cook food, written by an expert.’
Mr van der Beek’s eyelids drooped over an amused gleam. ‘If that is a compliment, Patience, thank you. I cannot compete with Mrs Beeton in her own field, but I venture to admit to being moderately well known in my own.’
Miss Murch’s headache had returned; Patience, taking care not to usurp that lady’s authority, did as much as she could to help her so that by the time dinner was ready there was an appetising meal on the table.
Mr van der Beek was in the sitting-room by the fire, with Basil at his feet. He had taken the trouble to change into a collar and tie and a good tweed jacket, and Patience, sent to fetch him to the kitchen, was made aware of her own appearance. With an eye to the weather she had come to work in a thick tweed skirt and an equally thick sweater over a shirt blouse and she had nothing with her to make this prosaic outfit more becoming, but at least her hair, strained back into a large bun, was tidy, and she had powdered her nose.
Miss Murch had done them proud, there were leeks in a french dressing, boeuf bourguignon and sautéd potatoes and an egg custard with a variety of cheeses to round off this heartening fare. Mr van der Beek made polite conversation and made no comment at Miss Murch’s lack of appetite; only when the meal was finished did he ask casually, ‘You’ve got a headache, Miss Murch?’
‘A slight one, sir.’
‘May I suggest a bed, a warm hot-water bottle and a hot drink? I’ll let you have some paracetamol. If you don’t feel better in the morning, stay in bed—there’s nothing like a day in bed to discourage a cold.’
He smiled kindly at her and bade her goodnight before turning to Patience. ‘Will you see that Miss Murch does just that?’ He glanced at the table. ‘These can wait for the time being.’
So Patience filled a hot-water bottle, urged Miss Murch upstairs to her cold bedroom and went away to get her a hot drink. It would have to be tea; the milk was running low. Miss Murch was in bed by the time she got back; she handed the pills, fetched a glass of water for the night and waited while the hot drink was swallowed. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well; a good night’s sleep will probably put it right.’
When she got back to the kitchen it was to find the dishes washed and the kitchen more or less tidy. She was standing rather aimlessly when Mr van der Beek put his head round the door. ‘Go to bed, Patience. I’ll see to the Aga. Good night.’
It didn’t turn out to be a good night, though.
CHAPTER THREE
PATIENCE was awakened just after one o’clock by Miss Murch, standing by her bed and thumping her on the shoulder. She held a lighted candle and in its meagre light her appearance to the sleepy Patience was alarming.
‘I am cold,’ snarled Miss Murch. ‘Get me a hot drink and refill my bottle, this house will be my death …’
Patience nipped out of bed and put a comforting arm around the housekeeper. It was startling to feel how hot she was despite her shivers. ‘Come back to bed,’ she coaxed. ‘I’ll be back in no time with a drink and a hot-water bottle; I’ll bring a spare blanket too …’
She was creeping down the stairs when Mr van der Beek loomed on the landing.
‘Now what?’ He sounded resigned. ‘Miss Murch?’
‘Yes. She says she’s cold but she feels very hot. I’m going to get her a hot drink and fill a bottle …’
‘You have nothing on your feet.’
‘Well, I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me, did I?’ She spoke reasonably, not waiting for an answer as she skimmed along to the kitchen.
When she got back to Miss Murch’s room, Mr van der Beek was there, sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the thermometer in his hand. His expression told her nothing and he said cheerfully, ‘Well, Miss Murch, you have a touch of flu. You will stay in bed for a few days until you feel more the thing and we will nurse you. I am going to give you some tablets which you will take but first I am going to give you an injection—an antibiotic which will give the tablets a boost.’ He looked at Patience. ‘More pillows and another blanket?’ he asked.
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