"Yes, thank you—at the airport. But a cup of real tea would be gorgeous. I can't think how the Americans get along without it—or Continentals either," she remembered that Pietro never touched the "stuff."
"I'll get it in two shakes of a lamb's tail!" Rose promised, and disappeared towards the kitchen, calling before she went, "There's letters for you in your room, miss."
A moment later she came back and put her head round the door to say, "Mr. Wentworth telephoned three times enquiring for you, miss, but he didn't leave any message. He just wanted to know if you were back or when we expected you, but of course I couldn't tell him—seeing as I didn't have any news myself about that till yesterday."
It was in Fay's mind to ask from whom the news had come, but she could not be bothered, and at that moment she was sorting through the pile of letters which awaited her, refusing to admit, even to herself, that the handwriting for which she was looking was Mark's. Her depression deepened a little when she saw that there was no envelope addressed
in his rather individual hand, until she remembered seconds later that Mark had injured his right hand and so he could not write.
After the tea there came a hot bath and bed—and Fay had never appreciated before how luxurious these everyday things were. But she did not ponder on her lack of gratitude for them long before sleep claimed her.
When she woke she thought at first she had slept only a short time, for it was still not quite dark. It was only when Rose tiptoed into the room that she learned that she had slept round the clock and a bit more.
When she learned that she decided to stay where she was and accept Rose's suggestion of a tray meal. She had forgotten how good food could taste when cooked the way Rose cooked it, and when she had eaten she found that she had no desire to do anything else but slide down in the bed and go off to sleep again. She would read her letters tomorrow—that was time enough to catch up with her everyday world. Just at the moment she was in a kind of no-man's land which, if it was sterile and offered little hope of fulfilment, at least was undemanding.
The next morning, feeling more or less her normal self again, though disinclined for any great physical exertion, she tackled her letters without particular interest.
There was one from Geoff and she opened that first, because she was so full of feeling for him.
"My dearest," it began,
"I am so sorry at the way I left you the other night. I'm afraid I was just being selfish and thinking only of myself. I know so well what you are suffering but there does not seem any way I can help. I should not feel so bad if only I knew there was a chance of happiness for you—but as it is it seems such a waste—such a wicked waste . .."
She sighed deeply. She could understand too. She had the same yearning that he too should find happiness in spite of her—and with more reason, she thought, since it was all her fault.
She was ready enough to accept the blame, but there was nothing she could do to help she thought, as she turned to her other letters.
Many of them were congratulatory on her exploits, and she found these vaguely embarrassing. She knew she had done only what her training had qualified her to do—nothing more than any of her colleagues would have done if they had been more or less on the spot as she was.
For a change from their eulogies she turned to an envelope in Wendy's large, childish hand. It went straight to the point, as usual.
"Isn't it orful," she wrote, "about Marks hand. He is very deprest as he wont ever be able to oprate again. I am going to grow up ever so quik so as to do it for him but I didnt have to have my school skurt made longer this term as I thort I would. I have been eating all my poridge too. I think you should come home and cheer Mark up it will be ever so misrable at the Chrismas holidays if you dont hury up."
Christmas holidays—they were a long way off yet. The children had only been back at school a week or two. But the mere mention of Christmas still had power to move Fay with the sweetness of the rapture which she had known at Beechcroft—so short-lived and yet never to be forgotten.
She came last of all to Flip's letter—it was the bulkiest, and would, she knew, put her completely in the picture with regard to the world of St. Edith's, to which she must return soon.
She was not disappointed. Flip's letter told her all the hospital scandal—including the sudden departure, unexplained, of one of the junior Sisters. Rumour had it that she was pregnant—but rumour remained unconfirmed.
"You won't be surprised to hear that your Mr. Osborne got his Fellowship. He was appointed to St. Giles—but with this awful injury to his hand I suppose that's put paid to his consultancy ..." So the news of his Fellowship was what Mark had wanted to tell her, Fay's brain commented as she read on. "But my next bit of news will shake you rigid," Flip continued.
By the time she had read to the end of that letter Fay was more than shaken. Stunned would have been a better word. Stunned and bewildered—not quite sure whether she was riding for the crest of a wave or whether she was slipping into the trough and about to be engulfed.
Her first impulse was to pack and return to London imme-
diately, but on more sober reflection she realised that Matron was right to tell her to stay at Lamontella for a while. She did not feel at all equal to a full day's duty at the moment, now that the emergency had passed and reaction had set in. Better to make the most of the last days of a summer which lingered on and was conducive to lethargy and the sense that time itself was standing still.
This, however, was a false illusion, and on the morning she flew in to London Airport it was a crisp October morning. The sun was still golden but the leaves, touched by an overnight frost, were coming down in showers, so that from the plane the three-lined roads and fields seemed carpeted in russet gold.
She was not due to report at the hospital until the next morning, so that she had the whole day before her, and as she stepped on to the tarmac she wondered what she should do with it.
She was not expecting to be met, so she did not even glance at the little crowd of people who were there to meet other passengers off the plane, and was nearly taken off her balance when two small figures rushed at her with hugs and cries of welcome.
She had to look at them twice before she could recognise Helen and Wendy. In their school uniforms they looked more nearly normal children than she had ever thought they could.
"Good gracious, Wendy—Helen—however did you get here?" she managed to ask when they had stopped squeezing the very breath out of her.
"Mark got us the day off," Helen explained.
"And he got an aunt to bring us—she's over there." "She's a University aunt," Helen corroborated.
A youngish woman detached herself from the little crowd of onlookers and came up to Fay. "Welcome back home, Miss Gabriel," she smiled pleasantly. "I have been hearing all about the grand work you've been doing in the Yugoslavia disaster. My name's Joy Ainsworth, by the way."
"These are for you—" Wendy thrust a bunch of choice rosebuds at her.
"And these are from us," Helen followed suit with an expensive-looking box of chocolates.
Wendy wrinkled her nose. "Well, Mark paid for them really, she admitted, and her half-sister gave her a violent dig in the ribs.
"We weren't to say that!" she hissed.
To save the children embarrassment Fay did not pursue that question further, but subconsciously her brain registered the fact that Mark had taken pains to find out what plane she would be on and to send the children to give her a welcome—though he was not prepared to take the responsibility of giving her presents.
Miss Ainsworth was talking as they left the runway and made for the terminal buildings. "I have to see the girls back to their school by six tonight—which means leaving Charing Cross by the five-ten. In the meanwhile I think I'm expected to disappear so that they can have you to themselves. I don't know what they're planning to do, but I daresay they'll let you know in due course. Provided you haven't any other arrangements, of course," she finished.
Once again Fay detected Mark's lordly hand behind this, but faced with the children's eagerness she could not possibly plead any other arrangements—and besides, it would not have been true.
"Let's all go and have something to eat first, shall we?" she suggested.
Miss Ainsworth declined. "If you don't mind," she explained, "I have a lot of shopping I should like to work in this morning, but if you like to trust me with your luggage I've got to look in at the office—I can leave it there, and your beautiful roses too. It would be a shame for them to die for lack of a drink."
"That would be kind of you," Fay said gratefully. "Then I'll meet you at Charing Cross at five, shall I?"
Fay had had a very early breakfast and the children were quite prepared to have an early lunch so as to leave the rest of the day free for whatever it was they had in mind.
"We'd like to go to the Zoo for a part of the time," Helen announced.
"Right," Fay agreed. "And after that?"
"We want to take you to see a friend of ours."
"A school friend?" Fay queried, and then corrected her-
self, "Oh no, of course all your school friends would be at school now. Who is it, then?"
"It's someone who discovered our school," Wendy explained. "It was why we went there, because of her. I say—do you know—" her voice became suddenly tragic, "Toni didn't have nearly as much money as she thought she had. Mark might have to sell Beechcroft—and we don't know who's going to pay our school fees—"
"Shut up," Helen admonished. "Mark says it'll be all right about our fees."
"What's your friend's name?" asked Fay hurriedly. She could not bear the look of sadness on Wendy's expressive little face that the thought of Beechcroft being sold had brought. She knew that it was the nearest to "home" either of the children had ever known.
"Margaret," Helen answered her question. "Come on, we'd better hurry if we're going to have lunch and go to the Zoo."
In spite of the fact that it had been their own choice neither of the girls seemed very interested in the Zoo. In fact their main concern, or so it appeared to Fay, was that they must leave precisely at half past two to get on the Underground which would take them to Hampstead where their friend lived.
"You mustn't be too disappointed if your friend isn't in," Fay suggested tentatively. "I mean, if you didn't tell her you were coming."
"Oh, she won't be there," Wendy burst out, "nor the boys either—they'll be at school."
Fay stopped in her tracks for a moment. Suspicion had perhaps been a little slow to dawn, but now it grew to full certainty in the space of seconds.
"Then who is it we're going to see?" she asked.
"Oh, bother—that was going to be our s'prise," Helen looked daggers at Wendy. "Only she's gone and spoilt it now."
"Oh no, that's all right. I won't try to guess who it is until we get there," Fay promised, and she was humouring not the children, but her own whim.
They turned in at the gate of a substantial house with a
well-kept garden. The children led her round the side, seeming familiar with the geography of the house as well as the habits of its inhabitants.
At the back of the house, which faced the west, there was more garden and a sun room had been added. Sitting in it now and getting the full benefit of the afternoon sunshine was a figure whose dear familiarity stopped Fay in her tracks.
Helen pushed open the door of the sun room with a triumphant flourish, but whatever announcement she had planned was cut short.
"You imps of Satan !" Mark cried, jumping to his feet and glaring at them with anger which was not at all simulated.
"Hullo, Mark, how are you?" Fay spoke almost carelessly, not willing to betray how her pulses were behaving. "Or should I call you 'sir'?"
"Don't be a little idiot," he said gruffly. "Come and sit down." And with his good left hand he pulled another basket chair forward.
"Thank you." Fay sat down gratefully, her legs feeling suddenly too weak to hold her.
"As for you two," he turned to the children, "you—"
"We'll go and make you some tea," Helen offered. "I don't 'spect there's anyone in," she went on artlessly.
"You know jolly well there isn't. You planned all this very carefully, didn't you?"
"We meant well—we really did," Wendy assured him, suddenly flinging her arms round his neck and giving him a noisy kiss. Then she skipped out after Helen before he could do anything more about it.
"Yes, they really did," Fay said when the door had closed behind them.
"Did what?" Mark enquired, and Fay had the feeling that he was trying to avoid meeting her eyes.
"Mean well—so we mustn't be cross with them."
"Well, if you're prepared to forgive them, whom am I to quibble?"
"I'm glad to know how you are—and to thank you for the reception committee," she said, watching his expression to try to get at the thoughts behind the mask he was wearing, for her benefit, she had no doubt.