Tangled Autumn. Betty Neels

unsatisfactory one of always having my own way with my family and taking it for granted that no one will gainsay me.’

      He crossed the space between them and caught her by the shoulders so that she came to her feet, willy-nilly. ‘Forgive me—if you will, I’ll arrange for Tonia to come over whenever you say.’

      Sappha studied his face; his eyes, now that she saw them so close, weren’t black at all but brown, and at that moment they looked warm and friendly. She said uncertainly: ‘I say pretty breastly things myself sometimes—and I forgive you without the bribery—or is it blackmail?’

      ‘Whichever you like, I’ll take the blame for both.’ He smiled at her so that his face changed completely and just for a second she caught a glimpse of someone quite different, but only a glimpse, not enough to stop her saying: ‘It’s rather difficult to put into words, but I think we should understand that…’ she paused so as to get it quite right, ‘some people don’t get on very well—I think perhaps we are all like that.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said blandly, ‘mutual dislike and so forth—is that what you mean? It has been known. Well, in that case, we must conceal our true feelings for each other under the guise of good fellowship, mustn’t we?’ He walked a little away from her. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult, for I go back to Holland tomorrow and you will have plenty of time to practise a friendly approach before I return. Now, shall we go back to the drawing room? I usually spend half an hour with Mother at this time if you have no objection. I’ll be gone early tomorrow morning, so you won’t need to strain your friendly approach.’

      It wasn’t until they had parted with outward goodwill and she was sitting with the MacFees that she came to the conclusion that he had been laughing silently when he had made that last remark.

      Sappha had expected to spend a wretched night; leaving London had been a wrench, and the peace and quiet she had anticipated in the Highlands had been strangely ruffled by her meeting with Dr van Duyren. She went to bed prepared to lie awake, and promptly slept, to awaken only when Meg, the little daily maid, came in with her morning tea.

      ‘It’s a fine bright day, Miss,’ she observed as she drew the curtains, revealing a glimpse of the sea and the rugged coastline beyond the rooftops. ‘The Baron left with the sun on him.’

      Sappha sat up, tossed her hair over her shoulders and yawned. ‘Baron who?’ she enquired, not quite awake.

      Meg turned a surprised face towards her. ‘Why, miss, the Baron, ye ken, though maybe ye call him the doctor, but here in the village he gets his rightful title.’

      Sappha sipped her tea. ‘Oh, Dr van Duyren, the Baroness’s son.’

      Meg nodded. ‘The Baron,’ she stated simply. ‘Breakfast is at half past eight, I was to tell you.’ She went away, leaving Sappha to ponder this titbit of information. She had never met a baron before; she supposed, after due thought, that he was very like a baron should be—the very name conjured up a swashbuckling, high-handed gentleman, for ever shouting down his inferiors and being charming when it suited him. She got up and dressed rapidly, reminding herself the while of everything about him that annoyed her.

      Her patient was awake after a good night and very ready to talk while Sappha performed the few necessary tasks prior to bringing up her breakfast. Her son, she told Sappha, had left at first light to board a plane at Inverness and she wasn’t at all sure how long it would be before he would be coming again, for as well as running a practice with his two partners, he lectured in Groningen.

      ‘Ah, yes—somewhere in the north of Holland, then,’ said Sappha, shaking down the thermometer, and was taken back when the Baroness said touchily: ‘Not North Holland—our home is in Dokkum, which is in Friesland. Groningen, of course, is not.’

      Sappha begged her pardon, made a mental note to have a look at an atlas when she got downstairs, and besought her patient to open her mouth.

      Uncle John came later that morning and spent a long time examining his patient, and a still longer time talking to Sappha about her. He was pleased with the results of the operation he had performed; the tumour had been removed before it could do lasting damage and the bones were hardening once more with the increased calcium, moreover the renal failure was improving at a heartening rate, but he warned Sappha of the depression which was bound to attack the Baroness from time to time—the aftermath of her rare disease. ‘But we’ll pull her through, I have no doubt’, he said cheerfully, then asked without pause: ‘I suppose Rolf has gone?’

      Sappha gave her uncle a level look. ‘You mean Dr van Duyren—or should I say Baron van Duyren?’

      He returned her look with an innocent one of his own. ‘My dear, how should I know? Everyone around here calls him Rolf—the people in the town address him as Baron, I believe, but I hardly think he would expect you to address him as such. Don’t you like him?’

      Sappha pinkened faintly. She said crossly: ‘How ever should I know, Uncle John? I’ve hardly spoken to him.’ She picked up a batch of forms and went on in a businesslike way: ‘Shall I fill these in for you to sign? I expect you’re taking them with you.’

      Dr McInroy arrived just as her uncle was preparing to leave. He was a sturdy man in his early thirties, of middle height, and with good features and bright blue eyes. After he had greeted the specialist, he turned to Sappha with a warm smile, saying: ‘Miss Devenish—I’ve heard all about you from Gloria and I’m delighted to welcome you to Dialach.’ He sounded so genuinely pleased to meet her that Sappha found herself smiling widely as she shook hands, but even as she did so, she had a fleeting recollection of her meeting with Dr van Duyren, who hadn’t greeted her at all…but there was no time to indulge her own thoughts; the two doctors began to discuss their patient, and as they seemed to take it for granted that she should stay with them, she concentrated upon the subject in hand, so when she was drawn into their conversation from time to time she was able to join in in a manner which caused Dr MacInroy to look at her with something like respect and remark:

      ‘You know a great deal about osteitis fibrosa cystica—have you seen one before? It’s a rare condition.’

      Sappha shook her head. ‘No, never, that’s why I read up all I could about it before I came—I picked a few brains too.’ They all laughed and presently she left them to return to her patient.

      The Baroness was lying back in bed looking bored. As well she might, thought Sappha, with only one leg and one arm available. She bustled around with an exaggerated cheerfulness getting ready to bedbath her patient, and presently, while she was doing this, asked: ‘What else do you do—other than reading?’

      ‘Oh, crosswords—there’s nothing else with one hand…’ The Baroness spoke listlessly and Sappha made haste to say: ‘Uncle John is delighted with your progress—he wants you to do a few exercises each day, so that when your arm comes out of plaster it will be fairly strong. I’m going to get you out of bed and into a chair by the window—there’s a lovely view. I suppose you don’t paint?’

      Her patient looked surprised and faintly interested. ‘Yes, I used to—how did you know?’

      ‘I didn’t—but I was thinking if we could get hold of some paints and a canvas or some paper, you could amuse yourself.’

      The Baroness lifted eyebrows which reminded Sappha of her son. ‘With one hand?’ she enquired.

      ‘Why not? If I arrange everything within reach—we can find some way of keeping the paper steady, and I shall be on hand for a good deal of the day—would you like to try?’

      She had been wrapping her patient in a dressing gown as she spoke; now she pulled the chair alongside the bed and lifted the Baroness in her strong young arms into it and trundled her over to the window.

      ‘I’ll get you some coffee and while you’re drinking it I’ll see if Mrs MacFee can help about the paints.’

      Mrs MacFee, when appealed to, not only produced an elderly paintbox of her own but a sketching pad as well and spent half an hour with her