Fate Takes A Hand. Бетти Нилс

didn’t love him; she liked him, was fond of him, and very content to marry him, for he had wealth and position and a certain amount of fame in his profession. They would get on well enough together, although she had revealed a pettishness and desire to have her own way which she had been careful not to let him see before they had become engaged. She had lost her temper once or twice and then apologised very prettily, but they had come near to quarrelling when he had told her that for part of the year they would live in Holland. ‘My home is there,’ he had pointed out reasonably. ‘I have beds in several hospitals. My home is in the country and I think that you would like it.’

      She had screamed at him—at the idea of burying herself alive in some miserable little village with no shops and none of her friends. She would go mad. Of course, she would go there with him just to visit, but certainly not for more than a week or so. Perhaps they could take some of her friends with them…

      He had given her a long, thoughtful look and had walked out of her mother’s house, so angry that he couldn’t trust himself to speak, and then later he had sent her the roses…

      He left the main road presently and turned into an elegant little street off Cavendish Square. His house was at the end of a short terrace of Regency houses and was a good deal smaller than the others, with only two storeys, but it had the advantages of easy access to the mews behind and a minute garden at the back. He got out of his car, got his bag from the back seat and trod the three steps to his front door.

      A thin middle-aged man opened it. He had a long face with an expression of resigned disapproval upon it, and his staid, ‘Good evening, sir,’ held reproach.

      Mr van Linssen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good evening, Dodge. I’m late—I got delayed.’ He started down the elegant little hall towards his study.

      ‘Nothing serious, I hope, sir.’

      ‘I got carried away playing a game of draughts and quite forgot the time.’

      Dodge looked astonished. ‘Draughts, sir? Would you like dinner served very shortly?’

      Mr van Linssen, his hand on the study door, nodded. ‘Please.’

      Dodge coughed. ‘Miss Kendall telephoned shortly after seven o’clock, sir. She asked if you were home. She seemed somewhat agitated, so I took it upon myself to say that you had been detained at the hospital over an urgent case. I was to tell you that she intended to go to the theatre with her friends as arranged.’

      ‘Oh, lord, I forgot.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll have dinner and phone later this evening.’

      Dodge’s face didn’t alter, his, ‘Very good, sir,’ was uttered in his usual rather mournful tones, but once in the kitchen he informed Mabel, his cat, that it served that Miss Kendall right, always expecting the master to frivol away his precious free time at the theatre and suchlike, when all he wanted to do was to have a quiet evening with a book or in the company of his own friends.

      Dodge shook his head sadly and began to dish up. He was a splendid cook, and with the aid of a daily cleaner ran the little house to perfection. He disliked Mr van Linssen’s choice of a bride. He considered her rude and arrogant and spoilt; moreover, despite his mournful manner, he was romantic at heart, and wished for nothing better than a love-match for his master.

      Mr van Linssen enjoyed his dinner, finished an article he had been writing for The Lancet, made several phone calls to the hospital and then sat back idly in his chair. There was plenty of work for him to get on with on his desk, but he ignored it. He was mulling over his visit to Peter. A nice child, unspoilt too, and happy despite his orphaned state and lack of a father or uncle. Eulalia was doing her best, he had seen that for himself, and Trottie, waxing chatty over a cup of tea, had told him a good deal. Miss Lally was an angel, she had confided, and never had any time to herself. Even on a Monday, when she was free, there was the washing and ironing and shopping.

      Mr van Linssen, who had only a vague idea about the running of a household, had nodded sympathetically. ‘What she wants is a good husband,’ Trottie had said, and had poured more tea.

      She was an impetuous girl, he reflected now, outspoken too—not every man would want her for a wife. She was, of course, undeniably pretty. It was a pity that they had got off on the wrong foot, and she had made it obvious that she had no liking for him, although she had thanked him for looking after Peter and meant it.

      He shrugged his shoulders, a little irritated at his interest in her, and lifted the phone.

      Ursula’s voice, high with bad temper, caused him to wince. ‘I have had a wretched evening,’ she told him, ‘making excuses for you, and of course we were a man short for supper afterwards. Fenno, you will have to give up your appointments at all those hospitals—there’s no need. You’ve private patients enough, and think of the private hospitals there are—you could pick and choose and enjoy a social life.’

      It was an old argument which he had always brushed aside. Now he said, ‘But I don’t want to give up my appointments, either here or in Holland, Ursula, nor do I intend to.’

      She did some quick thinking. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be cross. I’ve had a beastly time—the play was a bore and some fool spilt wine down my dress—it’s a ruin. I’ll have to go looking for another one, and shopping is so tiring.’

      He thought of Eulalia’s tired face when she had got home that evening and fought a rising tide of impatience. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something just as pretty as the frock which is spoilt.’

      ‘I’ll find something you will like, darling, be sure of that. Don’t let’s quarrel about something which isn’t in the least important.’

      Mr van Linssen controlled his rage with an effort. ‘I have to ring off. I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

      When, hopefully, he would feel more tolerant.

      He fetched Peter the next morning, much to that little boy’s delight. ‘We thought there’d be an ambulance,’ explained Trottie. ‘Shall I come with him? However will he get back?’

      ‘I’ll bring him back, and there’s no need for you to come, Miss Trott.’

      ‘There’s coffee on the stove if you could find time for a cup, sir.’

      Mr van Linssen sat himself down at the kitchen table, accepted the coffee and a slice of cake and remarked carelessly, ‘You must find this very different from the Cotswolds.’

      ‘Indeed I do, and so does Miss Lally. Made up her mind to go back there one day she has, bless her, though how she’ll manage that, bless me if I know.’

      ‘Perhaps she has prospects of marrying? An old friend—an admirer?’

      ‘Admirers enough,’ said Trottie, ‘but that’s not her way—too proud to accept help. Besides, she’s not found the right man yet.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Besides, he’ll have to be a proper man, if you know what I mean, able to take her troubles on to his shoulders. She’s not one of these modern young women wanting to be something big in the business world, but she’s no doormat, neither—’

      She broke off as Peter came into the kitchen, his small face alight with excitement. ‘Are we going in your car? Is that why you’re here?’

      ‘Indeed it is. Are you ready? We’d better be off or we’ll be late.’

      Mr van Linssen allowed Peter to chatter away as he drove to the hospital, but presently he asked casually, ‘Do you want to go to the Cotswolds too, Peter?’

      ‘Yes, ‘cos Aunt Lally does. We shall go one day. She said so—she’s going to make her fortune and we’ll go to the village where she was a little girl and she’s going to open a flower shop there and we’ll have a dog and a cat and a rabbit and there will be a garden.’

      ‘You might have to wait a bit, old chap.’

      ‘That’s what Aunt Lally says too, but I don’t mind. When