The Proposal

Professor Pitt-Colwyn hadn’t spoken, there was no expression upon his handsome face and Francesca, watching from her discreet corner, thought that he had no intention of speaking, not at the moment at any rate. He allowed his patient to ramble on in a faint voice, still saying nothing when she paused to say in a quite different tone, ‘Get me some water, Francesca, can’t you see that I am feeling faint? And hurry up, girl.’

The glass of water was within inches of her hand. Francesca handed it, quelling a powerful desire to pour its contents all over Lady Mortimor’s massive bosom.

She went back to her corner from where she admired the professor’s beautiful tailored dark grey suit. He had a nice head too, excellent hair—she considered the sprinkling of grey in it was distinguished—and he had nice hands. She became lost in her thoughts until her employer’s voice, raised in barely suppressed temper, brought her back to her surroundings.

‘My smelling salts—I pay you to look after me, not stand there daydreaming—’ She remembered suddenly that she had an audience and added in a quite different voice, ‘Do forgive me—I become so upset when I have one of these turns, I hardly know what I’m saying.’

Neither man answered. Francesca administered the smelling salts and the professor got to his feet. ‘I will take a look at your chest, Lady Mortimor,’ and he stood aside while Francesca removed the shawls and the housecoat and laid a small rug discreetly over the patient’s person.

The professor had drawn up a chair, adjusted his stethoscope and begun his examination. He was very thorough and when he had done what was necessary he took her blood-pressure, sat with Lady Mortimor’s hand in his, his fingers on her pulse.

Finally he asked, ‘What is your weight?’

Lady Mortimor’s pale make-up turned pink. ‘Well, really I’m not sure …’ She looked at Francesca, who said nothing, although she could have pointed out that within the last few months a great many garments had been let out at the seams …

‘You are overweight,’ said the professor in measured tones, ‘and that is the sole cause of your palpitations. You should lose at least two stone within the next six months, take plenty of exercise—regular walking is to be recommended—and small light meals and only moderate drinking. You will feel and look a different woman within that time, Lady Mortimor.’

‘But my heart—’

‘It is as sound as a bell; I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with you other than being overweight.’

He got up and shook her hand. ‘If I may have a word with Dr Kennedy—perhaps this young lady can show us somewhere we can be private.’

‘You are hiding something from me,’ declared Lady Mortimor. ‘I am convinced that you are not telling me the whole truth.’

His eyes were cold. ‘I am not in the habit of lying, Lady Mortimor; I merely wish to discuss your diet with Dr Kennedy.’

Francesca had the door open and he went past her, followed by Dr Kennedy. ‘The morning-room,’ she told them. ‘There won’t be anyone there at this time in the morning.’

She led the way and ushered them inside. ‘Would you like coffee?’

The professor glanced at his companion and politely declined, with a courteous uninterest which made her wonder if she had dreamed their meetings in the park. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have made some acknowledgement of them—not in front of Lady Mortimor, of course. Perhaps now he had seen her here he had no further interest; he was, she gathered, an important man in his own sphere.

She went back to Lady Mortimor and endured that lady’s peevish ill humour for the rest of the day. The next day would be even worse, for by then Dr Kennedy would have worked out a diet.

Of course, she told Lucy when at last she was free to go to her rooms.

‘I say, what fun—was he pompous?’

‘No, not in the least; you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.’

‘Oh, well, doctors are always poker-faced. He might have said hello.’

Francesca said crossly, ‘Why should he? We haven’t anything in common.’ She added a little sadly, ‘Only I thought he was rather nice.’

Lucy hugged her. ‘Never mind, Fran, I’ll find you a rich millionaire who’ll adore you forever and you’ll marry him and live happily ever after.’

Francesca laughed. ‘Oh, what rubbish. Let’s get the washing-up done.’

As she set out with Bobo the next morning, she wished that she could have taken a different route and gone at a different time, but Lady Mortimor, easy-going when it came to her own activities and indifferent as to whether they disrupted her household, prided herself on discipline among her staff; she explained this to her circle of friends as caring for their welfare, but what it actually meant was that they lived by a strict timetable and since, with the exception of Francesca, she paid them well and Cook saw to it that the food in the kitchen was good and plentiful, they abided by it. It was irksome to Francesca and she was aware that Lady Mortimor knew that; she also knew that she and Lucy needed a home and that not many people were prepared to offer one.

So Francesca wasn’t surprised to see Brontes bounding to meet her, followed in a leisurely manner by his master. She was prepared for it, of course; as he drew level she wished him a cold good-morning and went on walking, towing Bobo and rather hampered by Brontes bouncing to and fro, intent on being friendly.

Professor Pitt-Colywn kept pace with her. ‘Before you go off in high dudgeon, be good enough to listen to me.’ He sounded courteous; he also sounded as though he was in the habit of being listened to if he wished.

‘Why?’ asked Francesca.

‘Don’t be silly. You’re bristling with indignation because I ignored you yesterday. Understandable, but typical of the female mind. No logic. Supposing I had come into the room exclaiming, “Ah, Miss Francesca Haley, how delightful to meet you again”—and it was delightful, of course—how would your employer have reacted?’ He glanced at her thoughtful face. ‘Yes, exactly, I have no need to dot the Is or cross the Ts. Now that that slight misunderstanding is cleared up, tell me why you work for such a tiresome woman.’

She stood still the better to look at him. ‘It is really none of your business …’

He brushed that aside. ‘That is definitely something I will decide for myself.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I’m a complete stranger to you; you can say anything you like to me and I’ll forget it at once if you wish me to—’

‘Oh, the Hippocratic oath.’

His rather stern mouth twitched. ‘And that too. You’re not happy there, are you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, and it’s very kind of you to—to bother, but there is really nothing to be done about it.’

‘No, there isn’t if you refuse to tell me what is wrong.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘How long do you have before you have to report back?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘A lot can be said in that time. Brontes and I will walk back with you as far as Piccadilly.’

‘Oh, will you?’

‘Did I not say so?’ He turned her round smartly, and whistled to Brontes. ‘Now consider me your favourite uncle,’ he invited.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTERWARDS Francesca wondered what had possessed her. She had told Professor Pitt-Colwyn everything. She hadn’t meant to, but once she got started she had seemed unable to stop. She blushed with shame just remembering it; he must have thought her a complete fool, sorry for herself, moaning on and on about her life. That this was a gross exaggeration had nothing to do with it; she would never be able to look him in the face again. The awful thing was that she would have to unless he had the decency to walk his dog in another part of the park.

She was barely in the park before he joined her.

‘A splendid morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I enjoy the autumn, don’t you?’ He took Bobo’s lead from her and unclipped it. ‘Let the poor, pampered beast run free. Brontes will look after him; he has a strong paternal instinct.’

It was difficult to be stand-offish with him. ‘He’s a nice dog, only he’s—he’s rather a mixture, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, decidedly so. Heaven knows where he got that tail.’

For something to say, for she was feeling suddenly shy, ‘He must have been a delightful puppy.’

‘I found him in a small town in Greece. Someone had poked out his eye and beaten him almost to death—he was about eight weeks old.’

‘Oh, the poor little beast—how old is he now?’

‘Eight months old and still growing. He’s a splendid fellow and strangely enough, considering his origin, very obedient.’

‘I must get back.’ She looked around for Bobo, who was nowhere in sight, but in answer to her companion’s whistle Brontes came trotting up with Bobo scampering beside him. The professor fastened his lead and handed it to her. His goodbye was casually kind; never once, she reflected as she walked back to the house, had he uttered a word about her beastly job. She had been a great fool to blurt out all her worries and grumbles to a complete stranger who had no interest in her anyway. She wished most heartily that there was some way in which she could avoid meeting him ever again.

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