Wedding Bells for Beatrice

She was only half listening; the first of the specialists would be arriving in time for coffee in the morning and she was going over her careful catering once more, saying, ‘Oh yes?’ and, ‘Really?’ and, ‘Of course,’ at intervals. Once at the hotel, a vast place which she didn’t much like, she had to give Tom her undivided attention, sitting opposite him at a table in the bar, eating sandwiches and drinking a glass of white wine. The sandwiches were small and elegant, garnished with cress, and Beatrice, who was hungry, could have eaten the lot.

‘You’ll have had a good square meal,’ said Tom comfortably, ‘but do devour one—there’s just enough horseradish with the beef.’

She nibbled one, thinking of fried eggs on baked beans and a huge pot of tea or coffee. It was a funny thing, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man you could ask to take you to the nearest McDonald’s. If he wasn’t hungry, then you weren’t either, or, for that matter, if he assumed that you weren’t hungry and he was he wouldn’t ask you if you were …

It was very noisy in the bar and he had to raise his voice when he spoke. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘Isn’t it time that we made a few plans?’

‘Plans? What plans?’

He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Our future—I’ve another six months to do at St Justin’s then I’ll be ready to get a practice—buy a partnership. I’ll need some financial backing but your father could put me in touch with all the right people—he may be a country GP but he knows everyone worth knowing, doesn’t he? Besides, your mother …’ He paused delicately and his smile widened and he added coaxingly, ‘Once all that is settled we might get married.’

Beatrice sought for words; the only ones she could think of were very rude, so she kept silent. He must have been very sure of her—his proposal, if you could call it that, had been an afterthought. She twiddled the glass in her hand and wondered what would happen if she threw it at him. She said very quietly, ‘But I don’t want to marry you, Tom.’

He laughed, ‘Don’t be a silly girl, of course you do. Don’t pretend that I’ve taken you by surprise. We’ve been going out together now for weeks and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to settle down once I’m away from St Justin’s.’

‘I don’t remember you asking me if I had any plans for the future,’ observed Beatrice. She was bubbling over with rage but she looked quite serene. ‘But you—your plan was to get my father to put in a good word for you—I don’t know where Mother comes in … Oh, of course—being the granddaughter of an earl.’

‘A little name-dropping never does any harm,’ answered Tom complacently. ‘Can’t you just see it in the Telegraph? “Beatrice, daughter of Dr and the Hon. Mrs Crawley”.’ He sat back in his chair, smiling at her.

‘Tom, I have just told you—I don’t want to marry you. I’m sorry if you got the impression that I did. We’ve been good friends and enjoyed each other’s company but that’s all, isn’t it?’

‘I’m very fond of you, old girl.’ He didn’t notice her wince. ‘You’ll be a splendid wife, all the right connections and so on. I’ll make a name for myself in no time.’

The colossal conceit of him, reflected Beatrice; it was like trying to dent a steel plate with a teaspoon. He hadn’t once said that he loved her …

Characteristically, he didn’t ask if she wanted to go but finished his drink with an air of satisfaction at a job well done and asked, ‘Ready? I’ve got a couple of cases that I must look at.’

She got into the car beside him and he drove back to the hospital in silence. At the entrance he said, ‘We must get together again as soon as possible—you’ll have to give up your job here, of course.’

‘Tom,’ she tried to sound reasonable, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry you and I have no intention of giving up my job here. I think it might be better if we don’t see each other again. Surely we can part friends?’ She added coldly, ‘There must be plenty of suitable girls from whom you can choose a wife.’

‘Oh, you are being a silly girl. You’ll change your mind, I’ll see to that. I’ll give you a ring when I’m free.’

He sat in the car with the engine still running, waiting for her to get out, and the moment that she did he shot away with a casual wave. Not the behaviour of a man who had only half an hour ago proposed to her. Bottled-up rage and hurt feelings choked her as she crossed the courtyard. It was cold and very dark once she was away from the brightly lit entrance. The bulk of the new block behind the hospital loomed ahead of her; there were still a good many lights burning—several of the path. labs were still working. She wished with all her heart that she were at home, able to go to her room and cry her eyes out without anyone wanting to know why unless she wished to tell them. Held-back tears filled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks; there was no one to tell here …!

There was, however. Gijs van der Eekerk reached the door at the same time as she did; his large gloved hand covered hers as she put it on the door-handle.

He took no notice of her stifled scream. ‘They told me that you would be back—that you had gone out for an hour with Dr Ford. I thought we might bury the hatchet over supper.’

He took the hand off the door and turned her round so that the dim light above the door shone on her face.

His ‘tut-tut’ was uttered with all the mild good-natured concern of an uncle or elder brother. ‘Tears? May I ask why?’

‘Don’t you tut-tut at me,’ said Beatrice crossly, ‘and if I want to cry I shall and I shan’t tell you why.’

He offered a large handkerchief. ‘No, no, of course you shan’t and a good weep is very soothing to the nerves, only wouldn’t it be better if you wept in a warmer spot?’

She blew her nose. ‘Yes, of course if would. If you would let me go in I can get some peace and quiet in my flat.’

‘Splendid.’ He opened the door and, when she had gone through, followed her.

‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ said Beatrice, belatedly remembering her manners. Then she added, ‘How did you get here?’

‘I’m to read a paper here in the morning.’

‘You’re a doctor—a surgeon …?’

‘A haematologist. Let us go to your flat. You can tidy yourself before we go somewhere and have supper.’

‘I don’t want … that is, thank you very much, but I don’t want any supper and there is no need for you to come with me.’

‘Ah—you had a meal with that young man who drove off in such a hurry?’

‘You were spying?’

‘No—no—I was just getting out of my car.’ He sounded so reasonable that she felt guilty of her suspicions and muttered,

‘Sorry.’

‘So now let us do as I suggested, there’s a good girl,’ His avuncular manner was reassuring; she led the way to the top floor and opened the door of her flat.

He took her coat in the tiny hallway. ‘Run along and do your face,’ he advised her, and went round the room, turning on the lamps and closing the curtains and, despite the faint warmth from the central heating, he turned on the gas fire too. The sleeping area of the room was curtained off and she set to, repairing the damage done to her face and re-doing her hair, listening to him strolling around the room, whistling softly. She reflected that he was the first man to be there; it had never entered her head to invite Tom or any of the young doctors who from time to time had asked her out, and she wondered now what on earth had possessed her to do so now. Not that she had invited him; he had come with her as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do. She frowned as she stuck pins into her coil of hair; he was altogether too much and she would tell him so—show him the door, politely, of course.

He was sitting, his coat off, in one of the small easy-chairs by the fire, but he got up as she crossed the room, watching her. ‘That’s better. Supposing that you tell me what upset you then if you want to cry again you can do so in warmth and comfort before we go to supper.’

‘I have no intention of crying again, Doctor, nor do I want supper.’

Her insides rumbled as she said it, giving the lie to her words. She might have saved her breath.

He pulled forward a chair invitingly. ‘Did he jilt you or did you jilt him?’

She found herself sitting opposite him. ‘Well, neither really,’ she began.

‘A quarrel? It will help to talk about it and since I am a complete stranger to you too you can say what you like, I’ll listen and forget about it.’

She was taking leave of her senses of course, confiding in this man.

‘Well,’ she began, ‘it is all a bit of a muddle.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bfdcf8ec-39e8-5858-a81c-af8d72c1f27b)

THE professor was a splendid listener; Beatrice quite forgot that he was there once she had started. ‘It’s probably all my fault. Tom’s attractive and amusing and I suppose I was flattered and it got a kind of habit to go out with him when he asked me. I didn’t really notice how friendly we’d become. I took him home for a weekend …’

She paused. ‘Mother and Father didn’t like him very much—oh, they didn’t say so, I just knew, and then lately he began to talk about buying a practice and making a name for himself, only he said he would need some backing and he began to talk about Father—he’s a GP, and not well known or anything, but he does know a lot of important medical men, and Tom discovered that Mother was an earl’s granddaughter.’ She paused to say wildly, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this …’

He said in a detached voice, ‘As I have already said, we’re more or less strangers, unlikely to be more than that. I’m just a face to talk to … go on!’

‘I—I was getting doubtful, I mean I wasn’t sure if I liked him as much as I thought I did, if you see what I mean, and then this evening he wanted me to go out with him; he was very persistent so I went. He took me to the Tower Thistle—it’s a hotel, not too far away.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘He ate all but one of the sandwiches—he said that no doubt I had had a good square meal. I knew that I didn’t love him then—well, any girl would, wouldn’t she?’ She gave her companion a brief glance and found his face passive and impersonal. ‘Then he said it was time we thought about our future, that he would need financial backing to get a partnership and that Father would be a great help. He even suggested that he could use Mother’s name to give him a start; he actually described the notice of our engagement in the Telegraph. I told him that I didn’t want to marry him—he hadn’t actually asked me, just took me for granted—and then he just laughed.’ She sniffed and added in a furious voice, ‘I won’t be taken for granted.’