tall man made no move, indeed he blocked the whole of the doorway with his bulk; for one awful moment Eliza wondered if she had come to the wrong place and added anxiously: ‘Professor Wyllie is here, isn’t he?’
He nodded, and now she could see that his dark eyes were gleaming with laughter. ‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ he said slowly, not addressing her really; merely confirming his own thoughts. ‘Five foot ten and buxom…’
She stared at him in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was acid—forgivable enough; she wanted to get in out of the rain and a cup of coffee would be welcome. She added crossly: ‘I’m getting wet.’
She was plucked inside as though she had been a wet kitten. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was politely concerned, but she could sense his amusement too. ‘Is that your car?’
‘Yes.’
He stared down at her. ‘Such a pretty girl, and such a pretty voice too, though decidedly acidulated at the moment.’
He paid her the compliment and took it away again with a lazy charm which infuriated her. ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ she wanted to know.
He looked faintly surprised. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’
‘Then perhaps you will tell me where I can find Professor Wyllie, since you seem unwilling to take me to him.’ She added nastily: ‘My case is in the car.’
He chuckled at that and opened the door again, so that she immediately felt forced to exclaim: ‘You can’t go out like that—you’ll ruin that good suit!’
He looked down at his large person. ‘The only one I have,’ he murmured apologetically.
‘Well, then…Professor Wyllie?’
He turned without a word and led her down the hall, past a rather nice staircase which needed a good dust, and opened a door. The room was a study, overflowing with books and papers, and sitting in the middle of it all was an elderly gentleman, who looked up as they went in, peering at them over his half glasses with guileless blue eyes.
‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ announced the large man blandly, and now there was no hiding the amusement in his voice.
‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr Wyllie, and took off his glasses and polished them.
Eliza took a few steps towards the desk at which he sat. She was fast coming to the conclusion that either she was dealing with eccentrics, or the whole affair was some colossal mistake. But she had been dealing with men of every age and sort, and ill at that, for a number of years now; she said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘You weren’t expecting me.’
She had addressed the older man, but it was the man who had admitted her who answered. ‘Oh, indeed we were, although I must admit at the same time that we weren’t expecting—er—quite you.’
She gave him a cool look, she wasn’t sure that she liked him. ‘That’s no answer,’ she pointed out, and then suddenly seeing his point, cried out: ‘Oh, I’m the wrong nurse, is that it? Five foot ten and buxom…but I really am Eliza Proudfoot.’
‘What was old Harry about?’ demanded Professor Wyllie of no one in particular. ‘Why, you’re far too small to be of any use, and no one will make me believe that you’re almost twenty-nine.’
She winced; no girl likes to have her age bandied about once she is over twenty-one. ‘I’m very strong, and I’ve been in charge of Men’s Medical at St Anne’s for more than five years, and if you are acquainted with Sir Harry Bliss you’ll know that if he said I could do the job, then there’s no more to be said.’
‘We don’t know about being motherly yet, but she’s tough,’ remarked the large man. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, one well-shod, enormous foot swinging gently.
She shot him an annoyed glance and walked deliberately across the room to stand before him. It was a little disconcerting when he rose politely to his feet, so that she was forced to crane her neck in order to see his face. ‘You have done nothing but make remarks about me since you opened the door,’ her voice was crisp and, she hoped, reasonable, ‘and I can’t think why you are trying to frighten me away—because you are, aren’t you? But since you only own the house—and you should be ashamed to have let it lapse into such a neglected state,’ she admonished him in passing, ‘I really can’t see why you should interfere with my appointment. I’ve come to work for Professor Wyllie, not you.’
The dark face broke into a slow smile. ‘My dear young lady, I must correct you; you have come to work for me too.’ He held out a hand that looked as though it had never seen hard work in its life. ‘I quite neglected to introduce myself—Professor Christian van Duyl.’
Eliza allowed her hand to be wrung while she recovered from her surprise. She was still framing a suitable answer to this bombshell when he gave her back her hand and started for the door.
‘I’ll see about your luggage and put the car away,’ he told her, ‘while you and Professor Wyllie have a chat.’ He turned to the door. ‘You would like some coffee, Miss Proudfoot?’
She nodded and then looked at the elderly gentleman behind the desk. He was smiling, a friendly smile, she was glad to see. ‘Excuse me getting up, girl…I shall call you Eliza if I may—which means that I grow abominably lazy. You came up by car?’
She sat down in the chair he had indicated. ‘Yes,’ and she couldn’t refrain from asking innocently, ‘How else does one get here?’
He grinned. ‘Helicopter?’
‘If I had known that this place was so remote, I might have thought of that.’
He was studying her quietly. ‘It’s beautiful here in the autumn and late spring.’
‘Surely the climate is all wrong for asthma cases?’
He chuckled. ‘That’s part of the exercise. Professor van Duyl and I have established that the stress and strain of modern life are just as much deciding factors in bringing on attacks as the wrong climate—now we need to prove that. We have ten volunteer patients with us—five Dutch, five English, and we intend to test our theory. If it holds water, then it gives us a lead, however slender, in the treatment of the wretched complaint.’
‘Why did you want a nurse, sir?’
‘We want the patients to feel secure—it is remarkable what a nurse’s uniform will do on that score, and you will have work to do—general duties,’ he looked vague—’ and of course you will need to deal with any attacks which may crop up—one or two of the men are cardiac cases, but we will go into all that later. They warned you, I hope, that I’m an asthmatic myself with a touch of cardiac failure—I daresay you will be a lot busier than you think.’
He looked up as the door opened and Professor van Duyl came in, followed by a stocky, middle-aged man bearing a tray set neatly with a large coffee pot, milk, sugar and a selection of mugs. He set it down on a table which Professor van Duyl swept free of papers and books, smiled paternally at her, and disappeared discreetly. She wondered who he was, but as no one volunteered this information, she supposed him to be one of the staff, then forgot him as she poured the coffee.
She learned a good deal
