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someone, preferably Sir James, but that wouldn’t be possible; it would have to be Dr Benson and then only after she had made sure that she hadn’t fancied it or given way to wishful thinking.

      Young Mrs Vernon went at last, driven away in a taxi loaded with enough luggage for a month although she had told Deborah that she would return in a week, or ten days at the latest. She had also told Deborah not to force her aunt to take her feeds. ‘We must allow the dear old thing to die peacefully,’ she told Deborah. ‘You are to let me know if you think that she is failing. Dr Benson will be away for a week or so, by the way, but really it is not necessary for the doctor to call. In an emergency you may telephone Dr Ferguson at Lechlade who understands the situation.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘You will be paid at the end of the month with the servants.’

      A remark which Deborah found it unnecessary to reply to—just as well for rage at such rudeness was choking her.

      For the first few days Mrs Vernon telephoned each evening. Then, since Deborah’s report was always the same, she decided to telephone less often. ‘Dr Benson will contact me immediately should I be needed,’ she said and Deborah forbore from reminding her that Dr Benson was away …

      It was four days after young Mrs Vernon had left that her aunt’s fragile foot moved. Deborah watched it and tried not to get over-excited.

      ‘Your foot—it’s moving, can you feel it doing that? You can? Oh, Mrs Vernon, splendid. Look, I’m going to prop you up a little and then I’m going to let the doctor know. He’ll tell me what to do. Dr Benson is still away but I can phone this other man—he’ll want to see you.’

      She went downstairs and shut herself in the drawing-room and phoned Dr Ferguson. Who wasn’t there. ‘He is on his rounds; no idea when he’ll be back.’ The voice was impatient.

      ‘Has he a car phone? Will you try it please; it’s urgent.’

      ‘That’s what they all say,’ said the voice. ‘Hang on.’

      Deborah hung on, bursting with impatience until the voice told her that there wasn’t an answer. ‘He’s not in his car, is he, then? Lord knows where he is. You’re wasting your time. Try somewhere else or ring 999.’

      Deborah replaced the receiver and stood thinking for a moment. Mrs Vernon had a desk in the sitting-room; perhaps there might be a telephone book on it, even a directory. Both were there amidst a litter of letters, bills and catalogues and right on the top was a small pad with a phone number scribbled on it and underneath the words ‘Sir James Marlow’.

      Deborah didn’t wait; she made up her mind what to do and dialled the London number and almost at once an elderly voice said, ‘Sir James Marlow’s residence.’

      ‘Can I speak to him, please? It’s urgent—tell him it’s about Mrs Vernon.’ She added, ‘Tell him it’s Miss Everett.’

      His quiet voice sounded in her ear. ‘Miss Everett, how can I help?’

      ‘Look,’ said Deborah not bothering with the niceties of polite manners, ‘Mrs Vernon’s moving her foot—it began with a twitch but now it’s actually moving and Dr Benson is away and the doctor I’m supposed to get if I need one is out on his rounds—they tried his car phone but of course he’s not in his car. What shall I do?’

      ‘Are you alone in the house?’

      ‘No, no—I mean Mrs Dodd is here and so is Cook. Mrs Vernon—young Mrs Vernon—is in London and I don’t know quite where, she said she would telephone. She’s gone for a week or ten days so I expect she’ll ring soon; she’s been there four days.’

      ‘Go back to your patient, Miss Everett. I will be with you in rather less than three hours. Don’t get too excited.’

      ‘Of course I’m excited,’ snapped Deborah. ‘Wouldn’t you be if you could move your foot?’

      A silly remark and rather rude and deserving of his quelling, ‘Goodbye, Miss Everett.’

      She had no time to bother about that now; she sped back to Mrs Vernon, pausing at the door to regain her calm before telling her that Sir James Marlow was coming to see her and since it would be lunchtime by then Mrs Vernon should have her chicken broth a little earlier. ‘And I suppose I should warn Cook—do you think he’ll want lunch?’

      She received a wink and, obedient to it, went down to the kitchen and explained to Cook, although she didn’t say why Sir James was coming; time enough for that when he had done.

      ‘That’ll be nice, Deborah,’ said Cook. ‘You’ll have some company for once. I’ll sit with Mrs Vernon so’s there’s no reason to hurry—you can have a chat with him.’

      ‘He may prefer to lunch by himself,’ said Deborah doubtfully. ‘I’ll ask him.’

      She went back upstairs, armed with more flowers from the garden and, anxious to make a good impression, tied Mrs Vernon’s hair back with a pink ribbon before brushing her own carroty locks.

      Mrs Vernon, strengthened by the broth and nicely scented with lavender water, stared up at Sir James’s face as he bent over her. He had arrived quietly, bade Deborah a civil good morning and gone at once to the bedside.

      He took the old lady’s hand in his and felt its faint movement. ‘You’re much better,’ he told her, and received a flurry of winks in reply. ‘I’m going to take a look at you if I may, since Dr Benson isn’t here.’

      He made an unhurried examination, spending a long time with the foot, testing its reflexes before doing the same with the other foot. Presently he said, ‘Mrs Vernon, it is too early to be certain of anything but I believe that you will regain a good deal of your normal movement, but you must go very slowly. Your hearing is excellent, is it not? Have you tried to speak?’

      The old lady grunted.

      ‘Splendid—your voice is there; it will return. Don’t try and force it. Miss Everett …’ he changed that to Deborah at the two urgent winks ‘… Deborah will continue to massage your arms and legs and you must drink everything which she offers you. If you were in hospital there is a good deal more which could be done for you, but your niece told me that you would be unhappy there so we must do the best we can here.’

      He waited until Deborah arranged the bedclothes tidily. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes,’ said Deborah, ‘there’s a fire in the dining-room—in case you would like to stay for lunch?’

      She went over to the bed and told its occupant that they were going downstairs then and that Mrs Dodd would come up at once. ‘I’ll be up to settle you for your nap presently.’

      She led the way downstairs, ushered him into the dining-room and went to the kitchen. ‘If Mrs Dodd wouldn’t mind going up for a little while? Sir James wants to give me some instructions.’

      ‘What about his lunch?’ asked Cook.

      ‘I’ll ask him and come and tell you …’

      He was at a window looking out on to the garden beyond but he turned round as she went into the room. ‘You were kind enough to invite me to lunch—perhaps we could talk at the same time?’

      ‘Me too? You want me to have lunch with you? I usually have mine on a tray …’

      ‘I very much hope that you will keep me company.’

      ‘Yes, well, if you say so—I’ll tell Cook.’ She whisked herself back to the kitchen to tell her and then rejoined him.

      ‘I’m so sorry but I don’t know where Mrs Vernon keeps her sherry—and I’m not sure if she would want me to—what I mean is, I’m a servant …’ She went pink under his amused look.

      ‘I have to drive back to London presently …’

      ‘Oh, then you won’t mind drinking lemonade or something like that.’

      Sir

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