knew any number of people, it would be a process of elimination. But first the new clothes, so that if and when they met again she would be able to compete with Fiona Seymour.
The front door bell, one of a row of old-fashioned bells along the kitchen wall, jangled and Alice put down the plates that she was stacking.
‘Postman?’ asked Lucy. ‘He’s late …’
‘I’d best go, I suppose,’ grumbled Alice, and went out of the kitchen, shutting the door after her as she went up the short flight of stairs to the hall.
Lucy sat back, a second cup of tea in her hand. There was one sandwich left; it was a pity to leave it. She took it off the plate and bit into it. The door behind her opened and she said, ‘Was it the postman?’ and turned round as she took another bite.
Alice had returned, but not alone. Dr Thurloe was with her, looking completely at home, elegant as always and smiling faintly.
‘Gracious heavens!’ Lucy spoke rather thickly because of the sandwich. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’ She put an agitated hand up to the towel. ‘I’ve just washed my hair …’
She frowned heavily, all her plans knocked edgeways; instead of sporting an elegant outfit and a tidy head of hair, here she was looking just about as awful as she possibly could. She turned the frown on Alice and the doctor spoke.
‘Don’t be annoyed with your housekeeper, I told her that you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you? After all, I’ve seen you in a dressing-gown at the hospital.’ He sounded kind and friendly and the smile held charm.
Lucy smiled back. ‘Is it something important? Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Indeed I would.’
Alice gave a small sound which might have been a chuckle and pulled out a chair. ‘The kettle’s on the boil,’ she informed him, ‘and I’ve as nice a bit of Madeira cake as you’ll taste anywhere, though I says it that oughtn’t, being me own baking.’
‘I’m partial to Madeira cake, and what a pleasant kitchen you have.’
He sat down opposite Lucy and eyed the towel. ‘Do you know, all the girls I know go to the hairdresser every few days; I can’t remember when I last saw a young woman washing her own hair.’ He studied Lucy thoughtfully. ‘Will it take long to dry?’
‘No. It’s almost dry now.’ She poured him a cup of tea from the fresh pot Alice had put on the table. ‘Is it something to do with Miranda? She’s not ill …?’
‘No, she’s doing nicely. I wondered if we might go somewhere this evening and have dinner; I’m sure you would like to know the details of her treatment, and there really was no time at the City Royal to say much.’
He ate some cake and watched her, amused at her hesitation.
‘Well,’ said Lucy, ‘Mother and Father—’ She was interrupted by the telephone’s ringing, and Alice answered it. She listened for a moment, said, ‘Yes, ma’am’ twice and then hung up. ‘Yer ma and pa,’ she told Lucy. ‘They’re going on to Professor Schinkel’s house for dinner.’ She added, ‘I expect your ma thought you weren’t home today.’
The look on Lucy’s face made the doctor say quickly, ‘Now isn’t that providential, you will be free to dine with me, then?’ That settled, he took another piece of cake and passed his cup for more tea. ‘Your sisters won’t mind?’
‘They’re both out too.’
‘Then may I call for you this evening? Half-past seven or thereabouts? Somewhere fairly quiet? Boulestin’s, perhaps?’
‘That sounds very nice,’ said Lucy, ‘but only if you can spare the time …’
He looked as though he was going to laugh, but said gravely, ‘As far as I know there will be no calls upon me until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’ He got to his feet. ‘Until half-past seven. I look forward to it.’
Alice showed him out and came bustling back. ‘There now, what a nice gentleman, to be sure. Take that towel off and I’ll dry that hair. What will you wear?’ She began to rub vigorously. ‘That’s a posh restaurant …’
‘Those sandals I got from Rayne’s and haven’t worn—and I’ll leave my hair loose …’
‘All right as far as it goes, but what about a dress? Sandals and hair aren’t enough.’
‘That silver-grey satin, you know, the one with the calf-length skirt and the wide lace collar and cuffs.’ Lucy’s voice, muffled by the towel, sounded pleased. It was a very pretty dress, so simple that it stood out among other more striking dresses, and the colour, she hoped, would make her look the kind of girl a man might like to marry, elegant but demure.
She left a note for her mother on the hall table, collected an enormous cashmere shawl in which to wrap herself, and her little grey handbag, and eased her feet into her new sandals. They were a little tight, but they were exactly right with the dress, and what was a little discomfort compared with that?
The drawing-room looked charming with its soft lighting and the fire blazing. She arranged herself to the very best advantage on a small balloon-backed chair covered in old-rose velvet, and waited for the doorbell.
The doctor was punctual to the minute, and Alice ushered him into the drawing-room, opening the door wide so that he had a splendid view of Lucy, delightfully pretty and at great pains to appear cool.
She got up as he came in, and said in her best hostess voice, ‘Oh, hello again. Would you like a drink before we go?’
‘Hello, Lucy. How very elegant you look, and so punctual. Almost unheard of and quite refreshing.’
She should have stayed in her room until he had arrived and kept him waiting, she thought crossly.
She said haughtily, ‘I have to be punctual at the orphanage, it’s a habit.’
‘Of course. I booked a table for half-past eight; I thought we might have a drink there first. Shall we go?’
She smiled at him, she couldn’t help herself; he looked so large and handsome and so assured. She wondered fleetingly if he ever lost his temper.
Southampton Street wasn’t all that far away, but the evening traffic was heavy and slow moving, so it was well past eight o’clock by the time Lucy found herself at a table opposite the doctor. It was a good table too, she noticed, and he was known at the restaurant. Perhaps he took Fiona Seymour there … She wasn’t going to waste thought about that; here she was doing exactly what she had dreamed of doing, being alone with the doctor, nicely dressed, looking her best, and hopefully at her best when it came to conversation.
It was a pity that no witty remarks filled her head; indeed, it was regrettably empty. She sipped her sherry and thankfully bowed her head over the menu card. She was hungry and he said encouragingly, ‘I dare say you had a very scanty lunch. I know I did. How about the terrine of leeks with prawns for a start, and if you like fish the red mullet is delicious—or roast pigeon?’
‘I couldn’t eat a pigeon,’ said Lucy. ‘I feed them on the way to work every morning.’ She was reassured by his understanding smile. ‘I’d like the red mullet.’
It wasn’t until these delicacies had been eaten, followed by a dessert of puff pastry, piled with a hazelnut mousse and topped with caramel, that the doctor switched smoothly from the gentle conversation, calculated to put his companion at her ease, to the more serious subject of Miranda.
‘Do you see a great deal of her at the orphanage?’ he wanted to know.
‘Well, yes—not all the time, of course, but always each morning, bathing her and getting her to walk and that kind of thing.’
He nodded. ‘You do realise that she will probably be backward—mentally retarded—but this operation that I have just done should give her a better chance.