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Dearest Mary Jane
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.“Would you like me for a brother-in-law, Mary Jane?”She wouldn’t like him for a brother-in-law—she would like him for a husband! But why should she suddenly discover this now of all times, sitting opposite him, being cross-examined as though she were in a witness-box…and fighting an urge to fling her arms around his neck and tell him that she loved him? “Yes, oh yes, that would be delightful.”







“Would you like me for a brother-in-law, Mary Jane?” (#u1a10124b-52f3-5897-9d71-bed28d578f11)About the Author (#u4f560b8b-e64f-52cf-8379-1d5c5565a64f)Title Page (#u6e0af205-c4f0-5b2c-9f2b-0f88dcf60742)CHAPTER ONE (#ufc76d1c2-9b4a-53ad-8383-d02d7a52877d)CHAPTER TWO (#u9243c376-eb93-5d63-96b0-3672a1e7894c)CHAPTER THREE (#u27033927-9fc6-5ff4-80b3-ea952ad81348)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“Would you like me for a brother-in-law, Mary Jane?”

She wouldn’t like him for a brother-in-law; she would like him for a husband, and why should she suddenly discover that, now of all times, sitting opposite him, being cross-examined as though she were in a witness-box, and fighting a great wish to fling her arms around his neck and tell him that she loved him? It was clear Sir Thomas Latimar preferred her beautiful sister, Felicity, so he would hardly welcome Mary Jane throwing herself at him, too!




About the Author


BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.


Dearest Mary Jane







Betty Neels













CHAPTER ONE

IT was five o’clock and the warm hazy sunshine of a September afternoon was dwindling into the evening’s coolness. The Misses Potter, sitting at a table in the window of the tea-shop, put down their teacups reluctantly and prepared to leave. Miss Emily, the elder of the two ladies, rammed her sensible hat more firmly on her head and addressed the girl sitting behind the tiny counter at the back of the room.

‘If we might have our bill, Mary Jane?’

The girl came to the table and the two ladies looked at her, wondering, as they frequently did, how whoever had chosen the girl’s name could have guessed how aptly it fitted. She looked like a Mary Jane, not tall, a little too thin, with an unremarkable face and light brown hair, straight and long and pinned in an untidy swirl on top of her head. Only when she looked at you the violet eyes, fringed with long curling lashes, made one forget her prosaic person.

She said now in her quiet voice, ‘I hope you enjoyed your tea. In another week or two I’ll start making teacakes.’

Her customers nodded in unison. ‘We shall look forward to that.’ Miss Emily opened her purse. ‘We mustn’t keep you, it’s closing time.’ She put money on the table and Mary Jane opened the door and waited until they were across the village street before closing it.

She cleared the table, carried everything into the small kitchen behind the tea-room and went to turn the notice to ‘Closed’ on the door just as a car drew up outside. The door was thrust open before she had time to turn the key and a man came in. He was massively built and tall, so that the small room became even smaller.

‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re not closed. My companion would like tea...’

‘But I am closed,’ said Mary Jane in a reasonable voice. ‘I’m just locking the door, only you pushed it open. You are not very far from Stow-on-the-Wold—there are several hotels there, you’ll get tea quite easily.’

The man spoke evenly, rather as though he were addressing a child or someone hard of hearing. ‘My companion doesn’t wish to wait any longer. A pot of tea is all I am asking for; surely that isn’t too much?’

He sounded like a man who liked his own way and got it, but Mary Jane had a lot to do before she could go to her bed; besides, she disliked being browbeaten. ‘I’m sorry...’

She was interrupted by the girl who swept into the tea-room. No, not a girl, decided Mary Jane, a woman in her thirties and beautiful, although her looks were marred by her frown and tight mouth.

‘Where’s my tea?’ she demanded. ‘Good lord, Thomas, all I want is a cup of tea. Is that too much to ask for? What is this dump, anyway?’ She flung herself gracefully into one of the little cane chairs. ‘I suppose it will be undrinkable tea-bags, but if there’s nothing else...’

Mary Jane gave the man an icy violet stare. ‘I do have drinkable tea-bags,’ she told him, ‘but perhaps the lady would prefer Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe?’

‘Earl Grey,’ snapped the woman, ‘and I hope I shan’t have to wait too long.’

‘Just while the kettle boils,’ said Mary Jane in a dangerously gentle voice.

She went into the kitchen and laid a tray and made the tea and carried it to the table and was very surprised when the man got up and took the tray from her.

In the kitchen she started clearing up. There would be a batch of scones to make after she had had her supper and the sugar bowls to fill and the jam dishes to see to as well as the pastry to make ready for the sausage rolls she served during the lunch-hour. She was putting the last of the crockery away when the man came to the doorway. ‘The bill?’ he asked.

She went behind the counter and made it out and handed it silently to him and the woman called across. ‘I imagine there is no ladies’ room here?’

Mary Jane paused in counting change. ‘No.’ She added deliberately, ‘The public lavatories are on the other side of the village square on the road to Moreton.’

The man bit off a laugh and then said with cool politeness, ‘Thank you for giving us tea.’ He ushered his companion out of the door, turning as he did so to turn the notice to ‘Closed’.

Mary Jane watched him drive away. It was a nice car—a dark blue Rolls-Royce. There was a lonely stretch of road before they reached Stow-on-the-Wold, and she hoped they would run out of petrol. It was unlikely, though, he didn’t strike her as that kind of man.

She locked the door, tidied the small room with its four tables and went through to the kitchen where she washed the last of the tea things, put her supper in the oven and went up the narrow staircase tucked away behind a door by the dresser. Upstairs, she went first to her bedroom, a low-ceilinged room with a latticed window overlooking the back garden and furnished rather sparsely. The curtains were pretty, however, as was the bedspread and there were flowers in a bowl on the old-fashioned dressing-table. She tidied herself without wasting too much time about it, and crossed the tiny landing to the living-room at the front of the cottage. Quite a large room since it was over the tea-room, and furnished as sparsely as the bedroom. There were flowers here too, and a small gas fire in the tiled grate which she lighted before switching on a reading lamp by the small armchair, so that the room looked welcoming. That done, she went downstairs again to open the kitchen door to allow Brimble, her cat, to come in—a handsome tabby who, despite his cat-flap, preferred to come in and out like anyone else. He wreathed himself round her legs now, wanting his supper and, when she had fed him, went upstairs to lie before the gas fire.

Mary Jane took the shepherd’s pie out of the oven, laid the table under the kitchen window and sat down to eat her supper, listening with half an ear to the last of the six o‘clock news while she planned her baking for the next day. The bus went into Stow-an-the-Wold on Fridays, returning around four o’clock, and those passengers who lived on the outskirts of the village frequently came in for a pot of tea before they set off for home.

She finished the pie and ate an apple, cleared the table and got out her pastry board and rolling pin. Scones were easy to make and were always popular. She did two batches and then saw to the sausage rolls before going into the tea-room to count the day’s takings. Hardly a fortune; she just about paid her way but there was nothing over for holidays or new clothes, though the cottage was hers...

Uncle Matthew had left it to her when he had died two years previously. He had been her guardian ever since her own parents had been killed in their car. She and Felicity, who was older than she was, had been schoolgirls and their uncle and aunt had given them a home and educated them. Felicity, with more than her fair share of good looks, had taken herself off to London as soon as she had left school and had become a successful model, while Marv Jane had stayed at home to run the house for an ailing aunt and an uncle who, although kind, didn’t bother with her overmuch. When her aunt had died she had stayed on, looking after him and the house, trying not to think about the future and the years flying by. She had been almost twenty-three when her uncle died and, to her astonished delight, left her the cottage he had owned in the village and five hundred pounds. She had moved into it from his large house at the other end of the village as soon as she could, for Uncle Matthew’s heir had disliked her on sight and so had his wife...

She had spent some of the money on second-hand furniture and then, since she had no skills other than that of a good cook, she had opened the tea-room. She was known and liked in the village, which was a help, and after a few uncertain months she was making just enough to live on and pay the bills. Felicity had been to see her, amused at the whole set-up but of fering no hefp. ‘You always were the domestic type,’ she had observed laughingly. ‘I’d die if I had to spend my days here, you know. I’m going to the Caribbean to do some modelling next week—don’t you wish you were me?’

Mary Jane had considered the question. ‘No, not really,’ she said finally. ‘I do hope you have a lovely time.’

‘I intend to, though the moment I set eyes on a handsome rich man I shall marry him: She gave Mary Jane a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘Not much hope of that happening to you, darling.’

Mary Jane had agreed pleasantly, reflecting that just to set eyes on a man who hadn’t lived all his life in the village and was either married or about to be married would be nice.

She remembered that now as she took the last lot of sausage rolls out of the oven. She had certainly met a man that very afternoon and, unless he had borrowed that car, he was at least comfortably off and handsome to boot. A pity that they hadn’t fallen in love with each other at first sight, the way characters did in books. Rather the reverse: he had shown no desire to meet her again and she hadn’t liked him. She cleared up once more and went upstairs to sit with Brimble by the fire and presently she went to bed.

It was exactly a week later when Miss Emily Potter came into the shop at the unusual hour—for her—of eleven o’clock in the morning.

Beyond an elderly couple and a young man on a motorbike in a great hurry, Mary Jane had had no customers, which was a good thing, for Miss Emily was extremely agitated.

‘I did not know which way to turn,’ she began breathlessly, ‘and then I thought of you, Mary Jane. Mrs Stokes is away, you know, and Miss Kemble over at the rectory has the young mothers’ and toddlers’ coffee-morning. The taxi is due in a short time and dear Mabel is quite overwrought.’

Mary Jane saw that she would have to get to the heart of the matter quickly before Miss Emily became distraught as well. ‘Why?’

Miss Potter gave her a startled look. ‘She has to see this specialist—her hip, you know. Dr Fellows made the appointment but now she is most unwilling to go. So unfortunate, for this specialist comes very rarely to Cheltenham and the appointment is for two o’clock and I cannot possibly go with her, Didums is poorly and cannot be left...’

‘You would like me to have Didums?’ asked Mary Jane and sighed inwardly. Didums was a particularly awkward pug dog with a will of her own; Brimble wouldn’t like her at all.

‘No, no—dear Didums would never go with anyone but myself or my sister. If you would go with Mabel?’ Miss Potter gazed rather wildly around the tea-room. ‘There’s no one here; you could close for an hour or two.’

Mary Jane forbore from pointing out that although there was no one there at the moment, any minute now the place might be filled with people demanding coffee and biscuits. It wasn’t likely but there was always a chance. ‘When would we get back?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Well, if the appointment is for two o’clock I don’t suppose she will be very long, do you? I’m sure you should be back by four o‘clock...’

Miss Potter wrung her hands. ‘Oh, dear, I have no idea what to do.’

The taxi would take something over half an hour to get to the hospital. Mary Jane supposed that they would need to get there with half an hour to spare.

‘I believe that there is a very good place in the hospital where you can get coffee—dear Mabel will need refreshment.’

Mary Jane thought that after a ride in the taxi with the overwrought Miss Mabel Potter she might be in need of refreshment herself. She said in her calm way, ‘I’ll be over in half an hour or so, Miss Potter. There’s still plenty of time.’

A tearfully grateful Miss Potter went on her way. Mary Jane closed the tea-room, changed into a blouse and skirt and a cardigan, drank a cup of coffee and ate a scone, made sure that Brimble was cosily asleep. on the end of her bed and walked across the village square and along the narrow country lane which led to the Misses Potter’s cottage. It was called a cottage but, in fact, it was a rather nice house built of Cotswold stone and much too large for them. They had been born there and intended to live out their lives there, even though they were forced to do so as economically as possible. Mary Jane went up the garden path, rang the bell and was admitted by Miss Emily and led to the drawing-room where Miss Mabel sat surrounded by furniture which had been there before she was born and which neither she nor her sister would dream of changing.

Mary Jane sat down on a nice little Victorian button-back chair and embarked on a cheerful conversation. It was rather like talking to someone condemned to the guillotine; Miss Mabel bore the appearance of someone whose last moment had come. It was a relief when the taxi arrived and the cheerful conversation was scrapped for urgent persuasions to get in.

They were half an hour too early for their appointment, which was a mistake, for the orthopaedic clinic, although it had started punctually, was already running late. It was going on for three o’clock by the time the severe-looking sister called Miss Potter’s name and by then she was in such a nervous state that Mary Jane had a job getting her on to her feet and into the consulting-room.

The consultant sitting behind the desk got up and shook Miss Potter’s nerveless hand—the man who had demanded tea for his tiresome companion. Mary Jane, never one to think before she spoke, said chattily, ‘Oh, hello—it’s you—fancy seeing you here.’

She received a look from icy blue eyes in which there was no hint of recollection, although his ‘Good afternoon’ was uttered with detached civility and she blushed, something she did far too easily however much she tried not to. The stern-faced sister took no notice. She said briskly, ‘You had better stay with Miss Potter, she seems nervous.’

Mary Jane sat herself down in a corner of the room where Miss Potter could see her and watched the man wheedle that lady’s complaints and symptoms out of her. He did it very kindly and without any sign of impatience, even when Miss Potter sidetracked to explain about the marmalade which hadn’t jelled because she had felt poorly and hadn’t given it her full attention. A nasty, arrogant man, Mary Jane decided, but he had his good points. She had thought about him once or twice of course, and with a touch of wistfulness, for handsome giants who drove Rolls-Royce motor cars weren’t exactly thick on the ground in her part of the world, but she hadn’t expected to see him again. She wondered about his beautiful companion and was roused from her thoughts by Sister leading Miss Mabel away to a curtained-off corner to be examined.

The man took no notice of Mary Jane but wrote steadily and very fast until Sister came to tell him that his patient was ready.

He disappeared behind the curtain and Mary Jane, bored with sitting still and sure that he would be at least ten minutes, got up and went over to the desk and peered down at the notes he had been writing. She wasn’t surprised that she could hardly make head or tail of it, for he had been writing fast, but presently she began to make sense of it. There were some rough diagrams too, with arrows pointing in all directions and what looked like Latin. It was a pity that no one had seen to it that he wrote a legible hand when he was a schoolboy.

His voice, gently enquiring as to whether she was interested in orthopaedics, sent her whirling round to bump into his waistcoat.

‘Yes—no, that is...’ She had gone scarlet again. ‘Your writing is quite unreadable,’ she finished.

‘Yes? But as long as I can read it...you’re a nosy young woman.’

‘The patients’ charter,’ said Mary Jane, never at a loss for a word. He gave rather a nasty laugh.

‘And a busybody as well,’ be observed.

He sat down at his desk again and started to write once more and she went back to her chair and watched him. About thirty-five, she supposed, with brown hair already grizzled at the sides, and the kind of commanding nose he could look down. A firm mouth and a strong chin. She supposed that he could be quite nice when he smiled. He was dressed with understated elegance, the kind which cost a great deal of money, and she wondered what his name was. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, as Miss Mabel came from behind the curtain, fully dressed even to her hat and gloves.

He got up as she came towards him and Mary Jane liked him for that, and for the manner in which he broke the news to his patient that an operation on her hip would relieve her of pain and disability.

He turned to Mary Jane. ‘You are a relation of Miss Potter?’ His tone was politely impersonal.

‘Me? No. Just someone in the village. Miss Potter’s sister couldn’t come because of Didums...’ His raised eyebrows forced her to explain. ‘Their dog—she’s not very well, the vet said...’ She stopped. It was obvious that he didn’t want to know what the vet had said.

‘Perhaps you could ask Miss Potter’s sister to ring the hospital and she will be told what arrangements will be made to admit her sister.’

He addressed himself to Miss Mabel once more, got to his feet to bid her goodbye, nodded at Mary Jane and Sister ushered them out into the waiting-room again.

‘What is his name?’ asked Mary Jane.

Sister had her hand on the next case sheets. She gave Mary Jane a frosty look. ‘If you mean the consultant you have just seen, his name is Sir Thomas Latimer. Miss Potter is extremely lucky that he will take her as a patient.’ She added impressively, ‘He is famous in his field.’

‘Oh, good.’ Mary Jane gave Sister a sunny smile and guided Miss Mabel out of the hospital and into the forecourt where the taxi was parked.

The return journey was entirely taken up with Miss Mabel’s rather muddled version of her examination, the driver’s rather lurid account of his wife’s varicose veins and their treatment and Mary Jane doing her best to guide the conversation into neutral topics.

It took some time to explain everything once they had reached the cottage. Mary Jane’s sensible account interlarded with Miss Mabel’s flights of fancy, but presently she was able to wish them goodbye and go home. Brimble was waiting for her, wanting his tea and company. She fed him, made a pot of tea for herself and, since it was almost five o’clock by now, she made no attempt to open the tea-room. She locked up and went upstairs and sat down by the gas fire with Brimble on her lap, thinking of Sir Thomas Latimer.

Nothing happened for several days; the fine weather held and Mary Jane reaped a better harvest than usual from motorists making the best of the last of summer. She had seen nothing of the Misses Potter but she hadn’t expected to; they came once a week, as regular as clockwork, on a Thursday to draw their pensions and indulge themselves with tea and scones, so she looked up in surprise when they came into the tea-room at eleven o’clock in the morning, two days early.

‘We have had a letter,’ observed Miss Emily, ‘which we should like you to read, Mary Jane, since it concerns you. And since we are here, I think that we might indulge ourselves with a cup of your excellent coffee.’

Mary Jane poured the coffee and took the letter she was offered. It was very clearly worded: Miss Mabel was to present herself at the hospital in four days’ time so that the operation found necessary by Sir Thomas Latimer might be carried out. Mary Jane skimmed over the bit about bringing a nightgown and toiletries and slowed at the next paragraph. It was considered advisable, in view of Miss Mabel’s nervous disposition, that the young lady who had accompanied her on her previous visit should do so again so that Miss Potter might be reassured by her company.

‘Well, I never,’ said Mary Jane and gave the letter back.

‘You will do this?’ asked Miss Emily in a voice which expected Mary Jane to say yes. ‘Most fortunately, you have few customers at this time of year, and an hour or so away will do you no great harm.’

Mary Jane forbore from pointing out that with the fine weather she could reasonably expect enough coffee and tea drinkers, not to mention scone eaters, to make it well worth her while to stay open from nine o‘clock until five o’clock. The good weather wouldn’t last and business was slack during the winter months. However, she liked the Misses Potter.

‘Three o’clock,’ she said. ‘That means leaving here some time after two o‘clock, doesn’t it? Yes, of course I’ll go and see Miss Mabel safely settled in.’

The ladies looked so relieved that she refilled their cups and didn’t charge them for it. ‘I hope,’ commented Miss Emily, ‘that Didums will be well enough for me to leave her so that I may visit Mabel. I do not know how long she will be in the hospital.’

‘I’ll try and find out for you.’ The tea-room door opened and four people came in and she left them to their coffee while she attended to her new customers: two elderly couples who ate a gratifying number of scones and ordered a pot of coffee. Mary Jane took it as a sign that obliging the Misses Potter when she really hadn’t wanted to would be rewarded by more customers than usual and more money in the till.

Indeed, it seemed that that was the case; she was kept nicely busy for the next few days so that she turned the ‘Open’ notice to ‘Closed’ with reluctance. It was another lovely day, and more people than usual had come in for coffee and if today was anything like yesterday she could have filled the little tea-room for most of the afternoon...

Miss Mabel wore an air of stunned resignation, getting into the taxi without needing to be coaxed, and Mary Jane’s warm heart was wrung by the unhappiness on her companion’s face. She strove to find cheerful topics of conversation, chattering away in a manner most unusual for her so that by the time they reached the hospital her tongue was cleaving to the roof of her mouth. At least there was no delay; they were taken at once to the ward and Miss Potter was invited to undress and get into bed while Mary Jane recited necessary information to the ward clerk, a jolly, friendly woman who gave her a leaflet about visiting and telephoning and information as to where the canteen was. ‘Sister will be coming along in a minute; you might like a word with her.’

Mary Jane went back to Miss Potter’s cubicle and found that lady was lying in bed, looking pale although she mustered a smile.

‘Sister’s coming to see you in a minute,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’ll take your clothes back with me, shall I, and bring them again when you’re getting up?’ She cocked an ear at the sound of feet coming down the ward. ‘Here’s Sister.’

It was Sir Thomas Latimer as well, in a long white coat, his hands in his trouser pockets. He wished Miss Potter a cheerful good afternoon, gave Mary Jane a cool stare and addressed himself to his patient.

He had a lovely bedside manner, Mary Jane reflected, soothing and friendly and yet conveying the firm impression that whatever he said or did would be right. Mary Jane watched Miss Potter relax, even smile a little, and edged towards the curtains; if he was going to examine his patient he wouldn’t want her there.

‘Stay,’ he told her without turning his head.

She very much wanted to say ‘I shan’t,’ but Miss Potter’s precarious calm must not be disturbed. She gave the back of his head a look to pierce his skull and stayed where she was.

She had had a busy day and she was a little tired. She eased herself from one foot to the other and wished she could be like Sister, standing on the other side of the bed. A handsome woman, still young and obviously highly efficient. She and Sir Thomas exchanged brief remarks from time to time, none of which made sense to her, not that they were meant to. She stifled a yawn, smiled at Miss Potter and eased a foot out of a shoe.

Sister might be efficient, she was kind too; Miss Potter was getting more and more cheerful by the minute, and when Sir Thomas finally finished and sat down on her side of the bed she smiled, properly this time, and took the hand he offered her, listening to his reassuring voice. It was when he said, ‘Now I think we might let Miss...?’ that he turned to look at Mary Jane.

‘Seymour,’ she told him frostily, cramming her foot back into its shoe.

His eyes went from her face to her feet, his face expressionless.

‘Miss Potter may be visited the day after tomorrow. Her sister is free to telephone whenever she wishes to. I shall operate tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Miss Potter should be back in her bed well before noon.’ He added, ‘You are on the telephone?’

‘Me? No. We use the post office and Miss Kemble at the rectory will take a message. Everyone knows the Misses Potter. I’ve given the ward clerk several numbers she can ring. But someone will phone at noon tomorrow.’

He nodded, smiled very kindly at his patient and went away with Sister as a young nurse took their place. The promise of a cup of tea made Mary Jane’s departure easier. She kissed the elderly cheek. ‘We’ll all be in to see you,’ she promised, and took herself off to find the taxi and its patient driver.

By the time they were back in the village and she had explained everything to Miss Emily it was far too late to open the tea-room. She made herself a pot of tea, fed Brimble, and padded around in her stockinged feet getting everything ready for the batch of scones she still had to make ready for the next day. While she did it she thought about Sir Thomas.

The operation was a success; the entire village knew about it and, since they foregathered in Mary Jane’s tea-room to discuss it, she was kept busy with pots of tea and coffee. Miss Kemble, being the rector’s sister, offered to drive to the hospital on the following day. ‘The car will take four—you will come of course, Miss Emily, and Mrs Stokes, how fortunate that she is back—and of course my brother.’

Miss Emily put down her cup. ‘It would be nice if Mary Jane could come too....’

‘Another day,’ said Miss Kemble bossily. ‘Besides, who is to look after Didums? You know she is good with Mary Jane.’

So it was agreed and the next day, encouraged by Sister’s report that Miss Mabel had had a good night, they set off. Mary Jane watched them go holding a peevish Didums under one arm. She took the dog up to the sitting-room presently and closed the door, thankful that Brimble was taking a nap on her bed and hadn’t noticed anything. She would have liked to have visited Miss Mabel and now she would have to wait until she could find someone who would give her a lift into Cheltenham.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long; Mrs Fellowes popped in for a cup of tea and wanted to know why Mary Jane hadn’t gone with the others. ‘That’s too bad,’ she declared, ‘but not to worry. I’m driving the doctor to Cheltenham on Sunday—about three o’clock, we’ll give you a lift in, only we shan’t be coming back. Do you suppose you can get back here? There’s a bus leaves Cheltenham for Stratford-upon-Avon, so you could get to Broadway...’ She frowned. ‘It’s a long way round, but I’m sure there’s an evening bus to Stow-on-the-Wold from there.’

Mary Jane said recklessly, ‘Thank you very much, I’d like a lift. I’m sure I can get a bus home. I’ll have a look at the timetable in the post office.’

It was going to be an awkward, roundabout journey home and it would depend on her getting on to the bus in Cheltenham. She would have to keep a sharp eye on the time; the bus depot was some way from the hospital. All the same she would go. She wrote a postcard telling Miss Mabel that she would see her on Sunday afternoon and put it in the letterbox before she could have second, more prudent thoughts.

Miss Emily, coming to collect Didums, had a great deal to say. Her sister was doing well, Sister had said, and she was to get out of bed on the following day. ‘Modern surgery,’ observed Miss Potter with a shake of the head. ‘In my youth we stayed in bed for weeks. That nice man—he operated; Sir someone—came to see her while I was there and told me that the operation had been most successful and that dear Mabel would greatly benefit from it. Nice manners, too.’

Mary Jane muttered under her breath and offered Miss Potter a cup of tea.

She was quite busy for the rest of that week, so that she felt justified on Sunday in taking enough money from the till to cover her journey back home. If the worst came to the worst she could have a taxi; it would mean going without new winter boots, but she liked Miss Mabel.

She usually stayed open for part of Sunday, for that was when motorists tended to stop for tea, but she locked up after lunch, made sure that Brimble was safely indoors and walked through the village to the doctor’s house.

Miss Mabel was delighted to see her; she seemed to have taken on a new lease of life since her operation and she insisted on telling Mary Jane every single detail of the treatment. She had got to the momentous moment when she had been out of bed when there was a slight stir in the ward. Sir Thomas Latimer was coming towards them, indeed, he appeared to be about to pass them when he stopped at Miss Mabel’s bed.

On his bi-weekly round he had seen Mary Jane’s postcard on Miss Mabel’s locker and, without quite knowing why, he had decided to be on the ward on Sunday afternoon. It had been easy enough to give a reason — he had operated the day before on an emergency case and what could be more normal than a visit from him to see how his patient progressed? His casual, ‘Good afternoon,’ was a masterpiece of surprise.

Mary Jane’s polite response was quite drowned by Miss Mabel’s voice. ‘Is it not delightful?’ she enquired of him. ‘Mary Jane has come to visit me — Dr Fellowes gave her a lift here. She will have to return by bus, though. I’m not sure how she will manage that, it being a Sunday, but she tells me that she has everything arranged.’ She beamed at Mary Jane, who wasn’t looking. ‘I have been telling her how excellent is the treatment here. I shall recommend it to my friends.’

Just as though it were an hotel, thought Mary Jane, carefully not looking at Sir Thomas.

He stayed only a few minutes, bidding them both goodbye with casual politeness, and Mary Jane settled down to hear the rest of Miss Mabel’s experiences, until a glance at the clock told her that she would have to go at once if she were to catch the bus. Not easily done, however, for Miss Mabel suddenly thought of numerous messages for her sister so that Mary Jane fairly galloped out of the hospital to pause at the entrance to get her bearings. She wasn’t quite sure where the bus depot was and Mrs Fellowes’ kindly directions had been vague.

The Rolls-Royce whispered to a halt beside her and its door opened.

‘Get in,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘I’m going through your village.’

‘I’m catching a bus.’

‘Very unlikely. The Sunday service leaves half an hour earlier—I have that from the head porter, who is never wrong about anything.’ He added gently, ‘Get in, Miss Seymour, before we are had up for loitering.’

‘But I’m not...’ she began, and caught his eye. ‘All right.’ She sounded ungracious. ‘Thank you.’

She fastened the seatbelt and sat back in luxury and he drove off without saying anything. Indeed, he didn’t speak at all for some time, and then only to observe that Miss Mabel would be returning home very shortly. Mary Jane replied suitably and lapsed into silence once more for the simple reason that she had no idea what to talk about, but as they neared the village she made an effort. ‘Do you live near here?’

‘No, in London. I have to live near my work.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I visit various hospitals whenever it is found necessary.’

A most unsatisfactory answer. She didn’t say anything more until he drew up before the tea-room.

He got out before she could open her door and opened it for her, took the old-fashioned key from her and opened the cottage door.

It was dusk now and he found the switch and turned on the lights before standing aside to let her pass him.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary Jane once again, and bent to pick up Brimble who had rushed to meet her.

Sir Thomas leaned against the half-open door in no hurry to go. ‘Your cat?’

‘Yes, Brimble. He’s—he’s company.’

‘You live alone?’

‘Yes.’ She peered up at him. ‘You’d better go, Sir Thomas, if you’re going all the way to London.’

Sir Thomas agreed meekly. He had never, he reflected, been told to go by a girl. On the contrary, they made a point of asking him to stay. He wasn’t a conceited man but now he was intrigued. He had wanted to meet her again, going deliberately to the hospital when he knew that she would be there, wanting to know more about her. The drive had hardly been successful. He bade her a pleasantly impersonal goodbye. They were unlikely to meet again. He dismissed her from his thoughts and drove back to London.


CHAPTER TWO

SEPTEMBER was almost over and the weather was changing. Fewer and fewer tourists stopped for coffee or tea although Mary Jane still did a steady trade with the village dwellers—just enough to keep the bills paid. Miss Mabel made steady progress and Mary Jane, graciously offered a lift in the rectory car, visited her again. Sir Thomas had been again, she was told, and Miss Mabel was to return home in a week’s time and see him when he came to the hospital in six weeks’ time. ‘Such a nice man,’ sighed Miss Mabel, ‘a true gentleman, if you know what I mean.’

Mary Jane wasn’t too sure about that but she murmured obligingly.

Miss Mabel’s homecoming was something of an event in a village where one day was very like another. The ambulance brought her, deposited her gently in her home, drained Mary Jane’s teapots and ate almost all the scones, and departed to be replaced by Miss Kemble, Mrs Stokes and after an interval Dr Fellowes, who tactfully sent them all away and made sure that the Misses Potter were allowed peace and quiet. Mary Jane, slipping through the village with a plate of teacakes as a welcome home gift, was prevailed upon to stay for a few minutes while Miss Mabel reiterated her experiences. ‘I am to walk each day,’ she said proudly, ‘but lead a quiet life.’ She laughed and Miss Emily laughed too. ‘Not that we do anything else, do we, Mary Jane?’

Mary Jane smilingly agreed; that she had dreams of lovely clothes, candlelit dinners for two, dancing night after night and always with someone who adored her, was something she kept strictly to herself. Even Felicity, on the rare occasions when she saw her, took it for granted that she was content.

The mornings were frosty now and the evenings drawing in. The village, after the excitement of Miss Mabel’s operation, did settle down. Mary Jane baked fewer scones and some days customers were so few it was hardly worth keeping the tea-room open.

She was preparing to close after an unprofitable Monday when the door was thrust open and a man came in. Mary Jane, wiping down the already clean tables, looked up hopefully, saw who it was and said in a neutral voice, ‘Good evening, Oliver.’

Her cousin, Uncle Matthew’s heir.

She had known him since her schooldays and had disliked him from the start, just as he had disliked her. She had been given short shrift when her uncle had died and for her part she hadn’t been able to leave fast enough, for not only did Oliver dislike her, his wife, a cold woman, pushing her way up the social ladder, disliked her too. She stood, the cloth in her hand, waiting for him to speak.

‘Business pretty bad?’ he asked.

‘It’s a quiet time of the year. I’m making a living, thank you, Oliver.’

She was surprised to see that he was trying to be friendly, but not for long.

‘Hope you’ll do something for me,’ he went on. ‘Margaret has to go to London to see some specialist or other about her back. I have to go to America on business and someone will have to drive her up and stay with her.’ He didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘I wondered if you’d do that?’ He laughed. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that...’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Mary Jane coldly. ‘Margaret has family of her own, hasn’t she? Surely there is someone with nothing better to do who could go with her?’

‘We did ask around,’ said Oliver airily, ‘but you know how it is, they lead busy social lives, they simply can’t spare the time.’

‘And I can?’ asked Mary Jane crisply.

‘Well, you can’t be making a fortune at this time of year. It won’t cost you a penny. Margaret will have to stay the night in town—tests and so forth. She can’t drive herself because of this wretched back, and besides she’s very nervous.’ He added, ‘She is in pain, too.’

Mary Jane had a tender heart. Very much against her inclination she agreed, reluctantly, to go with Margaret. It would mean leaving Brimble alone for two days but Mrs Adams next door would feed him and make sure that he was safe. It would mean shutting the tea-room too and, although Oliver made light of the paucity of customers at that time of year, all the same she would be short of two days’ takings, however sparse they might be.

Oliver, having got what he wanted, lost no time in going. ‘Next Tuesday,’ he told her. ‘I’ll drive Margaret here in the car and you can take over. I leave in the afternoon.’

If he felt gratitude, he didn’t show it. Mary Jane watched him get into his car and pulled a face at his back as he drove away.

Oliver returned on the Tuesday morning and Mary Jane, having packed an overnight bag, got into her elderly tweed suit, consigned Brimble to Mrs Adams’s kindly hands, and opened the door to him.

He didn’t bother with a good morning, a nod seemed the best he could manage. ‘Margaret’s in the car. Drive carefully; you’ll have to fill up with petrol, there’s not enough to bring you back.’

Mary Jane gave him a limpid look. ‘Margaret has the money for that? I haven’t.’

‘Good God, girl, surely a small matter of a few gallons of petrol...’

‘Well, just as you like. I’m sure Jim at the garage will have a man who can drive Margaret—you pay by the mile I believe, and petrol extra.’

Oliver went a dangerous plum colour. ‘No one would think that we were cousins...’

‘Well, no, I don’t think that they would, I quite often forget that too.’ She smiled. ‘If you go now you’ll catch Jim—he’ll be open by now.’

Oliver gave her a look to kill, with no effect whatsoever, and took out his wallet.

‘I shall require a strict account of what you spend,’ he told her crossly, and handed her some notes. ‘Now come along, Margaret is nervous enough already.’

Margaret was tall and what she described to herself as elegantly thin. She had good features, marred by a down-turned mouth and a frown; moreover she had a complaining voice. She moaned now, ‘Oh, dear, whatever has kept you? Can’t you see how ill I am? All this waiting about...’

Mary Jane got into the car. She said, ‘Good morning, Margaret.’ She turned to look at her. ‘Before we go I must make it quite clear to you that I have no money with me—perhaps Oliver told you already?’

Margaret looked faintly surprised. ‘No, he didn’t, he said...well, I’ve enough with me for both of us.’ She added sourly, ‘It will be a nice treat for you, a couple of days in town, all expenses paid.’

Mary Jane let this pass and, since Oliver did no more than raise a careless hand to his wife, drove away. Margaret was going to sulk, which left Mary Jane free to indulge her thoughts. She toyed with the idea of sending Oliver a bill for two days’ average takings at the tea-rooms, plus the hourly wages she would earn as a waitress. He would probably choke himself to death on reading it but it was fun to think about.

‘You’re driving too fast,’ complained Margaret.

Oliver had booked them in at a quiet hotel, near enough to Wigmore Street for them to be able to walk there for Margaret’s appointment. He had thought of everything, thought Mary Jane, unpacking Margaret’s bag for her since that lady declared herself to be exhausted; a hotel so quiet and respectable that there was nothing to do and no one under fifty staying there. Her room was on the floor above Margaret’s, overlooking a blank wall, furnished with what she called Hotel Furniture. She unpacked her own bag and went back to escort Margaret to lunch.

The dining-room was solid Victorian, dimly lit, the tables laden with silverware and any number of wine glasses. She cheered up at the sight; breakfast had been a sketchy affair and she was hungry and the elaborate table settings augered well for a good meal.

Unfortunately, this didn’t turn out to be the case; lunch was elaborately presented but not very filling: something fishy on a lettuce leaf, lamb chops with a small side-dish of vegetables and one potato, and trifle to follow. They drank water and Mary Jane defiantly ate two rolls.

‘I cannot think,’ grumbled Margaret picking at her chop, ‘why Oliver booked us in at this place. When we come to town—the theatre, you know, or shopping—we always go to one of the best hotels.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, I suppose he thought that, as you were coming with me, this would do.’

Mary Jane’s eyes glowed with purple fire. ‘Now, that was thoughtful of him. But you have no need to stay here, Margaret, you can get a room in any hotel, pay the bill here and I’ll drive myself back this afternoon and get someone from Jim’s garage to collect you tomorrow.’

‘You wouldn’t—how dare you suggest it? Oliver would never forgive you.’

‘I don’t suppose he would. I don’t suppose he’d forgive you either for spending his money. I dare say it won’t be so bad; you’ll be home again tomorrow.’

‘Oliver won’t be back for at least a week.’ Margaret paused. ‘Why don’t you come and stay with me until he is back? I shall need looking after—all the worry of this examination is really too much for me. I’m alone.’

‘There’s a housekeeper, isn’t there? And two daily maids and the gardener?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Since we have to walk to this place we had better go and get ready.’

‘I feel quite ill at the very thought of being examined,’ observed Margaret as they set out. She had felt well enough to make up her face very nicely and put on a fetching hat. She pushed past Mary Jane in a cloud of L’Air du Temps and told her sharply to hurry up.

Wigmore Street was quiet and dignified in the early afternoon sun and the specialist’s rooms, according to the brass plate on the door, were in a tall red-brick house in the middle of a terrace of similar houses. Mary Jane rang the bell and they were ushered into a narrow hall.

‘First floor,’ the porter told them and went back to his cubbyhole, advising them that there was a lift if they preferred.

It was very quiet on the first-floor landing, doors on either side and one at the end. ‘Ring the bell,’ said Margaret and pointed to the door on the left.

It was as Mary Jane put her finger on it that she realised something. The little plate above it was inscribed Sir Thomas Latimer! She had seen it on the doorplate downstairs as well but it hadn’t registered. She felt a little thrill of excitement at seeing him again. Not that she liked him in the least, she told herself, as the door was opened and Margaret swept past her, announcing her arrival in a condescending way which Mary Jane could see didn’t go down well with the nurse.

They were a little early. The nurse offered chairs, made polite conversation for a few moments and went across to speak to the receptionist sitting at a desk in the corner of the room.

‘I didn’t expect to wait,’ complained Margaret, ‘I’ve come a long way and I’m in a good deal of pain.’

The nurse came back. ‘Sir Thomas has many patients, Mrs Seymour, and some need more time than others.’

Five minutes later the door opened and an elderly lady, walking with sticks, came out accompanied by Sir Thomas, who shook her hand and handed her over to the nurse.

He went back into his consulting-room and closed the door and Mary Jane decided that he hadn’t noticed her.

However, he had. He put the folder on his desk and went over to the window and looked out, surprised at the pleasure he had felt at the sight of her. He went back to his desk and opened the folder; this Mrs Seymour he was to see must be a sister-in-law—she and Mary Jane came from the same village.

He went and sat down and asked his nurse over the intercom to send in Mrs Seymour.

He could find nothing wrong with her at all; she described endless symptoms in a rather whining voice; none of which he could substantiate. Nevertheless, he sent her to the X-ray unit on the floor above and listened patiently to her renewed complaints when she returned.

‘If you will return in the morning,’ he told her, ‘when the X-ray results will be ready, I hope that I will be able to reassure you. I can find nothing wrong with you, Mrs Seymour, but we can discuss that tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?’

‘He is no good,’ declared Margaret as they walked back. ‘I shall find another specialist...’

‘You could at least wait and see what the X-rays show,’ suggested Mary Jane sensibly. ‘Why not have a rest in your room and an early night after dinner?’

First, though, they had tea in the hotel lounge and since it was, rather surprisingly, quite a substantial one, Mary Jane made the most of it, a little surprised at Margaret, despite her pain, eating a great many sandwiches and cream cakes. Left on her own, she poured a last cup of tea and thought about Sir Thomas. She hadn’t expected him to recognise her and after all he had had but the barest glimpse as he had stood in the doorway. As he had ushered Margaret out of his consulting-room he hadn’t looked in her direction. All the same, it was interesting to have seen him again in his own environment, as it were. Very remote and professional, thought Mary Jane, eating a last sandwich, not a bit like the man who had pushed his way into her tea-room, demanding tea for his friend. She sighed for no reason at all, picked up a magazine and sat reading, a girl not worth a second glance, until it was time to go up to Margaret’s room and warn her that dinner would be in half an hour.

Getting Margaret there by ten o’clock was rather an effort but she managed it, to be told by the nurse that Sir Thomas had been at one of the hospitals since the early hours of the morning operating on an emergency case. He would be with them as soon as possible and in the meantime perhaps they would like coffee?

‘Well, this is really too bad,’ grumbled Margaret. ‘I am a private patient...’

‘This was an emergency, Mrs Seymour,’ said the nurse smoothly and went to get the coffee.

Mary Jane sat allowing Margaret’s indignant whine to pass over her head. Like him or not, she felt sorry for Sir Thomas, up half the night and then having to cope with someone like Margaret instead of having a nap. She hoped he wouldn’t be too tired...

When he came presently he looked exactly like a man who had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, with time to dress with his usual elegance and eat a good breakfast. Only, when she peeped at him while he was greeting Margaret, she saw that there were tired lines around his eyes. He caught her staring at him when he turned to bid her good morning and she blushed a little. He watched the pretty colour pinken her cheeks and smiled. It was a kind and friendly smile and she was taken by surprise by it.

‘Your patient? Was the operation successful?’ She went even pinker; perhaps she shouldn’t have asked—it wasn’t any of her business.

‘Entirely, thank you—a good start to my day.’ Thank heaven he hadn’t sounded annoyed, thought Mary Jane.

The nurse led Margaret away then, and Mary Jane sat and looked at the glossy magazines scattered around her. The models in them looked as though they should still be at school and were so thin that she longed to feed them up on good wholesome food. Some of the clothes were lovely but since she was never likely to wear any of them she took care not to want them too much.

I’m the wrong shape, she told herself, unaware that despite her thinness she had a pretty, curvy figure and nice legs, concealed by the tweed suit.

The door opened and Sir Thomas showed Margaret back into the waiting-room, and it was quite obvious that Margaret was in a dreadful temper whereas he presented an impeturbable manner. He didn’t look at Mary Jane but shook Margaret’s reluctant hand, wished her goodbye with cool courtesy and went back into his consulting-room.

Margaret took no notice of the nurse’s polite goodbyes but flounced down to the street. ‘I told you he was no good,’ she hissed. ‘The man’s a fool, he says there is nothing wrong with me.’ She gave a nasty little laugh. ‘I’m to take more exercise, if you please—walk for an hour, mind you—each day, make beds, work in the garden, be active. I have suffered for years with my back, I’m quite unable to do anything strenuous; if you knew the hours I spend lying on the chaise longue...’

‘Perhaps that’s why your back hurts,’ suggested Mary Jane matter-of-factly.

‘Don’t be stupid. You can drive me home and I shall tell Dr Fellowes exactly what I think of him and his specialist.’

‘He must know what he’s talking about,’ observed Mary Jane rashly, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t be a consultant, would he?’

‘What do you know about it, anyway?’ asked Margaret rudely. They had reached the hotel. ‘Get your bag and get someone to bring the car round. We’re leaving now.’

It was a pleasant autumn day; the drive would have been agreeable too if only Margaret would have stopped talking. Luckily she didn’t need any answers, so Mary Jane was able to think her own thoughts.

She wasn’t invited in when they arrived at the house. Mary Jane, to whom it had been home for happy years, hadn’t expected that anyway. ‘You can drive the car round to the garage before you go,’ said Margaret without so much as a thank-you.

‘Oliver can do that whenever he comes back; if you mind about it being parked outside you can drive it round yourself, Margaret; I’m going home.’ She added rather naughtily, ‘Don’t forget that hour’s walk each day.’

‘Come back,’ ordered Margaret. ‘How can you be so cruel, leaving me like this?’

Mary Jane was already walking down the short drive. She called over her shoulder, ‘But you’re home, Margaret, and Sir Thomas said that there was nothing wrong with you...’

‘I’ll never speak to you again.’

‘Oh, good.’

Mary Jane nipped smartly out of the open gate and down to the village. It was still mid-afternoon; she would open the tea-room in the hope that some passing motorist would fancy a pot of tea and scones. First she would have a meal; breakfast was hours ago and Margaret had refused to stop on the way. Beans on toast, she decided happily, opening her door.

Brimble was waiting for her, she picked him up and tucked him under an arm while she opened windows, turned the sign round to ‘Open’ and put the kettle on.

Brimble, content after a meal, sat beside her while she ate her own meal and then went upstairs to take a nap, leaving her to see that everything was ready for any customers who might come.

They came presently, much to her pleased surprise; a hiking couple, a family party in a car which looked as though it might fall apart at any moment and a married couple who quarrelled quietly all the while they ate their tea. Mary Jane locked the door with a feeling of satisfaction, got her supper and started on preparations for the next day. While she made a batch of tea-cakes she thought about Sir Thomas.

It was towards the end of October, on a chilly late afternoon, just as Mary Jane was thinking of closing since there was little likelihood of any customers, that Sir Thomas walked in. She had her back to the door, rearranging a shelf at the back of the tea-room and she had neither heard nor seen the Rolls come to a quiet halt outside.

‘Too late for tea?’ he asked and she spun round, clutching some plates.

‘No — yes, I was just going to close.’

‘Oh, good.’ He turned the sign round. ‘We can have a quiet talk without being disturbed.’

‘Talk? Whatever about? Is something wrong with Miss Potter? I do hope not.’

‘Miss Potter is making excellent progress...’

‘Then it’s Margaret—Mrs Seymour.’

‘Ah, yes, the lady you escorted. As far as I know she is leading her normal life, and why not? There is nothing wrong with her. I came to talk about you.’

‘Me. Why?’

‘Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you.’

Sir Thomas sat down at one of the little tables and ate one of the scones on a plate there, and, since it seemed that he intended to stay there until he had had his tea, Mary Jane put the plates down and went to put on the kettle.

By the time she came back with the teapot he had finished the scones and she fetched another plate, of fering them wordlessly.

‘You wanted to tell me something?’ she prompted.

He sat back in the little cane chair so that it creaked alarmingly, his teacup in his hand. ‘Yes...’

The thump on the door stopped him and when it was repeated he got up and unlocked it. The girl who came in flashed him a dazzling smile.

‘Hello, Mary Jane. I’m on my way to Cheltenham and it seemed a good idea to look you up.’ She pecked Mary Jane’s cheek and looked across at Sir Thomas. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘No,’ said Mary Jane rather more loudly than necessary. ‘This is Sir Thomas Latimer, an orthopaedic surgeon, he—that is, Margaret went to see him about her back and he has a patient in the village.’ She glanced at him, still standing by the door. ‘This is my sister, Felicity.’

Felicity was looking quite beautiful, of course; she dressed in the height of fashion and somehow the clothes always looked right on her. She had tinted her hair, too, and her make-up was exquisite, making the most of her dark eyes and the perfect oval of her face. She smiled at Sir Thomas now as he came to shake her hand, smiling down at her, holding her hand just a little longer than he need, making some easy light-hearted remark which made Felicity laugh.

Of course, he’s fallen for her, reflected Mary Jane; since Felicity had left home to join the glamorous world of fashion she had had a continuous flow of men at her beck and call and she couldn’t blame Sir Thomas; her sister was quite lovely. She said, ‘Felicity is a well-known model...’

‘I can’t imagine her being anything else,’ observed Sir Thomas gravely. ‘Are you staying here with Mary Jane?’

‘Lord, no. There’s only one bedroom and I’d be terribly in the way—she gets up at the crack of dawn to cook, don’t you, darling?’ She glanced around her. ‘Still making a living? Good. No, I’m booked in at the Queens at Cheltenham, I’m doing a dress show there tomorrow.’ She smiled at Sir Thomas. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to come? We could have dinner...?’

‘How delightful that would have been, although the dress show hardly appeals, but dinner with you would be another matter.’

The fool, thought Mary Jane fiercely. She had seen Felicity capture a man’s attention a dozen times and not really minded but now she did. Sir Thomas was like the rest of them but for some reason she had thought that he was different.

Felicity gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Surely you could manage dinner? I don’t know anyone in Cheltenham.’

‘I’m on my way back to London,’ he told her. ‘Then I’m off to a seminar in Holland.’

Felicity said with a hint of sharpness, ‘A busy man—are you a very successful specialist or something, making your millions?’

‘I am a busy man, yes.’ He smiled charmingly and she turned away to say goodbye to Mary Jane.

‘Perhaps I’ll drop in as I go back,’ she suggested.

He opened the door for her and then walked with her to her car. Mary Jane could hear her sister’s laughter before she drove away. She began to clear away the tea tray, she still had to do some baking ready for the next day and Brimble was prowling round, grumbling for his supper.

‘We didn’t finish our tea,’ observed Sir Thomas mildly. He looked at her with questioning eyebrows.

Well, he is not getting another pot, reflected Mary Jane, and told him so, only politely. ‘I’ve a lot of baking to do and I expect you want to get back to London.’

Sir Thomas’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Then I won’t keep you.’ He picked up the coat he had tossed over a chair. ‘You have a very beautiful sister, Mary Jane.’

‘Yes, we’re not a bit alike, are we?’

‘No, not in the least.’ A remark which did nothing to improve her temper. ‘And I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you...’

‘I don’t suppose it was of the least importance.’ She spoke tartly. ‘You can tell me if we meet again, which isn’t very likely.’

He opened the door. ‘You are mistaken about a great many things, Mary Jane,’ he told her gravely. ‘Goodnight.’

She closed the door and bolted it and went back to the kitchen, not wishing to see him go.

She washed the cups and saucers with a good deal of noise, fed Brimble and got out the pastry board, the rolling pin and the ingredients for the scones. Her mind not being wholly on her work, her dough suffered a good deal of rough treatment; notwithstanding, the scones came from the oven nicely risen and golden brown. She cleared away and went upstairs, having lost all appetite for her supper.

Felicity hadn’t said when she would come again but she seldom did, dropping in from time to time when it suited her. When they had been younger she had always treated Mary Jane with a kind of tolerant affection, at the same time making no effort to take much interest in her. It had been inevitable that Mary Jane should stay at home with her aunt and uncle and, even when they had died and she had inherited the cottage, Felicity had made no effort to help in any way. She was earning big money by then but neither she nor, for that matter, Mary Jane had expected her to do anything to make life easier for her young sister. Mary Jane had accepted the fact that Felicity was a success in life, leading a glamorous existence, travelling, picking and choosing for whom she would work and, while she was glad that she had made such a success of her life, she had no wish to be a part of it and certainly she felt no envy. Common sense told her that a plain face and a tendency to stay in the background would never earn her a place in the world of fashion.

Not that she would have liked that, she was content with her tea-room and Brimble and her friends in the village, although it would have been nice to have had a little more money.

The Misses Potter came in for their usual tea on the following day.

Miss Mabel was walking with a stick now and was a changed woman. They had been to Cheltenham on the previous day, they told Mary Jane, and that nice Sir Thomas had said that she need not go to see him anymore, just go for a check-up to Dr Fellowes every few months.

‘He’s going away,’ she explained to Mary Jane, ‘to some conference or other, but we heard that he will be going to the Radcliffe Infirmary at Oxford when he gets back. Much sought-after,’ said Miss Mabel with satisfaction.

Of course, the village knew all about him calling at the tea-room and, Mary Jane being Mary Jane, her explanation that he had merely called for a cup of tea on his way back to London was accepted without comment. Felicity’s visit had also been noticed with rather more interest. Very few people took Vogue or Harpers and Queen but those who visited their dentist or doctor and read the magazines in the waiting-room were well aware of her fame.

She came a few days later during the morning, walking into the tea-room and giving the customers there a pleasant surprise. She was wearing a suede outfit in red with boots in black leather and a good deal of gold jewellery. Not at all the kind of clothes the village was used to; even the doctor’s wife and Margaret, not to mention the lady of the manor, wouldn’t have risked wearing such an outfit. She smiled around her, confident that she was creating an impression.

‘Hello, Mary Jane,’ she said smilingly, pleased with the mild sensation she had caused. ‘Can you spare me a cup of coffee? I’m on my way back to town.’

She sat down at one of the tables and Mary Jane, busy with serving, said, ‘Hello, Felicity. Yes, of course, but will you help yourself? I’m quite busy.’

The customers went presently, leaving the two sisters alone. Mary Jane collected up cups and saucers and tidied the tables and Felicity said rather impatiently, ‘Oh, do sit down for a minute, you can wash up after I’ve gone.’

Mary Jane fetched a cup of coffee for herself, refilled Felicity’s cup and sat. ‘Did you have a successful show?’ she asked.

‘Marvellous. I’m off to the Bahamas next week—Vogue and Elle. When I get back it will be time for the dress show in Paris. Life’s all go...’

‘Would you like to change it?’

Felicity gave her a surprised stare. ‘Change it? My dear girl, have you any idea of the money I earn?’

‘Well no, I don’t think that I have...’ Mary Jane spoke without rancour. ‘But it must be a great deal.’

‘It is. I like money and I spend it. In a year or two I intend to find a wealthy husband and settle down. Sooner, if I meet someone I fancy.’ She smiled across the little table. ‘Like that man I met when I was here last week. Driving a Rolls and doing very nicely and just my type. I can’t think how you met him, Mary Jane.’

‘He operated on a friend of mine here and I met him at the hospital. He stopped for a cup of tea on his way back to London. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a specialist in bones.’

‘How revolting.’ Felicity wrinkled her beautiful nose. ‘But of course, he must have a social life. Is he married?’

‘I’ve no idea. I should think it must be very likely, wouldn’t you?’

‘London, you say? I must find out. What’s his name?’

Mary Jane told her but with reluctance. There was no reason why she should mind Felicity’s interest in him, indeed she would make a splendid foil for his magnificent size and good looks and presumably he would be able to give Felicity all the luxury she demanded of life.

‘He said he was going abroad—to Holland, I think,’ she volunteered.

‘Good. That gives me time to track him down. Once I know where he lives or works I can meet him again—accidentally of course.’

Well, thought Mary Jane in her sensible way, he’s old enough and wise enough to look after himself and there’s that other woman who came here with him...

She didn’t mention her to her sister.

Felicity didn’t stay long. ‘Ticking over nicely?’ she asked carelessly. ‘You always liked a quiet life, didn’t you?’

What would Felicity have said if she had declared that she would very much like to wear lovely clothes, go dancing and be surrounded by young men? Mary Jane, loading a tray carefully, agreed placidly.

Since it seemed likely that the quiet life was to be her lot, there wasn’t much point in saying anything else.


CHAPTER THREE

OCTOBER, sliding towards November, had turned wet and chilly and customers were sparse. Mary Jane turned out cupboards, washed and polished and cut down on the baking. There were still customers glad of a cup of tea, home from shopping expeditions—or motorists on their way to Cheltenham or Oxford stopped for coffee. More prosperous tea-rooms closed down during the winter months and their owners went to Barbados or California to spend their summer’s profits, but Mary Jane’s profits weren’t large enough for that. Besides, since she lived over the tea-room she might just as well keep it open and get what custom there was.

On this particular morning, since it was raining hard and moreover was a Monday, she was pleased to hear the doorbell tinkle as she set the percolator on the stove. It wasn’t a customer, though. Oliver stood there, just inside the door.

She wasn’t particularly pleased to see him but she wished him a cheerful good morning.

‘I’m just back from the States,’ declared Oliver pompously. ‘Margaret tells me that you have behaved most unkindly towards her. I should have thought that you could at least have stayed with her and made sure that she was quite comfortable.’

‘But she is not ill—Sir Thomas Latimer said so. He said that she should take more exercise and not lie around.’

Oliver’s eyes bulged with annoyance. ‘I consider you to be a heartless girl, Mary Jane. I shall think twice before asking you to do any small favour...’





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