The Daughter of the Manor. Бетти Нилс

with its tall windows, plaster ceiling and vast fireplace in which burned a log fire that was quite inadequate to warm the room. The furniture was beautiful too, polished lovingly, the shabby upholstery brushed and repaired.

      Her mother was playing patience and her father was sitting at a table by the window, writing. She set the tray down on a small table near her mother’s chair and went to put more logs on the fire.

      ‘I thought we might give a small dinner party quite soon,’ observed Lady Crosby. ‘We owe several, don’t we? You might start planning a menu, darling.’

      ‘How many?’ asked Leonora, humouring her parent, wondering where the money was to come from. Dinner parties cost money. They could pawn the silver, she supposed with an inward chuckle; on the other hand she could make an enormous cottage pie and offer it to their guests…

      ‘Oh, eight, I think, don’t you? No, it would have to be seven or nine, wouldn’t it? We can’t have odd numbers.’

      Lady Crosby sipped her tea. ‘What shall you wear this evening?’

      ‘Oh, the blue…’

      ‘Very nice, dear, such a pretty colour; I have always liked that dress.’

      So did I, reflected Leonora, when I first had it several years ago.

      Getting into it later that evening, she decided that she hated it. Indeed, it was no longer the height of fashion, but it was well cut and fitted her splendid shape exactly where it should. She added the gold chain she had had for her twenty-first birthday, slipped Tony’s ring on her finger and took a last dissatisfied look at her person, wrapped herself in a velvet coat she had worn to her twenty-first-birthday dance, and went downstairs to join her parents.

      Sir William was impatiently stomping up and down the hall. ‘Your mother has no idea of time,’ he complained. ‘Go and hurry her up, will you, Leonora? I’ll get the car round.’

      Lady Crosby was fluttering around her bedroom looking for things—her evening bag, the special hanky which went with it, her earrings…

      Leonora found the bag and the hanky, assured her mother that she was wearing the earrings and urged her down to the hall and out into the cold dark evening, while Nanny went to open the car door.

      The car, an elderly Daimler which Sir William had sworn that he would never part with despite the drain on his income, was at the entrance; Leonora bundled her mother into the front seat and got into the back, where she whiled away the brief journey thinking up suitable topics of conversation to get her through dinner. She would know everyone there, of course, but it was as well to be prepared….

      The Willoughbys welcomed them warmly for they had known each other for a long time. Leonora glanced round her as they went into the drawing room, seeing familiar faces, smiling and exchanging greetings; there was the vicar and his wife, old Colonel Howes and his daughter, the Merediths from the next village whose land adjoined her father’s, Dr Fleming, looking ill, and his wife and, standing with them, the man in the car who had witnessed her undignified tumble.

      ‘You haven’t met our new doctor, have you, dear?’ asked Mrs Willoughby, and saved Leonora the necessity of answering by adding, ‘James Galbraith.’ Mrs Willoughby smiled at him. ‘This is Leonora Crosby—she lives at the Big House—you must come and meet her parents.’

      Leonora offered a hand. Her ‘How do you do?’ was uttered with just the right amount of pleasant interest, but it had chilly undertones.

      His hand was large and cool and firm and she felt compelled to look at him. Very handsome, she conceded—rather sleepy blue eyes and very fair hair, a splendid nose and a rather thin mouth. He was tall too, which was nice, she reflected; so often she found herself looking down on people from her five feet ten inches. Now she had to look up, quite a long way too!

      ‘Six foot four?’ she wondered out loud.

      The Flemings had turned away to speak to someone else. Dr Galbraith’s mouth quivered faintly. ‘Five, actually. Are you feeling sore?’

      She said austerely, ‘I hardly think that is a question I need to answer, Dr Galbraith.’

      She had gone rather pink and glanced around her, on the point of making an excuse to go and talk to the vicar. She was stopped by his saying, ‘I speak in my professional capacity, Miss Crosby; presumably you will be one of my patients.’

      ‘I am never ill,’ said Leonora, unknowingly tempting fate.

      Mrs Willoughby had joined them again. ‘Getting to know each other?’ she wanted to know. ‘That’s nice—take Leonora in to dinner, will you, James?’ She tapped his sleeve. ‘You don’t mind if I call you James? Though if ever I need your skill I’ll be sure to call you Doctor.’

      Leonora had been sipping her sherry; now she put the glass down. ‘I really must circulate, and Nora Howes is dying to come and talk to you.’

      He looked amused. ‘Oh? How do you know that?’

      ‘Woman’s intuition.’ She gave him a brief smile and crossed the room and he watched her go, thinking that a splendid creature such as she deserved a better dress.

      She had been right about Nora Howes, who laid a hand on his sleeve, threw her head back and gave him an arch look. Older than Leonora, he supposed, as thin as a washboard and wearing a rather too elaborate dress for a dinner party in the country. But he could be charming when he liked and Nora relinquished him reluctantly as they went in to dinner, and he turned with relief to Leonora as the soup was served. Not a girl he could get interested in, he reflected—far too matter-of-fact and outspoken—but at least she didn’t simper.

      It was a round table so conversation, after a time, became more or less general. He had Mrs Fleming on his other side, a quiet middle-aged woman, a good deal younger than her husband and anxious about him.

      ‘I didn’t want him to come,’ she confided quietly, ‘but he insisted. ‘He’s not well; he’s going into hospital tomorrow.’

      He said gently, ‘You mustn’t worry too much, Mrs Fleming. If he leads a quiet life for the next few months and keeps to his treatment he’ll get a great deal better.’

      She smiled at him. ‘If anyone else had said that I should have supposed them to be pulling the wool over my eyes, but because it’s you I believe what you’ve told me.’

      ‘Thank you. I wish all patients were as trusting. Don’t hesitate to call me if you’re worried.’

      ‘I won’t. It’s so nice that you’re going to live at Buntings—such a lovely old house and it’s been empty far too long.’

      She turned to speak to her neighbour and presently everyone went back to the drawing room to drink coffee and gossip. It might be a small village but there was always something happening.

      The party broke up shortly before eleven o’clock and since it was cold outside no one lingered to talk once they’d left the house. Sir William unlocked his car door and glanced at the Rolls-Royce parked beside him.

      Who’s the lucky owner? he wondered, and saw Dr Fleming getting in.

      ‘Good Lord, Bill, have you come into a fortune?’ he called.

      ‘No, no, James owns it. Rather nice, isn’t it?’ He disappeared inside and Sir William got behind his wheel and backed the car. ‘Lucky young devil,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Come up on the pools, has he?’

      Leonora made some vague reply. She was thinking about Tony. She hadn’t seen him for a week or so; perhaps he would come at the weekend. She hoped so; she felt strangely unsettled and just seeing him would reassure her—she wasn’t sure why she wanted to be reassured, but that didn’t matter; Tony would set her world to rights again.

      He did come, driving up on Saturday afternoon in his Porsche, and if his kiss and hug were lacking the fervour of a man in love she didn’t notice because she was glad to see him.

      He