over some of them, trying to imagine the owners, picturing the quadrilles and polkas and waltzes they must have danced and their elaborate dresses. She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear the door open, but a slight sound made her turn her head.
Professor Bowers-Bentinck was standing there, leaning against the wall watching her.
‘Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ His voice had a silkiness she didn’t much like.
‘A surprise,’ she amended in her sensible way, ‘but I don’t know about it being pleasant.’
‘An outspoken young lady,’ he commented, ‘but I should feel flattered that you remember me.’
She was still kneeling, a handful of programmes in her hand, looking at him. She said matter-of-factly, ‘Well, I’d be silly if I didn’t—you’re much larger than most men, for a start, and you must know you’re good-looking; besides that, you came to see Aunt Mabel.’
‘Such an abundance of compliments,’ he murmured.
‘They’re not meant to be,’ said Suzannah prosaically, ‘just facts.’ She had a sudden alarming thought. ‘Lady Manbrook—she’s not ill? Or Mrs van Beuck? They were all right at lunch.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Is that why you are here?’
‘Both ladies are in splendid health’, he assured her. He eyed her coldly. ‘You are very untidy and dusty.’
‘Of course I am, it’s dusty work, and I have to get down on to the floor—there’s more room, and anyway, I can’t see that it matters to you.’
‘It doesn’t. Tell me, why do I find you here? How did you find this job?’
‘It was advertised. I’ve been here a week, and I’m very happy.’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’re here?’
‘I’ve come to tea.’
Her lovely eyes grew round. ‘Have you really? How extraordinary that we should meet again…’
‘Yes, isn’t it? You don’t object?’
‘Object? Why should I? I mean, one is always bumping into people in unexpected places.’
‘How true.’ He eyed her frowningly. ‘Had you not better finish and wash your hands and tidy your hair? It’s almost four o’clock.’
She dusted her skirt and gave him a tolerant glance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make myself presentable. I usually have my tea up here on a tray.’ She added kindly, ‘You don’t need to fuss.’
His voice was as cold as his eyes. ‘I’m not in the habit of fussing—what a tiresome girl you are.’ He went through the door, closing it behind him, leaving her to gather up the programmes and then leave the attic after him. Undoubtedly a bad-tempered man, she reflected, and because of that to be pitied.
She told Horace all about him while she brushed her bright hair into smoothness, ready for tea.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DRAWING ROOM looked charming as she went in; the lamps were lit and the firelight flickered on the walls and twinkled on the silver muffin dish on the tea-table. The two ladies were sitting in their usual chairs, and lounging in an outsize armchair was the professor, looking very much at home.
An old friend, she wondered, or the family doctor? Quite obviously someone who knew the old ladies well.
He got to his feet as she crossed the room and drew forward a small armchair for her, and Lady Manbrook said, ‘Our nephew tells us that he has met you previously, Suzannah, so there is no need to introduce you. I see that you have the dance programmes we were discussing with you; when we have had tea you must show them to us.’
Suzannah murmured a reply. Of course, now that she saw the three of them together there was no mistaking the relationship—those high-bridged, self assured noses, the cool blue stare from heavy-lidded eyes. She sat composedly, drinking tea from paper-thin china and nibbling at minuscule cucumber sandwiches, and allowed her imagination to have full rein. The professor would live in London, because undoubtedly that was where a man of his ability would work, but he was friends—close friends, probably—with Phoebe Davinish. He would be spending the weekend with her, and had dropped in to say hello to his aunts.
She was brought up short by his voice, rather too smooth for her liking, wanting to know if she was enjoying her work.
‘Very much, thank you,’ she told him.
‘And how long do you suppose it will take you to finish it?’ he continued.
‘I’m not sure. Everything is sorted into dated piles, but I think that is the easiest part; you see, the letters and cuttings are about a great many people—they’ll have to be sorted out.’
‘There is no hurry,’ declared Mrs van Beuck. ‘You seem to have accomplished a great deal in a week…’
‘Even on a Sunday,’ murmured the professor. ‘Do you prefer to have a free day in the week?’
‘Me?’ Suzannah spoke sharply, with a fine disregard for grammar. ‘I’m very happy—’
He cut her short. ‘I’m sure you are; nevertheless, you should have time to yourself. I cannot imagine that my aunts will mind if you take a week or so longer with your sorting and indexing; I am equally sure that they would wish you to enjoy a certain amount of time to yourself.’
Lady Manbrook was looking quite upset. ‘My dear child, how thoughtless of us—of course you must have some hours to yourself. What do you suggest, Guy?’
He didn’t even look at Suzannah to see what she thought about it, which annoyed her. ‘Oh, a day off each week—most office workers and shop assistants have two days—and set hours of work each day; nine until lunchtime, and then four hours’ work between two o’clock and dinnertime, to suit herself.’
Just as though I’m not here, thought Suzannah crossly. She shot him a speaking glance and met his cold eyes. ‘You are agreeable to that?’ he wanted to know.
It was tempting to tell him that she wasn’t agreeable at all, but Lady Manbrook was still looking upset so she said in a colourless voice. ‘Thank you, Professor, yes, that will do very well,’ and then, because she felt peevish, ‘So kind of you to bother,’ she added waspishly.
‘I’m not a particularly kind man,’ he observed, ‘but I hope that I am a just one.’
Maybe he was; he was also rude. She picked up the dance programmes and asked if the ladies would like to see them.
The next hour passed quickly, with the ladies exclaiming over the charming little cards with their coloured pencils attached by still bright cords, most of them filled by scrawled initials, one or two woefully half-empty. ‘That would be Emily Wolferton,’ declared Lady Manbrook. ‘Such a haughty piece.’ She tossed the card down and added with satisfaction, ‘I always had partners,’ and her sister echoed,
‘And so did I. Here’s one—Phoebe’s grandmother—a nasty, ill-tempered girl she was too, always wanting something she hadn’t.’ She looked
