LITMIR.BIZ

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said shrilly, ‘Who are these people? We know nothing about them! Katherine has never been away from home before; she’ll miss home life…’ She caught the doctor’s sardonic eye and paused. ‘She can go now, as far as I’m concerned,’ she said sulkily.

      He ignored her. ‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock, if that suits you?’ He had spoken to Katherine, and then turned to Henry. ‘You may have my word that your sister will be happy as companion to the Graingers. There will be no housework, of course, and she will be paid a salary.’ He added a very civil goodnight, and Katherine, walking on air, took him to the door.

      Before she shut it, he asked, ‘You’ll be all right?’

      She nodded; there would be a good deal of unpleasantness before she could go to her room and start packing and looking out something suitable to wear in the morning, but she felt capable of outfacing the forthcoming recriminations with the promise of such a splendid future before her. And she would see Dr Fitzroy, too, sometimes. She hugged the thought to herself as she went back to the drawing-room.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS a good thing that Katherine felt so euphoric about her future, for the next hour tried her sorely. Henry, having recovered from his first surprise, had marshalled a number of forceful arguments, hampered rather than helped by Joyce’s ill-natured complaints.

      Katherine listened patiently and, when he had quite done, said kindly, ‘Well, Henry, I would have thought that you would have been pleased. You don’t need to be responsible for me any more, do you?’

      Henry was an alarming puce once more. ‘Your ingratitude cuts me to the quick,’ he told her. ‘After all this time, giving you a home and food and clothes…’

      She smiled at him and said sensibly, ‘And look what you got for that—unpaid housework, someone to look after the children and, because I’m your sister, there was no need to give me an allowance.’ She added, ‘It will be nice to have some money.’ Emboldened by the prospect of a glowing future, she walked to the door, just as Henry got his breath for another speech. ‘I’m rather tired,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I think I’ll go to bed. I haven’t finished the washing up, but there are only the saucepans left to do. Goodnight, Joyce—Henry.’

      In her room, she sat down on her bed and cried. She had tried hard to please Henry and Joyce, she had accepted the care of the children and she had done her best to love them, but it was a singularly unloving household. She had never been happy in it and she was glad to leave it. All the same, it would have been nice if Henry and Joyce had uttered just one word of encouragement or thanks.

      She got up presently, and crossed the landing to the children’s room. They needed tucking up once more, and she did this with her usual care, before going to the boxroom and fetching her two cases. Packing wouldn’t take long: her wardrobe was small, and most of it wasn’t worth packing. She had a tweed suit, elderly but well cut and good material; she would have to wear that until she had enough money to buy some decent clothes. She hoped that Mr and Mrs Grainger weren’t the kind of people to dress for dinner; it seemed unlikely, but she had a plain wool dress, very out-of-date, like the suit, but it had at one time been good, and would pass muster at a pinch.

      She felt better now she had started her packing. She got ready for bed, hopped between the chilly sheets, closed her eyes and, very much to her surprise, went to sleep at once.

      It was a scramble in the morning. Katherine got up earlier than usual, got into the suit and the sensible, low-heeled shoes which were suitable for everyday wear and country walks with the children. Then she did her face carefully with the sketchy make-up she possessed, tied her hair back with a narrow ribbon and went along to the nursery. For once, good fortune was on her side; the children were quite willing to be washed and dressed and given their breakfast. She took them downstairs and made tea for herself, laid the table for the children and for Henry, who wouldn’t be down for half an hour or so, and gave them their breakfast. She was too excited to eat, and she hadn’t considered what meals they would have later on. She wasn’t even sure when she would be back; what was more, she didn’t much care!

      She cleared the table, took the children to the playroom and made more tea for Henry, who, on his way downstairs, put his head round the door to wish the children good morning but ignored her. She heard him leave the house presently and Mrs Todd crashing plates and saucepans in the kitchen. She would have to get Joyce out of bed before she went. Dr Fitzroy had said nine o’clock, and it was ten minutes to the hour.

      Joyce didn’t answer as she went into the bedroom. Katherine drew back the curtains. ‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘The children have had their breakfast and are in the playroom. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

      Joyce lifted her head. ‘I feel ill,’ she said pettishly. ‘You simply can’t go—you’ll have to put this interview off until I’m better.’

      Katherine took a look at her sister-in-law. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Todd. I dare say she’ll keep an eye on Sarah and Robin. Henry can always come back here—you could phone him.’

      Joyce sat right up. ‘I hope these people hate you on sight and you lose the job. It would serve you right! And don’t expect to come crawling back here. Job or no job, out you go tomorrow.’

      Katherine turned to go, and the children, bored with their own company, came hurtling past her and flung themselves onto their mother’s bed.

      Katherine closed the door quietly behind her. She didn’t like her sister-in-law, but a pang of sympathy shot through her; the children were small tyrants, and Joyce had little patience with them. She would demand a mother’s help and Henry would have to agree. Whoever it was would want a salary and days off and weekends and holidays… Katherine had another pang of sympathy for Henry, who hated to spend his money.

      Dr Fitzroy was waiting for her when she opened the door and looked out, and she hurried to the car.

      ‘Good morning.’ She was a bit breathless with an upsurge of feeling at the sight of him. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting.’

      ‘Just got here. Jump in.’ He held the door for her, and she settled in the seat beside him. ‘Nervous?’ he asked. ‘You needn’t be.’

      He gave her a reassuring smile, and thought what a dim little thing she was in her out-of-date suit and sturdy shoes. But sensible and quiet, just what the Graingers needed, and they would hardly notice what she was wearing, only that her voice was pleasant and she was calm in a crisis. He started the car. ‘I’ll tell you something about Mr and Mrs Grainger. In their seventies, almost eighty, in fact. He has a heart condition and is far too active, can be peppery if he can’t have his own way. Mrs Grainger is small and meek and perfectly content to allow him to dictate to her. She has arthritis and suffers a good deal of pain, but never complains. They are devoted to each other. They lost their only son in an accident some years ago, but they have a granddaughter…’

      Something in his voice caught Katherine’s attention; this granddaughter was someone special to him. She had known from the moment she knew that she had fallen in love with him that he would never look at her—all the same, it was a blow. So silly, she told herself silently, he could have been married already, with a houseful of children. At the back of her head, a small, defiant voice pointed out that he might have been heart-whole and single and miraculously bowled over by her very ordinary person. She became aware that he had asked her something and she hadn’t been heeding.

      ‘So sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘You asked me something?’

      They were at the roundabout on the outskirts of Wilton, waiting to find a place in the traffic streaming towards Salisbury. He slipped smoothly between two other cars before he answered. ‘You do understand that there will be no regular hours? You will, of course, have time to yourself each day, but that time may vary. It would be difficult to arrange to meet your friends or make dates.’

      She said quietly, in a bleak little voice, ‘I haven’t any friends, and no one to make a date with.’ She added quickly, in case he thought she

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