A Christmas Proposal. Бетти Нилс

steadily towards the western suburbs, apparently content to listen to Clare’s chatter, and when he was finally clear of the city he turned off the main road and slowed the car as they reached the countryside. They were in Hertfordshire now, bypassing the towns, taking minor roads through the woods and fields and going through villages, peaceful under the morning sun. At one of these he stopped at an inn.

      ‘Coffee?’ he asked, and got out to open Clare’s door and then usher Bertha and Freddie out of the car.

      The inn was old and thatched and cosy inside. The doctor asked for coffee, then suggested, ‘You two girls go ahead. I’ll take Freddie for a quick run while the coffee’s fetched.’

      The ladies’ was spotlessly clean, but lacked the comforts of its London counterparts. Clare, doing her face in front of the only mirror, said crossly, ‘He might have stopped at a decent hotel—this is pretty primitive. I hope we shall lunch somewhere more civilised.’

      ‘I like it,’ said Bertha. ‘I like being away from London. I’d like to live in the country.’

      Clare didn’t bother to reply, merely remarking as they went to join the doctor that the yellow jersey looked quite frightful. ‘When I see you in it,’ said Clare, ‘I can see just how ghastly it is!’

      It was an opinion shared by the doctor as he watched them cross the bar to join him at a table by the window, but nothing could dim the pleasure in Bertha’s face, and, watching it, he hardly noticed the outfit.

      ‘The coffee was good. I’m surprised,’ said Clare. ‘I mean, in a place like this you don’t expect it, do you?’

      ‘Why not?’ The doctor was at his most genial. ‘The food in some of these country pubs is as good or better than that served in some of the London restaurants. No dainty morsels in a pretty pattern on your plate, but just steak and kidney pudding and local vegetables, or sausages and mash with apple pie for a pudding.’

      Clare looked taken aback. If he intended giving her sausages and mash for lunch she would demand to be taken home. ‘Where are we lunching?’ she asked.

      ‘Ah, wait and see!’

      Bertha had drunk her coffee almost in silence, with Freddie crouching under the table beside her, nudging her gently for a bit of biscuit from time to time. She hoped that they would lunch in a country pub—sausages and mash would be nice, bringing to mind the meal she and the doctor had eaten together. Meeting him had changed her life…

      They drove on presently into Buckinghamshire, still keeping to the country roads. It was obvious that the doctor knew where he was going. Bertha stopped herself from asking him; it might spoil whatever surprise he had in store for them.

      It was almost noon when they came upon a small village—a compact gathering of Tudor cottages with a church overlooking them from the brow of a low hill.

      Bertha peered and said, ‘Oh, this is delightful. Where are we?’

      ‘This is Wing—’

      ‘Isn’t there a hotel?’ asked Clare. ‘We’re not going to stop here, are we?’ She had spoken sharply. ‘It’s a bit primitive, isn’t it?’ She saw his lifted eyebrows. ‘Well, no, not primitive, perhaps, but you know what I mean, Oliver. Or is there one of those country-house restaurants tucked away out of sight?’

      He only smiled and turned the car through an open wrought-iron gate. The drive was short, and at its end was a house—not a grand house, one might call it a gentleman’s residence—sitting squarely amidst trees and shrubs with a wide lawn before it edged by flowerbeds. Bertha, examining it from the car, thought that it must be Georgian, with its Palladian door with a pediment above, its many paned windows and tall chimneystacks.

      It wasn’t just a lovely old house, it was a home; there were long windows, tubs of japonica on either side of the door, the bare branches of Virginia creeper rioting over its walls and, watching them from a wrought-iron sill above a hooded bay window, a majestic cat with a thick orange coat. Bertha saw all this as Clare got out, the latter happy now at the sight of a house worthy of her attention and intent on making up for her pettishness.

      ‘I suppose we are to lunch here?’ she asked as the doctor opened Bertha’s door and she and Freddie tumbled out.

      His ‘yes’ was noncommittal.

      ‘It isn’t a hotel, is it?’ asked Bertha. ‘It’s someone’s home. It’s quite beautiful.’

      ‘I’m glad you like it, Bertha. It is my home. My mother will be delighted to have you both as her guests for lunch.’

      ‘Yours?’ queried Clare eagerly. ‘As well as your flat in town? I suppose your mother will live here until you want it for yourself—when you marry?’ She gave him one of her most charming smiles, which he ignored.

      ‘Your mother doesn’t mind?’ asked Bertha. ‘If we are unexpected…’

      ‘You’re not. I phoned her yesterday. She is glad to welcome you—she is sometimes a little lonely since my father died.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Bertha’s plain face was full of sympathy.

      ‘Thank you. Shall we go indoors?’

      The house door opened under his hand and he ushered them into the wide hall with its oak floor and marble-topped console table flanked by cane and walnut chairs. There was a leather-covered armchair in one corner too, the repository of a variety of coats, jackets, walking sticks, dog leads and old straw hats, giving the rather austere grandeur of the hall a pleasantly lived-in look. The doctor led the way past the oak staircase with its wrought-iron balustrade at the back of the hall and opened a small door.

      ‘Mother will be in the garden,’ he observed. ‘We can go through the kitchen.’

      The kitchen was large with a vast dresser loaded with china against one wall, an Aga stove and a scrubbed table ringed by Windsor chairs at its centre. Two women looked up as they went in.

      ‘Master Oliver, good morning to you, sir—and the two young ladies.’

      The speaker was short and stout and wrapped around by a very white apron. The doctor crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

      ‘Meg, how nice to see you again.’ He looked across at the second woman, who was a little younger and had a severe expression. ‘And Dora—you’re both well? Good. Clare, Bertha—this is Meg, our cook, and Dora, who runs the house.’

      Clare nodded and said, ‘hello,’ but Bertha smiled and shook hands.

      ‘What a heavenly kitchen.’ Her lovely eyes were sparkling with pleasure. ‘It’s a kind of haven…’ She blushed because she had said something silly, but Meg and Dora were smiling.

      ‘That it is, miss—specially now in the winter of an evening. Many a time Mr Oliver’s popped in here to beg a slice of dripping toast.’

      He smiled. ‘Meg, you are making my mouth water. We had better go and find my mother. We’ll see you before we go.’

      Clare had stood apart, tapping a foot impatiently, but as they went through the door into the garden beyond she slipped an arm through the doctor’s.

      ‘I love your home,’ she told him, ‘and your lovely old-fashioned servants.’

      ‘They are our friends as well, Clare. They have been with us for as long as I can remember.’

      The garden behind the house was large and rambling, with narrow paths between the flowerbeds and flowering shrubs. Freddie rushed ahead, and they heard his barking echoed by a shrill yapping.

      ‘My mother will be in the greenhouses.’ The doctor had disengaged his arm from Clare’s in order to lead the way, and presently they went through a ram-shackle door in a high brick wall and saw the greenhouses to one side of the kitchen garden.

      Bertha, lingering here and there to look at neatly tended borders and shrubs,