The Young Nightingales (8 page)

The doctor started pacing up and down the overcrowded room and looking unimpressed.

“You must be careful not to overdo it,” he said frowningly. “When I observed that you were tough I did not mean tough enough to run risks.”

“Oh, but what is life if one does not run a few risks?” Her shrewd blue eyes watched him, and she was more than ever convinced that he
was annoyed about something
...
and quite seriously annoyed, at that. “Sit down, Jules,” she begged, reverting to an informal mode of address which she frequently used when they were alone. “Sit down and have a glass of sherry.” She smiled at Jane. “Do ring the bell for Florence, dear child, and tell her to bring the usual refreshments.”

But Jules Delacroix insisted that he simply could not spare the time.

“I have to be at the clinic in half an hour.” He glanced at his watch. “And I have another call to make on my way there. You will simply have to excuse me, Madame.”

“Very well.” She shrugged her shoulders lightly under the silk stole. “But perhaps you will spare us a little more of your time when you make your next visit. You know I always like to have some conversation with you when you call.”

“But of course, Madame ... I understand perfectly.” But he looked as if he could barely
wait to escape from the twittering lovebirds and the insidious pot plants ... to say nothing of the watchful eyes of Miss Jane Nightingale, whose candy-pink frock was as bright as a rainbow in the dim room, and whose demure composure seemed, for some extraordinary reason, to quite upset him. “I, too, enjoy our conversations as a rule,” and he looked pointedly away from Jane.

“I was thinking of giving a dinner-party next week,” his patient informed him. “I think it would be nice for Jane to meet a few of my friends, and also I’m sure my friends would like to meet Jane.” There was no doubt about the affection that streamed from her eyes as she looked at Jane. “If you are not too busy, Jules, you must accept an invitation.”

“But of course.” He bowed from the waist. “I shall be delighted.”

“Then I will see to it that you receive an invitation.” Mrs. Bowman smiled up at him and gave him her hand.
“
Au revoir,
Doctor, and I am happy to know you consider I have taken a fresh lease of life.”

“I did not say that,” he corrected.

“But you implied that that was what I had done.”

Frowningly he emphasised:

“I said that you are very fit, and so you are. But if you are to remain fit, you must be careful.” Out of narrowed, black-lashed eyes he directed a warning look at Jane over by the window. “Do not overdo things.”

She patted his sleeve.

“I will bear
in
mind what you say.”

Jane accompanied him from the room, and she let him out of the front door. Before he took his departure, however, he underlined for her benefit the warning look he had given her while they were still in the
salon.
“Madame Bowman has an excellent constitution for someone of her
age, but you must please remember that she is not young, and only recently she was quite seriously ill. I shall expect you to co-operate with me and see that she has as much rest as possible, and she should always be in bed by ten o’clock. And I do not recommend drives in the heat of the day.”

“We always wait until evening before we take our drives,” she answered glibly.

“Oh, I see.” He directed at her a look which told her plainly that from that time forth he would treat her with caution; and having already been deceived in her he would be inclined to expect deception at every turn of the road. He felt, too, she thought, that behind that demure mask of a face which she had assumed for his benefit she was inclined to laugh at him
...
and his dignity as a local doctor of high repute did not take kindly to that.

The light-hearted climber who had begged— or rather, commanded—a lift from her seemed to have disappeared altogether.

“By the way,” she said demurely, before she watched him stride, out to his car, “I hope you enjoyed your celebration dinner the other night.”

“Celebration dinner?” He turned and stared at her. “Oh! ... That dinner
!”
His black brows crinkled. “Yes, it was very pleasant.”

“The young woman I saw you with was certainly shatteringly attractive.” She could not
resist saying this, although she was not quite clear herself why she did so. “You were accorded quite a rapturous welcome after your sojourn in the mountains.”

His slate-grey eyes dwelt on her face, and she thought his shapely mouth took on a slightly derisive twist. A cool, hard twist.

“You are observant, Miss Nightingale,” he remarked., “But I agree with you, Chantal
is
shatteringly attractive.”

“It’s an attractive name, too,” she remarked, a little lamely, furious with herself now for having mentioned his girl-friend at all. And of course she was his girl-friend. Why, he had practically kissed her under the eyes of herself and the one or two other people who were in the hotel vestibule at the time.

“
Yes; it is, isn’t it?” There was no doubt about the mockery in his smile as it curved his lips and put a temporary sparkle into his eyes. Those eyes swept her up and down in a dismissing, half humorous fashion, and then he turned and opened the door himself and passed out on to the steps. He saluted her casually. “If you have any time to spare apart from your duties—which must be very onerous since they seem to include a lot of card-playing! —do take my advice and see something of Switzerland while you’re here,” he urged. “I should hate to
thin
k
I’d given you all that excellent advice when we met at the Continental for nothing
!”

And he slipped into the driving-seat of his car—being on this occasion without a chauffeur and drove off in the direction of the villa gates.

With a slightly flushed face Jane returned to her employer. Mrs. Bowman had rung the bell for Florence and was anticipating a glass of sherry before lunch, and her expression was placidly content. But there was a faint gleam of curiosity in her eyes as she glanced upwards at Jane.

“Did Dr. Delacroix say anything to you before he departed?” she asked. “Sometimes he gives Florence a long list of instructions which she tries faithfully to carry out. But I think you are rather more sensible. You won’t try and coerce me just because my doctor chooses to be awkward.”

“No, he didn’t say very much,” Jane replied, not altogether truthfully. “Except that I am not to allow you to overtax yourself.”

Mrs. Bowman watched the slight, candy-pink figure as she bent to pour out the sherry.

“Ah,” she said, “I do believe you are one of the few people who are not immediately impressed by Dr. Delacroix. Most of his patients—particularly his women patients—think the world of him, and are inclined to make fools of themselves sometimes over him. He’s a bachelor, you know, and—naturally—they all want to marry him, if they’re not already married.”

“The knowledge that they’re all inclined to
do that must have given him a kind of complex,” Jane observed thoughtfully.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Mrs. Bowman sipped her sherry appreciatively. “For one thing, he’s too
good and dedicated a doctor to have a
great
deal of interest in women. But there are rumours that he’s to be married soon. Little Chantal d’Evremonde seems to have rather cleverly caught him, which surprises me, as she’s not the type I would have thought he would have chosen to settle down with.”

Jane explained a trifle belatedly that she had already met Dr. Delacroix at the hotel, and she had also, apparently, met his wife-to-be. She asked Madame Bowman why she considered she was not the ideal type for him to marry.

“Oh, the girl is shallow ... and rather stupid at times, or so I personally consider. Spoilt, and the daughter of a very rich father
...
which could be a help to Jules in his profession if he hadn’t already made quite a lot of money himself. His clinic is always full, you know. People come to him from all parts of the world for treatment.”

“And Mademoiselle d’Evremonde?” Jane wished to have more information about the beautiful golden girl who had clung so possessively to Delacroix’s arm, and not hesitated to scold him a trifle shrewishly because he was late. “You were saying that she is not quite suitable.”

“Well, not quite
...
perhaps.” She looked upwards suddenly at Jane. “By the way, my dear, I received the distinct impression that you and Dr. Delacroix were not getting on at all well when I entered the room and found you both together. I said just now that not all people take to him, although most trust him absolutely
...
and if he treated you as if you were a paid employee and nothing more you mustn’t mind. He orders Florence about at times, but
she
doesn’t mind.”

Jane decided to change the subject. She had not emphasised the fact that Dr. Delacroix was annoyed because he had not gathered that she was to be a paid employee. And to try and make Madame Bowman understand why everything about Dr. Delacroix irked her, and apparently she had the same effect on him, was rather more, she thought, than she was capable of after such a recent interview with the doctor.

“Oh, let’s talk of something else,” she said. “The fact that he thinks you’re so much better
...
that,
at least, is something to be delighted about.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

MRS. BOWMAN was as good as her word, and invitations to a formal dinner-party were sent out within the next few days.

Jane wrote the invitations, and Florence was issued with a set of instructions concerning the actual dinner. Apparently it was some time since more than two people at a time had dined with Mrs. Bowman, and it was quite clear from the expression on Florence’s face when she received her instructions that she was quite unable to see any reason for the present departure from what had become established custom. She even predicted that the unusual excitement would upset her mistress, and was surprised because Dr. Delacroix had sanctioned such a piece of folly.

“You would think a doctor would have more sense, wouldn’t you?” she observed to no one in particular—although Jane was in the kitchen at the time—as she laboriously worked out the list of ingredients she would want at the kitchen table. “I suppose we’ll have to have one of my special
soufflé
s, and the mistress always
insis
ts
upon a sweet as well as a savoury. And if there’s to be champagne someone will have to get in touch with the wine-merchant.”

“I’ll do that,” Jane offered. And then she suggested that perhaps champagne wasn’t necessary. “What about that really excellent hock we have for dinner sometimes? Are there any more bottles in the house
?
”

Florence glanced at her with contempt. “When the mistress gives a party
she
gives a party,” she said. “It’ll be champagne or nothing.”

Jane withdrew the suggestion demurely.

“Oh, well, you know, of course,” she said.

Florence’s eyes snapped dangerously.

“I certainly do,” she agreed. “And I tell you that if the mistress is to stand up to this ordeal she’ll have to be cosseted for the next few days. No staying up late, or anything like that.”

“Dear me,” Jane commented. “I do seem to have brought a certain amount of disorganisation into this hitherto peaceful household, don’t I?”

Florence immediately softened ... which was one of the most surprising things about Florence when she appeared to be actually on the warpath.

“Oh,
well, I don’t know about that,” she said. “The mistress does seem to like having you here, and you could say she’s been a lot brighter since you arrived. But I just want to be sure she doesn’t do too much all at once, that’s all.”

“You and Dr. Delacroix should set up business together,” Jane remarked. And then, all at once, she felt quite happy and light-hearted because Florence, apparently, approved of her, and Mrs. Bowman had made it very plain that she did. Her presence in the house was not disruptive, and for the first time since her father’s second marriage she was able to think and plan for a special occasion without having to defer to someone like Miranda, who always organised everything in the Nightingale household.

Here it was different. Mrs. Bowman made her feel that she was the actual mistress of the place, and it was her ideas and her tastes that were consulted. Florence might argue, but she was not antagonistic
...
and she could even express her approval on occasion.

That was something.

As for Miranda, Jane wrote to her regularly, and she also wrote regularly to Irina and Toby. There was not much point in writing to Conway, for he was the world’s worst correspondent, and would be most unlikely to reply. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to hear all about her from Irina, so Irina’s letters contained much more detailed information than the ones that were received by Miranda, although it was Miranda, surprisingly, who wrote rather fulsomely after Jane had been in Switzerland for nearly a fortnight.