An Ideal Wife. Бетти Нилс

wheeze.’

      ‘Oh, bellow, of course!’ She smiled up at him and encountered his bland stare.

      He opened a door at the back of the hall leading to the garden and left her then, and she went outside and strolled around, admiring everything. There was nothing formal about the garden, but it was beautifully tended and had been planned and planted by someone with a masterly eye. Just looking at it soothed her, although she wasn’t sure why she needed to be soothed.

      There was plenty of work for her to get on with during the afternoon. She dealt with the post in a competent manner, set aside anything she felt the doctor should see himself, and when a tray of tea came sat back and enjoyed it, feeling that she had earned it. And I only hope dinner will be a bit more sociable than lunch, thought Louisa, biting into the last of the scones.

      It was tiresome to know so little about the doctor. The practice was obviously a large and far-flung one; he had a partner and he must bear his share of the workload. But he was, after all, a GP, and unlike Sir James didn’t have consulting rooms and a big private practice. She paused to think. She was only guessing; for all she knew he might be a brilliant medical man, preferring to hide his light under a bushel, coming out of obscurity in order to help Sir James.

      ‘I really must find out,’ said Louisa, talking to herself since there was no one else to talk to.

      ‘What must you find out, Miss Howarth?’ The doctor’s voice, so quiet just behind her, took her by surprise so that she choked on her scone, coughing and spluttering while he thumped her back.

      When she at last caught her breath, she said indignantly, ‘What a beastly thing to do, creeping up on me like that …’

      She turned round to look at him, standing there with a very large, silent dog at his side, and he said gravely, ‘I do apologise. I had no idea that you were of a nervous disposition.’

      Not an answer to soothe her already ruffled feelings.

      CHAPTER THREE

      LOUISA said, ‘I am not in the least nervous, Dr Gifford.’ And she held out a fist for Bellow to explore. ‘This is Bellow? He looks magnificent. What breed is he?’

      She spoke in the coldly polite voice of someone who had been brought up to be courteous at all costs, and the doctor hid a smile.

      ‘His father was a St Bernard, his mother a Great Dane. A formidable parentage. Contrary to his appearance, he is a very mild dog, likes cats and children, but I have no doubt he would protect his own if they needed it.’

      Louisa reflected that the doctor looked quite capable of protecting himself, but if Rosie was alone in the house Bellow would be splendid company.

      Bellow sniffed at her fist and butted it gently with his great head.

      Dr Gifford went to his desk and glanced through the orderly papers she had laid ready there. ‘Finished? We have an hour or so before dinner …’

      He sat down with Bellow beside him, and Louisa sat down opposite to him, and together they went through the work she had done and then worked their way through the list of Sir James’s patients. It took quite a while.

      He closed the diary finally. ‘Shall we have drinks outside? It is a pleasant evening and we could both do with half an hour’s peace.’

      They sat in comfortable chairs under a mulberry tree at the end of the garden, drinking chilled white wine and making no attempt at conversation. When Rosie came to tell them that dinner would be in fifteen minutes, Louisa got up, murmured about tidying herself and went to her room. She was already quite tidy; she almost always was. She did her hair and face and deplored the fact that the only dress she had brought with her was the one she was wearing, a beautifully cut and expensive coat dress in stone-coloured shantung silk, entirely suitable for her job. And the epitome of good taste. All the same she would have liked to look more glamorous. Dr Gifford’s complete uninterest in her person irked her.