The Chain of Destiny. Betty Neels

but that didn’t matter overmuch; no one had suggested the hours she should work, so she arranged her own; from nine o’clock in the morning until lunchtime, and then work again without a pause until the seven o’clock gong. Horace, that most amenable of cats, was quite happy to have a walk in the morning after breakfast, another few minutes after lunch and then a more leisurely stroll in the evening. Snow had offered scraps from the kitchen: tasty morsels of chicken, ends off the joints and fish; and she had arranged to have milk left at her door from the local farm. Life might be busy, but it was pleasant, and she had no idle moments in which to repine. When the opportunity occurred, she would have to ask about having a half-day a week so that she could shop in Marlborough for her bits and pieces.

      She thought that probably she was going about her task in a very unprofessional way but, be that as it may, she had made headway. The piles of letters, cuttings and old photographs were beginning to take shape and make sense.

      Some of them were very old indeed; letters written in spidery hands, crossed and recrossed, invoices and bills, dressmaker’s accounts and any number of receipts and recipes. She began to deal with these, getting them roughly into date order, separating them into heaps. It was slow work but she was methodical and very patient. She was able to tell Lady Manbrook that the last of the trunks had been emptied by the end of her first week; it had seemed a good opportunity to ask about her working hours, but before she could touch on the subject Mrs van Beuck observed, ‘You will accompany us to church, my dear? The rector preaches an excellent sermon. You will come in the car with us, of course; it will be at the front door at half-past ten precisely.’

      She looked across at her sister, who smiled and nodded. ‘We have discussed the matter,’ she said, ‘and we would prefer to call you by your Christian name if you have no objection?’

      ‘Oh, I’d like you to. No one calls me Miss Lightfoot—well, almost no one.’ She had a brief memory of Professor Bowers-Bentinck’s cold voice uttering her name with what seemed to her to be mocking deliberation. And after that it hardly seemed the moment to bring up the matter of her free time. It was, after all, only a week since she had started work, and she was happy in her little flat and everyone was kind to her; even Snow, who could look so austere, had unbent sufficiently to save the best morsels for Horace. There was, of course, the little matter of when she would be paid. She had a little money, but it wouldn’t last for ever. Perhaps Lady Manbrook intended to pay her when she had finished her work, but that would be a month or six weeks away, or even longer. There was no use worrying about it; she went back to the attic with the careful notes she had made to show Lady Manbrook and then made her way back to the flat to get ready for dinner.

      She would have enjoyed the walk to church in the morning but, since she had been expected to accompany the ladies, she got into the old-fashioned car with them and was borne in some state to the village church. The family pew was at the front and the church was comfortably full; she was conscious of curious glances as she followed the two ladies down the aisle. After the service, as they made their stately progress to the church porch, she was introduced to the rector and a number of elderly people who made vague, kind enquiries about her without really wanting to know, so that she was able to murmur politely without telling them anything.

      At lunch she made another effort to talk about her free time; indeed, she got as far as, ‘I was wondering about my hours of work…’ only to be interrupted by Lady Manbrook with a kindly,

      ‘We have no intention of interfering, Suzannah. It is, I’m sure, most interesting and you enjoy it, do you not? And I must say that what you have told us about it, has whetted our appetites to know more about your finds. Perhaps you would take tea with us this afternoon and bring down those old dance programmes you were telling us about? We have tea at four o’clock, and it would be most amusing to go through them.’

      ‘I haven’t got them in order yet, Lady Manbrook…’

      ‘You are so quick and efficient that I’m sure you can get them sorted out before tea.’ The old lady smiled at her very kindly, so that Suzannah stifled a sigh and agreed.

      So when she had fed Horace and taken him for his short trot, she went back to the attic once more. It was a lovely day, and a walk would have been very satisfying; she made up her mind to talk to Lady Manbrook when she went downstairs for tea.

      She was on her knees, carefully sorting the old-fashioned dance programmes with their little pencils attached into tidy piles; most of them were late nineteenth century and charming, and she lingered over some of them, trying to imagine the owners, picturing the quadrilles and polkas and waltzes they must have danced and their elaborate dresses. She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear the door open, but a slight sound made her turn her head.

      Professor Bowers-Bentinck was standing there, leaning against the wall watching her.

      ‘Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ His voice had a silkiness she didn’t much like.

      ‘A surprise,’ she amended in her sensible way, ‘but I don’t know about it being pleasant.’

      ‘An outspoken young lady,’ he commented, ‘but I should feel flattered that you remember me.’

      She was still kneeling, a handful of programmes in her hand, looking at him. She said matter-of-factly, ‘Well, I’d be silly if I didn’t—you’re much larger than most men, for a start, and you must know you’re good-looking; besides that, you came to see Aunt Mabel.’

      ‘Such an abundance of compliments,’ he murmured.

      ‘They’re not meant to be,’ said Suzannah prosaically, ‘just facts.’ She had a sudden alarming thought. ‘Lady Manbrook—she’s not ill? Or Mrs van Beuck? They were all right at lunch.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Is that why you are here?’

      ‘Both ladies are in splendid health’, he assured her. He eyed her coldly. ‘You are very untidy and dusty.’

      ‘Of course I am, it’s dusty work, and I have to get down on to the floor—there’s more room, and anyway, I can’t see that it matters to you.’

      ‘It doesn’t. Tell me, why do I find you here? How did you find this job?’

      ‘It was advertised. I’ve been here a week, and I’m very happy.’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’re here?’

      ‘I’ve come to tea.’

      Her lovely eyes grew round. ‘Have you really? How extraordinary that we should meet again…’

      ‘Yes, isn’t it? You don’t object?’

      ‘Object? Why should I? I mean, one is always bumping into people in unexpected places.’

      ‘How true.’ He eyed her frowningly. ‘Had you not better finish and wash your hands and tidy your hair? It’s almost four o’clock.’

      She dusted her skirt and gave him a tolerant glance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make myself presentable. I usually have my tea up here on a tray.’ She added kindly, ‘You don’t need to fuss.’

      His voice was as cold as his eyes. ‘I’m not in the habit of fussing—what a tiresome girl you are.’ He went through the door, closing it behind him, leaving her to gather up the programmes and then leave the attic after him. Undoubtedly a bad-tempered man, she reflected, and because of that to be pitied.

      She told Horace all about him while she brushed her bright hair into smoothness, ready for tea.