A Secret Infatuation. Бетти Нилс

through the city and its suburbs, but once free of the traffic she took the bit between her teeth.

      ‘Are you married?’ she wanted to know.

      If he were surprised at her question he concealed it very well. ‘No.’

      ‘But I expect you’re engaged?’ she persisted. She hadn’t really expected him to say, ‘Yes I am,’ in a voice which dared her to ask any more questions.

      It was a blow and she didn’t know why she had assumed that he was heart-whole. He was, after all, what polite society would call eligible—handsome, esteemed in his profession, possessed apparently of enough money to make life very comfortable. She wondered who the girl was, and Eugenie, being Eugenie, proceeded to find out despite the coolness of his manner.

      ‘I expect she’s Dutch?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And pretty … Is she—that is, what does she do?’

      He didn’t answer at once. ‘She has a great many friends, travels a good deal and does some social work …’

      ‘But not a job?’

      ‘No. She has no need to work.’

      ‘Well,’ said Eugenie, ‘that will be nice when you marry. I mean she’ll be able to stay at home and look after the children.’ The very idea made her feel sick.

      ‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’ His words were expressionless. ‘Did you phone your mother to say that you would be arriving late in the evening?’

      All right, snub me! thought Eugenie, aching with the kind of unhappiness she hadn’t known existed. ‘Yes, I telephoned her. And if you don’t want to talk about your fiancée, that’s OK by me.’

      His voice was bland. ‘Did I say I wished to talk about her? It was you—’

      ‘All right,’ she snapped. ‘I was only making conversation.’

      He laughed then but didn’t answer her, and they drove down the A303 for what seemed like a very long time until he pulled in at a Happy Eater.

      ‘I think we have time for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.’

      ‘I’d rather have tea,’ said Eugenie haughtily, and skipped away to the ladies. She powdered her cross face, combed her hair and went to find him in the crowded restaurant. He got up as she reached their table. He had the unselfconscious good manners of a man who had been brought up by a good nanny.

      ‘Buttered toast? I’m sure you could eat a slice. We’re making good time but we still have a fair way to go.’

      She sat down and poured her tea and drank it while a gentle flow of small talk flowed over her, nothing that needed her full attention and requiring nothing more than a brief reply from time to time. It was soothing and her ill-humour melted away; she found herself telling him about her father’s illness and the Reverend Mr Watts and how she missed the moor. They went back to the car presently, and although they had little to say to each other the silence was friendly now.

      It was late evening by now and dark, and presently it began to drizzle with rain. There was nothing to see and the road ran ahead of them, almost empty of traffic. Uninteresting, even boring, but Eugenie was content; it had been a terrible blow to discover that he was going to marry but just for the moment he was here beside her, large and apparently enjoying her company. As far as she was concerned their journey could go on for ever.

      The Bentley tore along, away from the A303 and on to the M5 with Exeter’s city lights shining in the distance, and then presently they were on the Plymouth road and, all too soon for her, turning off through Ashburton, climbing slowly towards Pounds-gate and then down the hill to Dartmeet. They were travelling slowly now because of the sheep roaming free, but it wasn’t long before he took the narrow lane leading to the village and drew up silently outside the Rectory door.

      Eugenie glanced at her watch. Just over four hours. They had gone too quickly. He got out and opened her door and she said, ‘You’ll come in and have something? Mother’s sure to have—’

      He cut her short. ‘1 would have liked that, but I must get back to Exeter. I’ll see you on Thursday, about six o’clock.’

      She was aware that her mother was standing at the door watching them. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be ready for you. And do drive carefully.’

      He smiled down at her but she didn’t see his face clearly in the dark. He got into the car and drove away then, leaving her to go indoors and explain to her mother that he wasn’t able to stop.

      Her mother led the way to the kitchen. ‘Just as long as he has a bed for the night and a good supper to put inside him. He’s going to drive you back, darling?’

      ‘Yes, I’m to be ready at six o’clock. How’s Father?’

      ‘Very well, considering. Mr Watts has got over his cold and I helped him with the Mothers’ Union and Sunday school.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘We miss you, love.’

      She put a bowl of soup before Eugenie and cut some bread. ‘He’ll be hungry, that nice Dutchman of yours.’

      ‘He’s not mine,’ said Eugenie bleakly. ‘He’s engaged to a girl in Holland.’

      Mrs Spencer eyed her daughter. ‘But not married. Did you talk about her?’

      Eugenie shook her head. ‘He didn’t want to, I think. He just said yes and no, if you see what I mean.’

      ‘I wonder why. Most men when they’re in love with a girl never stop talking about her.’

      Eugenie supped her soup and took a huge bite of bread. ‘I think he thought I was being inquisitive.’

      ‘And were you, dear?’

      ‘I wanted to know, Mother, and now I do I can do something about it, can’t I? Forget him.’

      She spoke cheerfully, not believing a word of what she was saying.

      Her two days at home were crammed full of odd jobs. Tiger had to be taken to the vet in Buckfastleigh to have his injections, and while she waited for him she did the weekly shopping for her mother and visited old Mrs Ash who lived with her son on an outlying farm. She took a cake with her and a bunch of flowers, for the old lady was celebrating her ninetieth birthday in a week’s time, and when she got back home the Reverend Mr Watts was with her father, intent on changing the times of the church services. Eugenie plunged unasked into the discussions.

      ‘Those times haven’t been altered in decades. You only want to do so because it’s more convenient for you.’ She took no notice of her father’s, ‘Hush, Eugenie,’ but went on with some heat, ‘What is the point? You’ll be gone in another week or two and everything will be changed back again.’

      The Reverend Mr Watts, torn between annoyance at not getting his own way and the feelings he cherished towards her, became incoherent, so that she said briskly, ‘You see what I mean; I’m glad you agree.’

      She gave him a brilliant smile and clinched the matter by saying that she would walk with him back to his house.

      When she came back to the Rectory her father said mildly, ‘You were rather hard on the poor man, my dear.’

      ‘Oh, pooh, Father. You know you didn’t agree with a word he said only you’re too nice to say so.’ She kissed the bald patch on his head and went away to help her mother get the supper.

      It was still raining the next day but there was plenty to do in the garden. She spent the morning pottering happily, digging the ground ready for planting later on—asters and dahlias and chrysanthemums—useful flowers for the church as well as the house. Since it cleared as if by magic while they were having lunch, and there was a steady wind blowing, she washed the kitchen curtains, hung them out and ironed them and hung them up again before changing into the tweed jacket and skirt she had come down in, packing her