Queens´s Counsel E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 340

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    Linda let the letter fall from her hands The truth came as a stunning blow and the full enormity of Charles's sacrifice became clear. He had married her out of pity knowing that she had only a year to live and not, as she had foolishly believed, because he loved her. Scalding tears burned Linda's closed eyelids. Charles must have given up the woman he loved in order to marry her. And if that were so, there was no point in fighting for her life. For without Charles's love she had nothing to live for …

Leseprobe

Queen’s Counsel

Queen’s Counsel

© Vivian Stuart, 1957

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-473-6

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

CHAPTER ONE

A FINGER ON the doorbell, Charles Blakeney waited, his gaze traveling unseeingly from the worn, brass plates, ranged one above the other on either side of the door, to the misty evening grayness of Harley Street, at once familiar and repellent to him in his present mood.

He had come here straight from court, and he was tired and consumed with anxiety, the strain under which he was laboring etched in myriad lines around his mouth and eyes. Catching a glimpse of his own reflected image in the window beside the door, he let out his breath in an impatient sigh.

He saw a tall, lean figure in hat and correct dark suit, whose air of assurance was a mockery and whose calm an illusion, since both, at this moment, belied the chaotic uncertainty of his thoughts. While any casual passerby might have recognized him as the rising young Q.C., whose work at the criminal bar was bringing him rapidly to fame, Charles Blakeney scarcely recognized himself in that hurried, critical glance.

Why, he wondered bitterly, could they not bestir themselves? He had rung the bell twice. It was late, much later than he had realized, and Linda would be expecting him at the hospital in half an hour.. . .

The door opened at last, and he gave his name to an elderly maid in prim cap and apron, was shown into the waiting room and invited to sit down. The room was empty, he was thankful to see, and he had scarcely taken his seat when the receptionist came to him.

“Sir Duncan will see you now, Mr. Blakeney,” she told him. Her manner, in keeping with the austere dignity of her surroundings, was quiet and pleasant, and there was reassurance in her low-pitched voice.

But Charles, adept at probing the defensive armor of his fellows, detected a hint of pity in the glance she gave him. Her duties, he thought, probably included those of confidential secretary to the distinguished doctor who employed her. She would know why he was here, would be aware of the questions he had come to ask—arid of the answers to them.

He followed her across the long, high-ceilinged room, his feet making no sound on the thick pile of the carpet, and waited for her to tap tentatively on the door of the consulting room before standing aside to permit him to pass her.

“Mr. Blakeney, sir,” she announced formally and closed the door behind him.

“Ah, Mr. Blakeney! Good evening to you.” Sir Duncan Macintyre rose to meet him, a hand extended in courteous welcome. “Sit down, won’t you?” He indicated a chair facing his own and Charles took it, liking the firm handshake and the deep, faintly accented Highland voice.

Sir Duncan was a tall, gaunt man, prematurely whitehaired, with a pair of shrewd, kindly blue eyes and a brisk, incisive manner that matched his voice. This man, Charles’s trained instinct recognized, would make a good witness. He would tell the truth, frankly and without false sentiment; he would not prevaricate, nor seek to hide behind a smoke screen of professional reticence, as some of his colleagues did.

“I see,” the doctor remarked, his tone less congratulatory than dry, “that you succeeded in getting Jackson off.” He pointed a bony finger in the direction of a copy of the evening paper that lay opened on his desk, on top of a sheaf of typewritten reports.

“Yes, he was acquitted.” Following the pointing finger, Charles glimpsed the headlines in heavy black type, and his mouth tightened. Many of his cases made headlines now, but he no longer needed or welcomed publicity of a sensational nature, and the Jackson case had been both sensational and unsavory. On this account it had been widely reported, and pictures of himself, arriving at or leaving the central criminal court—known to Londoners as the Old Bailey—had appeared in several of the national dailies. Tonight’s headlines, blazoning the news of Martin Jackson’s acquittal, also acclaimed his own part in securing it.

He found himself hoping that they would continue to keep the papers from Linda; this would make painful reading for her, poor child.

He looked up to find Sir Duncan’s eyes on his face.

“I’m sorry, Sir Duncan—” the older man had spoken, but Charles hadn’t heard more than the last two words “—I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch—”

“I said,” the surgeon repeated equably, “that you have made a remarkable career at the bar, Mr. Blakeney. There cannot be very many men who have become Queen’s Counsel at your age—or who can equal your record as defending counsel.”

“I only became Queen’s Counsel last year.” Charles made a great effort to contain his impatience. “But if you will forgive me, I came here in order to discuss the reports on Linda Haynes, and to ask for your professional advice—your opinion on her case.”

“I am fully aware of that, Mr. Blakeney.” There was reproof in the quiet rejoinder. “But I am not in court, may I remind you—I am in my own consulting room and I like to take my time. I have the reports you mentioned, of course. I have them all here.” He motioned to the bulky folder that lay in front of him. “Before I can discuss them with you, I should like to know how you stand in relation to this girl. What, exactly, is your interest in her?”

“I am her guardian,” Charles answered stiffly.

“Ah, yes, so I understood from your letter—and from Linda herself. But there is more to it than that, surely? Linda has been strangely reticent on the subject of her background. Her reticence isn’t natural in a girl of eighteen, Mr. Blakeney. If I am to offer you advice of any value, I must know a little more than I do of her history. It’s Scarcely necessary to assure you that I should treat anything you told me as confidential.”

“I realize that, sir, naturally. But . . . .”

“Well?” The bushy white browns lifted questioningly,

“I will tell you anything you wish to know, Sir Duncan.”

“Good. You are not, I take it, a blood relation?”

Charles shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “I’m not.”

“Has she any relatives living?”

“She has a father, yes. He—” Charles hesitated, reluctant to go into details, even to Sir Duncan Macintyre. For the four years during which Linda had been his ward, he had gone to fantastic lengths to conceal the truth—sending her to school, first in Scotland, then in Paris, changing her surname, keeping her from all contact with former associates, even from friends of her own age. It had become second nature to him to protect her. He said at last, slowly, “Her father is in prison. I defended him when he was brought to trial four years ago. Unfortunately, I was less successful in his case than I was in Martin Jackson’s—he got seven years, for embezzlement.”

“He was guilty of embezzlement, I suppose?”

The lawyer sighed. “The law draws no distinction between technical and moral guilt Sir Duncan. Technically, he was guilty of the charges against him. He pleaded guilty and refused to appeal against his sentence.”

“I see.” The surgeon regarded him pensively. “And what is your opinion of his moral guilt, Mr. Blakeney? I take it he was a friend of yours?”

“Yes,” Charles confessed, “he was my greatest friend. We served together in the Arctic Convoy Escort Group, during the war. He was my commanding officer and I admired him more than any man living.” He smiled regretfully, remembering those years and the man whose courage and resourcefulness had enabled him to survive them, and then went on, his voice flat and devoid of feeling. “lf .it has any bearing on Linda’s case history, I consider that his moral guilt was infinitesimal. But, somewhat naturally, my opinion isn’t shared by those small investors whose savings he is held to have misappropriated. He was a seaman, and his lifelong ambition was to own a fleet of fishing trawlers, which he would build himself, to his own specifications, and run on a profit-sharing basis with the men who sailed in them—men who, like myself, served under him during the war.” He paused.

“Well?” Sir Duncan prompted. “And did he realize this ambition?”

“Yes, he realized it after the war—only to find it wouldn’t work. He understood the sea. but knew nothing of the complexities of high finance. In attempting to prevent his company from being forced into liquidation and bankruptcy, he listened to the advice of a scoundrel and stepped outside the law. There was nothing I could do to save him from the consequences, nothing he would allow me to do. At his request, Linda became my ward. The case attracted a great deal of unpleasant notoriety at the time, and is still remembered with bitterness in Fleetwood, where they lived. So I thought it best, for her sake, to take Linda away, to break completely with the past. Her name was changed to Haynes, which was her mother’s surname, when I became her guardian. Since then she has been at school. She was in her last term at finishing school in Paris when she was taken ill.”

“She knows about her father?”

“Yes.” Anger flickered momentarily in Charles Blakeney’s gray eyes. “It was impossible to keep it from her. The case was prominently featured in all the papers, and a mob of hooligans broke in one night and stoned the house, terrifying Linda almost out of her wits, poor child.”

“Hm. A most unhappy story.” Sir Duncan referred to his notes. “I understand that Linda was actually taken ill in Switzerland, at St. Moritz—that she collapsed while skiing?” He looked guestioningly at Charles.

“The school had gone there for winter sports,” Charles supplied wearily, “The local doctor saw her and I was sent for. She was suffering severe headaches and attacks of giddiness, with impairment of her sight, which, her headmistress told me, they had at first imagined to be a form of snow blindness. Or possibly migraine, brought on by the bright sunlight. When she failed to respond to treatment, it was suggested that I should bring her back to England, so that her own doctor might examine her.

“I wasn’t unduly concerned, I didn’t imagine that there could be anything seriously wrong, but—” he spread his hands in a helpless, resigned gesture “—there is, isn’t there? Linda would not have been referred to you otherwise. Her own doctor, Dr. Lentaigne, warned me that her condition might be very serious, and that an operation might be necessary.”

“Her condition is very serious, Mr. Blakeney,” Sir Duncan confirmed gravely. His hands were busy with the reports in front of him, sorting, discarding, studying. Finally he selected two of the typewritten sheets and placed them, with careful deliberation, beside some X-ray plates that were clipped together. He said, without looking up, “I am sorry to have to tell you that Linda has a cerebral tumor. She is very ill indeed. In fact—”

“But—” despite all his efforts to control it, Charles Blakeney’s voice wasn’t steady “—you’ll be able to operate, won’t you? You’ll be able to cure her?”

The doctor’s gaze met his squarely then, very slowly, he shook his head.

“I cannot, of course, predict the outcome with absolute certainty until the actual operative exploration is made, but medical science has advanced to a point where one almost can, in a case like this. I am more sorry than I can begin to tell you that, in my opinion, excision of the tumor will not be possible. You see, that might be instantly fatal . . . .” He talked on, and Charles stared at him, icy fingers of fear clutching at his heart.

For a moment he was too stunned by the implications of what he had been told to be able to utter a word. That this should happen to Lindy, of all people. . . . He couldn’t believe it. It was too hideously tragic to be true. Lindy was only a child, such a charming, pretty child . . . . He felt as if he were experiencing a nightmare and, clutching at the frail hope this possibility offered him, he prayed that he might waken from it.

But, after a while, his hope died. This was no nightmare; he was fully awake, and he knew it. He also knew, now, why Sir Duncan Macintyre had asked so many questions, why— belying the impression of brisk incisiveness he had initially created—he had taken so long to come to the point. Because the point was this—there could be no escaping it—Linda wasn’t going to get well. . . .

He said, his own voice sounding strange to him as he ground out the words, “But why? In God’s name, why?”

“I will try to make her condition clear to you,” Sir Duncan answered quietly. “You understand, do you not, that these findings aren’t mine alone? I have had Professor Rodwell and Mr. Martin Shand in consultation with me—Professor Rodwell is a radiologist at St. Michael’s Hospital, and Mr. Shand I think you know.” He rose to his feet, picked up the X-ray plates and motioned Charles to follow him. “I’d like you to look at these X rays, Mr. Blakeney, and I will explain them as briefly as I can.”

His explanation was concise and simplified but, even so, it took him the better part of half an hour to give it. From somewhere at the back of the room, a clock ticked away the minutes, the sound so irritating in its impersonal relentlessness that Charles found it all but unendurable.

He had acquired, by reason of his profession, a working knowledge of medical matters and a slightly more than superficial acquaintance with the complex jargon. He heard, his brain recorded, what Sir Duncan was trying to tell him; he understood, when this was demonstrated to him, the significance of the electroencephalographic chart, with the aid of which the site of the lesion had been localized, but he listened in a sort of frozen horror, unable even now to accept this as the final and irrevocable judgment. Because the judgment was on Linda.

Yet, when the consultant asked him if he wished for another opinion, he could only shake his head. Sir Duncan Macintyre was the ultimate authority on such cases as Linda’s—he had already called in Martin Shand to confirm his findings, and the clinical investigation had been thorough and far reaching. There obviously remained no doubt. Charles could not question the diagnosis, no matter how bitterly his mind might rebel against it.

Slowly, the cold, hard facts he had been told began to penetrate his consciousness, to become comprehensible.

There would have to be an operation, tomorrow morning, but it was likely to be palliative only. This would, Sir Duncan hoped, relieve the symptoms, free Linda from the blinding headaches she had been enduring with so much desperate courage. It was unlikely that she would have much more pain—God, in His mercy, had granted her that, at least.

And she would not have to remain in the hospital. As soon as she had recovered from the immediate effects of the operation—in, perhaps, six to seven weeks’ time—she could be discharged and he could take her home . . . . What had Sir Duncan said?

Charles drew in his breath sharply. Home—to his bachelor apartment in the Temple? No, that was impossible. She had stayed there occasionally, it was true, but only for a weekend, at the beginning or end of her school holidays. Usually he had sent her abroad with a governess, engaged temporarily to look after her, and he had joined them whenever he could get away. No such arrangement would be possible now, of course. Lindy would be an invalid, she . . . . He looked at Sir Duncan.

“Isn’t there—” in spite of everything, he had to ask the question “—isn’t there any hope at all? Isn’t there even a chance that she may get well?’’

Sir Duncan returned the last report to its folder. His voice was very tired as he answered. “The only chance, Blakeney, is of radical operation but, as I have told you, this case will, in my opinion, prove inoperable—I have attempted to demonstrate to you why. If, tomorrow morning, 1 find the slightest chance of being able to excise radically, I shall take it, I give you my word. But I do not expect to be able to do more than perform a palliative decompression.”

“Yes,” Charles managed, “I understand that. But—

Sir Duncan’s brow furrowed. He said sympathetically, “This has, I know, come as the most appalling shock to you and you are finding it hard to take in. Believe me, I wish with all my heart that I could hold out some hope to you. You are, of course, at liberty to seek another opinion, but I doubt if it would differ from mine and Mr. Shand’s.”

Charles sighed, passing a hand wearily across his forehead, feeling it damp. “I accept your opinion, sir.”

“There is a man in Paris,” Sir Duncan put in thoughtfully. “His name is Graber, Professor Franz Graber; he used to be at the Keller Institute in Vienna. He is an exceptional surgeon, and he has reported some amazing successes in desperate cases like this one. I will most willingly get in touch with him for you, if you would like to seek his opinion, Mr. Blakeney. At the moment he is in America, I believe, but perhaps you could take Linda to Paris when he returns—although, to be honest with you, I do not think that even he would agree to operate on her at this stage.”

“Thank you, sir.” Charles braced himself. His voice had steadied as he went on. “You said just now that Linda won’t have to stay in the hospital. I don’t understand that, I’m afraid. I mean, if she is so desperately ill, then surely—”

“The hospital,” Sir Duncan said pityingly, when Charles broke off, “will have done all that is possible for her when she is discharged. It would be needlessly cruel to keep her there once that stage is reached, don’t you agree? When she will have perhaps a year of almost normal life left to her?”

“Almost normal?” Charles echoed. His lips were stiff.

“Yes, Mr. Blakeney.” Again the grave blue eyes were on his face, searching it. “You asked for my advice when you came in here, did you not?”

Charles inclined his head. “I did, Sir Duncan, yes.”

“And I asked you a great many questions concerning Linda and your relationship to her. They were relevant questions, I assure you, and I had my reasons for asking them.” The surgeon faced him. “Mr. Blakeney, I am going to give you my advice, based on what you have told me of this poor child’s history and her circumstances. She is devoted to you and you are, it would seem, the only person she has to care for her apart, that is to say, from her father, who isn’t able to do anything for her now. That is correct, is it not?”

Charles said briefly: “Yes, it is, I’m afraid.”

“You are, I am sure, fond of her? You have known her for a long time?”

“I’m . . . “ How could he put his feelings for Lindy into words? How in heaven’s name! “I’m deeply attached to her. And I have known her since she was a child.”

“And you still think of her as a child?” the older man suggested. His smile was understanding. “She is not a child, you know—she is eighteen, almost a woman. And capable, I am afraid, of womanly emotions. You, I believe, are unmarried?” He did not wait for Charles’ assent but went on quietly. “What I am about to advise won’t be easy for you—it will, if you are fond of Linda, be unbearably painful, because, of course, while you know the truth about her illness and its probable outcome, she should not be told. I think you will feel as I do about that?”

“I—yes, indeed, I do, most emphatically. Linda mustn’t be told, it would torture her if she knew. Dear God!” Charles shuddered. But the surgeon’s earlier remarks concerning his bachelor state worried him. Of course Linda was grown up; it was absurd to go on thinking of her as a schoolgirl. Especially now, in these terrible circumstances. “Do you mean, Sir Duncan—” he hesitated, his imagination leaping ahead of his words “—do you mean that I should have her with me until—until . . .”

Sir Duncan eyed him somberly. “Who else is there? Can you not make a home for her?”

“Marry, you mean—provide her with a stepmother? Well, perhaps. I hadn’t considered the possiblity, I must confess.”

“Linda will need a home,” Sir Duncan stated noncommittally. He replaced Linda’s folder in one of the drawers of his desk. When he raised his head and Charles again met his gaze, the keen blue eyes were bright with some emotion Charles didn’t attempt to analyze. “Give her,” the surgeon added flatly, “what happiness you can, Mr. Blakeney. Take her abroad, if you can afford the time—to the Riviera, Italy, Spain—somewhere in the sun for a month or so. When I said you should make a home for her, I was putting Linda’s need into practical words. Admittedly, as a bachelor, there are difficulties for you, I see that. But during the time she has been under my care, I have come to know your ward. I have tried to understand her to penetrate the barriers of reticence and secretiveness with which she surrounds herself. I think that, to some extent, I have done so.” He rose, holding out his hand in a gesture of finality. “Linda, Mr. Blakeney, may not welcome a stepmother. A chaperone might be a wiser choice, in these particular circumstances, I think. You see”—he smiled, and his smile was infinitely, compassionate as he went on slowly “—every instinct I possess cries out to me that Linda Haynes, who is so nearly a woman, is in love with you. It is, perhaps, not surprising that she should be, in view of your relationship. What do you think?”

Charles was visibly startled. “But I am years older than she is,” he objected. “I am fifteen years older.”

“The difference is not so great, Mr. Blakeney. You are still a young man.” Sir Duncan released his hand, led the way to the door. Reaching it, he turned once more to face his caller. “You asked for my advice and my opinion. Normally, I should never betray a patient’s secrets, as I have betrayed Linda’s secret to you. It’s possible that she isn’t aware of it herself, but it will not be long before she is, and so, for her sake, I have warned you. Deal gently with her, Blakeney. Yours is a task I would not wish on my worst enemy, but fate has thrust it upon you. I can only pray God that you will be given the strength and courage to face it.”

He opened the door and the receptionist came from the waiting room to stand, silent and unobtrusive, beside the marble topped table on which Charles had left his hat. Her presence, for ail its unobtrusiveness. robbed him of the words he had meant to say, the questions, still unanswered. he had wanted to ask. But he did not doubt the truth of Sir Duncan’s statement, any more than he had doubted his clinical diagnosis. Sir Duncan Macintyre wasn’t a man who made mistakes, or who made statements without careful consideration.

He said briefly, stiffly, “Thank you, sir, for all you have done and for your kindness to Linda. I am very grateful.”

“I shall see you tomorrow at the hospital,” the doctor promised. “The operation will be at nine. Until then—au revoir, Mr. Blakeney. You have been very patient.”

Patient, Charles thought dully—patient? Was that what he had been? His calm was the calm of shock. He had come prepared to receive a blow of some gravity but not, God help him, not this . . . .

“I suggest,” Sir Duncan said, from the door of his consulting room, “that you postpone your visit to the hospital for an hour or so. Good night, Mr. Blakeney.”

The door closed behind him and the receptionist, the pity in her eyes now unconcealed, let Charles Blakeney out into the twilight.

CHAPTER TWO

LINDA LAY IN the white-enameled hospital bed with her eyes tightly closed. Closing her eyes was, she found, the only way to make her headache bearable. But Sir Duncan had promised her, only this morning, that after her operation the headaches would go. She was a little frightened at the prospect of the operation, although it was a small price to pay if it would make her well again, so that Charles would cease to worry about her.

It upset her to think she should be the cause of so much anxiety to him. And so much expense. She hadn’t any money of her own, not a penny- everything her father had had, including their home, had gone in order to repay a few of the people whom he had defrauded.

Linda’s lower lip, despite all she could do to prevent it, started to quiver. She mustn’t cry, she mustn’t. There was nothing to cry about. She had Charles, and he was so kind to her. He had always been kind, and he had given her so much. She had a private room in this hospital, and it was bright with flowers, all of them from Charles. Except—she bit her lip- except for the roses Mrs. Carlyon had sent. She wished that Mrs. Carlyon hadn’t sent them, that she wouldn’t come to visit her so often.

Of course, it was wonderful to be visited by a famous stage and television star. At first, Linda had to admit, she had enjoyed the thrill of it, had been proud and flattered to think that anyone as famous as Vivien Carlyon should take the trouble to call and see her. And then—she couldn’t-quite remember the exact moment when she had begun to suspect it, but—it had been borne on her suddenly that Vivien Carlyon hadn’t come to see her, she had come because it afforded her the opportunity of seeing Charles. Of leaving the hospital with him, of being taken out to dinner, driven home and thanked. Until Linda had entered the hospital, their acquaintance had been casual and superficial. They had been “Mrs. Carlyon” and “Mr. Blakeney” to each other. Now, even at her bedside, they used one another’s Christian names and were friends.

But was it any more than that? Were her suspicions unworthy, Linda asked herself. Perhaps they were, perhaps she was wicked to think what she did about Mrs. Carlyon, to dislike her, to be. . .to be jealous of her. But, lying in bed, day after day, she had too much time to think. She wasn’t allowed to read, and the nurses were kind, but they couldn’t spend all their time with her, they had, sometimes, to leave her alone. And then the thoughts came crowding into her head, however hard she tried to banish them. The thoughts and the fears. Mrs. Carlyon was so very lovely, so charming and so assured, so beautifully dressed. And she could talk to Charles of serious things—of his work, of books and music and the plays she had seen or was acting in.

Charles was never bored in her company. He didn’t treat her, as he treated Linda, with that half-teasing, essentially casual, affection to which she found it hard to respond. He was quite different when Vivien was there. Their conversations were witty and sophisticated, conducted in a language Linda didn’t speak, but in which, occasionally, they included her.

Vivien Carlyon, although she was Mrs. Carlyon, wasn’t married, she was a widow. Her husband, who had been a fighter pilot, had been shot down over Burma during the war. Linda knew this because Charles had told her so, when he had first introduced them to each other, and . . . . Painfully, Linda opened her eyes as a nurse came in, bearing a small tray, which she set down carefully on the bedside table. It was Nurse Phillips, who was her “special” and very nice.

“Time for your injection, dear,” Nurse Phillips told her cheerfully, lifting one of Linda’s limp arms. “It’ll soon be time for your visitors, won’t it? I thought you’d rather we got this over first. There—” she swabbed carefully and reached for her syringe “—just a prick. You’ll hardly feel it.”

Linda tensed as the needle went in. Nurse Phillips was very expert, but despite the care she took, these injections hurt a little. But she managed to raise a wan smile when it was over, and to answer the nurse’s inquiry with a quick, “Oh, no, it didn’t hurt a bit, thank you,”

Nurse Phillips looked down at her anxiously. “Your head hurts again, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s . . .aching rather,” Linda admitted.

“I’ll ask Dr. Dean if I can give you something for it. I expect you’d like it before I bring Mrs. Carlyon in, wouldn’t you?”

Linda couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice. “Is she here a—” She had been about to say “again” but, glimpsing Nurse Phillips’s expression, changed it to “already.”

“Why, yes, dear.” Nurse Phillips sounded surprised. “It’s her usual time. Weren’t you expecting her this evening?”

Linda forced a smile. “She said she might come. Is Mr. Blakeney here yet?” It was Charles’s usual time, too. He came every evening, as soon as he left court.

But Nurse Phillips shook her head. “Not yet. He has to see Sir Duncan this evening, don’t you remember? That will make him a little late. But you’ll have Mrs. Carlyon to keep you company, so the time will soon pass. I expect she’ll wait with you until he gets here.”

Yes, Linda thought wretchedly, she undoubtedly would, since this was her sole reason for coming. And were her suspicions so unfounded, if even Nurse Phillips took it for granted that Vivien Carlyon would wait until Charles came? Tears burned fiercely at the backs of her eyes, and she lowered her lids in order to hide them. But the nurse had gone in search of Dr. Dean and the headache pills, so it didn’t matter if she cried. She had wanted Charles to herself this evening, she had wanted to talk to him about the operation; she had wanted him to help her to be brave. Now, if Vivien Carlyon remained with them, it would be impossible.

Linda lay back on her pillows, hands tightly clenched as she tried to drive away the tears. She found herself wondering whether or not Charles was in love with Vivien Carlyon, whether, one day, he would marry her. She had long ago accepted the possibility that Charles might marry, of course. When she had been at school, she had thought about it quite often, had even imagined what sort of wife she would like him to have. Because, of course, since she was Charles’s ward, his wife would be an important person in her life too, only—when she had broached the question to Charles himself—he had vehemently denied any intention of ever getting married. Linda sighed, fumbling beneath her pillow for a handkerchief. What had he said? “I’m not the marrying kind, Linda. And besides, I’ll have you to keep house for me pretty soon, won’t I? What do I want with a wife, if I’ve got you?”

He’d been joking, teasing her, as he always did, but there had been an underlying note of seriousness in his voice, Linda remembered. And he had never, to the best of her recollection, shown any lasting interest in any of the women of his acquaintance—until Vivien Carlyon had come onto the scene. With her, he had been different, though only since their meetings at the hospital had Linda been aware of it. Up till then, she was quite sure, he hadn’t seen a great deal of Vivien, hadn’t wanted to. He worked extremely hard and took his social pleasures, for the most part, with those members of the bar with whom he was on intimate terms, dining at their houses, going with them to the theater.

Linda herself, admittedly, didn’t see a great deal of him, either, because she was at school, but she had always had the warm, comfortable feeling that she and Charles belonged to each other. Next to her father, whom she had adored, Charles Blakeney was the person she had always loved best in the world. And her father had gone out of her life, at his own wish, as completely as if he no longer existed. She wasn’t allowed to write to him or see him. He didn’t write to her, and she was given no news of him. He had handed her over to Charles in a brief, tense little interview after his trial, and his last words to her had been the advice, offered bitterly, to forget him.

So that, for the past four years, there had really only been Charles. He was all she had, and she had dreamed of the day when, grown up at last, she would be able to fulfill that joking promise to keep house for him. She, Linda had planned, would never marry either—unless she married Charles. She would devote her whole life to repaying him for all that he had done for her, and perhaps—this had been a secret dream of hers for a long time now—perhaps, in the end, Charles would fall in love with her and ask her to be his wife . . . .

The door opened and Nurse Phillips came in, Linda’s pills in one hand and a small glass of water in her other hand. Young Dr. Dean was with her. He was the house physician in charge of Linda’s floor, and he had assisted in the investigation of her case. He smiled at Linda sympathetically, waited until she had swallowed the pills and drunk the water and then, still smiling, he took her pulse.

Which was all, Linda reflected, he ever did, but he was a friendly young man and she liked him. They often talked in the long evenings, when her visitors had gone and she couldn’t sleep. She returned his smile.

“Why. hello there,” he greeted her, “how are things with you?”

“Oh, I’m all right, thank you. Dr. Dean.”

“Head bothering you a bit, though, isn’t it? The nurse said it was.”

“Just a bit.”

He sat down on the edge of Linda’s bed, retaining his grasp of her hand. “Sure,” he asked, “that it’s only a bit? You do feel up to having visitors?”

“Oh, yes,” Linda assured him quickly. It occurred to her that if she said she wasn’t, while it might rid her of Vivien, it would also mean that she wouldn’t be allowed to see Charles, and that—tonight—she couldn’t bear. She wanted so much to see Charles. She added, “I’m honestly quite all right.”

Dr. Dean eyed her uncertainly for a moment or two and then he nodded to Nurse Phillips. “Very well,” he said, “tell Mrs. Carlyon that she can come in, would you please, nurse? But I don’t think we’ll let her stay for very long this evening. Sir Duncan wants this young lady to get a good night’s sleep.” His kind, brown eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses, conveyed a message that Nurse Phillips understood. She indicated her understanding, picked up the glass and left them alone together.

Dr. Dean, for want of anything more effectual to do, took her pulse again, and Linda told him reproachfully. “You’ve already done that.”

“Have I? Oh.” He released her wrist. “You’ll be all right, you know, tomorrow. And I’ll come along and give you something to make you sleep, after Mrs. Carlyon has gone.”

“Oh, but—” Linda looked up at him in dismay”—I want to see Mr. Blakeney. You won’t give it to me until he’s been, will you?”

“Of course I won’t. But he’s a bit late, isn’t he? I thought he was usually here by this time.”

“He had to see Sir Duncan this evening.”

The young doctor reddened. “So he had. I, er—oh, well, he’ll be along then. Well—” he rose to his feet awkwardly as the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor outside heralded Nurse Phillips’s return “—sounds as if your first visitor’s here, doesn’t it? So I’ll leave you, Miss Haynes. Let me know if you want anything, won’t you? I’ll be seeing you.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dr. Dean begged. He opened the door to admit Vivien Carlyon, the flush on his lean young cheeks spreading and deepening as she acknowledged his greeting with easy, practiced charm. He was, Linda knew, deeply impressed by Vivien Carlyon, and frequently talked about her television appearances, his voice awed and admiring. He would have lingered now, but she, having bade him good evening, turned her attention to Linda.

“Oh, Linda, my poor little sweet!” Her voice, Linda thought rebelliously, was full of exaggerated concern, but her eyes, blue and strangely cold, didn’t echo the concern; they met hers speculatively, without a smile. She bent and her lips brushed Linda’s cheek. The girl drew back, conscious of the cloying sweetness of the perfume Vivien wore, disliking it for its hateful familiarity. It was always the same when Vivien came to visit her—the kiss, that perfume, the swift, questioning glance, the breathless, anxiously phrased inquiries which, out of politeness, she must force herself to answer.

“Dearest child, they’ve just told me that you’re to be operated on tomorrow. How are you? Are you dreading it? Or are you being terribly brave, for all our sakes?”

The questions came in their usual spate and Linda replied evasively, “Oh, I’m not worried, Mrs. Carlyon. Sir Duncan says it will stop my headaches and—”

“Does he? Oh, Darling, that will be something, at least. And I’m so glad to see you’re taking it like this.”

“What other way can I take it?” Linda asked, conscious that she was being rude and childish but unable, suddenly, to control her dislike or prevent its open expression. Vivien gazed down at her pityingly.

“I know, darling,” she confided. “I know just how you feel— you want to hit out at someone, don’t you? No matter who it is! Well, get it off your chest at me, Lindy. I won’t mind what you say to me, because I understand. I’d feel the same in your place, I’m quite sure I would.”

Would she, Linda asked herself bitterly, would she? But to Vivien Carlyon she only said resentfully, “That’s Charles’s name for me—Lindy. No one else calls me that.”

“Don’t they?” Vivien took off the beautiful mink stole she wore, draping it negligently across the foot of Linda’s bed. She seated herself, with studied grace, in the chair at the bedside and took her cigarette case out of her bag. “Have one?” she invited, extending the case. “It might help, even if you don’t normally smoke.”

Linda opened her mouth to refuse and then, changing her mind, she took one of the proffered cigarettes. She hadn’t smoked in the hospital, but no one had actually forbidden it. “I do smoke,” she said, “normally. I only stopped because Charles thought it made my headaches worse.”

“And does it?” In the act of offering her lighter, Vivien hesitated. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have suggested it.” She studied Linda’s small, wan face a trifle uneasily. She wished she knew exactly what was wrong with the child, but everyone, including Charles, was so vague about it. Yet they were going to operate, the nurse—what was her name? Nurse Phillips had said so, which meant that they must have found out something definite at last. She must ask Charles when they left the hospital. He’d telephoned her at lunchtime to say he was going to see the specialist this evening, that he’d be late. And, of course, she had offered to go at their usual time and sit with Linda.