‘On the Dorset-Somerset border.’
‘And do you not prefer London?’
Augusta was emphatic. ‘No, I don’t, Lady Belway. But to make a success of nursing I had to train at a first-class hospital and now I have to get all the experience I can.’
‘You wish to take a Sister’s post?’
Augusta hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose that’s what I’ll end up as.’
‘Do you not wish to marry?’
She said evasively, ‘Oh, yes,’ and then because she was becoming annoyed by so many questions, she said, ‘I’m afraid I must go…I’m on duty this evening.’
Lady Belway looked genuinely disappointed. ‘I had hoped that you could have spent a few hours—however, if you must return.’ She brightened. ‘Supposing I were to telephone your Sister Cutts?’
Augusta, suppressing a smile at the thought of Sister Cutts’ face if that were to happen, said seriously, ‘I’m afraid that would be no good. You see, Sister expects to go off duty when I get back.’
‘In that case,’ said her hostess graciously, ‘I must let you go. But I should like you to come again.’
Augusta said that yes, of course she would, and was completely taken aback when the old lady drew her down to kiss her cheek.
‘You’re a very nice gal,’ she stated, and then a little wistfully, ‘it’s good of you to spare time for an old woman.’
This remark struck Augusta as rather pathetic; she said with perfect truth, ‘But it’s not like that at all. I enjoyed coming, and I should like to come again. I’m going home on holiday tomorrow, but I shall be back in a fortnight.’
Lady Belway smiled. ‘I shall send you a note, and perhaps you will telephone me.’
They parted in mutual friendliness, and on the way downstairs, through the quiet house, Augusta reflected that quite possibly Lady Belway was lonely, despite her numerous acquaintances; probably her sharp tongue, and her distressing habit of saying exactly what she thought, precluded her from having many close friends.
The next day she got out of the train at Sherborne to find her mother waiting for her. They greeted each other with the warm casualness of deep affection, and went out to the car.
‘Throw your luggage in the back, Roly,’ her mother commanded, ‘and I’d much rather you drove…your father had to go over to Bagger’s Farm and Charles was just getting ready to fetch you when they sent a message for him to go to Windhayes—one of the Jersey herd, you know. So I went with him and brought the car on up here. He’ll give us a ring at home when he’s ready, and perhaps you’ll fetch him.’
While she was talking, Mrs Brown had settled herself beside her daughter. Augusta was fidgeting around with the ignition key and the starter; she hadn’t driven for almost three months; it was to get the feel of it again. The car was a Morris Traveller 1300, elderly and a little battered by reason of the fact that it was sometimes used for the transport of smaller animals. Augusta, as she got into gear, had a sudden vivid memory of the immaculate Rolls the man with the straw-coloured hair had been driving, and went faintly pink when her mother remarked observantly:
‘What were you remembering, darling? It must have been something nice.’ But she had taken care not to make it sound like a question, so that Augusta was able to say, ‘Oh, nothing really—it’s lovely to see you again. Tell me all the news.’
She eased the car neatly away from the vehicles around them, and drove through the little town, and presently, free of its compact and bustling heart, took the road through North Wooton and Bishops Caundle and then turned away to pass through Kingstag. She knew the way blindfold, but she didn’t hurry, preferring to trundle along the quiet road while her mother obediently gave her all the news.
Her home lay on one side of a small valley between the hills around them, midway between two small villages, and well back from the road. The house was of stone, with narrow latticed windows with stone lintels and a front door which still retained its Tudor arch. A long, long time ago, local history had it that it had been a small manor house, unimportant compared with some of the mighty houses in that part of Dorset, but nevertheless a gem of a building. Augusta drove through the gate, which was never closed for convenience’ sake, and stopped with nice precision before the door. ‘I’ll leave the car here,’ she said, as they got out. ‘It’ll save time when Charles telephones.’
They went indoors, and presently, after she had unpacked in her own pretty bedroom, she went down to the kitchen, and carried the tea tray through to the sitting room on the other side of the flagstoned hall. There were flowers everywhere, and the furniture shone with well cherished age—it was a warm afternoon, but there was a small wood fire burning in the stone fireplace. She sighed contentedly. It was nice to be home again.
After tea, she wandered outside with Stanley, the spaniel, walking sedately at her heels and the two Jack Russell terriers, Polly and Skipper, running in circles before her. She crossed the garden and went through the wicket gate at its end into a small paddock, used for convalescing horses and ponies, and permanently inhabited by Bottom, the family donkey. He wandered towards her now, nosed out the carrot she had thoughtfully brought with her, and allowed her to pull his rough furry ears and throw an affectionate arm about his neck. After a while, she wandered back again and in through the kitchen door, to sit down at the kitchen table and peel apples and talk to her mother, with Maudie the persian cat on her knee, and Fred, the battered old outcast tomcat who had latched himself on to them years ago, sitting beside her. They gossiped quietly until she bestirred herself to answer the telephone and fetch Charles.
She spent the evening getting her things ready to go to Holland, but only after helping her father with his evening visits. Quite a few calls had come in during the afternoon. She drove him from one farm to the other and then back to the small surgery near the house, enjoying the unhurried routine. They sat a long time over supper that evening, for there was a lot to talk about. She hadn’t been home for several months; there was a lot of local news to catch up on, and she had plenty to talk about too, and presently, when the talk turned to herself, her father asked, as he usually did when she went home:
‘Well, Augusta, think of getting married yet?’ Her mother said gently, ‘How’s Archie?’
Augusta bit into an apple with her excellent teeth. ‘Fine—but don’t get romantic about him, Mother. We like going out together, but he’s got years and years of work ahead of him and he’s ambitious, which means he’ll probably marry a girl with lots of money. I think I’m destined to be an old maid!’
Which remark called forth a good deal of amused comment from her brother, a quiet. ‘Yes, dear’ from her mother and a grunt from her father.
The next day went very quickly—too quickly, she thought, as she put the final touches to her packing in the evening. It was surprising how delightfully occupied it was possible to be, with no clock to watch and no reports to write, and feverish planning of off duty. She had, indeed, strolled down to the village stores and made a few purchases for her mother—an undertaking enlivened by a long chat over the counter with the grocer and any customers who had chanced to come into the shop—and in the afternoon she had got out the car and driven her mother down to the vicarage to join the committee organising the annual jumble sale. She had helped the vicar’s wife hand round the tea, and passed the time of day with the ladies present, most of whom had known her since she was a baby. And occasionally, much against her will, she had thought about the man who had sent her tulips because the sun had been shining.
She thought about him again as she was going to sleep that night; wondering where he was and what he was doing. She wished she knew if he and Miss Belsize were…she sought for the right expression, and decided that ’emotionally involved’ would do very well. It was difficult to tell with those sort of people. She didn’t go too deeply into what sort of people they were—the subject was unrewarding; she pulled the blankets