iced every blade of grass and twig and he had wanted Arabella there beside him to enjoy it too. ‘Not that I am in love with her,’ he had told Beauty. ‘It is merely that she is a good companion.’ She would stand between him and the tiresome women who were introduced to him by his friends in the mistaken idea that he might like to make one of them his wife. She would be restful to come home to...

  Because the idea was so preposterous, he avoided her as much as possible. Arabella wondered what she had done to annoy him, for if they did meet the look he cast at her was thunderous. It made her unhappy, for he had been kind, and from time to time had smoothed her path. She did her best to forget it.

  * * *

  It was in the middle of the week, in the morning while she was still getting the rooms ready for the day, that the electricity failed. A fuse probably, she thought, and since it was still dark groped her way to the hall where she had had the forethought to put a torch in the table drawer.

  The electrics were in a cupboard at the back of the hall. She peered inside, saw what had to be done and, since the fuses were in a box tucked away behind everything else, she got down on her knees the better to get at them.

  Dr Tavener, arriving early, had come in silently and stopped short at the sight of Arabella’s shapely person sticking out of the cupboard but before he could speak she had crawled out backwards and got to her feet, clutching the new fuse. She spoke tartly. ‘Well, you might have rung the bell or something—I might have known it would be you.’

  She wiped a dirty hand over a cheek and left a smudge.

  ‘How did you know that it was I?’

  ‘Your feet...’

  ‘My feet?’ He had put down the bag and taken the fuse from her.

  She went a little pink. ‘Well, I get to know the sound of people’s feet.’

  He nodded and went past her, fixed the fuse, and came back to where she had resumed Hoovering. She switched off to thank him and when she would have switched on again he put out a hand and stopped her. ‘A moment, Arabella. There is something I wish to say to you. Unfortunately there is not time to explain fully but I should like to make you a proposal.’

  At her look of astonishment he added kindly. ‘Don’t look so surprised. I should like you to consider marrying me. If you will think about it we can discuss it sensibly at a later date.’

  He smiled then. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your work.’ He had gone into his room and shut the door quietly behind him, leaving her with her mouth open, a white face and a rapid pulse.

  As for Dr Tavener, he sat down at his desk and wondered if he had gone mad.

  Arabella had no doubts about it—he had been overworking and had had a brainstorm, whatever that was, and hadn’t known what he was saying. She would ignore the whole thing, let him see that she hadn’t taken him seriously.

  The last patient had gone by five o’clock that afternoon and everyone else followed him within half an hour. Arabella collected her cleaning things and went upstairs to tidy up. She had finished and was tying up the plastic bag of rubbish when Dr Tavener returned.

  He had a bottle under one arm and a box with a Harrods label in his hand. ‘May I come to supper? You can’t
leave the place, otherwise I would have given you dinner at home.’

  She put the sack down. ‘Look, I do understand. I expect you’ve been working too hard and thought you were talking to someone else. It doesn’t matter a bit...’

  He took the sack from her. ‘No, you don’t understand and I’m perfectly sound in my head. Shall we have supper and talk?’ He smiled suddenly and she found herself smiling back. ‘I have a great deal to explain.’

  ‘Very well.’ She led the way downstairs and he took the sack outside to the refuse bins, giving her the bottle and the box to hold. He hadn’t been mad at all, he reflected, washing his hands at the sink—this was going to be one of the sanest things he had ever done.

  Arabella peered into her small pantry. She had decided to have an egg and a baked potato for her supper but that wouldn’t do for her guest. She measured macaroni and put it on to cook, grated cheese and beat an egg, scrubbed two more potatoes and put them in the oven and all the while he sat with Percy on his knee and Bassett curled up on his shoes, saying nothing. It was unnerving. She thought of several things to say but none of them seemed suitable. She held her tongue and laid the table.

  He had brought a bottle of claret with him this time. He uncorked it and left it to breathe and presently he poured it and gave her a glass.

  She sipped. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘What’s in the box?’

  ‘Fruit pies. Can you sit down for a while or must you stay by the stove?’

  She had put the macaroni cheese in the oven—it and the potatoes would be another half-hour and there was only a lettuce to dress.

  She sat in the armchair and he took a chair from beside the table and sat opposite her. ‘I appreciate the fact that I must have taken you by surprise but I do assure you that I was serious.’ When she would have spoken he went on, ‘No, please, let me explain. I am forty years old, Arabella—not a young man. I have been in and out of love on numerous occasions but I have never found the right woman and so I preferred to stay single. Lately, however, I have wished for a wife, someone to come home to each day, a companion for my leisure and someone who would put an end to my well-meaning friends vying with each other to marry me off to a succession of suitable young women. You see that I wish to marry for the wrong reasons, although perhaps they are no worse than many others. However, those are my reasons. I like you too much to pretend there are others. I am not in love with you and yet I enjoy your company so much that I have begun to miss you when you are not here. It worries me that you are living here alone, doing menial work, and having no friends or fun. We could get along very well together, I think, Arabella, to our mutual advantage.’

  Arabella said quietly, ‘This isn’t...? That is, you are not suggesting this out of pity? Because if you are I shall probably throw something at you.’

  She had, she reflected, had several proposals in happier times, but never one as forthright and unsentimental as this one.

  Dr Tavener gave her an austere look. ‘I do not pity you—never have pitied you. You interest me, frequently annoy me, amuse me, agree with me over the things which matter.’

  ‘You’re very outspoken...’

  ‘Would you have me otherwise? Would you have believed me if I had told you that I was in love with you?’

  ‘Of course not! The idea’s absurd.’ Her nose twitched. ‘Supper’s ready.’

  She liked him for getting up at once to pour more wine and carry the plates to the table, talking now of a variety of matters and never once speaking of themselves. It gave her time to get over the shock.

  They ate the macaroni cheese and potatoes and salad, and the fruit pies, all the while carrying on an unforced conversation—arguing about books, disagreeing amicably over the right cultivation of roses, agreeing about the pleasures of having animals to look after. ‘I had a pony,’ said Arabella wistfully, ‘and a donkey.’ She paused.

  ‘And?’ said Dr Tavener quietly.

  ‘They wanted to sell them, but I took them to an animal sanctuary. They are still there, I hope. I simply hated leaving them.’

  ‘Somewhere near your home?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You must have heard of it.’

  When she told him the name he nodded. ‘I have heard of it. They have a fine reputation.’

  She made coffee presently, while he washed up. He made a good job of it so she asked him if he looked after himself. ‘Although you have a housekeeper, haven’t you?’

  ‘Mrs Turner took me in hand when my parents died. I admit that I seldom need to do household chores but I’m perfectly able to do so if need be.’

  They took their coffee to drink by the fire and the animals pushed and shoved each other as near its warmth as possible.

  Arabella took a sip of coffee. She had drunk too much wine and it had gone to her head. It had given her a pretty colour too. She was aware of Dr Tavener’s eyes searching her face and buried her nose in her mug.

  ‘Well—’ he sounded brisk ‘—how long do you need to make up your mind?’

  ‘I think,’ said Arabella carefully, ‘that I won’t be able to make it up until I’m alone. You see, while you are here, you distract me.’ She added hastily, ‘That sounds rude but I don’t mean to be; it’s just that I have to think about it from a distance, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I see. You may have a week, Arabella, and then I shall ask you again. During that week I shall take no notice of you at all—not because I wish to avoid you but so that you can decide for yourself.’

  He got up and drew her to her feet, holding her hands between his. They felt cool and comforting and undemanding. ‘Thank you for my supper.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Arabella.’

  She stared up into his faintly smiling face. ‘But you might have second thoughts...’

  ‘No, I can promise that I won’t.’ He went to the door. ‘No need to come up, I’ll lock the door after me—but remember to bolt it after me later, won’t you?’

  She sat for a long time doing nothing, her head in a turmoil, but it was no good thinking about it any more. In the morning she would be able to reflect upon her surprising evening with her usual good sense.

  She went upstairs and bolted the door and checked the place as she always did and then went back to shower and go to her bed. ‘I shan’t sleep,’ she told Percy, already perched on the end of the bed and giving Bassett a thorough wash. And she slept as soon as her head was on the pillow.

  In the half light of a dull November morning the whole thing seemed like an impossible dream. By the end of a busy day peopled by ill-tempered patients, a crusty Dr Marshall and only glimpses of Dr Tavener’s broad back it didn’t seem quite as impossible.

  She was unable to make up her mind. She had argued, with Percy and Bassett as a more or less attentive audience, each evening, weighing up the pros and cons. But however matter-of-factly she put her problems it wasn’t the same as talking to someone. With the end of the week looming she decided that something would have to be done. As Dr Tavener, last as usual, left that evening she stopped him as he went to the door.

  ‘Could you spare five minutes? I need someone to talk to and ask advice, only I don’t know anyone except you. I wondered if you would mind. It’s about us, but if we could pretend that we’re discussing two other people, if you see what I mean...’

  ‘A sensible suggestion. Come into my room and we will see what can be done.’

  She was relieved to hear nothing but a pleasantly detached voice and accompanied him back to his consulting-room, where he threw his overcoat on to a chair, offered her a seat and went to sit at his desk once more. Arabella, momentarily diverted by the thought that the overcoat—a splendid one of cashmere—should have been hung up properly and not cast in a heap, gathered her wandering thoughts and faced him.

  ‘It’s like this,’ she explained. ‘I—that
is, the girl I’m asking you about isn’t sure that she would be doing the right thing if she married this man. She doesn’t know what will be expected of her. Does he go out a great deal? Would his friends like her? Perhaps she wouldn’t like them. She wouldn’t want to shame him; she’s not clever or witty or anything like that. She might make a mess of the whole thing, and the thing is she’s out of date about getting divorced and all that—’ She eyed him with a severe look across the desk. ‘If you’re married, you do your best to make a success of it.’

  She was watching his face and seeing nothing but placid interest there.

  His voice was quiet. ‘The girl is worrying needlessly. She has, if I might say so, too small an opinion of herself. She is perfectly able to fulfil the duties of a professional man’s wife. She would be surprised how tiring clever and witty women are after a hard day’s work and a marriage undertaken in mutual liking and respect is unlikely to come to grief. Indeed, the fact that there are no strong feelings involved should ensure its success.’ He smiled at her. ‘Does that help?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I think so. There’s one other thing, though. You’re rich.’

  He said apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I am, rather, but I have never let it bother me, nor would I allow it to bother you.’

  ‘No—well, you see, I wouldn’t marry you for your money.’

  ‘No, no, I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ He spoke gravely; she didn’t see the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  She got up. ‘Thank you for letting me talk and for giving me advice. I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.’

  He assured her that she hadn’t, bade her a cheerful goodnight and took himself off home where Mrs Turner met him with the warning that he would be late for his dinner engagement with the Marshalls. ‘Forgot the time, I suppose,’ she observed. ‘Head buried in your books as like as not.’ She went back to her kitchen saying over her shoulder, ‘Time you were married, Doctor. And if I’ve said that once, I’ve said it a hundred times!’