taking the cases out of the boot. He cast his eyes up as she jumped off her bike.
‘Took bad,’ he said. ‘During the night. ‘Ad the doctor to see ‘er—gave her an injection and told ‘er it were a bug going round—gastric something or other. Alice is putting ‘er to bed, miss. You’d better go up sharp, like.’
‘Oh, Vickery, you must have had to get up very early—it’s only just nine o’clock.’
‘That I did, miss.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll see to yer bike.’
‘Thank you, Vickery. I’m sure Cook will have breakfast for you.’
She took off her outdoor things and went upstairs. Mrs Smith-Darcy’s door was closed but she could hear her voice raised in annoyance. She couldn’t be very ill if she could shout like that, thought Emma, opening the door.
‘There you are—never where you’re wanted, as usual. I’m ill—very ill. That stupid doctor who came to the hotel told me it was some kind of virus. I don’t believe him. I’m obviously suffering from some grave internal disorder. Go and phone Dr Treble and tell him to come at once.’
‘He’ll be taking surgery,’ Emma pointed out reasonably. ‘I’ll ask him to come as soon as he’s finished.’ She studied Mrs Smith-Darcy’s face. ‘Are you in great pain? Did the doctor at Torquay advise you to go to a hospital for emergency treatment?’
‘Of course not. If I need anything done I shall go into a private hospital. I am in great pain—agony…’ She didn’t quite meet Emma’s level gaze. ‘Do as I tell you; I must be attended to at once.’
She was in bed now, having her pillows arranged just so by the timid Alice. Emma didn’t think that she looked in pain; certainly her rather high colour was normal, and if she had been in the agony she described then she wouldn’t have been fussing about her pillows and which bed-jacket she would wear. She went downstairs and dialled the surgery.
The receptionist answered. ‘Emma—how are you? Your mother’s all right? She looked well when I saw her a few days ago.’
‘Mother’s fine, thanks, Mrs Butts. Mrs Smith-Darcy came back this morning from a few days at Torquay. She wasn’t well during the night and the hotel called a doctor who told her it was a bug and that she had better go home—he gave her something—I don’t know what. She says she is in great pain and wants Dr Treble to come and see her immediately.’
‘The surgery isn’t finished—it’ll be another half an hour or so, unless she’d like to be brought here in her car.’ Mrs Butts chuckled. ‘And that’s unlikely, isn’t it?’ She paused. ‘Is she really ill, Emma?’
‘Her colour is normal; she’s very cross…’
‘When isn’t she very cross? I’ll ask Doctor to visit when surgery is over, but, I warn you, if there’s anything really urgent he’ll have to see to it first.’
Emma went back to Mrs Smith-Darcy and found her sitting up in bed renewing her make-up. ‘You’re feeling better? Would you like coffee or tea? Or something to eat?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Trent; can you not see how I’m suffering? Is the doctor on his way?’
‘He’ll come when surgery is finished—about half an hour, Mrs Butts said.’
‘Mrs Butts? Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t speak to Dr Treble?’
‘No, he was busy with a patient.’
‘I am a patient,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy in a furious voice.
Emma, as mild as milk and unmoved, said, ‘Yes, Mrs Smith-Darcy. I’ll be back in a minute; I’m going to open the post while I’ve the chance.’
There must be easier ways of earning a living, she reflected, going down to the kitchen to ask Cook to make lemonade.
She bore the refreshment upstairs presently, and took it down again as her employer didn’t find it sweet enough. When she went back with it she was kept busy closing curtains because the dim light from the February morning was hurting the invalid’s eyes, then fetching another blanket to put over her feet, and changing the bed-jacket she had on, which wasn’t the right colour…
‘Now go and fetch my letters,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy.
Perhaps, thought Emma, nipping smartly downstairs once more, Dr Treble would prescribe something which would soothe the lady and cause her to doze off for long periods. Certainly at the moment Mrs Smith-Darcy had no intention of doing any such thing.
Emma, proffering her post, got the full force of her displeasure.
‘Bills,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy. ‘Nothing but bills!’ And went on that doubtless, while her back was turned, those whom she employed had eaten her out of house and home, and as for an indigent nephew who had had the effrontery to ask her for a small loan…’ ‘Anyone would think that I was made of money,’ she said angrily—which was, in fact, not far wrong.
The richer you are, the meaner you get, reflected Emma, retrieving envelopes and bills scattered over the bed and on the floor.
She was on her knees with her back to the door when it was opened and Alice said, ‘The doctor, ma’am,’ and something in her voice made Emma turn around. It wasn’t Dr Treble but a complete stranger who, from her lowly position, looked enormous.
Indeed, he was a big man; not only very tall but built to match his height, he was also possessed of a handsome face with a high-bridged nose and a firm mouth. Pepper and salt hair, she had time to notice, and on the wrong side of thirty. She was aware of his barely concealed look of amusement as she got to her feet.
‘Get up, girl,’ said Mrs Smith-Darcy and then added, ‘I sent for Dr Treble.’ She took a second look at him and altered her tone. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’
He crossed the room to the bed. ‘Dr Wyatt. I have taken over from Dr Treble for a short period. What can I do for you, Mrs Smith-Darcy? I received a message that it was urgent.’
‘Oh, Doctor, I have had a shocking experience—’ She broke off for a moment. ‘Miss Trent, get the doctor a chair.’
But before Emma could move he had picked up a spindly affair and sat on it, seemingly unaware of the alarming creaks; at the same time he had glanced at her again with the ghost of a smile. Nice, thought Emma, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. I hope that he will see through her. At least she won’t be able to bully him like she does Dr Treble.
Her hopes were justified. Mrs Smith-Darcy, prepared to discuss her symptoms at some length, found herself answering his questions with no chance of embellishment, although she did her best.
‘You dined last evening?’ he wanted to know. ‘What exactly did you eat and drink?’
‘The hotel is noted for its excellent food,’ she gushed. ‘It’s expensive, of course, but one has to pay for the best, does one not?’ She waited for him to make some comment and then, when he didn’t, added pettishly, ‘Well, a drink before I dined, of course, and some of the delightful canapés they serve. I have a small appetite but I managed a little caviare. Then, let me see, a morsel of sole with a mushroom sauce—cooked in cream,
