IT WAS some time after Deborah had left Casualty before Sir James returned. The place was still busy but the receptionist had been on the lookout for him.
‘I gave the young lady your message, sir,’ she said, ‘but she went away without a word.’ She was dying of curiosity and would have put a leading question but the look on his face stopped her.
‘He is always so polite and with beautiful manners as you know,’ she said later, ‘but he looked at me as though he could have wrung my neck. It wasn’t my fault the girl went, was it?’
The receptionist taking over from her agreed and expressed the hope that he wouldn’t come back while she was on duty, ‘Mind you, I’ve always fancied him— that lovely car of his and he’s rich—he must be…’
Sir James stifled an urge to leave the hospital at once and go after Deborah and went back to the women’s medical and cast an eye over Mrs Squires, who despite his efforts was dying. All the same he intensified his fight for her life until there was no longer any need, then, leaving matters with his registrar, he got into his car and drove himself to the little terraced house near London Bridge.
The appearance of a gleaming Bentley caused something of a stir in the street but Deborah didn’t hear it. The house had been cold and depressingly empty when she had got back, and since it was midafternoon by now she had put the kettle on, fed Buster and made herself a cup of tea before going to the corner shop to make enquiries about Mrs Squires’ family. There was a brother, she was told, living on his own somewhere in Shoreditch, by the name of Whitmore, and if she knocked next door they might know his address.
It was surprising how helpful everyone was. Several neighbours volunteered information and the young man who lived in the end terrace house offered to get on to his motorbike and fetch Mr Whitmore; the rush-hour hadn’t started and he’d have him at Mrs Squires’ in no time at all.
Deborah thanked everyone and went back to the house and started to put Mrs Squires’ bedroom to rights. She had no idea what would happen next but it seemed a good idea to make up the bed with clean linen and fill the washing machine. She Hoovered and dusted until a good deal of commotion in the street sent her to the door to find that the young man was back with Mr Whitmore hanging on rather frantically to the pillion. He was a small thin man with a sad moustache and watery eyes and he accepted her offer of the cup of tea with gratitude while she told him what had happened.
‘I’d better go along to the hospital,’ he said doubtfully. “There’s no one else left but me. What’s to happen to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Deborah gently. ‘She’ll be kept there until she’s much better and then perhaps she could go into a sheltered flat or something similar? This house is hers?’
‘Yes, her hubby left it to her. I’m to have it when she goes.’ He finished his tea while she explained that she was only lodging there and would be leaving at the end of the week. ‘So the house will be empty, but I’ll leave the keys and see it’s clean and tidy.’
His face brightened at that. ‘Well, I suppose there’s not much to stop me moving in—kind of keep the place going until she comes home.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be off, then, and come in the morning so’s we can sort things out a bit.’
After he had gone Deborah washed the cups once more and tackled the kitchen. Mrs Squires hadn’t been a good housewife, or perhaps she had just lost interest living on her own—the kitchen needed to be thoroughly turned out and she was glad to have worthwhile things to do. However hard she worked, she couldn’t stop her thoughts. A brisk tattoo on the doorknocker brought her head out of the kitchen cupboard; a neighbour probably with an offer of supper; she had been rather touched by all the help offered to her.
She didn’t bother to take off the apron of Mrs Squires’s that she had on; everyone knew she was seeing to the housework and besides almost all the women in the street wore an apron for a good deal of their day.
She opened the door and Sir James walked in and to her utter dismay she burst into tears at the sight of him and his vast reassuring person and flung herself on to his waistcoat.
He said nothing, but let her cry, and presently when her snivelling gave way to heaving sobs he took one arm from her and offered her a beautifully laundered handkerchief.
She wriggled free then, mopped her face and blew her nose resolutely.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice was still thick with tears. ‘But it’s been a simply beastly day.’
He stood in the little hall, watching her and said presently, ‘Why did you not wait, Deborah?’
She glared at him and gave a defiant sniff. ‘You looked at me as though—as though…’ Words failed her and she tried again. ‘Whenever we meet I’m in trouble and it’s always you there and you must be so tired of helping me…’ She drew a breath, aware that she hadn’t explained very well. ‘I’ve tried, I really have, to keep out of your way.’ She suddenly remembered that the day had begun badly and didn’t say any more in case she started to cry again.
Sir James, it seemed, had nothing to say; presently she asked, ‘Is Mrs Squires going to be all right?’
‘She died shortly after she was warded. There was almost nothing to be done, I’m afraid.’
Deborah said in a small voice, ‘She was very kind, you know. Trotty will be sad…’
‘What else has gone wrong with your day?’ asked Sir James in a voice to charm the birds off the trees.
She hadn’t meant to tell him, but it came tumbling out. ‘I failed my exams—I was taking shorthand and typing, you know, and I thought if I passed the exams at the end of the course I could get a job and move somewhere else and start a career.’
Anyone looking less like a career girl would be hard to find, thought Sir James with tender amusement: hair on end, a grubby apron, a small red nose and puffy eyes from crying. He said in a kind voice, ‘Well, you can consider that in the morning. You will come home with me now, Deborah.’
‘Home with you? Indeed I won’t. I’m cleaning the house and besides, I can’t leave Buster.’ He raised his eyebrows and she explained about Buster. ‘The very idea…’ she finished, reminding herself that the quicker he went away, really away and out of her life, the better.
Sir James utilised his impressive bedside manner, kind and considerate but beneath his calm a rock-hard determination to get his own way. ‘You will do as I say, Deborah. Go upstairs and pack a bag for the night and find the cat. I will bring you back in the morning but you are not to sleep here alone tonight.’
She opened her mouth ready to utter a defiant, ‘I won’t,’ but caught his eye and thought better of it. She backed towards the stairs. ‘Well, all right, but Mr Whitmore is coming in the morning—Mrs Squires’ brother, he’s gone to the hospital…’
‘You will be here when he arrives so that you can make whatever arrangements are necessary.’
She packed a small case and bore the sleeping Buster downstairs in his box. Sir James was standing where she had left him but the door and windows were shut, all but the hall light out and the bucket of dirty water by the cupboard emptied and set tidily in the sink.
He took her case from her, peered at Buster and opened the car door so that she might put his box on the back seat. Then he shut the door, ushered her into the front of the car, told her to stay there and knocked on the door of the next house. There were faces peering from several windows and the neighbour came to the door with alacrity and stood listening while Sir James talked. Deborah had no idea what he was saying but the neighbour nodded a great deal and smiled and then waved to her before Sir James turned away and got into the car.
He leaned over and fastened her seatbelt. ‘Had your tea?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, ‘Lunch?’ and she muttered something and he said, ‘I’m sure Mrs Dobbs, my housekeeper, will have something nice for us.’
He smiled at her so kindly that she had to clench her teeth to keep from crying again, indeed, once he had started the car and perforce couldn’t look at her, she allowed the tears to trickle soundlessly down her cheeks. It was dark anyway even though the streets were brightly lighted and she turned her head and looked out of the window, not caring where they were going.
Since it was on the other side of the city it took twenty minutes or so and by then she was feeling much more herself. Still looking out of the window, she blew her nose, wiped her eyes and turned to look ahead of her.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Sir James cheerfully. “There’s nothing like a good cry.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘We’re almost there.’
They were in more spacious streets now and presently when he drove down a narrow side-street and stopped before his elegant house she said in an effort to be polite, ‘It’s very nice here…’
He agreed blandly, offering the information that it was handy for his work. He got out and opened her door and reached inside for Buster in his box. Buster was annoyed and a little frightened; Deborah had tied a teatowel over his box to keep him safe and he did not like it. She took the box from Sir James and followed him across the pavement and up the few steps to his front door, opened as they reached it by Dobbs who wished his master a gloomy ‘Good evening’, and, being introduced to Deborah, inclined his head with civil gravity, taking in every detail of her appearance as he did so.
‘Ask Mrs Dobbs to come here, will you, Dobbs? Miss Everett would like to tidy herself. She will be staying the night so get someone to see that there’s a room ready, will you?’ His glance fell on the box in her arms; the tea cloth was heaving dangerously. ‘We have got a cat with us—Deborah, what do you think would be the best thing to do with Buster?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind having him for just a few minutes while I do my hair…he could stay in his box…he’s used to me and I think he’ll stay quiet once I sit down.’ She added, ‘But where’s Bellum?’
‘Asleep?’ Sir James looked at Dobbs.
‘In the garden, sir.’
‘Right—let him in, will you?’ He cast an eye over Deborah. ‘Run along—I’ll look after Buster.’
Doing the best she could with her tearstained face and untidy head, Deborah had to admit that it was comforting to have someone telling her what to do, arranging this for her. She powdered her nose lavishly and redid her hair and wished with all her heart that she were beautiful and that soon Sir James would take one look at her and fall deeply in love.
Which, if she did but know it, was exactly what he did do as she came back into the hall; at least he had always thought her beautiful and he fell rather more deeply in love at the sight of her, hesitating by the cloakroom door.
‘Over here.’ He opened the door wide and she went past him into his sitting-room. It was a delightful place, cosily furnished with comfortable chairs and a huge sofa before the fire and behind it a lovely Pembroke table. There were lamps on the small tables and a Georgian breakfront bookcase in mahogany against one wall. Buster was sitting on top of it and Bellum was sitting in front of the fire, wagging his tail.
‘Oh—is he safe?’
‘I told Bellum to sit—he’s an obedient dog, besides he is used to Mrs Dobbs’ cat and Trotty’s Maudie. Come and sit down. Will you have a drink? A glass of sherry?’
He put the glass on a small tripod table by her chair and went to sit down opposite her, a glass of whisky at his elbow.
‘How long have you been with Mrs Squires? A friend of Trotty’s, you said?’
Deborah, unaware that he was perfectly aware of how long she had been there—had in fact, received news of her from Trotty—explained. She didn’t do it very well; the sherry was going to her head, she was tired and sad, and mixed in with all these feelings was the predominant one of her love for James sitting there, only yards away, so near and yet so very far… She came to a stumbling halt and he observed mildly that for the moment her circumstances were unfortunate, but that something was bound to turn up.
She was saved from answering this by Dobbs, coming to tell them that Mrs Dobbs had dinner ready if Sir James was agreeable.
At the door Deborah turned to look at Buster. ‘You don’t mind my leaving him there? Bellum won’t hurt him and he might break something…’
‘We will leave them to get used to the sight of each other,’ said Sir James and ushered her across the hall into the dining-room.
Dobbs had always prided himself on his elegant table arrangements even when his master was alone; now he had laid a lace-edged cloth with silver and crystal and the Worcester china he cherished for a dinner party and he had placed a bowl of pink roses and mint leaves at the centre. He looked as gloomy as ever but in the kitchen he had informed his wife that he could smell romance in the air, and was gratified to hear her agree. ‘A nice young lady, very quiet, I thought, and lovely eyes.’
Deborah realised as they sat down that she was famished; breakfast had been early and sketchy because she had wanted to get to the school in good time for the results, lunch had been forgotten entirely although she had made a cup of tea…Mrs Dobbs’ asparagus soup, made as it should be from fresh asparagus and not out of a tin, and with a little thin cream stirred in at the last moment, was the best thing she had tasted for a long time, or so she thought until the duckling with an orange and honey sauce came, and that was followed by a fruit tart so light that the pastry melted in one’s mouth. She drank the wine she was offered, prudently refusing a second glass before they went back to the sitting-room, where Dobbs had put the coffee tray. Halfway to the hearth she stopped. ‘Buster—he’s gone?’
Sir James put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Look,’ he advised her.
Buster and Bellum were sitting side by side, not looking at each other, staring into the fire, but presently when Deborah was sitting in a chair again Buster crept up on to her lap where he stayed until, after an hour’s desultory talk which never once touched on Deborah’s situation, Sir James suggested that she might like an early night. ‘You must be tired and I’m afraid that we must leave quite early tomorrow morning—I have a clinic at half-past eight and I want to drive you back to Mrs Squires’ house first.’
‘I’ll catch a bus…’
His eye fell on Buster, sitting so quietly on her lap in a guarded way. Sir James said mildly, ‘I don’t think Buster would like that. We will leave at half-past seven—breakfast at seven; someone will call you in good time.’
She was tired and so dispirited with impossible ideas as to where she would go or what she would do flitting through her head that she said meekly, ‘Very well, Sir James,’ and then, ‘What shall I do with Buster?’
‘He may accompany you if you wish. Your room has an enclosed balcony and Dobbs will have arranged things.’
She got to her feet with Buster under one arm. ‘You think of everything. Thank you very much for my dinner—and letting me sleep here.’
He had got up too and went to open the door for her. ‘Sleep well, Deborah,’ was all he said.
She slept like the proverbial log and so did Buster, who ate his breakfast on the balcony while she went downstairs to eat hers with Sir James. They had it in a small, very cosy room behind the dining-room and since there wasn’t much time their conversation was no more than requests to pass the toast or the coffeepot. He had said half-past seven and they left exactly then, driving through the still fairly empty streets. There was no hanging about once they reached Mrs Squires’ house. He took the house key from her, opened the door, took a quick look round and carried her case indoors.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Deborah, ‘and do go quickly or you’ll be late. Drive carefully, won’t you?’ She put a hand on his. ‘Goodbye.’
He took her hand and didn’t let it go. ‘You will pack your things—all of them. I will be here soon after six o’clock.’
She tugged at her hand, and felt his clasp tighten. ‘Why?’
‘What a girl you are for asking questions when I have no time to answer them. I am driving you down to Trotty, of course. You’ll stay there until we have considered your future.’ When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, ‘No, don’t argue, I haven’t the time.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Be a dear girl and do just as I ask.’
‘Buster…?’
‘Naturally Buster will accompany you.’ He got into the car and drove off with a casual wave. No one had ever told him to drive carefully before; it had sounded very wifelike and she had looked endearingly anxious. He was going to be late at his consulting-rooms but Alice would see that his first patient was well taken care of. As soon as he started to drive he began to map out his day. It was going to be a busy one—it would be late by the time he got back from Trotty’s cottage that night and the following morning he was going to be even busier. He got out of his car in Harley Street and went up the stairs to his consulting-rooms, the mantle of his profession already on his broad shoulders.
It was still early morning when Deborah closed the door of Mrs Squires’ house, donned the apron once more, released Buster from his box and boiled a kettle of water. There was a good deal of cleaning to do and Mr Whitmore would probably want coffee when he came. She filled her bucket and finished cleaning out the kitchen cupboard before giving the sink a good scrub. There was the bedlinen from her bed to wash too; she hung the first lot on the line in the narrow back garden and stripped her bed, set the machine going and turned her attention to the sitting-room. The house and its furniture began to gleam with soap and polish. By the time Mr Whitmore arrived, another lot of washing was out to dry and she had put coffee and sugar on the clean kitchen table with two mugs. All this time she had been constantly interrupted by the neighbours, calling to see if they could help and glean any news.
Mr Whitmore had smartened himself up, explaining his best suit by telling her that he had been to see his sister’s solicitor. ‘To get things sorted out,’ he explained. And it was quite all right for him to move in whenever he liked; the house was his now. He looked round with a proprietorial air and then at Deborah.
‘I’ve cleaned the house and left everything just so,’ she told him. ‘I’m being fetched by a friend this evening. You won’t mind if I stay here until about six o’clock?’
He looked relieved; possibly, she reflected, he had expected her to ask to stay until she could find somewhere else to go. ‘Suits me,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got my things to pack up. If I’m not back by the time you go, can you leave the key with someone?’
‘The neighbour will take it, I’m sure. Would you like to go round the house before you go?’
He agreed to that, looking askance at Buster, perched on top of the wardrobe in her room. ‘It’s all right,’ said Deborah. ‘Buster is going with me. Mrs Squires gave him to me.’
‘Don’t hold with cats,’ muttered Mr Whitmore, and presently he went away.
She packed her things then, folded the clean washing, watered the plants and fed Buster before using up the last of the bread and a tin of beans for her lunch.
She hung the pinny behind the door, washed her face and hands and did her hair in its coil before wasting a lot of time on her face. She needed creams and lotions and the exact shade of powder and several lipsticks before she could look even faintly pretty; she peered at her reflection and decided that there was nothing more to be done. She might as well have some tea…
She was going round the house, bolting and locking doors and windows, when the Bentley came to a slow silent halt before the door. She stood at the bedroom window and watched Sir James get out without haste and thump the knocker. He was so quiet and so sure of himself and so kind…She stifled a sigh and went down to let him in.
‘You’re ready? Wait a moment while I get a basket for Buster, he’ll be more comfortable than in that box.’
He came back with a cat basket, a roomy one with one end covered in a fine mesh so that the occupant could look out if he wished to. Buster, protesting hotly, was transferred and put on the back seat while she took the key next door and made her goodbyes. Sir James put the two cases in the boot and opened her door, all with a kindly impersonal air which she found daunting.
Perhaps he had had second thoughts, she mused worriedly, or he had had to break some engagement for the evening in order to drive her to Trotty.
They drove in silence for a few minutes before she ventured, ‘I hope I haven’t upset your plans…’
‘No, no, in fact you have fallen in with them very nicely.’
She thought this over for a minute or two and could make nothing of it at first, then she concluded that he had intended to visit Trotty anyway.
The rush-hour was easing a little but it was still a slow business crossing the city. She sat quietly, not wishing to distract his attention from the traffic around him. At some traffic lights he glanced at her.
‘I’m driving carefully enough for you, Deborah?’
‘Oh, did you think that I thought you were a bad driver? It wasn’t that at all—I wouldn’t like you to get hurt…’
The lights changed and he drove on, his face impassive; only his eyes gleamed under their lids. Just for a moment he was tempted to call his registrar and tell him that he wouldn’t be at the hospital in the morning; but he had waited so long, he reflected, that he could—must—wait for one more day. Alice could cancel his private patients and book them in for the following day and he would have to warn Dobbs. Behind a placid face he rearranged his day so that he would be free to drive down to Trotty’s and talk to Deborah.
‘Where’s Bellum?’ asked Deborah suddenly.
‘At home. I thought it might be rather more than Buster could stand, imprisoned in a basket with a dog breathing all over him.’
‘Oh, poor Bellum, did he hate being left behind?’
‘Very much—but he knows I’ll be back this evening.’
Beyond asking her if she was comfortable he had little to say and after one or two tentative remarks she fell silent, supposing that he was thinking about his patients. Once clear of London and the suburbs, travelling at the maximum speed along the motorway, the journey seemed short, too short for Deborah, watching his large well-kept hands on the wheel, wanting to look at his face but staring ahead of her instead. He hadn’t told her how long she was to stay at Trotty’s cottage; she supposed for as long as it took her to get another job, something she would deal with with the utmost urgency. Really, she reflected, life for the last few months had been a series of jobs which somehow came to an end only to find him waiting for her, so to speak. Just his bad luck, she told herself briskly, and remarked brightly that they were almost there.
Trotty welcomed them warmly, accepted Buster in his basket and by now in a bad temper with a calm briskness, and when Sir James, having unloaded the cases and carried them upstairs, told her that he was going straight back to town, said roundly that he was to sit down at the kitchen table immediately and drink a cup of coffee. Deborah was told to sit down too as soon as she had released Buster into the scullery with all the doors shut and a bowl of food for him to gobble.
‘Peaky, that’s just what you look, Deborah,’ declared Trotty. ‘Fresh air and some good food, that’s what you need. You shall tell me about Mrs Squires presently. I must say that was a bit of a shock.’
She stood over them while they drank their coffee and went to the door with Sir James. He got up unhurriedly, bade Deborah to stay where she was and do as Trotty told her, and went out to his car, and Trotty went with him. She came back presently, looking smug, but Deborah was thinking about Sir James and didn’t notice. He hadn’t even said goodbye; he certainly hadn’t listened to her polite speech of thanks. He had this awful habit of going away suddenly, leaving her feeling as though she had lost an arm or a leg.
She looked at Trotty with an unhappy face. ‘I’m no good at anything, Trotty, and he always turns up when things have gone wrong and I’m being such an awful nuisance. I’m not being sorry for myself but I don’t seem to be able to get away from him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I will, I’ll get another job as quickly as I can and save some money and take a typing course again.’
‘Splendid,’ said Trotty bracingly, ‘but first a couple of days here; it’s no good dashing off to the first job that’s offered. Besides, you could do with a bit of feeding up. And that cat of yours, a few breaths of country air will do him good too.’
‘What about Maudie?’
‘Bless you, child, she’ll soon have him in his place. The kittens are all away to good homes and it’ll give her an interest in life, getting him to toe the line.’ Trotty took the mugs to the sink. ‘Up you go and wash your face and unpack and we’ll have supper and then bed for you.’
Trotty’s kindly tyranny was soothing and comforting. Deborah did as she was told and presently, nicely full of supper and warm from a hot bath, she got into bed. Her bedroom door left open so that Buster, should he wish, could go downstairs to the scullery.
Trotty was a splendid listener. For most of the next day Deborah talked. There was such a lot to tell; Mrs Squires and the school and her work, failing her exams, the kindness of the neighbours and, although she tried not to talk too much about Sir James, of course she did.
Trotty plied her with good food, good advice with common sense and matter-of-fact suggestions for the future. Another day or two, she was told, and then she could go to Reading or Henley and find a good agency. At the end of the second day Deborah asked with careful casualness if Sir James would be coming again.
‘Now, would I ask him something like that?’ Trotty wanted to know. ‘And him so busy examining all those poor souls with their addled brains, getting them better too I have no doubt.’ She spoke rather tartly; she wouldn’t tell a lie unless she really had to and she was pleased with the way she had got out of that one and had answered Deborah without erring from the truth. ‘What about going to Henley tomorrow? It’s a bit of a journey but you might find it worth your while.’
Deborah agreed in a bright voice and presently took herself off to bed.
She woke early and since there was no point in lying in bed dreaming about Sir James, she got into her dressing-gown, a dreary, colourless garment entirely lacking glamour, stuck her feet into her equally dull slippers and padded downstairs. She would make a cup of tea and take one to Trotty…
Sir James was sitting at the kitchen table, Bellum at his feet, a pot of tea on the table before him, a mug in his hand. He looked up as she went in and got to his feet. His, ‘Good morning, Deborah,’ was uttered in a placid voice.
‘James,’ said Deborah, quite forgetting herself. ‘Oh, James, you’ve come.’
She regretted the words the minute she had said them but they were out now and she would have to make the best of it. ‘What I mean is,’ she said carefully, ‘that it’s nice to see you…’
‘Oh, good. Have a mug of tea. I’ve taken one up to Trotty.’
‘You haven’t been here all night?’
‘No, no, I got here about an hour ago.’ He pulled a chair from the table. ‘Sit down do—there, with the table between us. Bellum, sit.’
Bellum, overjoyed at the sight of Deborah, sat, and Sir James poured the tea, offered her milk and sugar and then resumed his seat, his conversation apparently exhausted.
For something to say Deborah embarked on the rather disjointed information that she was going into Henley to find a job.
Sir James put down his mug. ‘No, you’re not.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re coming to the cottage with me.’
She put her mug down too because her hands were shaking so. ‘You have been very kind, Sir James, but I am going to Henley…’
‘I suppose it’s your hair which makes you so pigheaded. I am taking you to the cottage. Do you want to know why?’
She tossed a fiery tress of hair over her shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘Yes.’
‘I am going to ask you to marry me, Deborah, and for some reason I want to do it in my own home, preferably in the garden with no one looking on.’
He leaned forward and took the mug from her and took her hand and kissed her palm. ‘I have given you every opportunity of leading your own life but now my patience is quite exhausted. In any case I can see that the only career in which you will be successful is as my wife, making sure that I drive carefully and am never late for work and welcoming me back home each evening, preferably with a clutch of children.’
‘But I’m not suitable…’
‘My dearest love, what is all this nonsense about being suitable? I’m in love with you—have been for a long time now—and I love you…’
‘Oh, is there a difference?’
‘Indeed there is.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind my not being suitable, I would very much like to marry you. I love you too.’
Sir James got up and went round the table and pulled her gently to her feet. He held her so close that her ribs ached. ‘This is by way of being a dress rehearsal,’ he told her, ‘but it will do for a start.’ He began to kiss her then, very thoroughly and at some length. ‘My darling girl, will you mind if we marry very soon, just as soon as I can get a licence? I shall have to go back to London this evening but you will stay at the cottage until I come again…’ He kissed her once more. ‘Now go and put on some clothes and throw away that blanket thing you’re wearing.’
She reached up to put her arms around his neck. ‘I can’t do that. I haven’t another one.’
‘Easily remedied. We’ll buy one for every day of the week.’
She kissed him and Trotty came into the kitchen, as neat as a new pin. ‘Bacon and eggs for breakfast,’ she said briskly. ‘Put some clothes on, love.’
Sir James still held Deborah close. ‘We’re going to be married, Trotty.’
‘And high time too,’ said Trotty, as she reached for the frying-pan. ‘I shall buy a new hat…’
‘As many hats as you like, Trotty,’ said Sir James. He smiled down at Deborah, kissed the top of her head very gently and gave her a little push towards the door. ‘My beautiful girl,’ he said very softly into her ear.
Deborah smiled. It was an extraordinary thing, but she actually felt beautiful.