Paradise for Two. Бетти Нилс

“You could have said who you were!”

      He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

      She was stumped for an answer.

      He said thoughtfully, “You aren’t my idea of a Prudence.”

      “Indeed?” She had managed to get her hand back at last.

      He put his handsome head on one side, contemplating her. “Small and pink and white and clinging.”

      He shook his head and she said tartly, “What a disappointment I must be, Doctor—er—ter Brons Huizinga, not that your opinion interests me…”

      “Oh, dear, we’ve started off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?”

      Aunt Beatrix had gone over to her sister’s bed, but now she paused in what she was saying and turned to look at them. She said in her rather loud voice, “Getting to know each other? That’s right, you young people will have a lot in common.”

      “Young?” murmured Prudence unforgivably, and looked pointedly at his hair—there was quite a lot of grey in it. She was annoyed when he laughed. “Well, I dare say you must seem young to my aunt,” she added kindly.

      He didn’t answer, but strolled over to the bed. “Aunt Emma, I should like to take a look at you as I’m here. Would you like your maid here? Or better still, could Prudence help you?”

      Aunt Beatrix got up. “Why, of course she will. I shall go to my room until luncheon. Before you go, Haso, will you arrange a diet for me? I have a letter from Dr Lockett in London. Insulin, you know,” she added vaguely.

      He opened the door for her. “Of course, Aunt Beatrix.” He added something in Dutch to make her laugh and then returned to the bedside.

      He was very much the doctor now. For Prudence’s benefit he spoke English, although from time to time he lapsed into his own language while he talked to his aunt. When he had finished his examination he sat down on the side of her bed. “You’re doing very nicely, and now you’re in your own house you’ll do even better. You may get up tomorrow for a short time: I’m sure you’re in capable hands.” He glanced at Prudence, who looked rather taken aback; she had been prepared to keep an eye on Aunt Beatrix, but now here was a second elderly lady to worry about.

      “Aunt Emma has a splendid maid, quite able to cope if you would prefer that.” His eyes were on her face, but she refused to look at him. Instead she turned a smiling look towards the bed’s occupant.

      “I shall enjoy looking after you,” she said firmly.

      “That’s settled, then—we’d better deal with this diet, had we not?” He glanced at his watch. “I have ten minutes to spare. Perhaps you could get the diet sheets and instructions about the insulin and bring them down to the small sitting-room.”

      Prudence hadn’t the least idea where the small sitting-room might be—indeed, she reflected, neither did she know where her room was. Presumably someone would tell her in their own good time. She wished Mevrouw ter Brons Huizinga a temporary goodbye and went through the door he was holding open. She had swept past him rather grandly, only to stop short in the corridor outside. She had not the least idea where to go.

      “Aunt Beatrix will be in her usual room—go to the end of this corridor and turn left, it’s the first door on your right.” He caught her arm. “It will be quicker if I show you. Do you know where your room is?”

      “No, but I hope someone will tell me before bedtime.”

      He stopped, and she perforce stopped with him. “Not much of a welcome. You should have been warned that the Aunts take it for granted that their minds are read and their wishes carried out without the necessity of them needing to put them into words.” He walked on again, turned a corner and nodded towards a door. “There’s Aunt Beatrix’s room. The sitting-room is on the left at the bottom of the staircase.”

      Aunt Beatrix was resting on her bed watching Pretty unpack. “There you are, dear child. Luncheon will be in twenty minutes—in the family dining-room. Do you want something?”

      Prudence collected the diet sheets, the insulin and the doctor’s letter and went downstairs. Dr ter Brons Huizinga came to the door as she reached the last stair. “In here, Prudence—you don’t mind if I call you Prudence?”

      He didn’t wait for her to answer but started reading the letter, having first invited her to sit down. The room was rather pleasant, although she found the furniture rather heavy. But it was beautifully cared for, and the ornaments and silver scattered around were museum pieces. She glanced up and found the doctor’s eyes upon her. He smiled suddenly, and just for a moment she liked him, but the smile went as quickly as it had come, and he turned away to a chair opposite hers.

      “There couldn’t be a worse diabetic than Aunt Beatrix,” he observed in his faintly accented English. “Keeping her to a diet won’t be too bad, but once she’s stabilised and off injections, the chances of her remembering to take her pills are slight. However, we’ll do our best.”

      He got out his pen and spread the diet sheet on his knee and began to write it out in Dutch. Prudence sat and looked at him; he really was very good-looking, and far too sure of himself, almost arrogant. She wondered where he lived, and as he put his pen away she asked, “Do you live here, too?”

      “No. Now, the insulin…”

      Prudence blushed at the snub, although she supposed she had deserved it. She listened to his instructions, received back the diet sheet and his own written instructions as well as the doctor’s letter and the insulin, and got up to go.

      “Presumably you’re on the telephone if I should need you?”

      “Indeed I am.” He opened the door and then shut it again before she could reach it. “Tell me, did you expect there to be a nurse here to look after Aunt Emma?”

      She raised her eyes to his. “Well, yes, I did—I mean, Aunt Beatrix asked me to come along, too because she was a little uncertain about the diabetes.”

      “The naughty old thing,” he observed softly. “I’ll get a nurse from Leeuwarden; she can be here by this evening.”

      “No, please don’t do that, Doctor. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself all day, and there’ll be very little to do for your aunt.”

      “Coals of fire, Prudence?”

      “Pooh,” said Prudence roundly, “such rubbish! Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me what you want done.” She went on loftily, “I’ve been in charge of a twenty-bedded ward for some years, so I’m quite capable of looking after both your aunts.”

      “I have no doubt of it. I’ll stay to lunch, and afterwards we can decide what’s best for the pair of them.”

      He opened the door and she went past him into the hall, not knowing where to go next. “In here,” he said, and opened another door. “Time for a drink before we lunch.”

      “I should like to go to my room.”

      He glanced at his watch. “I’ll get someone to take you up; come back here and I’ll have some sherry poured for you.” He added carelessly, “Don’t be too long.”

      A remark calculated to convince Prudence that it would take her at least fifteen minutes to see to her face and do her hair to her liking. And who did he think he was, giving orders in his aunt’s house? She followed a cheerful young girl up the staircase and down a corridor at the end of which was the pleasant room she was shown into, with windows overlooking the grounds at the back of the house. Her clothes were already unpacked, she noticed, and there were towels and soap arranged in the adjoining bathroom. She sat down before the dressing-table mirror and peered at her reflection. Her face needed very little done to it; she dabbed on some powder, applied lipstick and took down her hair and did it up again, not because it needed it, but because the doctor had told her not to be long. Really, she admonished her reflection, it wouldn’t do