have us all scratching our heads.”
I hoped she wouldn’t put action to words. That hair of hers looked as though it had been around far longer than she had been on this earth and I was afraid of what might fly out.
“How’s the tea?” she asked.
The truthful answer would have been dreadful, but I said it had put life back in me. To prove the point, I attempted to get off the sofa, but was compelled by an upsurge of ridiculous dizziness to sink back down. The nibble of gray biscuit had clearly not sat well with me. And the headache was back in sickening force. I wondered if I had a migraine. I’d never had one, but as the cheerful cliché goes, there is a first time for everything. Given the stresses of the day, coupled with an atmosphere that seemed ripe for a lifetime of languishing as an invalid waiting for the doctor to arrive with his medical bag stuffed full of leeches and the recommendation to keep the hartshorn always at hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d come down with something worse. Ben eyed me worriedly, but Mrs. Malloy appeared cheerfully oblivious. The thought even crossed my mind that she was looking on the bright side of things.
“Mrs. Foot makes a very good cuppa.” Mr. Plunket’s face creased into admiration.
“Best tea maker in the world.” Boris cracked a smile that was ghastly to behold. Mrs. Foot’s smile was pleased but modest.
“That’s going a bit far. But wouldn’t say much for me if I hadn’t got the hang of it after brewing up more pots of tea than was ever seen in China during all the years I was a ward maid, trundling the trolley around to the patients. Poor dears, it was what they lived for—a cup of char and a biscuit.”
Unbidden, I pictured her handing Wisteria Whitworth a cup of pale slop and ordering her to drink it down or could be her next treatment wouldn’t go as nice and smooth as would be hoped. I was being unfair. Blame that on the fact that even Florence Nightingale’s cool hand upon my brow wouldn’t have brought me bounding back to life.
“Yes, poor dears is right. Sad, it was, how few visitors most of them got. I used to say to the doctors it wasn’t right them lyingthere without a loved one’s hand to hold when they got weepy. ’Course there was exceptions . . .”
“I must get my wife to a doctor.” Ben was out of patience. He is always at his most handsome when agitated on my behalf. A pity I wasn’t up to appreciating the flaring of his nostrils, the muscle twitching in his left cheek, the arrogant set of his dark head. “Is there one nearby that I could phone and ask to see her?”
“There’s Dr. Rowley, him that’s his nibs’s cousin and has his surgery in his house this side of Grimkirk village,” replied Mr. Plunket, looking all at once like an important pumpkin. “But there’s no need for you to get on the blower. Right after bringing the lady in here, his nibs went off to fetch him. Said, given the fog, he’d walk rather than take the car. Sensible after what happened earlier. Could be he got there to find Dr. Rowley was out or just couldn’t go at a quick pace . . .”
He was interrupted by the door opening to reveal a man who was the living image of an older, silver-haired Cary Grant . . . or equally believably Carson Grant. He who had loved with invincible tenderness Wisteria Whitworth. Behind him came a lesser member of the male species holding a doctor’s black bag. My headache and queasy state notwithstanding, the centuries-old, murkily lighted room came suddenly and vibrantly to life. Amazingly, it was obvious as he crossed the room that this impossibly handsome . . . virile . . . authoritive (need I add urbane?) man had eyes only for me.
3
H ow are you feeling?” He stood looking down at me, and it was a moment before I realized that Ben had stepped aside to make room for him or that Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris had ebbed out the door. The doctor, a rotund five foot six to his lordship’s
I hoped she wouldn’t put action to words. That hair of hers looked as though it had been around far longer than she had been on this earth and I was afraid of what might fly out.
“How’s the tea?” she asked.
The truthful answer would have been dreadful, but I said it had put life back in me. To prove the point, I attempted to get off the sofa, but was compelled by an upsurge of ridiculous dizziness to sink back down. The nibble of gray biscuit had clearly not sat well with me. And the headache was back in sickening force. I wondered if I had a migraine. I’d never had one, but as the cheerful cliché goes, there is a first time for everything. Given the stresses of the day, coupled with an atmosphere that seemed ripe for a lifetime of languishing as an invalid waiting for the doctor to arrive with his medical bag stuffed full of leeches and the recommendation to keep the hartshorn always at hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d come down with something worse. Ben eyed me worriedly, but Mrs. Malloy appeared cheerfully oblivious. The thought even crossed my mind that she was looking on the bright side of things.
“Mrs. Foot makes a very good cuppa.” Mr. Plunket’s face creased into admiration.
“Best tea maker in the world.” Boris cracked a smile that was ghastly to behold. Mrs. Foot’s smile was pleased but modest.
“That’s going a bit far. But wouldn’t say much for me if I hadn’t got the hang of it after brewing up more pots of tea than was ever seen in China during all the years I was a ward maid, trundling the trolley around to the patients. Poor dears, it was what they lived for—a cup of char and a biscuit.”
Unbidden, I pictured her handing Wisteria Whitworth a cup of pale slop and ordering her to drink it down or could be her next treatment wouldn’t go as nice and smooth as would be hoped. I was being unfair. Blame that on the fact that even Florence Nightingale’s cool hand upon my brow wouldn’t have brought me bounding back to life.
“Yes, poor dears is right. Sad, it was, how few visitors most of them got. I used to say to the doctors it wasn’t right them lyingthere without a loved one’s hand to hold when they got weepy. ’Course there was exceptions . . .”
“I must get my wife to a doctor.” Ben was out of patience. He is always at his most handsome when agitated on my behalf. A pity I wasn’t up to appreciating the flaring of his nostrils, the muscle twitching in his left cheek, the arrogant set of his dark head. “Is there one nearby that I could phone and ask to see her?”
“There’s Dr. Rowley, him that’s his nibs’s cousin and has his surgery in his house this side of Grimkirk village,” replied Mr. Plunket, looking all at once like an important pumpkin. “But there’s no need for you to get on the blower. Right after bringing the lady in here, his nibs went off to fetch him. Said, given the fog, he’d walk rather than take the car. Sensible after what happened earlier. Could be he got there to find Dr. Rowley was out or just couldn’t go at a quick pace . . .”
He was interrupted by the door opening to reveal a man who was the living image of an older, silver-haired Cary Grant . . . or equally believably Carson Grant. He who had loved with invincible tenderness Wisteria Whitworth. Behind him came a lesser member of the male species holding a doctor’s black bag. My headache and queasy state notwithstanding, the centuries-old, murkily lighted room came suddenly and vibrantly to life. Amazingly, it was obvious as he crossed the room that this impossibly handsome . . . virile . . . authoritive (need I add urbane?) man had eyes only for me.
3
H ow are you feeling?” He stood looking down at me, and it was a moment before I realized that Ben had stepped aside to make room for him or that Mr. Plunket, Mrs. Foot, and Boris had ebbed out the door. The doctor, a rotund five foot six to his lordship’s
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