The Chain of Destiny by Betty Neels

save. She hadn’t forgotten the future; indeed, she lay awake at night sometimes worrying about it, but there was still four weeks’ work, and if she limited her spending to a pair of shoes and small necessities she would have enough to tide her over until she could get another job. She would have to start looking in the situations vacant columns before she left, of course. In the meantime she settled Horace, got into her tweed suit and caught the bus into Marlborough.
    She found what she wanted: a fine green wool for the skirt and green knitting wool to match it—the jumper pattern was intricate and boasted a pattern of small flowers in a number of colours—but she was a good knitter and there was time enough in her free time to work at it. She had a frugal lunch in a little café away from the main street and caught an early bus back.
    Back in her flat, she lit the fire, fed Horace, and got her tea. She had brought crumpets back with her; with the curtains drawn and the lamp by the fireplace alight,she sat down contentedly munching and drinking tea. How nice the simple pleasures of life were, she observed to Horace, and licked her buttery fingers.
    There was still plenty of time before dinner. She tidied away the tea things, made up the fire and spread her material on the floor and cut out her skirt. She would have to sew it by hand, but that didn’t worry her; she tacked it together, tried it on in front of the small bedroom looking-glass and then got ready to go over to the house.
    There was no sign of the professor during the next week, but then she hadn’t expected to see him and certainly no one mentioned him. She worked away at the press cuttings, sewed her skirt in her free time and took a brisk walk each day. A dull week, but its very dullness gave her a sense of security. She went to Marlborough again on her free day, but she spent very little of her pay; the future was beginning to loom. Another three weeks and she would be finished. There were only the letters and diaries to sort and read now, and the cataloguing, now that she had made sense of the muddle, presented no difficulties. Next week, she promised herself, she would decide what was to be done. Hopefully, she would get a good reference from Lady Manbrook and a study of the domestic situations in The Lady seemed hopeful. She treated herself to tea in a modest café and caught the bus back.
    The letters, when she began on them, were fascinating. The contents were, for the most part, innocuous enough; accounts of morning calls, tea parties and dances with descriptions of the clothes worn by the writer’s friends, some of them a trifle tart. But a packet of envelopes tied with ribbon Suzannah opened with some hesitation and then tied them up again. The topletter began ‘My dearest love’, and to read further would have been as bad as eavesdropping. She took the bundle, and another one like it, down to the drawing-room before dinner that evening and gave them to Lady Manbrook, who looked through them, murmuring from time to time. ‘Great-Aunt Alicia,’ she said finally, ‘and Great-Uncle Humbert—before they became engaged. How very interesting. But you did quite right to give them to me, Suzannah; if there are any more of these letters, will you fasten them together—put them into an envelope, perhaps?—and write “Private” on it. I scarcely feel that they were meant for any eyes, but those for whom they were intended. Are there many more?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, Lady Manbrook, but there are several in another language—it looks a little like German…’
    â€˜Dutch,’ said Mrs van Beuck promptly. ‘Are they written or typed, my dear?’
    â€˜Typed, for the most part.’
    â€˜Marriage settlements when I married dear Everard. Dear me, such a long time ago.’
    Suzannah wasn’t sure what to say; she knew nothing about marriage settlements,