gesture. The applause died into a moment of silence, and Jane was heard to observe in a penetrating voice, ‘They make a charming couple, do you not agree?’
Emma’s sense of shock and outrage was swiftly followed by the realisation that her Aunt Jane was not looking in Blanche’s direction, but at herself and Bernard. Her aunt was always trying to matchmake between them. It would suit her admirably, of course, if Bernard Mottram married into the family, thus ensuring his continued services as her husband’s partner, for Paget was taking his share largely in drink while Bernard ran the practice. But Emma did not dwell upon this familiar irrita tion; her momentary misunderstanding had crystallised a startling idea, one which had first darted into her mind when Blanche had spoken so flatteringly of Matthew Sutcliffe’s good looks. Now, as she watched the two of them talking, they appeared far more than slight acquaintances. Emma was sickened. She felt a growing conviction that in the past there had been something between Blanche and Matthew Sutcliffe. Yet in those far-off days he had been a very young man and Blanche, several years his senior, was a mature married woman whose husband. Uncle William, had still been alive.
Despite pressing requests Emma could not be persuaded to play for Bernard again. Conversation was flagging when Chloe rang for tea to be brought and Hoad entered with a large tray, followed by Seth with the silver urn. These were set out before Chloe on an oval table, and that done, the butler went round behind and addressed him in a low, discreet voice.
‘What did you say? Speak up, man. A messenger from Lady Shackleton? Well, I shall have to go to her, then.’ Paget rose to his feet and stood rocking on his heels. ‘My apologies, Chloe, but there it is. The dear lady commands the presence of her physician. Probably nothing more serious than a touch of dyspepsia,’ he added. ‘Ah well! A doctor’s life —’
‘Paget, for mercy’s sake, you’re in no fit state to go any where,’ snapped his wife, then broke off aghast. With a be seeching glance at Bernard, she corrected herself. ‘It seems such a pity that you should have to leave in the middle of a family party. Perhaps Bernard would be good enough to go in your place.’
‘Yes, I shall be happy to do so,’ the young man agreed, standing up at once.
‘But, my dear Jane, it’s Lady Shackleton!’ objected Paget. Everyone knew that this lady, the widow of a minister in Lord Derby’s last Tory administration, was the prize among Paget’s wealthy patients. Her numerous petty ailments re quired his frequent attendance and provided a fair proportion of his income. It was almost the only regular call he now paid. Jane said hurriedly, ‘I feel sure it won’t matter for Bernard to go this once. He can make an excuse for you, saying that you are out visiting another patient some distance away and cannot be reached.’
Feeling her aunt’s humiliation, Emma interrupted Bernard crossly when he leaned over her shoulder and murmured that he hoped to be back before the party ended. ‘Oh, do hurry up and go to your patient!’
‘I was just going,’ he protested, looking hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma muttered. ‘But can’t you see that it’s all so dreadfully embarrassing?’
Of course Bernard could see it, better even than the Hard akers. Hadn’t he watched Dr Eade turn increasingly to the solace of alcohol during the six years he had been his junior partner and lived in his home? He had lately seen him at the whisky decanter at breakfast time, and invariably intoxicated by the evening. It was common knowledge that the death of the Hades’ young daughter had started him on the downward path, and it was tragic to see a doctor of such talent go to pieces. Bernard owed a debt of gratitude to Paget Eade, with whom his own father had been through the Afghan cam paign in India twenty years ago, as Captain Eade’s medical orderly, and he
Emma’s sense of shock and outrage was swiftly followed by the realisation that her Aunt Jane was not looking in Blanche’s direction, but at herself and Bernard. Her aunt was always trying to matchmake between them. It would suit her admirably, of course, if Bernard Mottram married into the family, thus ensuring his continued services as her husband’s partner, for Paget was taking his share largely in drink while Bernard ran the practice. But Emma did not dwell upon this familiar irrita tion; her momentary misunderstanding had crystallised a startling idea, one which had first darted into her mind when Blanche had spoken so flatteringly of Matthew Sutcliffe’s good looks. Now, as she watched the two of them talking, they appeared far more than slight acquaintances. Emma was sickened. She felt a growing conviction that in the past there had been something between Blanche and Matthew Sutcliffe. Yet in those far-off days he had been a very young man and Blanche, several years his senior, was a mature married woman whose husband. Uncle William, had still been alive.
Despite pressing requests Emma could not be persuaded to play for Bernard again. Conversation was flagging when Chloe rang for tea to be brought and Hoad entered with a large tray, followed by Seth with the silver urn. These were set out before Chloe on an oval table, and that done, the butler went round behind and addressed him in a low, discreet voice.
‘What did you say? Speak up, man. A messenger from Lady Shackleton? Well, I shall have to go to her, then.’ Paget rose to his feet and stood rocking on his heels. ‘My apologies, Chloe, but there it is. The dear lady commands the presence of her physician. Probably nothing more serious than a touch of dyspepsia,’ he added. ‘Ah well! A doctor’s life —’
‘Paget, for mercy’s sake, you’re in no fit state to go any where,’ snapped his wife, then broke off aghast. With a be seeching glance at Bernard, she corrected herself. ‘It seems such a pity that you should have to leave in the middle of a family party. Perhaps Bernard would be good enough to go in your place.’
‘Yes, I shall be happy to do so,’ the young man agreed, standing up at once.
‘But, my dear Jane, it’s Lady Shackleton!’ objected Paget. Everyone knew that this lady, the widow of a minister in Lord Derby’s last Tory administration, was the prize among Paget’s wealthy patients. Her numerous petty ailments re quired his frequent attendance and provided a fair proportion of his income. It was almost the only regular call he now paid. Jane said hurriedly, ‘I feel sure it won’t matter for Bernard to go this once. He can make an excuse for you, saying that you are out visiting another patient some distance away and cannot be reached.’
Feeling her aunt’s humiliation, Emma interrupted Bernard crossly when he leaned over her shoulder and murmured that he hoped to be back before the party ended. ‘Oh, do hurry up and go to your patient!’
‘I was just going,’ he protested, looking hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emma muttered. ‘But can’t you see that it’s all so dreadfully embarrassing?’
Of course Bernard could see it, better even than the Hard akers. Hadn’t he watched Dr Eade turn increasingly to the solace of alcohol during the six years he had been his junior partner and lived in his home? He had lately seen him at the whisky decanter at breakfast time, and invariably intoxicated by the evening. It was common knowledge that the death of the Hades’ young daughter had started him on the downward path, and it was tragic to see a doctor of such talent go to pieces. Bernard owed a debt of gratitude to Paget Eade, with whom his own father had been through the Afghan cam paign in India twenty years ago, as Captain Eade’s medical orderly, and he
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