or in the garden, grubbing up the few weeds which had hoped to escape that lady’s eye, there was ample time for reflection.
So silly, Margo told herself one day, on her way back from taking a pot of Mrs Pearson’s jam to an acquaintance who had expressed a wish to try it. It had been quite a long walk and the afternoon was already sliding briskly into dusk. What was more, it was going to rain at any moment. Margo, taking a short cut across Lord Trueman’s park, abandoned her pleasant daydreaming and put her best foot forward.
The park was vast, and this far from the house, which was just visible in the distance, its planned trees and shrubs had given way to rough ground, a ploughed field or two and sparse woodland through which ran a small stream, swollen now by October rains. The right of way ran beside it for some way and then turned away to join a wider path, leading back to one of the lodges some half a mile away.
Margo walked fast, head down against the rain, which was coming down in earnest now, thankful that she would soon join the path. It was pure chance that she gave a quick glance around her as she stopped to turn up the collar of her jacket. It was a movement in the stream some yards away which had caught her eye—a small, scarlet-clad figure, half in, half out of the water, a small arm trailing gently to and fro, washed by the stream as it raced along.
Margo ran through the rough grass and waded across the water, slipping and sliding, losing a shoe and not noticing, bent on getting to the child as quickly as possible.
It was Peggy, her head, thank heaven, on the bank, but most of her small person in the water. She was unconscious and Margo soon saw why: there was a big bruise on her forehead. She had fallen awkwardly and Margo had a few anxious moments hauling her out of the stream and up the bank. This done, there was the necessity to cross the stream again, for behind her was nothing but wooded country going nowhere.
It’s amazing what you can do when you have to, reflected Margo, slipping and sliding across to the other bank with Peggy hoisted awkwardly over a shoulder. Once there, there was the urgent need to get to the house, for as far as she could see there was no other help nearby.
Hoisting the little girl more securely, Margo started off across the field to where, in the distance, she could see the lights of the house.
It was raining in earnest now, hard cold rain which soaked them even more than they already were. Margo squelched along in her one shoe and thought that she would never reach the outer edge of the landscaped park around the house. She paused for a moment to hitch Peggy onto her other shoulder and trudged on. Surely by now they would have missed the child and there would be a search party? It would be a waste of precious breath to shout, she decided, worried now that perhaps she should have tried to revive the child before setting out for the house. Supposing the moppet died? She had felt a faint pulse when she had reached Peggy, but she hadn’t tried to do anything else.
She was near the house now, close to its grand entrance. She climbed the broad steps and gave the iron bell-pull by the door a terrific tug. Just to make sure, she tugged again. And again...
The door opened slowly under the indignant hand of Bush, the butler, who was affronted by the misuse of the bell-pull and the excessive noise. He had his mouth open to voice his displeasure, but Margo gave him no chance to utter a word.
‘Get a doctor quickly, and get Lady Trueman or her daughter—anyone. Only hurry!’
She pushed past him and made for the stairs, dripping across the hall, short of breath, waterlogged and terrified. There was no time to give way to terror. She drew a breath.
‘Will someone come quickly? I’ve got Peggy...’
She saw the butler hurry to the phone as a door opened and Lady Trueman, followed by her daughter, came into the hall.
‘What is all this noise...?’ She goggled at Margo. ‘Peggy—she’s ill? What has happened? It’s Margo Pearson...’
Margo didn’t waste time explaining. ‘Get her clothes off. She’s been in the stream; she’s unconscious. She must be rubbed dry and put to bed. I told the butler to get a doctor. Only will someone please hurry...?’
‘My baby!’ wailed Helen. ‘Where’s the nurse...?’
We shall be here all day, thought Margo, asking silly questions. She started up the stairs, intent on getting to the nursery, calling over her shoulder, ‘Is the doctor coming? It’s urgent. And for heaven’s sake will someone give me a hand?’
This time her appeal was heard. The housekeeper, made aware of the commotion, had come into the hall and now hurried up the staircase to Margo.
‘The nursery’s on the next floor. Can you manage? I’ll go ahead and turn down the bedclothes and get the place warmed.’
By the time Margo had reached the nursery she was standing ready with towels, the fire poked up and the lights on.
‘Let me have her on my lap. Get your wet things off, miss. You’ll catch your death. In the stream? You found her and carried her here? Bless you for that, miss. Where’s that nurse of hers, I’d like to know—?’
She broke off to speak to Lady Trueman, who had just tottered in.
‘Now, my lady, keep calm. Peggy will be all right, thanks to this brave young lady. Get your maid to give you a glass of brandy and give one to Miss Helen—and send Bessy up here, please.’
Helen had joined her mother. ‘Peggy—out in all that rain—where’s the nurse?’
The housekeeper said briskly, ‘That’s the doorbell, Miss Helen. Go and fetch the doctor up, will you? No time to waste.’
Margo, dragging off her wet shoe, her jacket a sodden heap on the floor, reflected that this housekeeper and her aunt Flo would make a splendid pair in any emergency.
Bessy came, and then was sent away to fetch a glass of brandy for Margo.
‘I never drink it,’ said Margo.
‘Just this once you will, miss.’ The housekeeper was firm. ‘It’s either that or pneumonia.’
So Margo tossed back the brandy, caught her breath at its fiery strength and felt a pleasant warmth from it. Perhaps she could take off the rest of her clothes... No, not yet. The doctor, ushered in by a weeping Helen, was bending over Peggy, who was now wrapped in a warm blanket on the housekeeper’s lap.
She was still unconscious, and there was a large bump under the bruise.
‘Will someone tell me what has happened?’ The doctor was youngish and cheerful. ‘It would help if just one of you could tell me.’
‘Ask the young lady here,’ said the housekeeper, and waved towards the shivering Margo. ‘She found her and carried her here. A proper heroine.’
Margo, a trifle muzzy with the brandy, nonetheless managed a sensible account of what had happened, and then lapsed into silence.
‘You undoubtedly saved Peggy’s life.’ said the doctor. ‘She’s concussed, but she’s warm and her pulse is good. She must be X-rayed, of course, but not for the moment. Just bed and warmth and someone to be with her in case she comes round. How come she was so far from home?’
‘I don’t know where her nurse has got to. She should have been in the nursery,
