Dear Tiberius; (aka Nurse Nolan) (9 page)

“
This is Miss Harling, Miranda. She
’
s a wonderful dancer, and one of these days, when we
’
ve got you out of that chair, we
’
ll get her to take you on as a pupil, shall we?
”

His daughter was silent for so long that Lynette herself laughed suddenly, as if amused.

“
Miranda will be a little too old for a career as a dancer by the time that happens,
”
she said.
“
I started
my
dancing career when I was barely four years old, and unless you do begin when you
’
re very young there
’
s little hope of making a success later on—not a success worth calling a success, anyway. It
’
s a question of flexible muscles and fluid joints, of course. If the pattern of the dance is to be interpreted in the correct way complete elasticity is everything—isn
’
t that so, mother?
”
she addressed a plump little woman who sat knitting a violently heliotrope sweater on her left hand.

“
Oh, yes, love, everything!
”
the plump little woman agreed, and Lucy was surprised because there was something friendly, and slightly Cockney, about the tones of this new voice, and Mrs. Harling
’
s bright, birdlike
eyes rested on Miranda with a compassionate, motherly gleam in them.
“
Everything!
”
she repeated.

“
Mother knows that I have devoted my life to dancing,
”
Lynette exclaimed somewhat dramatically, and then lay back against her chair and closed her eyes as if the thought of it exhausted her.

A tall man with graying hair who had been standing beside the low balustrade of the terrace and gazing out across the grounds, while he thoughtfully smoked a cigarette, turned suddenly and appropriated the chair on her right hand. He bent over her almost solicitously as he produced his gold cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to her, at the same time sparing a smiling, sideways glance for Lucy.

“
A grand morning, miss...? Or should I say
‘
nurse
’
?
”
he asked.

Sir John made the necessary introductions somewhat belatedly, and then Purvis appeared walking sedately along the terrace with a tray of drinks. Lucy prepared to move on with her charge, but the friendly Mrs. Harling looked up at her and smiled with as much obvious goodwill as the man with the graying hair, who had been introduced to her as a Mr. Francis Burke.

“
I saw you from my window this morning, nurse,
”
Mrs. Harling said,
“
and you were walking so briskly down the driveway, pushing that heavy chair, that I quite envied you. This is such a heavenly spot, isn
’
t it?
”
She glanced about her as if she had never seen anything quite so
“
heavenly
”
before, and then sighed suddenly,
“
but I
’
m afraid I
’
ve left my walking shoes behind, and I can
’
t hobble around on these things,
”
glancing down disparagingly at her perilously high-heeled shoes.

Lucy surveyed them for a moment with interest, thinking that both mother and daughter had equipped themselves in a rather unwise fashion for their stay in the country, and then offered to lend her a pair of her own walking shoes, as their feet seemed to be much the same size, if Mrs. Harling cared to take advantage of her offer. And the creator of the heliotrope sweater positively beamed.

“
Why, that is kind of you, Nurse Nolan!
”
she said.
“
I
’
ll squeeze my feet into them somehow, if you
’
ll be good enough to let me have them. And perhaps—
”
glancing again at Miranda
“
—perhaps you wouldn
’
t mind if I accompanied you on one of your walks?
”

“
Of course, if you
’
d like to,
”
Lucy answered, with her own peculiarly charming smile.

“
I certainly would, nurse,
”
Mrs. Harling assured her, and thrust her knitting somewhat contemptuously away in her elaborate knitting bag.
“
In London we live in what they call a mews apartment, and I get a bit tired of the outlook. So when I come to a place like this I feel I
’
d like to see something of it.
”
She looked up almost awed as Purvis bowed before her with the tray of drinks, and her beringed fingers reached out for a dry martini.
“
Thank you very much, Mr.—er—Purvis!
”
she said.

Her daughter slid green eyes around at her coldly as she sipped her own drink that Sir John himself had put into her hands.

“
Nurse Nolan is not here for your entertainment, mother!
”
she rebuked her.
“
She is here to look after Miranda!
”

“
Oh, of course, dear,
”
Mrs.
Harling agreed almost humbly—she was aware that she had blundered badly over that
“Mr.”
when addressing the butler and that Lynette was probably fuming inwardly.
“
But I don
’
t suppose she
’
ll mind if I trot along with her when she
’
s taking the child for her walks. And you know how much I like the country—and all this is so
new
....
”

There was something almost pathetic about the way she looked around her at the dignified, age-old terrace with its flower-filled urns, and the wide windows standing open behind them providing glimpses of luxurious rooms beyond. Here there was no flamboyance, or any pretence of any kind, but there was evidence of a great deal of wealth put to a use that provoked admiration, and inspired a feeling of awe when one was not accustomed to it. And the host himself, regarding her with quite a kindly look—for him—wearing superlatively tailored flannels, a silk shirt open to reveal a strong brown column of a throat, and a very dark blue blazer. Somehow, Sir John himself made her feel nervous, for all his kindness, with his austere gray eyes, and she gulped hurriedly at her drink and choked over it, and her daughter
’
s alabaster complexion was overlaid by a faint flush.

Sir John said quickly that he was sure Nurse Nolan would be
only too delighted to have company on her walks, and Lucy endorsed this by adding that she would be taking a walk in the wood alone that afternoon, while Miranda rested, and invited the ballerina
’
s embarrassed parent to go with her.

Mrs. Harling looked at her gratefully.

“
That
’
s kind,
”
she said.

But Lynette, catching her scarlet lower lip between her white teeth, looked upward at Nurse Nolan.

“
I hope,
”
she observed,
“
that the walk won
’
t be such a strenuous one that it will tire you too much to give me massage treatment for my ankle when you come back, nurse! I
’
d like you to spare me half an hour before dinner, at least!
”

“
Very well,
”
Lucy replied, and wa
s
aware that Sir John was studying her rather attentively as she wheeled Miranda
’
s chair away along the terrace.

Mrs. Harling, in
a pair of Lucy
’
s carefully preserved brogues, proved to be an intrepid walker, and by the time they returned to the house after completely encircling the lake Lucy was aware that she was feeling, if not exactly tired by the exercise, at least grateful that it was over for the time being. Mrs. Harling had chattered away very much like the bird her bright eyes suggested—to Lucy a chirpy London sparrow resembled her more closely than anything else—and she was naive in the confidences that she had reposed in Lucy, and that were mostly concerned with her daughter.

Lynette was her world, and everything that made life worth living had its connection with her. Lucy listened to a story of pinching and scraping during Lynette
’
s early years, and life in squalid rooming houses in order that the child who promised so well should have every possible advantage that would secure her
a
much better time in the future. Lynette had danced her way to success on the sacrifices of her mother, and now her mother was so delighted by that success that she thought of little else during her waking moments. Lynette
’
s successful tour of Europe—Lynette
’
s reception in America—it was all almost bewildering! And now Lynette
’
s association with Sir John Ash—fabulously wealthy widower!

It was fairly safe to predict—or so it seemed—that Lynette would one day be Lady Ash.

Lady Ash of Ketterings!

“
But, you know,
”
said Mrs. Harling, lowering her voice expressively as she was attacked by a wave of sympathetic commiseration,
“
I do feel that it
’
s very unfortunate for him that his only child should be so much an invalid! Such a tragic thing for the poor man, and as for the child herself
....”
Her voice trailed off, alive with feeling.

Lucy agreed with her, although silently.

“
Do you think she
’
ll ever walk again, nurse? Or is it a hopeless case? She looks so pathetically frail.
”

Lucy said with deliberate brightness,
“
We certainly hope she will walk again before very long. But naturally, at the moment, it is difficult to say when.
”

“
Yes, I suppose so.
”
Mrs. Harling removed a bramble that was seeking to obstruct her path.
“
I must admit, though, that when I saw her for the first time this morning I got rather a shock. There
’
s nothing of her, for one thing, and for another—
”
She looped the bramble back into the hedge, and then examined her plump hands for thorns.
“
You may think me fanciful, nurse, but there
’
s a look in her
face—something I don
’
t like to see
....”

“
What do you mean?
”
Lucy asked, feeling suddenly rather cold inside.

Mrs. Harling gazed at her half-apologetically.

“
Oh, nothing—only she
’
s so wasted,
and the poor mite looks

as if she suffers a good deal, and her eyes are tired
....”

They walked on over the woodland path, and birds rustled in the branches above them, but for several seconds neither of them said a word. And then Mrs. Harling inquired abruptly,
“
Is Sir John very much concerned about his daughter?
”

“
What Sir John thinks and feels he keeps to himself. That
’
s his way about most things,
”
Lucy replied cautiously.

“
Ah!
”
Mrs. Harling exclaimed, and nodded her head in
entire agreement.
“
That was my own impression of him! A man very difficult to get to know, although I imagine Lynette knows him quite well by this time.
”

“
If she doesn
’
t, she
’
s most unwise if she
’
s seriously considering marrying him,
”
Lucy observed, a note of cool primness in her voice.

But secretly she wondered whether anyone—even a woman with opportunities to get to know him—would ever really understand what went on behind that inscrutable mask Sir John adopted to confound most people with whom he came in contact.

When she went upstairs to have tea with Miranda she was
f
eeling, if not exactly depressed, at least strangely cast down as a result of her walk and her talk with Mrs. Harling. That remark about Miranda having something in her face! What exactly, had the older woman meant? But, then, Mrs. Harling was the type Lucy could imagine examining tea leaves at the bottom of her teacup, and consulting crystal gazers, and believing in signs and omens. And Miranda was looking so cheerful, when she, Lucy, joined her, sitting in her wheelchair with Gentian curled up and purring on her lap, and instructing Fiske how not to burn the tea cakes she was toasting in front of the sitting-room fire, that Lucy told herself almost fiercely that of course everything was going to be all right for her again one day. It had to be!

Lucy went down to give Lynette Harling her massage treatment just before dinner, but although the ballerina submitted to her ministrations, she had nothing to say to her, preferring instead to peruse a fashion magazine, and to issue occasional languid instructions to her maid concerning what she was going to wear that evening. Only when Lucy advised a few daily exercises that Miss Harling could carry out herself without supervision, and which she explained carefully, did Lynette reply to her in a distant sort of way, and as soon as the instructions were over she dismissed her in very much the same manner as she would dismiss her maid.