advised her to pack. “And a good thing, too,” she muttered as she poked at her hair, “if I’m to live up to the splendour of the dining-room.”
It was indeed splendid—white damask, shining silver and polished glass and a massive centrepiece which effectively blocked her view of Aunt Beatrix, resplendent in black velvet. Conversation, carried on in raised voice over the length of the table, was concerned wholly with Aunt Beatrix’s diet and her sister’s health. Prudence managed to make a splendid meal before joining her godmother in the drawing-room for coffee, and then she sat listening to a somewhat rambling history of the family. “Of course, your Aunt Emma married very well: her husband was a younger brother of Haso’s father and they’re a wealthy family. One wonders why the dear boy works so hard at being a doctor when he might be living quietly at his home.”
“Perhaps he likes being a doctor?” suggested Prudence mildly.
“Possibly. But his mother would like to see him married—there are several suitable young women…”
Not very interested, Prudence observed, “Perhaps he’s a confirmed bachelor. He’s not young.”
Her godmother sighed and said reprovingly, “A mere three and thirty, a splendid age at which to marry.”
Prudence longed to ask why, but decided not to.
Her godmother proceeded, “There’s no lack of young women who would be only too glad to marry him.”
“Oh, really?” said Prudence politely. “Then why doesn’t he? Marry, I mean?”
“You don’t like him,” observed her godmother suddenly.
“I don’t know him, Aunt Beatrix. How could I possibly dislike or like him after only a few minutes’ conversation with him?”
“That is, of course, true,” conceded her godmother. “You’ll naturally get to know each other during the next week or so.”
An unnecessary exercise as far as Prudence was concerned.
The following day gave her a very good idea of what was to come. She awoke refreshed from a sound night’s sleep to find her aunt’s maid standing by her bed with early morning tea.
Her “Good morning, Pretty” was answered a little sourly.
“Well, good morning it may be for some,” declared Pretty, “but I’m sure I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Prudence; it couldn’t be too dire, the house’s inmates were barely awake.
“There’s Madam, wanting rolls and butter and croissants with more butter and marmalade, with scrambled eggs and bacon, and sugar in her coffee…”
Prudence scrambled up higher against her pillows. “That won’t do. I’ll come and see my aunt, Pretty—it’s no good her having a diet if she’s not going to keep to it. Don’t you worry now, go and have your breakfast, if you like. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”
She got out of bed and flung on her gown, a gossamer affair of crêpe-de-Chine and lace which matched her nightie.
“That cost a pretty penny,” declared Pretty severely.
Prudence agreed readily. “I like pretty things.” She smiled at Pretty and stuck her feet into satin slippers trimmed extravagantly with satin bows, then took herself out of the room to visit her aunt.
Mrs Wesley was sitting up in her bed sipping milkless tea in a discontented fashion, and it took all of ten minutes to coax her to have the breakfast she was allowed and not the one she wanted, but Prudence was used to dealing with recalcitrant patients, and presently she went away to dress and go downstairs for her own breakfast—the last peaceful minutes she was to have until lunch time, as it happened. Between them, Mrs Wesley and her sister kept her busy for the entire morning; their demands for this and that and the other were numerous, uttered with charm and a stately determination to have their own way. It was a relief to everyone when they consented to rest on their beds after lunch. Prudence tucked them up with soothing murmurs, waited until she heard their gentle snores, and escaped into the gardens. It was a splendid day, warm for the time of year. She found a pleasant seat in a quiet corner and opened her book.
It was obvious that each meal was going to be a battle of wills between herself and her godmother. Prudence reflected that it was a good thing that Mevrouw ter Brons Huizinga had a well-staffed household, devoted to her. There was to be no lack of help when Prudence was summoned to get that lady from her bed, an undertaking which took a great deal of time and almost all her patience. All in all, she thought as she got ready for bed that night, a busy day, and as far as she could see, all the other days would be the same.
They were, at least for the next three days, but by now she had a routine, frequently disrupted by the vagaries of the two elderly ladies, but none the less workable. Not speaking Dutch was a disadvantage, of course, but it was amazing what could be done with arm-waving and pointing.
The fourth day came and went and there was no sign of Haso, and although Prudence reminded herself that she disliked the man intensely, none the less, she wished he would come. It had been rather unfair, she reflected, giving way to a self-pity she seldom indulged in, that she had been left with the responsibility of the aunts. Of course, she could get his partner at any time, but that wasn’t the same thing… She got into bed with something of a bounce and declared to the empty room, “Well, I suppose he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
Sooner, as it turned out.
She wakened to the sound of Pretty’s urgent voice hissing at her.
“Miss Prudence, for heaven’s sake, wake up—there’s something wrong with Madam, and there you are snoring your head off!”
Prudence opened one eye. “I never snore.”
Pretty gave her shoulder a little shake. “Oh, do listen—you must listen! I know there’s something wrong, Madam’s lying there and I can’t rouse her! I can’t think why I went to see if she was all right, but she’s not…”
Prudence was out of her bed, feeling around for her slippers with her feet.
“Hyperglycaemic coma,” she said, although she still wasn’t quite awake.
Pretty said sharply, “Call it anything you like, my Madam’s ill.”
She was quite right; Mrs Wesley, as far as Prudence could judge, was in a diabetic coma, although they couldn’t think of a reason for it. She had eaten her diet, every morsel, at dinner—Prudence herself had seen to that—and her insulin had been the correct dosage. She took a brief look at her godmother and went swiftly to the telephone.
It was Dr ter Brons Huizinga who answered her, and she didn’t waste time with so much as a hello. “Mrs Wesley—she’s in a hyperglycaemic coma—deep, sighing breaths. I’m unable to rouse her at all…”
He cut her short. “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”
Prudence went back to her godmother and then got out the insulin and syringe. “And if you’d go down to the front door and let the doctor in, Pretty?”
He was as good as his word; she was bending over Mrs Wesley when he came into the
