Sweet Rosemary

SWEET ROSEMARY Fay Chandos

When an elderly aunt left her house in Devon and a sum of money to be divided equally between her niece Rosemary and her nephew Mark, it could be said that her action put the cat among the pigeons! In the circumstances Rosemary felt obliged to go to Devon and sort things out- but this meant meeting Mark Dakin, which was about the last thing she wanted to do. For Mark had once broken Rosemary's cousin Corinna's heart. Besides sympathising with Corinna, Rosemary was her business partner, and it seemed tactless in the extreme to get herself involved with Mark in any way. So it came as an embarrassing surprise when his two small stepdaughters decided that Rosemary would make him an ideal wife!

CHAPTER ONE "AUNT AGNES has left us some money? How very sweet of her! She wasn't really an aunt, you know, just a second cousin. We hardly ever saw her. We hadn't even heard that she was ill," Rosemary said, in obvious compunction. "If only we'd known, we could have gone down to see her." Almost simultaneously Corinna asked crisply: "How much?" Mr Thirkell was polishing his steel-rimmed spectacles. He replaced them on his thin, pointed nose and gazed appraisingly from one girl to the other. It was rarely indeed that his conservatively furnished, somewhat dingy office was brightened by the presence of two such attractive young women. In fact, as he had always refused to handle divorce cases, his clients were rarely on the sunny side of forty. He was out of touch with youth, he thought, with an unfamiliar flicker of regret. His valued secretary had been with him for thirty years and was as grey as he was. He had never married and his only brother hadn't provided him with any nieces. It might have been rather pleasant to have nieces, but Herbert and his gaunt, austere wife were unlikely to have produced any daughters like these two cousins. They were first cousins, but Mr Thirkell couldn't trace any family resemblance between them. Corinna North, the elder by three years, was slim and black-haired with a creamy skin and dark brown eyes. She had an air of discreet elegance. Mr Thirkell knew singularly little about women's clothes, but he recognised quality when he saw it. Corinna's grey suit was impeccably tailored, and he was certain that she hadn't bought her black suede court shoes, gloves or handbag at a chain stores. She looked as if expense was

no object, which was surprising in the circumstances. Her mother, the late Miss Agnes Dakin's first cousin, had made a disastrous marriage ... at least according to Miss Agnes. "A dear girl, but no common sense at all. Married at nineteen . . . and the whole family knew she would live to regret it. Colin North couldn't support himself by his painting, let alone a wife and a child," Miss Agnes had pronounced distastefully. "He drank and he gambled, and I'm afraid there were other women, too. It must have been a relief to poor Cora when he succumbed to pneumonia. I was always fond of Cora and I feel I should do something for her daughter." Whatever her background, the daughter in question appeared to have done very well for herself, Mr Thirkell decided. He understood that she ran some kind of business connected with weddings. Some years ago she had appealed to Miss Agnes for financial backing to enable her to get started. Miss Agnes had sought his advice about the project. Ostensibly, that was. Miss Agnes had already made up her mind to refuse the appeal. "It would be throwing good money away," Miss Agnes had said decisively. "One can't expect the daughter of an unsuccessful artist and poor foolish Cora to have any head for business. Much more sensible for Corinna to stick to her present post as secretaryreceptionist. It won't be for long. She's a nice- looking girl and is bound to marry." Miss Agnes had been wrong on both counts. Corinna hadn't married, and she had apparently succeeded in her business venture. Mr Thirkell noticed the firm set of her chin and the keen glance of her dark brown eyes. Corinna probably had more in common with Miss Agnes than with her unsatisfactory parents, he decided.

His gaze passed on to her cousin and lingered there appreciatively. Rosemary Rose couldn't be described by the most carping critic as merely "nice-looking." Rosemary had the kind of beauty which could stir the pulses of even a dried-up old lawyer who had never been romantic, even in his youth. Her gleaming, curling hair was the colour of a polished hazelnut. Her eyes were a clear, deep delphinium blue, and her skin reminded Mr Thirkell of an oldfashioned damask rose. She was taller and more generously built than her cousin. Mr Thirkell didn't entirely approve of the dark blue trouser suit she was wearing—it was scarcely the appropriate garb for a visit to a solicitor's office. At the same time, he was obliged to admit that Rosemary looked well in it . . . and it was at any rate preferable to those shockingly brief skirts which so many young girls wore nowadays. "Was Aunt Agnes ill for long?" Rosemary asked concernedly. "I hope she had someone to look after her? She had a brother and a nephew in New Zealand, I seem to remember. ..." "Her brother died some years ago. Her nephew came over here to train as a doctor, and subsequently married a young widow. Eighteen months ago the wife was killed in a coach accident on the Continent, and Miss Agnes went to live with her nephew and keep house for him." "Oh? We didn't know. She hardly ever wrote to us . . . just sent Christmas cards. I can't imagine why she should have left us any money," Rosemary said ingenuously. "Especially as she had a nephew." "Er . . . yes. Quite so." Beneath the candid, inquiring gaze of those big blue eyes, Mr Thirkell found himself admitting: "I fear the arrangement didn't work as Miss Agnes Dakin had hoped it would. There was a certain amount of dissension between her and Doctor

Mark Dakin. Indeed, this last will of hers was executed a bare three months ago. Prior to that Doctor Dakin was the chief beneficiary. You and Miss North were to receive legacies of five hundred pounds apiece. Now..." "Now?" Corinna echoed. "Let's get to the point, Mr Thirkell. How much did Aunt Agnes leave us?" Obviously a businesslike young woman, Mr Thirkell reflected. Undoubtedly Corinna North was the brains behind the cousins' joint enterprise. "The estate is to be divided in the proportion of one half to Doctor Dakin and a quarter apiece to you and Miss Rose," he answered. "Well? What will our share amount to in hard cash?" Corinna demanded. "That raises a problem, Miss North. A considerable problem. Two years ago, Miss Agnes Dakin lost quite an appreciable sum in a company which went into liquidation. She decided thereupon that house property was the safest form of investment," Mr Thirkell explained. "Consequently, when Doctor Dakin's wife died, and he elected to move down to Devon, Miss Agnes insisted on buying a house which she proposed to share with him." "Oh? I wondered why her last Christmas card was postmarked Devon. I thought she might have gone away for Christmas. The last time I went to see her, she had a cottage in the Isle of Wight. I meant to look her up last summer," Rosemary said remorsefully, "but instead I visited my father's sister in Yorkshire." "Yes? As I was explaining, Miss Agnes realised a good deal of her capital and bought the Old Priory, in Sheriton Abbot. I tried to dissuade her from the purchase. It seemed too large and too

pretentious a house, and not one that would be readily saleable. I pointed out that Doctor Dakin might marry again, and that Miss Agnes might wish for a home of her own once more. I foresaw a number of complications," Mr Thirkell observed. "Unfortunately, Miss Agnes had taken a great fancy to this particular property . . . and Doctor Dakin humoured her." "It was probably his idea," Corinna said impatiently. "What happens now? Presumably the house will have to be sold." "If Doctor Dakin agrees . . . and if a purchaser can be found. Miss Agnes, ill-advisedly in my opinion, paid sixteen thousand pounds for the property." "He'll have to agree, if half the house is ours," Corinna said quickly. "A share in a house miles away in Devon is no use to us. We want the money." "That is where one of the complications arises. Doctor Dakin was paying his aunt a quarterly rent, and so was legally her tenant. She had furnished two rooms for her own use, but the remainder of the furniture is his. He was in effect renting the house unfurnished." "You mean that we shall have to give him his formal notice to quit? And time to find other accommodation?" Rosemary said brightly. "Of course, we don't want to inconvenience the doctor— at least not more than we need to—but, as Corinna says, the house wouldn't be any good to us . . . and money is always useful." "It's not quite as simple as that," Mr Thirkell said cautiously. "In effect, half the house has been left to Doctor Dakin. One can scarcely serve notice on the owner of a property to quit it—as he has already pointed out. If he could be compelled to vacate half the house, that wouldn't solve the problem."

"Oh, dear! That is awkward," Rosemary said ruefully. "I suppose we could take the cash and let him keep the house?" "That would depend upon how much actual cash there is," Corinna reminded her. "Can you make a rough estimate of it, Mr Thirkell?" For no reason that he could have formulated, the elderly solicitor was beginning to feel unfamiliarly hot and harassed ... as if these two attractive girls were bent on badgering him. He had never, to the best of his knowledge, seen either of them before. Certainly he wasn't in a position to recognise that, from the first mention of Mark Dakin's name, the cousins had gone into what Corinna called their "act." From long practice, they worked it as smoothly as two interrogating policemen—two terriers who habitually hunted together, or an accomplished comedian and his "feed" man. Rosemary was smiling at him, and trying to be helpful in a vague, deprecating, feminine fashion, while Corinna was becoming steadily shorter, sharper and more pertinent. Only something in the neighbourhood of six thousand pounds in Miss Dakin's bank account and securities? Rosemary echoed regretfully. And the house had been purchased for sixteen thousand? Corinna observed pointedly. Then the cousins' joint share, after death duties, should be something like eleven thousand pounds? Was Doctor Dakin aware of the position? Then what did he propose to do about it? "Doctor Dakin is, I fear, far from co-operative," Mr Thirkell admitted. "He is firmly of the opinion that, if his aunt had lived a few weeks longer, she would have destroyed this most recent will. It was executed, so he believes, in what he dismissed as a 'childish tantrum.' He saw it as a threat which his aunt had no intention of carrying out at his expense. Consequently, he considers that you yourself, ladies, who are only her second cousins, have no moral claim on her estate."

"Moral claims hardly come into a question of probate. Legally, we have every right to half the estate— or so it would appear," Corinna said tartly. "He can't dodge out of that, can he? Either the house must be sold, or else he must produce the extra money. Have you made that clear to him?" "Unfortunately, Doctor Dakin hasn't any capital available. He's a comparatively young man; the junior partner in a firm of three doctors. He incurred heavy expenses in moving to Sheriton Abbot, and in converting two rooms at the Old Priory into a consulting room and a dispensary," Mr Thirkell explained. "Moreover, he appears to have made himself financially responsible for a number of dependent relatives." "Dependent relatives? Didn't you say that his father was dead and that he was an only child?" Rosemary said in surprise. "I should have said his late wife's relatives. His wife had two children by her first marriage, whom Doctor Dakin quite naturally adopted. I believe there are also his wife's sister and his wife's aunt living at the Old Priory." "Good gracious!" Rosemary ejaculated. "Why?" "In confidence, I understand that it was these relatives of his wife's who caused the trouble between him and his aunt," Mr Thirkell divulged. "Miss Agnes objected to their presence and complained that Doctor Dakin was allowing himself to be exploited by them." "That sounds highly unlikely. More probably the said aunt has money," Corinna said cynically. "Doctor Dakin has an eye to the main chance."

Rosemary's direct, blue-eyed gaze was switched from Mr. Thirkell to her cousin at that, in what seemed oddly to the solicitor like a warning glance. "We don't know that, Corinna," Rosemary said, mildly but firmly. "We mustn't jump to conclusions. Aunt Agnes was evidently fond of this Doctor Dakin . . . and she did buy the house for him." "Precisely." Mr Thirkell turned to her with an air of relief. He was finding Corinna North a little too businesslike for his taste. She obviously intended to claim every last pound of her inheritance. Rosemary Rose, however, appeared more willing to effect a compromise. "I'm sure that Miss Agnes would be greatly distressed if her nephew was compelled to leave the house she purchased for him." "That's up to him," Corinna said curtly. "It's a question of either ... or, as I see it, Mr Thirkell. He needs the house. We need the capital. Weddings is bursting at the seams. With some additional capital, we can expand and move into bigger premises." "Weddings?" Mr Thirkell repeated'. "Is that what you call your venture?" "You haven't seen any of our advertisements? 'Let Rosemary plan your wedding; a wedding you'll be happy to remember.' We find out how much the bride's people are prepared to spend, and then do the whole job," Corinna told him. "Bride's, bride's mother's and bridesmaids' dresses, bouquets, flowers for the church, refreshments, photographs . . . the lot. And keep expenses within the budget." "Indeed? Quite an undertaking," Mr Thirkell surmised.

"It can be," Corinna nodded. "We work on a commission basis, and we flatter ourselves that we provide our brides with excellent value for the money. Rosemary is responsible for the ideas and for arranging the flowers. She's the tops on colour schemes. I do the sketches, from her suggestions, and the actual buying." "And you find the enterprise pays?" Mr Thirkell inquired. "Yes, because we're prepared to arrange any kind of wedding . . . modern, traditional, or shotgun. Usually, especially from Easter until the autumn, we've as many clients as we can handle. Given more impressive premises we could do even better," Corinna assured him. "At present we have only a small office off the King's Road. We need a showroom, and several fitting rooms, also another secretary." "Another secretary?" "Our present secretary has to double as a fitter. She's a skilled dressmaker, decidedly more efficient with a needle than with a typewriter. I'm obliged to tackle a good proportion of our correspondence," Corinna explained. "Rosemary does most of the running around, and we all three act as models, according to the size- and colouring of the bride." "It's certainly an unusual kind of venture. How do you find your clients? By advertising? Newspaper advertisements are expensive," Mr Thirkell said feelingly. "Even small notices, advertising for the relatives of a deceased client or for any claims against an estate, cost my firm a good deal of money." "We get a lot of personal recommendations. One satisfied bride tells her friends about us. Also, we scan the papers for announcements of engagements and send our card to brides-to-be." Corinna opened her suede leather handbag, produced a printed

correspondence card and handed it to him across his desk. "You would be surprised how often there's an answering nibble. Without a bigger staff, we can't go far afield, but we have done weddings in Kent and Surrey and the Home Counties." The card was a pleasing shade of pale blue, with a border of wedding bells and sprigs of rosemary, Mr Thirkell perceived. On the front was engraved: "Weddings . . ." with the King's Road address and underneath: "Let Rosemary design your wedding and make it a wedding you'll be happy to remember." On the reverse side, there was a list of the services Weddings would undertake for a bride. It even included a "personal horoscope," to indicate the "most propitious dates for your wedding." These young women must have to work hard, if they arranged so many details satisfactorily, Mr Thirkell reflected. He wondered how much they contrived to make in commission. . . . "It isn't just one more racket, you know," Rosemary said, with her warm, frank smile. "Memories are important. They're something you can keep, however old you may live to be. Small things which go wrong can spoil the best of red letter days. It's our job to see that nothing does . . . that our brides have just one perfect day to remember." "We've heard of cases where a honeymoon has been ruined by bickering and recriminations," Corinna added. "If the catering was inadequate or the photographs weren't what the bride had chosen. Brides tend to be tense, and to attach an exaggerated importance to quite trivial things." Mr Thirkell nodded thoughtfully. He didn't doubt that these cousins could be eloquent and convincing in their sales talk. To a nervous young bride they might well appear a godsend. Corinna

North would obviously be highly efficient in whatever she undertook, and Rosemary Rose's air of warm, friendly sincerity would indicate that she took a deep, genuine interest in her clients. Racket or not, Weddings probably did give good value . . . but he feared that the enterprise wouldn't evoke any sympathy from Doctor Mark Dakin. Doctor Dakin, to judge from his letters and their one unpromising interview, wasn't disposed to be cooperative. Indeed, it was touch and go whether he decided to contest his aunt's will or not. Mr Thirkell, with fifty years' experience of the law, had developed a profound distaste for litigation. The comprehensive term "costs" was apt to mar the most deserving plaintiff's victory. In this present instance Mr Thirkell believed, as he had assured the indignant young doctor, that he had singularly insubstantial grounds for an action. Miss Agnes Dakin, though a tiresome old lady in many ways, had been indubitably of sound mind. That she should wish her young second cousins to benefit from her estate was natural enough. It wasn't as if she had disinherited her next of kin. Judges were only human . . . and Rosemary Rose would most certainly create a favourable impression in court. Apart from her undeniable beauty, she appeared to possess a natural spontaneous charm. Also—and this was particularly important—she had an air of utter, almost ingenuous candour. Doctor Mark Dakin, curt and angry and with an obvious chip on his shoulder, couldn't hope to make much of a showing against Miss Rosemary Rose. For his own sake he would be well advised to effect some form of compromise. Litigation wouldn't do the doctor any good, financially or professionally, Mr Thirkell decided judicially. But unfortunately Doctor Dakin was evidently not a

man who listened to the voice of reason. He had been resentful and suspicious of the old solicitor's advice. Corinna was still launched on her sales talk, but Rosemary interrupted the smooth flow by fixing reproachful blue eyes on Mr Thirkell and observing : "You're not listening." "I'm sorry, my dear young lady. It's all very interesting, but rather outside my sphere," Mr Thirkell said deprecatingly. "If I were to venture an opinion, it would be that you would be ill advised to expand too far. Surely it's the personal touch which has made your venture prosper?" "Yes, of course. That's shrewd of you," Rosemary said approvingly. "We're a good team. Corinna has a marvellous head for figures and for buying at a reasonable price. I've a flair for knowing what suits a girl—and will make her look and feel like a fairytale princess. I think it would be a mistake to launch out too lavishly." "That's beside the point," Corinna said impatiently. "The point is that we've a right to our share of Aunt Agnes's estate, and we're jolly well not going to allow Doctor Dakin to pull a fast one over on us. Are you acting for us or for him, Mr Thirkell?" "I'm one of the executors, Miss North, and it was Miss Agnes Dakin's wish that I should deal with her estate. Believe me, my desire is to act in the best interests of all concerned," Mr Thirkell said stiffly. "Naturally you are at liberty to consult your own legal representative, if that course seems advisable to you." "There's no need. I'm sure you'll do your best for us," Rosemary said quickly. "I do see that it's a difficult position, with regard to the house. To bring a strange lawyer into it wouldn't help."

"Precisely. I would suggest that a personal contact might result in a compromise. If you were to go down to Sheriton Abbot, and establish friendly relations with Doctor Dakin, he might be more ready to co-operate. It's always easier to nurse a grievance against a stranger," Mr Thirkell said meditatively. "Doctor Dakin feels very strongly that, having induced him to take up residence at the Old Priory, his aunt should have left the house to him unreservedly. You will concede that he has a point there?" "Of course. It would be difficult for him to have to turn out and find another house in a hurry," Rosemary said amiably. "Exactly. Moreover, it's improbable that the property could be sold for anything like sixteen thousand. Big houses are apt to be white elephants on the market. The Old Priory was empty for eighteen months before Miss Agnes bought it," Mr Thirkell told her. "An independent valuation for probate will be around fourteen thousand, I imagine, possibly less. When you've seen the place, you can make your own estimate. . . ." Corinna was giving him a coolly appraising glance. "I thought solicitors invariably insisted on all negotiations being conducted through them, and preferably by letter," she said sharply. "Are you counting on Rosemary's charming Doctor Dakin into co-operation?" It was a long time since Mr Thirkell had been disconcerted by a client, but Corinna North was an alarmingly shrewd young woman. He realised uneasily that, had he been fifty years younger, he would have been blushing now; feeling himself convicted of unprofessional behaviour. He hadn't consciously framed the thought which she had put so crudely into words, but he was forced to admit that it had been at the back of his mind. He had

reason to believe that he was a good judge of character and he was certain that no normal young man could maintain an attitude of resentful hostility towards Rosemary, if confronted by her in person. Something about the girl, beyond her looks and charm, made her irresistible . . . even to a dried-up old bachelor like himself, Mr Thirkell reflected. Doctor Dakin obviously suspected that the cousins had taken advantage of the temporary breach between him and his aunt, and had persuaded Miss Agnes to alter her will in their favour. That his suspicions could be unfounded the angry young man had refused to believe. If Rosemary herself assured him that she hadn't seen Miss Agnes for several years, and hadn't in fact even known of the acquisition of the Old Priory, he would find it difficult, virtually impossible, to doubt her veracity. Her whole manner carried conviction. The most aggressive of men wouldn't be tempted to lash out at her. It would be like trampling a rose underfoot, Mr Thirkell thought, with a rush of sentiment which surprised him. He said tentatively : "I would guess that Miss Rose is extremely good at—er—smoothing down ruffled feathers." "She knows how to handle people," Corinna conceded. "Do you propose to make an appointment for us to interview Doctor Dakin? It would have to be at a weekend. . . ." "No, no ! I wasn't suggesting any formal interview," Mr Thirkell said hastily. "An informal visit was what I had in mind. And if I may say so, I think it would be a mistake for both of you to descend on Doctor Dakin. Together, you form a somewhat formidable combination . . . and might make him feel that pressure was being brought to bear on him."

Corinna's thin but well cut lips quirked upwards in a sardonic smile. "You don't have to cross the t's. I read you, Mr Thirkell. It's an idea, but it could work in reverse. Rosemary's a soft touch, liable to swallow any hard luck story. Instead of persuading Mark Dakin to be reasonable, she might let him convince her that we ought to leave him in undisputed possession of the house." Mr Thirkell wouldn't commit himself as far as to observe there could be less acceptable solutions to the knotty problem. He had to remain strictly impartial and unprejudiced. He smiled vaguely and murmured that something might be worked out during a friendly discussion between Doctor Dakin and Miss Rose. "No harm in hoping," Corinna said sceptically. "I've no intention of meeting the man halfway. Rosemary can have a bash at him if she pleases, but where I'm concerned there won't be any question of making concessions. Aunt Agnes probably had pretty good reasons for cutting down his legacy—and I don't believe she would have changed her will again if she'd lived longer." "You didn't tell us how she died," Rosemary interposed. "Was it a sudden illness? She always seemed to be amazingly tough and vigorous . . . and she wasn't all that old." "Seventy-five, but as you say, remarkably fit for her age. Her sudden death appears to have been the result of a most unfortunate accident," Mr Thirkell said regretfully. "She was pruning roses on the wall of the house, and the steps slipped. She wasn't, I understand, seriously injured by the fall, but merely shaken. She was helped into the house and persuaded to lie down, with a hot cup of tea and some aspirin tablets. Unfortunately there was some confusion and she took—or was given—the wrong tablets."

"Good gracious, how dreadful!" Rosemary ejaculated in dismay. "You mean that she was poisoned?" "Dear me, no!" Mr Thirkell said hurriedly. "There was no question of poison. It was simply that these particular tablets, prescribed for Doctor Dakin's aunt by marriage, were highly unsuitable for an elderly lady suffering from shock. The household imagined that Miss Agnes was sleeping peacefully. Instead she was in a coma. Doctor Dakin was out at the time. When he returned, he wasn't told about her fall until after his evening surgery, and by then it was too late." "And I suppose the verdict at the inquest was 'death by misadventure'? Some misadventure!" Corinna said scornfully. "The mix-up over the tablets must have been deliberate. Someone had it in for Aunt Agnes and seized the chance to put her out." "My dear young lady, what a dreadful suggestion!" Mr Thirkell said in unfeigned horror. "It was an accident, pure and simple. I gather that it was one of the children who fetched the wrong bottle from the bathroom." "And the adults present didn't notice the mistake? The bottle must have been labelled," Corinna protested. "No, indeed. It seems that Miss Winnie Ridley had been given her tablets in a cardboard pillbox, and had transferred them to an empty aspirin bottle. She should, of course, have re-labelled the bottle, but this precaution she had omitted." "It all sounds very odd," Rosemary said uneasily. "She must be a muddleheaded, careless kind of person. With children in the house—and in a doctor's house at that—one would expect people to be careful with drugs."

"Apparently she is one of those middle-aged women who become deeply concerned about their own health. The cupboard in question was used solely by her and was full of various remedies. There had been a minor accident previously, when she had left a pillbox on the kitchen windowsill and one of the dogs had chewed up its contents. The dog nearly died, but was saved by a veterinary surgeon's prompt measures," Mr Thirkell said slowly. "After that episode Miss Ridley formed the habit of using bottles instead of pillboxes. The coroner was severe with her—naturally, in the circumstances—but she pleaded that she had marked the bottle in question with a small cross. Unfortunately the cross was quite inconspicuous and not readily noticeable." "Most unfortunate ... for Aunt Agnes," Corinna said acidly. "Yes, indeed! And for Miss Winnie Ridley. She was greatly distressed. In fact, she virtually collapsed while giving her evidence at the inquest and had to be rushed to hospital. She is suffering from a heart condition, it seems—another reason why Doctor Dakin refuses to contemplate a move," Mr Thirkell said wryly. "Doctor Dakin appears to have got together a weirdly ill-assorted household," Rosemary said, with a pucker between her delicately arched brown eyebrows. "Aunt Agnes wouldn't have had much patience with a woman who fussed over her health . . . and she was never fond of children. She was a dear, but tolerance wasn't her strong point." "Indeed, no !" Mr Thirkell was compelled to agree. "When Miss Agnes bought the Old Priory, she couldn't have anticipated that Miss Ridley would form one of the household."

"You've aroused my curiosity, Mr Thirkell. I shall have to go down to Sheriton Abbot now," Rosemary said impulsively. "But please don't warn Doctor Dakin to expect me."

CHAPTER TWO "IT must have been an accident," Rosemary insisted—for the third time. "You've a nasty suspicious mind, Corinna dear, and Maggie's encouraging you." "You must admit that it is an odd story. Corinna's right about that," Maggie Forster said defensively. "Why didn't anyone tell the doctor that his aunt had had a fall—until she was beyond help? If he had realised in time what she'd taken he might have been able to save her." On her return from their visit to Thirkell, Tweed & Thirkell, Corinna had closed the office for the day, and the three girls had repaired to the cousins' flat above it. Maggie, their invaluable fitter-cum-secretary, and an old school friend of Corinna's, had been eager to hear the result of the interview. Over tea and hot buttered toast Corinna had given her a graphic account of it. Graphic—and prejudiced, Rosemary thought uneasily. Corinna was given to snap judgements, and was apt to state her opinions as if they were incontrovertible facts. Admittedly, Corinna had sound reasons for her bitter prejudice against Doctor Mark Dakin . . . but did she have to distrust everyone connected with him? Rosemary found it much easier to believe that Miss Winnie Ridley had been harassed and scatterbrained enough not to notice that the children had fetched the wrong bottle, than that she should knowingly have handed Aunt Agnes the wrong tablets. To Rosemary, it was incredible that anyone, however provoked by Aunt Agnes, would deliberately set out to harm her. Moreover, if they were tablets which Miss Ridley herself took habitually, it probably wouldn't have occurred to her that they could be dangerous to someone for whom they hadn't been prescribed.

"Doctors are always in a rush. I daresay he went straight into the surgery and didn't see Miss Ridley or the children till after he had coped with his patients," Rosemary said flatly. "He certainly wouldn't have wanted Aunt Agnes to die before she had changed her will again." "Unless she'd been threatening to cut him out of it altogether," Corinna said significantly. "I wouldn't put any dirty work past that man." "Well, you know him, and Rosemary doesn't," Maggie said thoughtfully. "It's an odd coincidence that you and he should be co-legatees, Corinna. Unless ... do you suppose your Aunt Agnes knew what had happened between you, and planned to bring you together again through her will? I mean, if he's a widower now. ..." "How would Aunt Agnes have known? I certainly didn't tell her— and he wasn't likely to talk about it," Corinna retorted, with a curl of her lips. "However unscrupulous a man may be, he doesn't boast of having let a girl down with a bump, in order to marry money." "You don't really know that his wife had money. He could have fallen in love with her. Men do change their minds," Rosemary reasoned. "Anyway, if she did have money left her by her first husband, she also had two children." "You don't know the first thing about it—or about him," Corinna snapped. Rosemary sighed inwardly. She had a genuine affection and admiration for her cousin, but there were times when she was irritated by Corinna's habit of sweeping aside everyone else's opinions as of no account. Corinna wasn't as infallible as she appeared to imagine herself. She had brains and initiative, certainly, but she didn't understand human nature . . . or at least,

only the less pleasing aspects of it. What had begun as a defensive pose, to hide her own hurt, had developed into a confirmed cynicism. Corinna seemed determined to believe the worst of people. Rosemary wished she knew exactly what had happened to break up Corinna's one and only romance, but she had been still at school at the time, and Corinna hadn't deigned to confide the details to her. Corinna had been doing secretarial work in a City hospital when she had met Doctor Mark Dakin, a medical student there. Aunt Agnes, who had been financing her nephew during his training, had been responsible in the first place for introducing them to each other. Aunt Agnes must have been aware of the steadily deepening friendship between them, Rosemary thought— and had probably encouraged it. Aunt Agnes had made fairly frequent trips, from her cottage in the Isle of Wight, to visit her nephew— and to keep an eye on him. Aunt Agnes, although very comfortably off, had always had a flair for "getting her money's worth," as she had termed it. She had obviously intended to make sure that her nephew was taking every advantage of the opportunity she had been giving him. The blossoming of a romance between Mark Dakin and Corinna wouldn't have escaped Aunt Agnes's shrewd eyes, even if Corinna had tried to keep it a jealously guarded secret. Naturally there couldn't be any formal engagement until Mark had qualified and served his term as a junior houseman, Corinna had told her young cousin, on one of her occasional weekends at Rosemary's home, but she and Mark were content to wait. No point in rushing things. Had they waited too long? Been too sure of each other? Had the first flush of their romance faded— for Mark if not for Corinna?

Rosemary had often wondered. Or had Mark begun to chafe beneath Corinna's possessiveness and her unconscious habit of trying to dominate everyone closely associated with her? Had he felt impelled to free himself before he was finally committed? He had behaved badly, of course. His best friend couldn't have denied that. He had gone down to the Isle of Wight to spend his three weeks' summer holiday with his aunt . . . and come back officially engaged to Joanne Wakefield. What excuses or explanations he had offered Corinna, Rosemary couldn't guess. She hadn't seen Corinna all that summer or autumn. There had been just a brief, bitter letter from her, stating baldly that: "It's all off between Mark and me. He's settled for a better catch ... a widow with lots of lovely money. No flowers and no letters by request. I've given in my notice, and found a job as secretary-receptionist at a fashionable hotel in Eastbourne. See you some time. . . ." Rosemary's heart ached for her cousin, but she had known Corinna well enough to realise that any expressions of sympathy would be salt to Corinna's wounded heart and pride. Sensible of Corinna to make a clean break, she had reflected. Perhaps, at a big hotel, Corinna would meet some other man who would induce her to forget Mark Dakin. . . . Instead, after over a year as receptionist to innumerable honeymooners, Corinna had decided that "there's money in this wedding business," and had set about launching Weddings. Rosemary hadn't needed much persuasion to join her in the venture. Rosemary, at nineteen, had been eager to spread her wings. Life at home—home being a rambling old rectory in a quiet market town in Lincolnshire—hadn't offered much scope. Nor had her job, as assistant in the local library, promised any rich rewards.

She wasn't needed at home. Her parents, though middle-aged, were both in excellent health and supremely happy together. They hadn't attempted to dissuade Rosemary. "It sounds rather fun," her mother had said gaily. "Most enterprising of Corinna. Worth a trial, anyway. If it doesn't work, you can always come home again, darling." "London?" her father had said questioningly. "It'll be a tremendous change for you . . . but educational, of course. The King's Road? One hears a lot of wild rumours about what goes on there, but they're probably exaggerated." "Rosemary's very sensible," her mother had reminded him. "Really too staid and sedate for her age. It will do her good to kick up her heels—and to meet more young people. And Corinna has a shrewd head on her. Quite unlike poor Cora. I've always thought that Corinna's a throwback to old Angus Dakin . . . Agnes's father." There had never been any close contact between Rosemary's mother and the Dakin connections. Aunt Agnes had kept in touch with her cousin Cora, Corinna's mother, and had apparently cherished a slightly scornful, patronising affection for her. She hadn't been able to pity or patronise Rosemary's mother, Rosalind. Rosemary had suspected that Agnes Dakin had been secretly envious of her younger cousin. Rosalind had been a beauty, with numerous admirers. Her family had been mildly startled when, at twenty-one, she had married a country parson fifteen years her senior, but Rosalind had known what she wanted. At forty-six, Rosalind Rose was still a lovely woman, and still a devoted, adored and happy wife. She had been singularly fortunate in her parents, Rosemary thought gratefully. Corinna hadn't. Corinna hardly ever spoke of

her parents or her childhood days, but Rosemary had gathered that "poor Cora" had been sadly disillusioned in her artist husband and had turned into a fretful, carping, neurotic woman, old before her time. After her husband's death she had clung to her daughter, until, soon after Corinna had started work at the hospital, she had driven her small car out of a side road at a busy intersection, in calm disregard of the "Stop" sign, and had been killed in a head-on collision with a lorry. "So like Mother," Corinna had said, white-faced and tight-lipped, after the funeral, which all the Roses had attended. "She never seemed able to think what she was doing. She liked driving, but she was one of the world's worst drivers and invariably ignored traffic signs." Perhaps it had been partly her unsatisfactory home life which had prompted Corinna's passionate attachment to Mark Dakin, Rosemary had reflected at the time. Outwardly Corinna had always appeared cool- headed, self-controlled and selfcontained—the very last girl to fall madly in love or to take a broken romance to heart and let it sour her permanently. All Corinna's natural shrewdness and common sense had gone overboard where Mark had been concerned. Often, during the four years in which Weddings had got off the ground and forged ahead, Rosemary had been dismayed by a glimpse of that inner bitterness and deep-rooted resentment of Corinna's. This evening Corinna wasn't even attempting to hide her animosity towards her erstwhile sweetheart. She was talking of Mark Dakin as if he were a dyed-in-the- wool villain, who cared for nothing but money, and had been indirectly if not directly responsible for his wife's and his aunt's death.

Maggie, of course, was listening wide-eyed and agreeing with every word Corinna uttered. Maggie was one of those small, thin, mousey girls who wouldn't do a thing to attract a man's notice, but was secretly resentful of men because they didn't pay any attention to her. Maggie, to the best of Rosemary's knowledge, had never had a romance of any kind; not even a broken one. Although only twenty-seven, she was already a confirmed spinster. Maggie, like Corinna, was the sole offspring of an unsatisfactory marriage. Her father had gone off with another woman, years ago, and forced his wife to divorce him. Maggie had been left with a frail, semiinvalid mother on her hands . . . and a burning sense of grievance against men in general, and her own father in particular. She had obviously no difficulty in accepting Corinna's picture of Doctor Mark Dakin as an unscrupulous schemer . . . heartless to a degree. To Rosemary that picture was out of true. It didn't go with Mark Dakin's actions. The kind of man Corinna believed Mark Dakin to be wouldn't have made himself responsible for two stepchildren, or for his late wife's ageing aunt; or even for his own aunt. "You're very quiet, Rosemary," Maggie said suddenly. "Haven't you any ideas on how to deal with the man?" "I'm reserving judgement until I've met him. I think I'll do as Mr Thirkell suggested and go down to Sheriton Abbot. I can start immediately after the Smith-Howell wedding on Saturday," Rosemary said on an impulse. "I can put up for the night at an hotel, and spend Sunday having a look at the Old Priory and its occupants." "It'll mean a two-hundred-mile drive," Maggie reminded her. "You'll be exhausted."

"Not Rosemary. She's tough," Corinna said, with a wintry smile. "But if she imagines she'll charm Mark Dakin into being cooperative, she'll be disappointed. That man doesn't go for looks or charm . . only for hard cash. That widow he married was a plain, peaky-looking little woman, at least five years his senior. He couldn't have cared two copper coins about her." "Did you know her?" Rosemary asked in surprise. "Naturally not—but Aunt Agnes once showed me a snapshot of her and her brats. 'Homely' was the kindest way to describe her," Corinna said scornfully. "Go ahead if you want to, but you'll be wasting your time!" "At least I can give the house the once-over and see if Mr Thirkell's right about its being a white elephant," Rosemary reasoned. "If I stay over till the Monday I can visit the local house agents and get their opinion of it. It would be senseless to turn Mark Dakin out and land ourselves with an empty, unsaleable house. "There's that to be considered," Corinna agreed grudgingly. "Sheriton Abbot is just a country town, not a popular resort." "Sheriton Abbot?" Maggie echoed reflectively. "There was an inquiry from Sheriton Abbot a day or two ago—one of those crank letters asking if we could arrange a wedding for twelve pounds." "Twelve pounds? What a hope!" Corinna said incredulously. "Whoever was that optimist?" "I thought it was someone's idea of a joke. I chucked the letter into the wastepaper basket," Maggie told her.

"I wish I'd seen it. Twelve pounds? Such an odd sum," Rosemary said, knitting her brows. "All she could raise? But who would want to get married on that amount?" "I knew what would happen if you saw the letter," Maggie said drily. "You would have been sure that there was some hard-luck story behind it and insisted that we must try to help. Anyone can take you for a ride, Rosemary, but Weddings isn't a charity." "It could easily turn out to be, if Rosemary was given a free hand," Corinna nodded. "There's no scope for a soft heart in a business enterprise, but she can't or won't see it. She invites people like the Smith girl to exploit her." "Oh, don't start that again! She's a dear little thing . . . and why shouldn't I treat her to her bouquet? It won't cost all that much, because I'm going to make it," Rosemary said defensively. "It's tough enough on a girl to have to wear a hired wedding dress, without having to cut down drastically on her flowers, too." "People who can't afford to pay for what they want shouldn't come to us. We shall be lucky if we make ten pounds out of that wedding," Corinna reminded her. "If I'd interviewed Miss Lily Smith, I would have turned her down flat. I certainly wouldn't have offered to provide her with lilies, ad lib and gratis." "I suppose it's the 'Rector's daughter' strain coming out in Rosemary. If she does get that legacy she'll spend most of it playing the Lady Bountiful," Maggie said ruefully. Rosemary wriggled uneasily. They were merely teasing her—and not unaffectionately, she knew—but there were times when Corinna and Maggie combined to treat her as if she were a foolishly impetuous, not too bright schoolgirl.

"It's just the artist in me. I can't bear to spoil the picture for lack of an odd pound or so," she said with dignity. "After all, I'm the one who's designing the weddings . . . weddings which the bride will be 'happy to remember' . . . and it isn't always possible to keep strictly within the budget. But twelve pounds? That does sound ridiculous. I would like to know who wrote that particular letter. Can you remember the address, Maggie?" "As a matter of fact I can—because it convinced me that someone was trying to get a rise out of us. It was 'c/o the G.P.O., Sheriton Abbot,' and signed 'Ruth.' No surname," Maggie admitted, with obvious reluctance. "Now don't tell us that you're going to try to trace the writer when you get to Sheriton Abbot!" "I wouldn't know how . . . but I thought I might just come across her," Rosemary said thoughtfully. "That twelve pounds intrigues me. Somehow it doesn't sound like a joke, more like a challenge." The other two exchanged resigned, amused glances ... as at a child's prattling. "Nobody expects a lovely like you to be overburdened with brains, but sometimes you're really too naive for words, Rosemary dear," Maggie said condescendingly. "Well, I must push off now, or Mother will work herself into a flap." When she had departed, there was a sudden silence between the cousins. Corinna, who could never bear to sit idle for long, began to collect the used tea things. She glanced at Rosemary and frowned. "I'm not sure that it is a good idea for you to go down to Sheriton Abbot," she said abruptly. "You're really not safe on your own." "What?" Rosemary asked abstractedly.

"You look miles away. Snap out of it!" Corinna said impatiently. "I was just thinking that I'll be able to stand Mother a new car. An estate car type, because she's for ever carting things and people around the parish— and the old car is getting fearfully expensive in repair bills," Rosemary explained. "I wonder what it would cost to install central heating in the Rectory? You can't imagine how bleak those big rooms can be in winter. That's probably one of the snags of the Old Priory, too. Heating, I mean. Solid fuel is exorbitantly expensive these days. . . ." "Don't worry! Mark Dakin would almost certainly have induced Aunt Agnes to redecorate and modernise the house before they moved into it. He's the kind of man who can charm birds off trees," Corinna said acidly. "You'll have to watch your step with him, or he'll have you eating out of his hand." "You're not making sense. If he's just a plausible charmer, why in the world did you fall in love with him?" Rosemary demanded bluntly. Corinna's creamy skin flushed. "I didn't know my way around in those days. I suppose . . . until Aunt Agnes introduced me to Mark ... I was determined not to get involved with any man. I'd seen what marriage had done to Mother. I wasn't going to let a man wreck my life," she said jerkily. "But Mark seemed quite different from the other medical students who'd tried to date me. Having just come over from New Zealand, he wasn't one of any of the gangs. He was devastatingly attractive, but he didn't know it . . . then. He was dead keen on his work, dead serious about it. He didn't join in the usual rags and wild parties."

She paused, biting her lip. Then she went on in a rush : "He was sweet to me. He seemed grateful that I had time for him. He never appeared to notice other girls, though some of the nurses soon began to notice him. He was in love with me. I can't have been wrong about that. And . . . well, I fell for him. I could see that he was ambitious and I was sure he had a future. That we hadn't, either of us, any money didn't seem to matter. It was just a question of waiting. . . ." "Yes? So you waited. . . ." "He'd been to a university in New Zealand, so we had only three years to wait before he passed his finals. At eighteen, as I was when we met, I could afford to wait out those three years ... or so I thought then. I was a naive little idiot, of course. I should have made sure of Mark, even if it had meant sharing cheap digs and keeping on with my job. He suggested it several times, but I wouldn't agree. I wanted us to start off with a flourish." She made a wry little moue. "Well, you know what happened. Aunt Agnes insisted that he should spend that last summer holiday with her . . . and thrust that wealthy widow at him." "Aunt Agnes did? I didn't hear about that." Corinna shrugged her shoulders. "You know how she was about money. I suppose she thought it was a fine chance for Mark . . . and obviously he agreed with her. I hadn't realised that he had that mercenary streak in him. He must have inherited it from his grandfather, Aunt Agnes's father, Angus Dakin made a packet out of his stockbroker's business." "And left it all to Aunt Agnes? Not any to Mark's father?"

"They'd quarrelled—because Mark's father stubbornly refused to go into the business. He was set on farming. That's why he went out to New Zealand— to join a friend on his sheep farm." Rosemary nodded thoughtfully. It seemed to her another reason why Aunt Agnes should have made her nephew her heir. Mark's father had evidently had a raw deal, and perhaps Aunt Agnes had felt uncomfortable about it. No use to point that out to Corinna, though. Corinna, too, had inherited some of Angus Dakin's business acumen. She could, on occasion, drive a hard bargain. But Corinna had loved Mark; had loved him enough not to care about his lack of means. Surely she must still, deep down, feel some lingering affection for him? She couldn't really want to turn him out of the house which Aunt Agnes had bought for him. Perhaps, if she were to meet Mark again, their romance might have a happy ending after all. "Why don't you come down to Sheriton Abbot with me?" Rosemary suggested impulsively. "And give Mark a chance to turn his charm on me again? Not on your life!" Corinna said decisively. "Do you imagine that I could ever trust him now after the way he let me down? If he did make a play for me—as he might—I should know it was simply because Aunt Agnes had left me that legacy." "It might not be. You might fall in love with each other all over again." "Not this child! I've learnt my lesson," Corinna said grimly, "I know I wouldn't ever be able to forget the past. And I wouldn't want Joanne Wakefield's husband or Joanne Wakefield's brats. Put that sentimental idea right out of your head! I wouldn't marry Mark Dakin now if he were the last man alive."

CHAPTER THREE "THE Old Priory?" The middle-aged receptionist at the Black Abbot peered at Rosemary speculatively through her horn-rimmed glasses. "You mean Doctor Dakin's place?" "Yes," said Rosemary briefly. "It's not actually in Sheriton Abbot. It's in Sheritonford. That's just a village, about three miles away. The doctor doesn't have a surgery on Sundays, if you were wanting to see him." "I didn't intend to consult him professionally," Rosemary said hastily. "We're—well, connections. Distant cousins. We've never met, but while I'm down here for the weekend, I decided I would look him up at the Old Priory." The receptionist was puckering her brows. Rosemary wondered why. Usually women were as ready to talk about local doctors as about local clergymen. She tried the effect of a smile and added : "Doctors are always so terribly busy, aren't they? I thought a Sunday morning might be the best time to catch Doctor Dakin at home." "That's right," the receptionist agreed. "Not that he's as busy as he was. Not since the tragedy. I know for a fact that quite a lot of his patients have got themselves transferred to his partners." She had said "the tragedy" as if it were in capital letters, and she was leaning across the counter now, in the attitude of one not adverse to a mild gossip. "You mean Miss Agnes Dakin's death?" Rosemary said tentatively.

"You heard about that?" She shook her neat, greying head significantly. "It gave us all a shock. Such an energetic, active lady. Secretary of our Garden Club and treasurer of the Sheritonford Women's Institute. Always driving herself around and doing all the shopping for the household. It seemed terrible that she should be taken so suddenly . . . and all through carelessness." "Yes? It was most unfortunate. Some muddle over the tablets, wasn't it?" Rosemary murmured encouragingly. "An odd thing to happen in a doctor's house." "That's right!" The receptionist nodded emphatically. "There's been a lot of talk about it. Well, one can't say it was Doctor's fault, because it was Doctor Humbert who prescribed those tablets for Miss Winnie, but it's made people nervous. I mean, with Doctor Dakin's doing his own dispensing. You know how people are, Miss Rose, especially in a village." "I know villages. I grew up in one," Rosemary said frankly. "But it's hardly fair for people to blame Doctor Dakin for Miss Ridley's mistake." "They say he should have kept a closer eye on things and made sure all the drugs in the house were properly labelled. From all accounts he hasn't much control over the household—and a funny kind of household it seems to have been," the receptionist said, with another shake of her head. "I'm not one to gossip, but I can't help hearing things. My elder sister lives in Sheritonford and of course she's been full of it. It was no secret that Miss Dakin didn't get on with Miss Winnie Ridley or with young Miss Jeanie. There are even some who hint that Miss Jeanie must have spotted the mistake and let it pass."

"Oh, no, surely not?" Rosemary protested. "Miss Jeanie Ridley? The late Mrs Dakin's sister? She must be old enough to realise that such a mistake could be dangerous." "She wouldn't have thought of the danger. Not that one. Proper reckless, she is from all accounts," the receptionist pronounced, her Devonshire accent becoming steadily more noticeable. "Funny-tempered, too. All because that nasty polio left her lame for life—or that's the excuse Miss Winnie makes for her. Not that she could have foreseen the tragedy, mind you! She probably just saw it as a spiteful little joke on the two ladies. I've heard that it amused her to stir up trouble between them. Made a bit of excitement, so to speak." "Not a very pleasant kind of excitement," Rosemary said wryly. Jeanie Ridley? Mr Thirkell had scarcely mentioned her, Rosemary recalled. He had merely said that Mark Dakin had his wife's aunt and his wife's sister staying at the Old Priory. Surely Jeanie at any rate didn't plan to remain there indefinitely? Hadn't she parents or any family apart from her aunt? "Well, she isn't English," the receptionist said—as if that explained any peculiarities in Jeanie Ridley's behaviour. "She's from New Zealand, like her aunt. They came over to visit Mrs Dakin, so I've heard, and Miss Winnie stayed on to look after the children." "From New Zealand?" Rosemary pricked up her ears. That was certainly news to her. Was it the reason why Mark Dakin had been attracted to Joanne Wakefield? Had he, perhaps, known her before she had come over to England and visited Aunt Agnes in the Isle of Wight? Had he been secretly homesick for New Zealand? It could have happened that way.

"Not that poor Miss Winnie has much control over those children. They had to mind Miss Agnes, so my sister said, but they just laugh at Miss Winnie," the receptionist added. "If you're going to the house, Miss Rose, watch out for them and those dogs. The dogs are as wild as the children. They're supposed to be shut up during surgery hours, but I've heard of patients who've come away with torn stockings." "That sounds rather alarming. How do I get to the Old Priory?" Rosemary inquired. The receptionist gave her careful directions, adding : "You can't miss the big gates and the stone wall which runs all round the place, if you keep straight on through the village." Rosemary thanked her and strolled out to the carpark in front of the Black Abbot. Small, fleecy clouds were scudding across the blue sky. The sun was shining brilliantly, but there was quite a chilly east wind. It was a typical May morning, she thought apprehensively. It was odd how little difference the seasons made in a city. In the country one was instantly conscious of the time of year. Here in Devon, spring was in full flush, a late spring this year, she decided, because blackthorn was still flowering in the hedgerows and the banks were still starred with clumps of primroses. With Aunt Agnes's unexpected but very welcome legacy, she might run to a small car for her own use, she decided. She hadn't thought about it in London, but on a trip like this, she was acutely aware of the gold-lettered "Weddings" inscribed on both sides of the small white van, with a design of bells under the lettering. Beyond the market town of Sheriton Abbot, the road rose steeply, and then wound its way across a stretch of moorland. At the

second crossroads, as directed by the receptionist, she took the right-hand road marked "Sheritonford." It was narrower than the road she had been following; virtually just a lane. It ran down in a series of sharp bends, into a heavily wooded valley and across a small stone bridge over a fast-running stream. The village looked as if it had been set down at random in the valley. She drove past an ancient-looking grey stone church, with an equally ancientlooking, obviously disused graveyard. A fairly large house, probably the vicarage, was dimly visible through the trees beyond the graveyard. Then came a cluster of cottages, one of which appeared to be a post office and general stores. Another belt of trees, and then a small inn, a farm and a picturesque duckpond, complete with plump Aylesburys. More trees, another turning, again to the right, and there was the stone wall which the receptionist had mentioned. Rosemary drove slowly down the narrow lane which skirted the wall until she reached an impressively high pair of wrought iron gates, with a brass plate attached to one of them. Rather an odd, isolated setting for a doctor, she reflected, but of course, there might be other villages near. Presumably Mark Dakin's senior partners lived in Sheriton Abbot, and had a surgery there. She pulled up and got out to open the gates. Beneath the brass plate someone had affixed a printed notice encased in polythene. In carefully formed block capitals it read: "Please mind the dogs." Not "Beware of the dogs," she noted, but "mind" them. Presumably that meant "watch out for the dogs and don't drive over them." The right-hand gate swung inwards with creaks of protest. The left-hand gate seemed to have its bolt rusted into the ground and couldn't be shifted. However, there was room enough for the van or for an average sized car to pass through with one gate open.

She manoeuvred the van into a gravelled but weed- encrusted drive, and got out again to close the gate behind her. Not exactly a welcoming approach to a doctor's surgery, she reflected. Corinna had said that the young Mark Dakin had been "ambitious," with a promising future ahead of him . . . but that had been six years ago. This would appear to be an incongruous milieu for an ambitious man. How and why had Aunt Agnes induced him to settle here? Had the house been her choice or his? It looked a more appropriate setting for a country squire than for a busy general practitioner. Mindful of the printed warning, Rosemary drove at snail's pace up the wooded drive and over a narrow wooden bridge. The timbers of the bridge seemed to sway ominously beneath the van's wheels. Beyond the bridge, the drive curved sharply. She swung round it . . . and there stood the house. She had barely glanced at it—a startled glance, because it was considerably bigger than she had expected, of weathered grey stone with a long flight of shallow stone steps leading up to an impressive stone archway—when she had to slam on the brakes. From what appeared to be a walled and paved courtyard to one side of the house rushed the dogs. In the first moment or two, as she pulled on the handbrake, she felt as if she were surrounded by a vociferously barking, excitedly leaping pack of hounds. They were jumping up at the doors of the van, as if they would drag her out of her seat. Then, racing out of the courtyard after them, came a slim, long-legged child, with long dark hair flying. "Down chaps! Down!" she called imperatively. "It's all right, they won't bite you. They just like to welcome people." Rather a disconcerting form of welcome, Rosemary thought wryly. Certainly not a welcome calculated to appeal to nervous patients.

"Open your door and let them sniff you, then they'll stop barking," the child panted. "Honestly, they won't hurt you." Thankful that she was wearing one of her favourite trouser suits rather than an abbreviated skirt, Rosemary opened the car door. The next instant she had a small, eagerly wriggling, tail-wagging white dog on her lap, and a large, shaggy sheepdog nosing her ankles. There were, after all, only four dogs, she registered. The other two, both black and tan dachshunds, were dancing round the van. The little white dog was trying to lick her chin. She slid out cautiously and deposited the dog on the gravel. "There now! They like you. See? They're all wagging their tails," the child said triumphantly. Then, she stepped back, staring wideeyed at the van. "Oh!" She gave an excited little gasp. "Weddings? You've come! But how did you know I was here?" "What's that?" Rosemary asked blankly. "I wrote to you, only I didn't put my address. I'm Ruth," the child pronounced—as if that explained everything. "And you've come. Oh, how wonderful! Naomi laughed at me. She said twelve pounds wasn't nearly enough and you wouldn't take any notice of my letter." "Oh!" Light dawned on Rosemary. "You're Ruth? Ruth who wrote and asked if we could arrange a wedding for twelve pounds? But . . . but you're not old enough. To think about getting married, I mean." "I'm nine . . . but the wedding wasn't for me. It was for Father Mark. He's our stepfather, not our real father. So we call him Father Mark," Ruth said in a rush. "He used to be our mother's

husband, but mother died, and he badly needs a new wife. So—so I thought I would arrange a wedding for him." "Oh? Your stepfather's thinking of getting married again?" That was a new and unforeseen complication, Rosemary reflected. Mr Thirkell hadn't mentioned that there was to be a second Mrs Mark Dakin. Presumably he hadn't known. "He must," Ruth said earnestly. "Everything's in such a muddle— and every day it's worse. Aunt Winnie simply can't cope, and Aunt Jeanie won't even try. Naomi and I do our best, but we're at school all day, except on Saturdays and Sundays. I was quite desperate when I wrote to you. I know twelve pounds isn't much, but I haven't any more. Not till I'm twenty-one. Only Naomi will lend me five pounds, she says." Ruth wasn't a pretty child. Her features were too pronounced for her thin, pointed face, and she looked to be all arms and legs. She had a kind of elfin appeal, though, with her big, velvety brown eyes and cloud of silky dark hair. She was gazing at Rosemary, as at a vision. "You're lovely," she said incredulously. "You look as if you would be terribly expensive. Can we really have you for twelve pounds? Really and truly? Oh, it's like a miracle !" "Have me? I'm afraid I'm not with you," Rosemary said in some bewilderment. "You seem to have got hold of the wrong idea, Ruth. It isn't the prospective bridegroom who arranges and pays for the wedding. That's up to the bride and the bride's parents." "Your notice in the magazine said Rosemary would arrange everything," Ruth said reproachfully.

"Yes? I'm Rosemary, but it's for the bride to contact me, not the bridegroom's family." "You don't understand. You weren't listening. We don't want a big wedding with champagne and cake, though a wedding cake would be nice . . but we can't have a wedding without a bride," Ruth said on a plaintive note. "You would make a smashing bride, I'm sure Father Mark would love to have you." "Heavens!" Rosemary said weakly. "You were expecting Weddings to provide the bride?" "Well, naturally! Isn't that how it works? Only I thought you sent photographs and particulars first— to give the bridegroom a choice." "My dear child!" With difficulty Rosemary refrained from laughing aloud. "You're confusing Weddings with a marriage bureau or a lonely hearts' club. Our job is just to help a bride plan her wedding and do the donkey work for her." "I thought it was the same thing. Your advertisement is very mis— misleading," Ruth said with dignity—but Rosemary saw in dismay that her lower lip was trembling childishly. "Why did you come if you weren't going to help? It wasn't fair. I thought you were an answer to prayer, but . . . but you're just laughing at me." "Scamper! Laddie! Ruth!" a voice called from the courtyard. "Ruth, have you got the dogs?" "Here!" Ruth called back. "Naomi, come and look at Rosemary! She's here . . . and she's lovely . . . but she says we can't have her. It isn't fair!"

The girl who responded to her appeal might have been Ruth's twin, except that she was a size larger. In height, that was. In build she was as thin and angular as her sister, with the same pointed face and long dark hair. Naomi's hair wasn't flying loose, though. It was strained back from her high forehead and secured in a tight ponytail. Naomi had brown eyes, too, but they were partially screened by round tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. She marched up to the van and stared perplexedly at Rosemary. "You came? I didn't think you'd take any notice of Ruth's silly letter," she pronounced. "It wasn't a silly letter. It brought her here, didn't it?" Ruth countered warmly. "Only she won't be the bride and she says she can't supply brides." "Of course not. I told you so," Naomi reminded her, in elder sisterly fashion. "You never will listen. You always think you know all the answers." "The advertisement did say everything could be arranged and supplied by Rosemary," Ruth insisted. "And this is Rosemary." "How d'you do, Rosemary?" Naomi said politely. "I'm sorry Ruth brought you all this way for nothing. She'll have to pay your travelling expenses, of course." "I don't see why, if she won't stay," Ruth protested. She gave Rosemary a half shy, half appealing smile. "Couldn't you possibly change your mind, Rosemary? If you saw Father Mark, p'raps you would. He's really very handsome . . . and he can be sweet, when he's not worried."

"Only he's worried most of the time," Naomi said regretfully. "It's all too much for him, now that Aunt Agnes is dead. Really, it's a pity that it wasn't Aunt Winnie who was taken." "Oh, no!" Ruth said feelingly. "Aunt Winnie's a pet. I love Aunt Winnie . . . and I didn't like Aunt Agnes very much. You didn't, either." "She was efficient," Naomi said judicially, and turned to Rosemary again. "Aunt Agnes was Father Mark's aunt, not ours, and she doted on him. That's why she was never very nice to us. She thought he ought to have sent us all back to New Zealand, to Mother's people. Only you see our grandmother died and Grandfather has a new wife now. Aunt Winnie and Aunt Jeanie didn't get along with her, and she certainly didn't want to be landed with us." "Oh? That's awkward for you all," Rosemary said, beginning to get the hang of the situation. "It's much better for us to stay here with Father Mark. He's quite fond of us, really and truly," Ruth said seriously. "It's just that he worries. If he had a wife it would be all right. He did try getting a housekeeper, but it didn't work. We've had four housekeepers since Mother died, but none of them lasted long." "How was that?" Rosemary asked. "One couldn't bear dogs, one said we were too isolated here, one complained that Aunt Agnes was always interfering and criticising. The last one was quite young. We liked her, but Aunt Jeanie took against her and played spiteful tricks on her," Ruth said regretfully.

"I must go in and see what's happening to the Sunday joint," Naomi announced, with an adult air. "Aunt Winnie put it in the oven, but she always forgets to turn the oven down and then the joint gets burnt. Would you care for a cup of tea, Rosemary? Unless you're in a hurry. . . ." "Oh, she can't go yet! She must stay for lunch and see Father Mark," Ruth interposed swiftly. "He's out doing his round now, but he'll be back for lunch. She must stay, mustn't she, Naomi? You ask her." "Ruth, you're hopeless!" Naomi shook her head reprovingly. "Once you get an idea you're like Scamper with a bone. I've told you that men like to choose their own wives. You can't just hand Father Mark a wife on a plate." "People do arrange marriages. Unless we fix it for him he'll go on shying away from it," Ruth retorted. "He doesn't care about any of those women who want to marry him, but Rosemary is different. She's lovely, and quite young." "Oh, drop it, Baby! Before Rosemary decides that you're crackers," Naomi said impatiently. "I'm not! And—and I won't be called Baby! I'm nine," Ruth said with a toss of her long locks. "How old are you, Naomi?" Rosemary asked hastily, noting that Ruth's lower lip was trembling again. "I'm thirteen. That's why I feel responsible for Ruth. Aunt Jeanie ought to be, but she doesn't like us," Naomi answered matter-offactly. "She was Mother's baby, till Mother had us. Mother was twelve when Aunt Jeanie was born and their mother was very ill

afterwards, so Mother kind of adopted Aunt Jeanie. I think Aunt Jeanie was upset when Mother married our father . . . and even more upset when Mother married Father Mark, but Mother liked being married. She said life was very lonely without a husband." "Aren't you lonely without a husband, Rosemary?" Ruth asked hopefully. "I'm generally too busy to feel lonely," Rosemary told her. They were rather appealing, these two motherless children, she reflected, as, with the dogs prancing around them, they escorted her across the paved courtyard to an impressively large oak door. They had nice manners and they were obviously fond of their stepfather and genuinely concerned about him. Probably they were right in believing that he ought to marry again. If only Corinna could be induced to forget her bitter resentment against him, her broken romance might have a happy ending, after all. Except, of course, that Corinna didn't care for the country and hadn't much time for children. When brides proposed having child bridesmaids, Corinna invariably tried to dissuade them. "You think they'll look pretty? Believe me, children are more trouble than they're worth. They're so undisciplined these days," she was wont to pronounce— as if she were an ageing spinster aunt. "They'll drop your train or tread on it. They'll giggle and fidget or start bickering. . . ." These two, Ruth and Naomi, seemed well-behaved, though, and ready, even eager, to welcome a stepmother. Rosemary wished that she had been able to persuade Corinna to come down to the Old Priory with her. Wouldn't Corinna have softened towards Mark when she had realised how much he had on his hands?

CHAPTER FOUR "IT'S a very old kitchen and not exactly convenient," Naomi said apologetically, leading the way down a stone-floored passage. "Aunt Agnes said it would be a waste of money to put in a new electric cooker when this stove and this boiler still worked . . . but they do give us a lot of work. If we forget to shovel on fuel, they go out. Aunt Winnie says that filling the hods and making up the stove brings on her palpitations." "Most everything can give her the palps," Ruth added, not resentfully but as one stating a fact. "We have a woman in on weekday mornings, from the village, but Naomi and I have to see to the stove and the boiler every night, and all the weekend." "That must be quite a chore," Rosemary said sympathetically. "It certainly is. When the boiler goes out there's no hot water, and that upsets Father Mark," Naomi said ruefully. "Oh, dear, the joint is burning! I can smell it." Rosemary gazed round the vast, stone-floored kitchen in horrified amazement. She had scarcely realised that such kitchens still existed, except in remote, isolated farmhouses. Even in the oldfashioned Lincolnshire rectory, her mother had years ago had an electric stove and an immersion heater installed. In this kitchen a large, battered-looking coke-fired boiler rumbled ominously in one corner. Beside it there was a huge old kitchen range. Steam was pouring out of a big iron kettle on top of it, and smoke was pouring out of one of the giant-sized twin ovens. "Where's the oven cloth?" Naomi asked. "Can you see it anywhere, Ruth?"

"I expect Aunt Winnie's dropped it somewhere. She can never remember to hang it up again," Ruth said resignedly. "I'll look in the scullery." She dived through an open doorway—and came back with a ragged tea-cloth. "It's not there. You'll have to use this. Mind you don't burn your fingers," she said warningly. Naomi opened the oven door, and recoiled from the smoke and the reek of burning fat. "Here, let me—" Rosemary said impulsively. "That roasting dish looks rather heavy." "Are you sure you don't mind?" Naomi asked anxiously. "The trouble is that I can't see awfully well. At least, I can't see things close without my reading glasses and they're upstairs." "Naomi's eyes have been groggy ever since she had measles so badly," Ruth explained. "They're going to be all right later on, Father Mark says, but they're a fearful nuisance to her now. She's always burning herself and bumping into things." "Bad luck!" Rosemary said. "Stand back, Naomi, while I cope." She padded the torn cloth and, holding her breath against the fumes, seized the heavy iron pan. The spluttering fat in the pan had turned black. So had the large leg of mutton sizzling in it. She deposited the pan on the newspaper which was spread at one end of a huge old oak table, and made a grimace. "Better open the windows, Ruth!" she said, gasping.

"Oh, dear! Is the meat ruined?" Naomi inquired concernedly. "I was just going to look at it when I heard the dogs giving tongue." "It's probably all right underneath . . . but what a way to roast a joint!" Rosemary answered. "Roasted in an open pan, a joint needs constant basting. If you haven't a dish with a cover, you should use kitchen foil." "What's that?" Ruth turned from the heavy old sash windows which she had heaved up with obvious difficulty. "Foil?" "A kind of thick silver paper. You wrap a joint in it, and then it doesn't burn," Rosemary enlightened her. "I don't think there's any here," Naomi said deprecatingly, "but I don't really know much about cooking. I can fry bacon an' sausages an' eggs or do scrambled eggs. I have to get supper for us when we haven't a housekeeper. Aunt Winnie is supposed to see to lunch. Down, Laddie! Down!" The sheepdog had his paws on the table and was sniffing the charred meat. The other three dogs were milling around restively. "They haven't had their run. I s'pose I'd better take them out," Ruth said reluctantly. "Promise you won't slip away, Rosemary? We can open a tin of something for lunch if the joint is ruined." "I think it's only charred. We can scrape it and put it in a casserole," Rosemary said practically. "Not to worry, Ruth ! I'll stay." "That child!" Naomi's thin, serious face lit up with an affectionate smile, as Ruth scampered off, the dogs at her heels. "You may think she's odd, but she's really very bright. It's her vivid imagination which lands her in jams. She's going to be a writer

when she's older. She writes stories now . . . quite good stories. Only one can never be sure what she's seen and what she's imagined. Sometimes I don't believe she knows herself." "She's a dear . . . and obviously intelligent," Rosemary responded. "If you can find me a casserole— and an apron—I'll deal with the joint. A tin of soup would go well with it." "There are plenty of tinned soups. And I expect one of Aunt Agnes's overalls would fit you. You're being very kind, Rosemary," Naomi said gratefully. "Is it all right for us to call you Rosemary?" "Perfectly all right," Rosemary reassured her. "In a distant kind of way we're connected. Agnes Dakin was my mother's cousin. I always called her Aunt Agnes, as you did." "Oh!" Naomi's dark eyes widened behind her glasses. "What a coincidence! I mean, that Ruth should have written to you, without any idea that you knew Aunt Agnes?" "Not really. Actually, I didn't come down in answer to Ruth's letter. She didn't give her address or her surname. I didn't guess I should find her in this house," Rosemary explained. "Then—then why did you come?" "To see Doctor Dakin. I wanted to talk to him about Aunt Agnes. . . ." "Oh! Oh, dear!" Naomi looked serious again. Her dark eyebrows puckered. "Oh, no, I don't believe it was you! I'm sure you're not like that. You couldn't be so spiteful and unfair."

"Supposing you make some tea? Then, when I've got the casserole in the oven, we can talk properly," Rosemary suggested. Ten minutes later, seated at the kitchen table, sipping tea, she said crisply: "Now tell me what you mean about being spiteful and unfair, Naomi." "Somebody was," Naomi answered in a subdued voice. "Father Mark's terribly worried about it. You see, Aunt Agnes bought this house for him. It wasn't what he wanted, but she fell in love with the gardens. They're very old. Some of the rhododendrons and camellias were planted over a hundred years ago, and they're like huge trees now. They're beautiful . . . but a bit frightening. They just tower over you. Ruth won't go down there after dark. She thinks the branches reach out to grab people . . . and ghosts flit about there." "Really? I remember that Aunt Agnes was keen on gardening. She had a lovely little garden at her cottage. . . ." "This is a huge garden. Several gardens, really. Aunt Agnes was madly proud of them. Last year she opened them to the public when the rhododendrons were flowering," Naomi said reminiscently. "It was an awful nuisance, because of the dogs. And some people tried to explore the house, too, and that upset Father Mark. He found strangers in his dispensary." "That must have been trying." "He was furious. He didn't take to the house at first. He said it was too much the back of beyond— and it meant that someone had to drive us into Sheriton Abbot to school and fetch us back again, during term time," Naomi said thoughtfully. "Then after a while he grew to like it, and be glad there was plenty of room for all of us.

Now he would just hate to have to leave it . . . and so would we. It's our home." "Yes, of course." "But someone persuaded Aunt Agnes not to leave the house to Father Mark. Someone took advantage of the quarrel he had with Aunt Agnes over Aunt Jeanie and Aunt Winnie," Naomi said accusingly "They made her believe that he wasn't properly grateful, so she altered her will." "Not guilty! I hadn't seen Aunt Agnes for ages. I didn't even know that she had given up her cottage in the Isle of Wight," Rosemary assured her. "It came as a tremendous surprise to me to hear that she'd left me anything in her will." "I didn't think it was you. It must have been the other one . . . the one who wanted to marry Father Mark," Naomi said gravely. "Cor—something or other." "You mean Corinna North? My cousin? What do you know about her?" "Not much. Only what I heard when Aunt Agnes was bristling at Father Mark," Naomi admitted. "Aunt Agnes said: 'I wish I had made you marry Corinna, instead of stopping you. At least she wouldn't have landed you with a pack of female dependents.' " "Oh, Aunt Agnes said that?" Naomi nodded. "And Father Mark said : 'You didn't stop me. The moment I saw Joanne again, I hadn't a hope of escape.' Joanne was our mother, you know. It was very romantic, really," Naomi said earnestly. "He

had loved her when he was quite a boy, but she wouldn't take him seriously then. She was in love with Daddy. After he died, Mother and Aunt Jeanie brought us to England to visit his mother . . . our grandmother Wakefield. She had a guest-house in Southsea. Ruth was quite a baby, and Grandmother said she disturbed the guests. Grandmother didn't take to Aunt Jeanie, either." "Oh!" said Rosemary, beginning to get the picture. "You were staying in Southsea and you went over to the Isle of Wight to see Aunt Agnes." "Yes. Mother had a letter from her brother. Mother use to live quite near to the Dakins' farm, and Mr Dakin asked her to look up his sister," Naomi explained. "Aunt Agnes invited us to stay with her, and it was a relief to Mother, because Grandmother Wakefield found Ruth and me rather a nuisance. She said we were spoilt . . . and not a bit like Daddy. He was very fair." "I see. . . ." "Do you? Aunt Agnes liked us when we were small. It was only after Mother died that she wanted Father Mark to get rid of us," Naomi said wistfully. "He wouldn't, though. We belong to him. We're called Wakefield-Dakin, 'cos he adopted us. Everyone at school thinks we're his daughters. Only he's not old enough to be my real father. He just looks older, since Mother died." "I wish I had known your mother. You must miss her badly," Rosemary said impulsively. "Homely," Corinna had called Joanne Wakefield, but obviously Joanne had had something. Mark had loved her when he was a boy? And when he had met her again—a widow with two children—he had found her irresistible? What enchantment had

she worked, to make him forget his obligations to Corinna, all in a flash? "We all do. I expect she did spoil us," Naomi said gravely. "She was like that. She never fussed. She wanted everyone to be happy. She never grumbled when Father Mark was late for meals, or when Ruth and I tore our clothes or got in a mess. She loved us all . . . and she loved animals, 'specially waifs and strays. Laddie was homeless an' starving when she adopted him, and Scamper was in a sack in the canal, being drowned." That didn't sound as if Joanne had been the siren type. "More of a soft touch," as Corinna was wont to call Rosemary. Not the kind of girl to grab another girl's man, Rosemary thought perplexedly. Perhaps Joanne hadn't known about Corinna? "Mother used to feed the stray cats that hovered around Grandmother Wakefield's guest-house. Grandmother was angry with her for encouraging them," Naomi added. "Aunt Agnes said Mother was a born phil—phil—something. Philatelist?" "I think you mean philanthropist." "Yes, that's it! Without enough money to be one, Aunt Agnes complained. 'Cos Daddy's money was tied up for Ruth and me. So I suppose we are a burden on Father Mark, as Aunt Agnes used to remind us when she was vexed," Naomi said regretfully. "I can't see how we'll manage if we have to leave here. It costs a fearful lot to move furniture. Did you know that?" Rosemary nodded. "If this Corinna somebody is your cousin, can't you beg her to leave us here?" Naomi asked hopefully.

"Father Mark could go on paying her rent, like he paid Aunt Agnes." "I must talk it over with him. I dare say we can arrange something," Rosemary answered. Corinna had admonished her : "Now, promise that you'll be firm— and not let yourself be bowled over by Mark's celebrated charm." "As if I would! After the way he behaved," Rosemary had retorted indignantly. Now, she realised uncomfortably, she was in danger of being softened up, not through contact with Mark Dakin, but by the heart appeal of his young stepdaughters. "You're a dear," Naomi pronounced. "I do wish Ruth's makebelieve could come true. She knew deep down that she couldn't really get Weddings to supply a bride for Father Mark. It was just one of her 'let's pretend' games. They're quite real to her while she's playing them. She'll probably write to a marriage bureau now. She loves writing letters, but she hasn't many people who want to hear from her. Sometimes she answers advertisements in the papers." "Oh? What kind?" "Any kind. She picked that up from Aunt Winnie. Aunt Winnie is for ever sending for samples of things . . . pills and tonics and beauty stuff. You should see her dressing-table and her cupboard in the bathroom!" Naomi made an expressive grimace. "Father Mark warns her that she'll do herself some damage one of these days, by dosing herself."

"Instead it was Aunt Agnes who was dosed with the wrong tablets. . . ." That came out involuntarily. Rosemary kicked herself mentally, when she saw the stricken look on Naomi's face. "That was my fault, not Aunt Winnie's," Naomi said unhappily. "I fetched the bottle, but I hadn't my reading glasses and I didn't see the little cross on the label. I didn't mean to hurt Aunt Agnes. Honestly an' truly, I didn't. Oh, you can't guess how awful it's been! Aunt Jeanie said I'd done it on purpose ... to play a spiteful trick on Aunt Agnes." "I'm sure you didn't." "I think it was hateful of Aunt Jeanie not to say that they were the wrong pills. She took the bottle from me. She saw. . . ." Naomi said in a rush. "And the worst part is that people blamed Father Mark and he's lost lots of patients. If only he'd let me go to the inquest, I could have explained properly, but he said I was too young. Aunt Winnie was quite ill afterwards . . . and that was my fault, too." "Not really. It was just a very unfortunate accident ... as far as you were concerned," Rosemary said compassionately. "Your aunt should have checked up on the tablets." "Aunt Winnie was all flustered and upset—and Aunt Jeanie didn't care." Naomi heaved an unchild-like sigh and added : "Aunt Winnie can't take shocks. She goes all to pieces. Ruth is more use in a crisis. She has a marvellous nerve." "I should think yours is pretty good, too," Rosemary said encouragingly. "Do I hear a car?"

"Yes. It'll be Father Mark. Aunt Jeanie's car makes much more noise." She cast an appealing glance at Rosemary. "Please . . . don't tell him about Ruth's letter. It would worry him. We try not to let him guess how awkward things are here, without Aunt Agnes. We don't want him to feel that he has to get married, and rush into marrying Greta." "Greta? Who's Greta?" "She used to be a nurse. She does part-time work as Father Mark's secretary and receptionist. She wants to marry him, so Aunt Agnes used to say, but we'd hate to have her for a stepmother. She's fearfully bossy, and hasn't any patience with Aunt Winnie or the dogs. Aunt Agnes detested her," Naomi explained. "Besides, Greta has been married before. It would be nicer for Father Mark to have a brand new bride this time—someone like you. I'll tell him you're here."

CHAPTER FIVE "ROSEMARY? Who on earth is Rosemary?" Mark Dakin's voice, in the passage, sounded curt and irritable. Not at all the voice of a born charmer, Rosemary decided. "I don't know anyone called Rosemary." "I think she's a kind of cousin," Naomi answered propitiatingly. "She's very nice and very pretty. Quite sensible, too. She knows about cooking an' things." Firm, swift footsteps sounded on the bare stone of the passage— and then Mark Dakin strode into the kitchen, Naomi at his heels. "Good morning! You wanted to see me?" he inquired formally. "How do you do? I'm Rosemary Rose," Rosemary introduced herself. "Mr Thirkell seemed to think it would be a good idea for us to become acquainted." "Indeed?" He didn't offer her his hand. He pulled up abruptly, staring down at her. "Yes, of course— Corinna North's cousin. Your mother was Aunt Agnes's cousin. Aunt Agnes spoke of her occasionally. Married a country parson, didn't she?" "Yes. She's still married to him—very happily," Rosemary retorted defensively. She could imagine all too easily in what manner Aunt Agnes had spoken of her mother. In her sharp- tongued way, Aunt Agnes would have said something like : "Poor Rosalind! Such a pretty girl . . . but she threw herself away on a parson, years older than she was, without any money behind him."

Money had been so important to Aunt Agnes. Presumably it was to her nephew, too. . . . "Good!" Mark Dakin said abstractedly. "Mr Thirkell suggested that you should come down here? I can't think why." He was certainly handsome, Rosemary was obliged to concede . . . tall, slim and dark, with clear-cut regular features. The dark hair was touched with silver over his temples, but that merely added an air of distinction. He had absurdly long black eyelashes, and straight, heavy dark eyebrows. No, not straight— one eyebrow had a slight quirk to it, which gave him a quizzical expression, even when, as now, he was frowning. "It was an idea," Rosemary said calmly. "Won't you sit down and have some tea? I've just topped up the teapot, so the tea's quite hot." The furrows across his forehead deepened, but he sat down in the chair Naomi had vacated. "I don't know why you're being entertained in the kitchen," he said abruptly. "Where are the aunts, Naomi?" "Aunt Jeanie went off in her car. I expect Aunt Winnie is painting. She forgot about the joint, and we had to rescue it," Naomi answered deprecatingly. "Rosemary scraped off the burnt parts and put it in a casserole." "Heavens, what a way to greet a visitor!" he said wryly. "My apologies, Miss Rose." "I was glad to be of assistance, Doctor Dakin," Rosemary said demurely. Then her delicately curved lips quivered into her warm,

spontaneous smile. "Do we have to be all formal and bristle at each other? We are related, through Aunt Agnes. Distantly, anyway." "I suppose so . . . but my aunt didn't do anything to establish friendly relations between us," he said drily. "On the contrary. . . ." "You mean, that will of hers? Honestly, it came as a complete surprise to me. I hadn't seen her for ages, and I had no idea that she was living here with you and your family. Please believe me!" "Then it was your cousin she met, when she went up to London to see her solicitor, some months ago." It was a statement, rather than a question. "She came back full of 'my young cousin's business acumen, and head for figures.' Called her a chip off the old block, meaning a worthy descendant of Angus Dakin, my grandfather." "Really?" Rosemary was considerably taken aback. "Aunt Agnes saw Corinna and heard about Weddings from her?" "News to you?" "Yes. Corinna didn't tell me." Rosemary nibbled her full underlip. Why hadn't Corinna mentioned that meeting? That Aunt Agnes had called at the office to investigate the success or failure of her young cousin's enterprise? Corinna must have derived a sense of satisfaction from proving to Aunt Agnes that Weddings was doing very nicely— without the backing which Aunt Agnes had refused her four years ago. It seemed odd, though, that Corinna should have kept the encounter to herself. "Apparently it went over very well. Aunt Agnes visited Mr Thirkell subsequently and decided to reward such perspicacity. At my expense," Mark said grimly.

"I'm sorry about that," Rosemary said impulsively. "At least, I can't be sorry that Aunt Agnes left me some money, because I shall find it extremely useful, but I am sorry that it was at your expense. She certainly should have left this house to you." "You're willing to concede that?" he said incredulously. "Naturally. I mean, it's your home, and a house in Devon is no earthly use to anyone who is running a business in London," Rosemary said frankly. "Then you're not here to give me notice to quit?" "Of course not. I couldn't anyway, could I? If you're renting the house unfurnished. There's something about tenants' rights, isn't there? I don't know what usually happens when the owner dies. Mr Thirkell said that it was an awkward situation and that you might be contesting the will. I think it would be a pity if we got involved in legal proceedings. An awful waste of money in lawyers' fees, and not very pleasant for any of us." His taut features suddenly relaxed in a wry smile. "I'm beginning to see what Naomi meant about your being sensible," he conceded. "This daughter of mine is a remarkably good judge of character." Rosemary liked the way he said that, and liked the affectionate glance he cast at Naomi, who was hovering at his elbow. Naomi's thin face turned pink. She smiled at him gratefully. "Well, anyone can see that Rosemary isn't a mean, grasping type," she observed. "Here's your tea, Father Mark. Don't let it get cold. Aunt Winnie says cold tea and coffee are bound to give one dyspepsia."

"Thank you, child! You'd better go and rustle up Aunt Winnie. Warn her that we have a visitor." "I can try, but she won't come if the paint's wet," Naomi said doubtfully. She went out with obvious reluctance, and Mark's lips twisted. "My aunt—my wife's aunt, that is—has these sudden enthusiasms, one after another. She was going to make a packet, breeding pedigree dachshunds," he said ruefully, "but when the first litter arrived she decided it was a messy business. Then the girls grew attached to the puppies, and there was considerable difficulty in persuading them that we really couldn't keep four more dogs. In the end we had to let them keep one puppy. The cost of feeding and the vet's bills made the whole transaction a dead loss." "I can imagine. . . ." "Then she took up market gardening, but the work was much too strenuous for her. Also, cabbage white butterflies ruined the cabbages and broccoli she had hoped to sell. She and Aunt Agnes had a rare set-to over the question of spraying. Aunt Winnie was dead against pesticides, as liable to poison birds. So that idea petered out, and now Aunt Winnie has taken up painting." "That sounds encouragingly.

comparatively

harmless,"

Rosemary

said

"Comparatively," he agreed—and ran one hand abstractedly through his thick dark hair. "The snag is that she gets fits of artistic inspiration at the most inappropriate moments, and throws far too much on young Naomi's shoulders."

"What about the niece? Your sister-in-law, isn't she? Surely she's the one who should be tackling the chores?" A shadow seemed to cross his face. His brows contracted again. "Should be, perhaps. Try to make her, and there's a scene. Tears, reproaches, recriminations . . . the lot. It's not easy for a man to cope. . . ." He broke off abruptly and sipped the tea Naomi had poured out for him. After a pause he said curtly : "That's one of my problems, not yours. I take it that you're here to discuss the disposition of this house?" Rosemary was eyeing him thoughtfully. He had been talking easily and naturally about Miss Winnie Ridley; almost as though he were talking to a trusted friend. At her mention of Jeanie Ridley his manner had changed, all in a flash. He had withdrawn into himself; had more or less reminded her that his family concerns were no concern of hers. That was true, of course, but couldn't he see that she wasn't just being curious or trying to pry into his private life? Already, although she had only just met them, Ruth and Naomi had aroused her compassion. She could see as clearly as he could how any upheaval—any further upheaval—would affect them. They were an endearing pair, and at a vulnerable age. They had had to face the shattering blow of their mother's death, and the further shock of Agnes Dakin's. If they lost their home, too, their sense of security would be shaken all over again. People said that children were adaptable. In the long run, perhaps, but Rosemary believed that most children were basically conservative. They tended to cling to the known and the familiar. She could remember vividly how she had felt when her parents had decided that she should join Corinna at boarding- school. She

had known that she would have to move on from the village school, and she had been reluctantly resigned to a daily journey to and from the high school in the nearest market town. It would have been an awkward journey, by bus and train, but infinitely preferable, in her eyes, to having to leave home. A few years later she had realised that her parents had done the best thing for her, and she had appreciated the financial sacrifice it had entailed. At the time she had been hurt and rebellious, accusing them of wanting to get rid of her. Perhaps she had been secretly jealous of their absorption in and devotion to each other. She had refused to admit that they would miss her as much as she would miss them. Children, sensitive children, were apt to misunderstand an adult's motives and reactions. Naomi and Ruth had apparently become convinced that they were a burden on their stepfather, that they were indirectly responsible for Agnes Dakin's altering her will. If Mark Dakin was compelled to give up this house wouldn't it weigh heavily on their minds? "Well?" Mark said jerkily. "Is that the idea, or isn't it?" "What? Sorry. . . ." Rosemary said hurriedly. "I was thinking about those two . . . Ruth and Naomi. It would be a wrench for them to have to leave this house, wouldn't it? You might find a smaller, more convenient one, much less isolated, but it wouldn't feel like home to them. And four dogs. . . ." "Precisely. Not a hope, except at an exorbitant price, of finding a house in Sheriton Abbot which would accommodate four dogs, two children, and their aunts—and also provide me with a dispensary and a consulting room. So what?"

"We shall have to fix up some kind of compromise," Rosemary said cautiously. "That's scarcely a speciality of your cousin's," he said darkly. "If I ever knew her, Corinna North will insist on extracting the last penny piece legally due to her." "Does that surprise you? After the way you treated Corinna, you can't expect her to stretch any points in your favour?" Rosemary flashed. He didn't look in the least abashed. He merely quirked his dark brows. "These things happen—incompatibility. Has Corinna convinced herself—and you—that I let her down?" he asked mildly. "Has she?" Rosemary stared at him indignantly. "You did. There's no question about it, as far as I can see." "As far as you can see?" he echoed. "So that was her version? Oh, well, it's all water under the bridge now! She may have a point. As I recall it, I wasn't exactly tactful." "Tactful?" He certainly had a nerve, Rosemary thought angrily. "Is there any tactful way of jilting a girl?" "A horse that feels it's being ridden too hard sometimes contrives to throw the jockey. Not tactfully, no." He shrugged his shoulders. "A clean break seemed the best way at the time . . . when I found it impossible to satisfy Corinna's demands. I suppose I should have left it to her to initiate it. She never cared to have decisions made for her."

Rosemary's flare of indignation was abruptly quenched; not so much by what he had said, but by the manner in which he had said it. His tone was neither heated nor defensive. It sounded flat and a little weary. Somehow he had succeeded in making her feel that she didn't know the whole story; that what he had called "Corinna's version" might possibly have contained some significant omissions. She said uncertainly: "When you met Joanne Wakefield—" "Joanne had nothing to do with it," he interposed curtly. "I had already reached the end of my tether— and snapped it—when I met Joanne again. If Corinna refused to realise that, she was deceiving herself." "Corinna certainly didn't realise anything of the kind." "There's no point in discussing it," he said, with an air of finality. "Corinna and my Aunt Agnes had a good deal in common, noticeably an inability to see through any other person's eyes, and a determination to achieve their goals by bringing pressure to bear— hence that recent will of my aunt's. In the weeks before she died Aunt Agnes flourished it at me almost daily." "Oh? Why?" "To pressure me into getting shot of my wife's relatives." "It didn't work," Rosemary said reflectively. "No." His lips hardened. "How could it? Joanne had always looked after Jeanie. How could I push the girl off back to New Zealand, to an uncongenial stepmother, who didn't want to be bothered with her? And Aunt Winnie is devoted to the children."

"Instead, between them, they got shot of Aunt Agnes." He gave her a piercing glance. She hadn't known that dark eyes could look so hard and cold. "You have been misinformed," he said icily. "Local gossip. . . ." "Mr Thirkell told us about the mistake over the tablets," Rosemary said defensively. "Unfortunate, but incidental. Obviously the shock of her fall brought on a coronary thrombosis. I had warned her repeatedly about her dangerously high blood pressure, but she wouldn't listen. She said she despised people who fussed about their health and were for ever dosing themselves. She wouldn't take the tablets which my partner prescribed for her." Again he ran one hand through his thick hair. "The tablets she was given by mistake were a contributory cause, but certainly not the whole story. If you take the trouble to read the report of the inquest, you'll realise that . . . but naturally people seized on the more sensational aspect." "Which hasn't done you any good. . . ." "I shall survive it. The important thing now is not to let Naomi be haunted by a sense of guilt . . . important to me, that is. I can scarcely expect you and your cousin to take that aspect into consideration." "We're human," Rosemary reminded him. "Obviously, if you were forced to leave this house, Naomi would feel that it was partly her fault." "You do see that?" "Well, of course."

Again Rosemary found herself scrutinising him perplexedly. He wasn't—except in looks—in the least like the picture of him which Corinna had given her. He wasn't poised and self-confident and consciously charming. He was strained and harassed and very much on the defensive. He seemed genuinely surprised that she should even try to see his point of view. He looked older than she had expected, but at the same time there was a rather touchingly boyish and vulnerable air about him. She had a feeling that, since his wife's death, there had been no one in whom he could confide; no one to fight his battles with him. Aunt Agnes had had the same single-mindedness and determination which were Corinna's. Aunt Agnes had probably tried to drive him, for what she would have called "his own good." Perhaps she hadn't taken into account the fact that Mark, too, was a Dakin . . . and the Dakins wouldn't be driven. Had Corinna made that same mistake, six years ago? He appeared to be more concerned now with his adopted daughters' future than with his own. Clearly, it was mainly for their sake that he intended to cling tenaciously to the house. He said abruptly: "Legal actions are never pleasant—and invariably expensive—but I might as well warn you that I'm not surrendering this house unless I'm forced into it. You haven't a hope of charming or sweet-talking me into shifting." "I wouldn't dream of trying," Rosemary assured him. "Do please stop bristling at me and relax!" "That's not easy—when the dice are loaded," he said curtly. "If they are, I didn't load them," she reminded him. "Honestly, I'm not trying to put anything across on you, Cousin Mark."

He gazed at her, his eyes narrowing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Against all the evidence, I'm disposed to believe you," he conceded—and Rosemary felt a warm surge of relief. For a moment there seemed to be hope of a genuine understanding—even of friendship—between them. His friendship would be worth having, she thought suddenly. Whatever had gone wrong with Corinna's romance, it couldn't have been entirely Mark's fault. He was obviously neither heartless nor irresponsible. He was capable of deep loyalty and affection. His sense of responsibility towards his young stepdaughters, and also his wife's aunt and sister, proved that. Rosemary smiled back at him warmly. She had never been selfconscious about her own assets. She had been merely amused when Maggie had remarked one day. "Rosemary's smile does more to win new customers than all your careful budgeting, Corinna. When Rosemary turns her smile on them, they're convinced that we can do all your advertisements promise." It didn't occur to Rosemary now that, when she smiled, her lovely face had a radiance and a charm which could be spellbinding—or that Mark Dakin had, from experience, learnt to distrust that kind of feminine appeal. She saw his lips twist and wondered why. Then he said, reverting to his curtest tone: "You make it difficult not to believe you're sincere, in spite of that racket you run." She felt as if he had thrown a glass of iced water in her face. "Racket?" she echoed blankly.

"Well, it is a racket, isn't it? This so-called business you and Corinna thought up between you. Aunt Agnes told me about it," he said impatiently. "Exploiting the romantic streak in gullible young brides—and drawing fat commissions at their expense." "Oh, no, it isn't like that at all," Rosemary protested. "It's a genuine service. We give our brides jolly good value for their money. Ask any of them, and they'll tell you so!" "I don't doubt it. Corinna always carried an air of conviction . . . and you appear to be ingenuously honest," he retorted drily. Rosemary felt herself flushing indignantly. "Did Aunt Agnes call Weddings a racket?" she demanded. "Not in so many words. Aunt Agnes called you two smart girls. She admired anyone who could rake in the shekels. She was her father's daughter in that respect." He made a grimace. "Her main grievance against me was that I was my father's son and didn't appreciate the power or the importance of money. Well, she certainly had the last word ... in that will of hers." "Don't/" Rosemary said unhappily, her flash of indignation quenched. "You make it sound as if we had been conspiring to make things awkward for you. If that's what you imagine, naturally you're bitter about it. Aunt Agnes seems to have got hold of the wrong idea of us—of Corinna and me. We're trying to earn a living, of course, but not by playing on anyone's credulity. Planning a wedding, often on a small budget, can be quite hard work." "But profitable? At least, according to Aunt Agnes. Money for jam, she called it—and a fine example of the enterprise which she

found lacking in me," he said dispassionately. "Nice work if you can get it, in fact." "Oh, dear! You're twisting it all. . . ." "Don't let that worry you! It's no concern of mine," he said. "Except in so far as it suggests 'due caution in dealing with the young ladies,' to quote Mr Thirkell." "Is that what Mr Thirkell advised?" Rosemary had a horrid feeling that the ground was rocking beneath her feet. "Oh, how could he? I thought he was rather a dear—and he agreed to act for us. He suggested that I should contact you. And—and all the time he was seeing us as a couple of smooth operators? Confidence tricksters?" "He didn't go as far as that. He merely advised caution." He narrowed his dark eyes again. "Now you're looking hurt and reproachful. Trying to make me feel a brute? I'm more or less inured to that particular ploy." "You've obviously a nasty, suspicious, cynical mind . . . and I wish I hadn't come here," Rosemary flared. "There's no hope of achieving any kind of compromise if you're so distrustful of my motives. As for Mr Thirkell. . . ." "Don't let him throw you! Lawyers are like that." His lips quirked upwards. "I'm not compelled to take his advice, am I—Cousin Rosemary? I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt until we're better acquainted."

CHAPTER SIX "NAOMI!" Ruth came at a run down one of the twisting paths which led through the rhododendron gardens and pulled up short. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to be looking after Rosemary. You haven't let her escape?" "Father Mark's with her. He sent me to find Aunt Winnie," Naomi answered. "I think he wanted to talk to Rosemary . . . privately." "He mustn't let her go. She's a real answer to prayer," Ruth said earnestly. "She's perfect for him . . . and for us. Just what we need. Can't you see it?" "She's very pretty and she seems nice," Naomi said cautiously. "Only you can't choose a bride like you choose a carpet or a car." "People do. I've read the advertisements. 'Why be lonely?' and 'Let us introduce you to a congenial companion.' I thought that was how Weddings worked." "People would have to be rather desperate to apply to a marriage bureau," Naomi demurred. "Aren't we desperate?" "Yes, but they aren't—Father Mark and Rosemary, I mean. We're not even sure that Father Mark wants a new wife, and I expect Rosemary has lots of faithful admirers." "Oh, don't throw cold water!" "I'm trying to make you be sensible. Rosemary won't let you hurl her at Father Mark. That's quite clear. And she's young for him, anyway. He's bound to think that Greta's more suitable."

"She isn't. She would boss him—and us. Besides, she has been married. Didn't we agree that he ought to have a brand new bride this time?" "Yes, I know. But Rosemary didn't come down here because you wrote to her. She's one of the two scheming cousins, as Aunt Jeanie calls them." "Rosemary is?" Naomi nodded. "She told me about it, after you'd gone out with the dogs. She and her cousin Corinna are the two in Aunt Agnes's will. I think Rosemary's hoping to do some kind of deal with Father Mark, over the house." "Oh!" Ruth digested that in silence for a moment or two. Then her expression brightened. "Oh, but that makes it easier! If Rosemary marries Father Mark, she'll have half the house, and the other one can have the money." "It was the other one who used to be in love with Father Mark," Naomi reminded her. "Aunt Agnes talked about her sometimes. Remember?" "Of course—the clever one. The chip off the old block. I bet she isn't as nice as Rosemary. We've got to keep Rosemary here till she falls in love with Father Mark," Ruth said firmly. "How?" "She's obviously kind-hearted. If she felt needed, she would stay. One of us could be desperately ill or break a limb or something," Ruth said reflectively.

"Oh, no, Ruth, you've not to try anything like that! Father Mark has enough worries already," Naomi said apprehensively. "Well, there's always Aunt Winnie an' her palps. They're quite frightening if you're not used to them," Ruth said hopefully. "I don't really want to break a limb. . . ." "You'd better not! Come on now. We must find Aunt Winnie." "She's down in the hollow, painting that huge red tree. Laddie jogged her arm and made an awful smudge. She nearly had the palps then, so I took the dogs away. If they all jumped up at her she might easily have a bad attack." "Ruth, no! How could we carry her back to the house? Besides, we don't want her to be really ill again, like she was after the inquest," Naomi said reprovingly. "You mustn't try to make things happen. It's too dangerous." "If I don't, Aunt Jeanie will—and she'll give them a shove in the wrong direction. She's dangerous," Ruth said soberly. "She hated Aunt Agnes and she hates Greta. She'll hate Rosemary even more. I wish to goodness Doctor Humbert would marry her and take her away from here." Naomi shook her head helplessly. There were all too often times, as now, when she didn't know how to cope with Ruth. That she herself was three years older didn't seem to help at all. Ruth was so much brighter and livelier and more enterprising. Ruth was bubbling over with vitality and ideas. In some ways, Ruth was still a child, given to wandering in a world of make-believe. In other ways she was old for her age, with uncanny flashes of insight. Ruth was like their mother, Naomi thought anxiously, but with something of their father's fearless, adventurous spirit. Mother had

never reasoned things out, in Naomi's own cautious, plodding fashion. Mother had seemed to know people and things by sheer intuition. Naomi could remember occasions when her mother had startled Aunt Agnes or Father Mark by some unexpected but apt comment on someone. The difference between mother and younger daughter lay in the fact that Mother had been wont to lavish a wealth of affection on everyone with whom she had come in contact—and virtually everyone had responded. Mother had been indulgent and tolerant even to the most unattractive and rewarding people. Ruth was critical and given to strong likes and dislikes. More discriminating, Naomi supposed—and more in danger of getting herself hurt. "You needn't look so surprised. Did you think I didn't know?" Ruth demanded with an impish grin. "About Aunt Jeanie an' Doctor Humbert, I mean." "You will jump to conclusions," Naomi said lamely. "You can't know that Doctor Humbert wants to marry Aunt Jeanie." "I don't believe he does. It's she who's dead set on marrying him," Ruth retorted matter-of-factly. "He treats her as if she were your age. That's what makes her so snappy with us. She's . . . what's the right word? Frustrated, isn't it? Frustration turns people bitter, Mother used to say. It's a pity, really, that Mother gave in to Aunt Jeanie so much and that Father Mark does, too. She thinks that she has a right to anything she fancies . . . but Doctor Humbert doesn't see it that way." "You don't know. You're just imagining things," Naomi said uneasily. "It's my feminine 'tuition," Ruth assured her. "Father Mark says I've lashings of it, just like Mother had. It tells me that Greta would

be all wrong for Father Mark and that Rosemary would be perfect for him. . . . Oh, look, there's a grey squirrel! No, Scamper, you can't catch it!" The squirrel darted up one of the huge old rhododendron trees. The dogs set up a chorus of indignant barks, and Scamper tried vainly to climb the tree. Naomi left Ruth to collect the pack and hurried on down the twisting path. She found her great-aunt seated on a camp-stool in a sheltered hollow, gazing up at a massive crimson rhododendron, and licking her paintbrush in schoolgirl fashion. "Oh, Aunt Winnie, don't do that!" Naomi exclaimed in dismay. "Father Mark told you not to lick your brushes. Don't you remember?" "What, dear? Why are those dogs making such a commotion? It's most distracting. Ruth promised to take them away into the fields," Miss Winnie responded abstractedly. "They've treed a grey squirrel. Aunt Winnie, Father Mark wants you to come in now. He sent me to fetch you." "Why? It isn't lunch-time yet. I must go on with my painting till the light changes. I think it's one of my best. Look, Naomi! It's good, isn't it?" "Very nice," Naomi said politely. She wasn't in the least artistic. It puzzled her that anyone of Aunt Winnie's age could suddenly develop an absorption in painting. She peered at the sketch- block which Aunt Winnie held up proudly for her inspection. Without her reading glasses, it was just

a blur of vivid reds and greens. Aunt Winnie appeared to splash on colour with a childlike abandon. "Doesn't it say something to you?" Aunt Winnie asked hopefully. "Can't you feel the texture?" "At school we're made to draw things first, before we paint them," Naomi said uncertainly. "That's the orthodox, old-fashioned way," Aunt Winnie nodded. "That's how I was taught, too, when I was your age. Nowadays, the direct approach is considered more important. Instead of wasting time on a lot of niggling lines, one paints what one feels." "Oh?" Naomi said doubtfully. "Can you feel a rhododendron?" "Of course. Can't you? Where's your imagination, child? Can't you feel the burning intensity, the red- hot passion which this tree conveys?" Aunt Winnie demanded reproachfully. "Look at it! There's something fiercely primitive, almost primeval, in its twisted branches and lush abundance of blossom. Quite different from a rhododendron in a nursery or a park. This rhododendron has been allowed to grow as it pleased ... to express itself freely. I shall call the picture 'The Rebel'. Don't you think that's a good title?" "I expect so. Father Mark wants you to come in now, please, Aunt Winnie, because Rosemary's here." "What? Rosemary? Who's Rosemary?" "She's a kind of cousin. At least, one of Aunt Agnes's cousins. One of the two Aunt Agnes put into her will."

"Oh!" Aunt Winnie ran paint-stained fingers through her curly grey hair in a distracted gesture. "Oh, dear! Why didn't she let us know that she was coming? There's nothing ready. . . ." "She's very nice. She helped me to rescue the joint—it nearly caught fire." "Oh, dear, I forgot all about the joint . . . and I meant to make a sponge pudding," Aunt Winnie said guiltily. "Don't worry! Rosemary isn't a fussy person. You'll love her," Naomi said encouragingly. "Not if she's like Agnes Dakin, always criticising and carping." "She isn't, she's sweet. Really an' truly." "She can't be..." Aunt Winnie checked herself abruptly. This wasn't Jeanie, this was Naomi. She must be careful what she said to Naomi, who was only a child, although she often seemed more adult and sensible than her aunt, Jeanie. Children should be happy and carefree, dear Joanne had believed. They should be kept in ignorance of the seamy side of life as long as possible. They should be encouraged to think the best of everyone. It had been easy for Joanne to create an atmosphere of love and trust. Joanne's had been essentially a loving and trusting nature, which had brought out the best in other people. Joanne had believed that "people live up to what you expect of them." Even Miss Agnes Dakin's sharp tongue had softened in Joanne's presence, and Jeanie's bitter cynicism had hardly ever surfaced.

Joanne would have been aghast had she guessed to what harsh winds her daughters would be exposed after her death, Miss Winnie thought unhappily. She herself had done all she could to shield them, but she had failed lamentably to cope with Mark's Aunt Agnes. Mark, of course, should never have agreed to share a house with his aunt. He should have realised that his aunt was jealous and possessive, and wouldn't attempt to conceal her resentment of his in-laws. Only poor Mark had been completely dazed and shattered by Joanne's death. He had gone around like an automaton . . . and Miss Agnes had been swift to step in and take him over, before he had had a chance to regain his balance. It had been natural, perhaps, that Mark should want to get away from the house and the surroundings which were for him haunted by memories of Joanne, but he should have shown more foresight. He should have known that his aunt had no genuine affection for his stepdaughters, and actively disliked his sister-in- law. Miss Winnie's desperate attempts to keep the peace had proved singularly futile. In fact, she reflected unhappily, she had merely contrived to exasperate both her niece and Miss Agnes. It had been an impossible position. Jeanie had stubbornly refused even to consider the suggestion that she and her aunt should look for accommodation elsewhere. "Where could we go? How could we live? Nothing in this world would induce me to go back to New Zealand and that ghastly woman Father has married," Jeanie had said stormily. "Joanne promised that I would always have a home with her and Mark and the children. Mark knows that. I'm not going to be turned out by that poisonous aunt of his. You can leave if you please, but I'm staying put." Miss Winnie would have gone had she thought it would ease the situation, but she had known that her departure could only make

things worse for Ruth and Naomi. They teased her and laughed at her "fussing," but they were attached to her. She was a link with their mother, and a once happy home-life. She couldn't abandon them to Agnes Dakin's mercy. She could at least act as a buffer between them and Agnes Dakin's perpetual fault-finding. Unlike Jeanie, Miss Winnie hadn't really disliked Mark's aunt. She had shrunk from that carping tongue, but she had admired Miss Agnes's brisk energy and efficiency. She hadn't resented Miss Agnes's frequently expressed scorn for herself and her "muddleheaded ways." Winnie Ridley had for most of her life been humbly aware of her own shortcomings. She knew she was apt to be vague and absentminded, impractical and hopeless about money matters; easily flustered and the reverse of courageous. "It's the artistic temperament," she had been wont to plead in reply to Agnes Dakin's strictures. "My dear father was just the same. He was an artist ... a very good artist . . . and sometimes he made quite a lot of money, but it always slipped through his fingers. And of course I've never had the best of health. I was a premature baby and a delicate child. My mother used to say that it was a miracle I had survived. I had so many illnesses, including three dangerously severe attacks of pneumonia." "As far as I can see, there's nothing wrong with you . . . except in your own imagination," Agnes had invariably retorted. "You're one of those who enjoy bad health." "That's most unfair! I would love to be as strong and vigorous as you are . . . but any undue exertion leaves me limp and dizzy. It's my low blood pressure, I suppose . . . and I've always had a weakness in my heart and stomach," Miss Winnie had insisted.

"A weakness in the head, you mean. All those pills and potions you indulge in are enough to wreck the soundest constitution," Miss Agnes had warned her. "It would never surprise me to find that you'd poisoned yourself by swallowing something meant for external use only. You don't think what you're doing." It still seemed incredible and shocking to Miss Winnie that it should have been Agnes who had died suddenly ... in such an unfortunate way. She couldn't help blaming herself for that disastrous muddle over the tablets, although it hadn't been exactly her fault. She had been so shaken and distressed by Agnes Dakin's fall that she had been in no state to scrutinise the bottle Naomi had fetched. Dear Mark had assured her that those two tablets hadn't— couldn't have— killed his aunt, but Miss Winnie still felt guilty about them. She certainly hadn't wanted Agnes to die. Trying though she had been at times, Agnes had been a good manager. Without her firm hand on the wheel, the household seemed to be drifting into a state of chaos. It was especially unfortunate that Agnes should have died before she had altered her will again. Agnes had merely been trying to force Mark's hand by that new will. She couldn't have intended to give her young cousins the power to turn him out of the house she had bought for him, Miss Winnie was certain. It was true that Agnes had appeared to be greatly impressed by the success of her cousins' enterprise. She had talked quite a lot about it and had extolled Corinna North's business acumen. Only, from what Agnes had said, it had sounded rather like exploitation. At least, that was what Mark had thought, Miss Winnie remembered. Mark had called it "a very pretty racket from your account . . . battening on young brides' romantic dreams."

It was most disconcerting to hear that one of those two enterprising—and possibly unscrupulous—young women had arrived here unexpectedly. Miss Winnie felt her heartbeats beginning to flutter ominously. She didn't even understand her own niece, so how could she cope with this intruder? She would be hopelessly at sea. Her hands were shaking as she reluctantly wiped her paintbrushes. Obviously, from Naomi's reaction, the girl was dangerous . . . and Mark was so stupid about women. Any clever woman could take advantage of him. She couldn't say that to Naomi, of course; couldn't warn the child that the visitor's "sweetness" was obviously a pose, assumed for Mark's benefit. One mustn't disillusion children, Joanne had insisted. Children, in Joanne's opinion, ought to be as indiscriminately friendly as puppies. "You're putting the brushes in the wrong way. That's why the paintbox won't shut. Let me do it," Naomi said helpfully. "Why are you all upset, Aunt Winnie? There's enough meat to go round, and we can open a tin of fruit." Miss Winnie stifled a sigh. How could she explain to Naomi that she dreaded arguments and scenes? They had a disastrous effect on her heart and on her stomach. She liked a peaceful, pleasant life, with no worries and no unwelcome responsibilities. "You don't have to be scared of Rosemary," Naomi added—as if reassuring a bashful child. "She isn't a bit frightening. You'd never guess that she was related to Aunt Agnes. Shall I carry your campstool?" "Thank you, dear." Miss Winnie rose reluctantly, just as Ruth came racing up with the dogs. As usual, the dogs leaped up at her in boisterous greeting.

She had some difficulty in holding her painting out of the sheepdog's reach. Really, four dogs were too many for one household, as Miss Agnes had frequently complained. Only dear Joanne had never been able to resist rescuing any animal which she had found in distress . . . and the dachshunds were officially Miss Winnie's own dogs. She wished for the enth time that she hadn't been foolish enough to imagine that she could augment her tiny income by breeding pedigree puppies. Somehow none of her bright ideas for making a little pin money had turned out successfully to date. She could only hope that her painting would prove the exception. There was a thriving art club in Sheriton Abbot, and it seemed that members sold quite a number of their pictures to visitors every summer, during their annual show. The show was open from June till the end of August. Miss Winnie was looking forward to having some of her pictures on view in the studio which the club rented. But all too often, as had hap- pended now, she was distracted from her work just when she had got into her stride, and inspiration vanished. She sighed again, and Ruth said brightly: "Cheer up, Aunt Winnie! If only we can persuade Rosemary to stay, she'll solve all our problems." "I don't know what you mean, dear," Miss Winnie said blankly. "Stay? Why should she stay here?" "Because we need her. All of us . . . and 'specially Father Mark. He'll have to marry again soon, but we don't want him to get desperate and settle for someone like Greta," Ruth enlightened her. "Greta's as bossy as Aunt Agnes—and Aunt Jeanie detests her. I don't see how even Aunt Jeanie could detest Rosemary."

CHAPTER SEVEN "I'M still not sure what you hoped to achieve by this visit," Mark said abruptly. "Neither am I . . . now," Rosemary confessed. "It seemed like a good idea for us to become acquainted, and for me to see this house. Mr Thirkell indicated that it wasn't worth what Aunt Agnes paid for it . . . and would be valued at considerably less for probate." "That's news to me! Is that what he told you?" "More or less. I thought I could ask the local estate agents for their estimate," Rosemary told him. "Then, if they value it at about the same amount as Aunt Agnes's securities, there won't be any problem." "No?" "No. You can keep the house, and Corinna and I can divide the actual money." "You're an extraordinary girl . . . Cousin Rosemary," Mark quirked his black brows at her. "Do you usually reveal the contents of your hand to your opponents?" "What? Oh, cards?" Rosemary said, puckering her own tawny brows. "I don't play cards, because people get so heated over them, and games ought to be for fun." "You're either incredibly frank, or else uncommonly deep," Mark said slowly. "How am I to tell which?"

"Don't let it worry you! Mr Thirkell. . . ." She nibbled at her low lip thoughtfully. "I still can't imagine why he should have warned you against us, or why he should have warned us that you were being difficult and unco-operative. What is his angle?" "Solicitors!" Mark said with a expressive grimace. "I don't know anything about solicitors, but he seemed a nice, friendly old boy," Rosemary said uncertainly. "Only it wasn't very kind of him to repeat those rumours about Aunt Agnes's death . . . and not very wise, either, if they were just rumours." "No, that was decidedly odd. Unprofessional, in fact," Mark said, frowning. "Solicitors are usually guarded and non-committal, loath to express any opinions of their own. One might guess that Thirkell was out to prolong the proceedings, with consequent financial benefit to himself, but that doesn't tally with his suggesting that you should come down here. If he knows you at all, he must have realised that you were no poker player." Rosemary wasn't sure what he meant by that. She glanced at him inquiringly. "I want to get things settled," she said. "Before the autumn. So that I can buy a new car for Mother. Do you know, she's never had a brand-new car? And she has to do a lot of driving around in that scattered parish. She's a good driver, too, better than my father. He's not in the least mechanically minded. He used to bicycle around the parish until Mother persuaded him that was too dangerous." "Men shouldn't become parsons if they want an easy life—or to make money," Mark said shortly.

"They shouldn't become doctors, either, should they? Doctors are much better paid than parsons, of course, but they earn their money the hard way, and they don't amass vast fortunes," she retorted spiritedly. "I wasn't appealing for sympathy, I was merely stating a fact." "Sorry, I misunderstood you." "You seem determined to misunderstand me. Why?" Rosemary demanded. "Possibly it's a defensive reflex." She hadn't a chance to ask what he meant. There were yaps and the patter of feet in the stone-floored passage. Then the door was thrust open to admit Ruth and the dogs. They were followed by Naomi, who was carrying a camp-stool and paintbox. A middleaged woman, panting perceptibly, and holding a sketch- block at arms' length, brought up the rear. "Aunt Winnie," Mark murmured with a faint, resigned smile. In a louder tone he said: "Aunt Winnie, meet Cousin Rosemary. Miss Rosemary Rose—Miss Winifred Ridley." "Rosemary Rose? What a delightfully pretty name! How do you do?" Miss Winnie said breathlessly. "I won't shake hands, because my fingers are stained with paint. I've been working. . . ." "May I look?" Rosemary took the extended sketch- block from her, as a friendly overture rather than because she expected to find anything of interest in Miss Winnie's "work." She gazed down at the painting with dawning surprise and appreciation. "Oh, but it's good!" "Do you really think so?" Miss Winnie asked eagerly.

"Yes, definitely. It has terrific impact—all that vivid colour. It would be just right in a modern flat," Rosemary told her. "Sometimes, at Weddings, we're asked to advise brides about furnishings, so we've had to study interior decorating. Modern flats are often done in muted colourings, with plain, light furniture, and sudden violent splashes of colour in cushions and pictures." "I'm planning to enter some pictures in the Sheriton Abbot summer show. It would be such a help if I could sell some," Miss Winnie said hopefully. "This one certainly ought to sell. You must put it in a starkly plain, modem frame. . . ." It was odd, Rosemary reflected as she handed the sketch-block back to Miss Winnie, that such a dated- looking little woman, plump and dowdy in an over- long tweed skirt and shapeless cardigan, should have elected to paint in such a modern idiom. The bold simplicity and eye-catching colour of the picture suggested leashed passions and a direct, forthright approach. Yet Miss Winnie, with her untidy, curly grey hair, round pink and white face, and mild brown eyes, looked like the vague, easily flustered maiden aunt of the children's description. Perhaps, in her painting, Miss Winnie expressed, as some writers did in their books, not what she was but what she would have liked to be. "That's most encouraging," she said warmly—and Mark quirked his black brows quizzically at Rosemary. "Your speciality," he said drily. "I'm beginning to see why Weddings coins money." "It doesn't! And—" Rosemary shot a reproachful glance at him, "why must you imagine that we make a habit of conning

customers? Can't I even express an honest opinion without your suspecting me of ulterior motives?" "The alternative would appear to be that you're too good to be true—and spread sweetness and light around because that's the kind of person you are," he said cynically. "Frankly, I can't swallow that one, Cousin Rosemary. You're no fairy godmother." "No, of course she isn't," Ruth interposed, in a bewildered tone. "Fairy godmothers are ugly old crones. Rosemary's like a fairy-tale princess—anyone can see that." "Princess Charming in person?" His lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "It's a nice act, anyway. I'll grant you that much. It would be enchanting if it were real." Could this be the same man whom Corinna had called a charmer? He seemed to Rosemary to be laying himself out to provoke and antagonise her. His celebrated charm had turned into a wry cynicism. Ruth was protesting : "But Rosemary is real. Even her hair is real. You can see that. It's just the same colour at the roots. . . ." The clamorous peal of the telephone bell cut her short. There was a receiver, looking incongruous in this old-world kitchen, on the windowsill. Mark rose—slowly, as if his long limbs were tired or stiff—and went across to lift the receiver. "Sheritonford 259," he called. "Who? Yes? Yes? You're sure? Very well, I'll be right over. Go on trying to contact Nurse. She should be back from church any time now. Right!"

He put down the receiver and glanced abstractedly at Rosemary. "Sorry, I have to go," he said briefly. "What is it, Mark dear? Not one of those horrid, messy road accidents, I hope?" Miss Winnie fluttered. "They always seem to happen at the weekends." "No. Apparently Mrs Palmer's offspring has decided to arrive ten days before schedule," he answered resignedly. "Her first, and she's over forty, so her husband is in a flap." He turned towards the door, then hesitated and glanced back at Rosemary. "Will you be haring back to town, or shall I see you again?" he inquired. "I'm not in any tearing hurry. I'd like to see over the house and gardens before I leave. I may spend another night at the Black Abbot," she answered. "No need for that. Plenty of spare rooms here," he said jerkily. "Naomi will fix one up for you." "Thank you, but—" "No buts. We've barely completed our initial sparring for position. You can't quit yet," he cut her short. "See you later!" He strode out and Aunt Winnie said hurriedly: "Yes, of course. I should have suggested it. After lunch you can fetch your things while we make up a bed for you."

"Really, I don't have to put you to that trouble. The Black Abbot is quite comfortable," Rosemary demurred. "Father Mark said you were to stay, so you must. That's a very good sign," Ruth informed her encouragingly. "Usually, when anyone comes to tea, he says: 'Couldn't you have shifted that ghastly woman before I got home? You know I can't stand her chatter.' Only you don't chatter, Rosemary—you talk." "Thank you!" Rosemary responded, smiling down at Ruth's eager, upturned face. "I'll be glad to stay, if it won't be inconveniencing your aunt." "I'll get your room ready. I'm the bed-maker here. Making beds gives Aunt Winnie the palps," Naomi said matter-of-factly. "Ruth does her own, but I do the others every morning. Aunt Agnes taught me how." "Before you go off to school? You must get up early." "Half-past six. I make tea first and take it to the others. If I didn't call Aunt Jeanie she would never be down in time to drive us into Sheriton Abbot— and often she has to, when Father Mark's out, visiting a patient," Naomi explained. "Aunt Winnie can't drive." "You seem to have rather a lot on your young shoulders, Naomi," Rosemary said sympathetically. "She does—too much. She's tired out every morning," Ruth said quickly. "That's another reason why we have to find a bride for Father Mark." "Men usually prefer to choose for themselves," Rosemary warned her.

"Dear Mark is always so busy. He doesn't have time for any social life," Miss Winnie murmured regretfully. "Doctor Humbert sees to that side of the practice. He's a bachelor and very popular. He has a widowed sister who keeps house for him and gives wonderful parties. Such a nice woman, but a little old for Mark." "Much too old," Ruth said emphatically. "Her hair's quite grey. Besides, she's been married." "You'd better feed the dogs, Ruth, or they'll give us no peace. I suppose it's no use waiting lunch for Mark. Does anyone know where Jeanie is?" Miss Winnie asked anxiously. "I expect she's at the Humberts'. She usually is," Naomi answered, and then the telephone bell shrilled out again. "Oh, dear!" Miss Winnie ejaculated. "I did hope that Mark was going to have a quiet Sunday for once. Take the call, Naomi dear. I always get patients' names muddled." "I will," Ruth volunteered, and lifted the receiver. "Sheritonford 259. Yes. No, Doctor Dakin is out on a call. This is Miss Ruth Dakin . . . What? At the hospital? Is she badly hurt? Yes, all right, I'll tell Doctor Dakin." She put down the receiver, her brown eyes wide. "It's about Aunt Jeanie. She's had an accident. She's at the hospital." "Jeanie? Oh, no! Oh, dear!" Miss Winnie gasped, and turned pale. "Jeanie . . . tell me the worst. . . ." She swayed. Rosemary put an arm round her swiftly and helped her to a chair.

"She killed a ewe," Ruth said, in a shaken voice. "She ran straight into it, on the moor, and the car skidded. Father Mark's always telling her she drives too fast. That poor sheep !" "Never mind the sheep; what about Aunt Jeanie? Is she dead?" Naomi asked fearfully. "Oh, no! The car struck a boulder and turned over, so it's all smashed up, but she's only bruised and a bit con—con—cussed," Ruth said flatly. "The hospital wants Father Mark to fetch her home. Had I better ring him?" "He can't leave Mrs Palmer if she's having her baby," Naomi said practically. "Aunt Jeanie'll have to wait." "I think they want to get rid of her. I expect she's making a great fuss. Aunt Agnes called her a spoilt baby. She's probably having hysterics," Ruth said resignedly. "Oh, poor Jeanie!" Aunt Winnie looked helplessly at Rosemary. "She's so highly strung and sensitive . . . and she hates hospitals. She was in hospital for months, poor child, when she had polio. Oh, dear, this is most upsetting! What are we to do? We could ask Greta to fetch her, but Greta is so unsympathetic." "Greta isn't at home. She went away for the weekend, to visit her in-laws," Naomi contributed. "We could ask Doctor Humbert." "Oh, yes, that's a good idea. Jeanie would like that," Aunt Winnie said, looking a little less distracted. "Ring him up, dear." "I will. Naomi can't see to dial the numbers without her reading glasses."

Ruth turned to the telephone again, and dialled a number with crisp, decisive jabs. She held the receiver to her ear for a full minute. Then she said ruefully: "The bell's ringing, but there's no answer. I expect he's out on a call and Moira has gone with him. Or perhaps they've gone off to lunch somewhere. They often do, on Sundays. They have lots of invitations. Doctor Humbert's a much better catch than Father Mark, because he hasn't a family round his neck." "Really, Ruth dear, the things you say!" Miss Winnie expostulated mildly. "It's what Greta said. She told Aunt Jeanie not to waste her time chasing after Doctor Humbert, because he could pick an' choose," Ruth retorted calmly. "He's one of the most 'legible bachelors in the district." "You mean eligible, dear." Aunt Winnie's childishly round face puckered up, as if she were about to burst into tears. "Oh, dear, how worrying this is! Poor little Jeanie must be in such a state. . . ." Miss Winnie was breathing too quickly and clasping her arms round her plump bosom as if she were in pain. She was working herself lip into a "state," Rosemary perceived uneasily. No doubt the next stage would be what Ruth designated as "the palps." "Would you like me to go to the hospital for your niece, Miss Ridley?" Rosemary asked impulsively. "I have my van here." "Would you? That would be very kind." Miss Winnie brightened perceptibly. "You're a stranger, of course, but one of the girls could go with you and explain. . .

"I will," Ruth said promptly. "Naomi gets upset when Aunt Jeanie's having hysterics. It doesn't worry me ... at least not much. I'm tough." "Except about animals," Naomi reminded her. "I know, but the poor ewe won't be at the hospital. I do hope she didn't have a lamb to miss her." "It's late now for lambs. She wouldn't still be feeding one," Rosemary consoled her. "It's all most distressing," Miss Winnie fluttered her paint-stained hands helplessly. "I fear we're imposing on you, my dear." "Not at all. Try to relax. Perhaps a cup of tea?" Rosemary suggested, with a glance at Naomi. "Yes, I'll make you some tea, Aunt Winnie, and you can take one of your tablets. That'll revive you," Naomi said, as if speaking to a younger sister. "You must be in good form when Aunt Jeanie comes back." . "Naomi is really very sweet with Aunt Winnie," Ruth observed as she followed Rosemary down the stone-floored passage to the door into the courtyard. "She has lashings of patience. Only she worries too much. Mother never worried." "Your mother must have been a quite exceptional character," Rosemary commented—and was dismayed to detect a slightly acid note in her tone. On Corinna's account, of course, she told herself hurriedly. However delightful and admirable a person Joanne had been, she

certainly hadn't behaved well towards Corinna. She must have known of the understanding between Mark and Corinna. "She was a darling an' everyone loved her, but she wasn't perfect," Ruth answered seriously. "I expect Father Mark found her trying sometimes. She could be like Aunt Winnie, and forget about time, and things like sewing on buttons and sending his shirts to the laundry. Sometimes, when she was supposed to be listening for calls, she would forget about that and drift off into the garden. Only she was so sweet that nobody could stay mad with her." That didn't sound as if Joanne had been the ideal wife for a busy young doctor, Rosemary reflected. Joanne had evidently been a complete contrast to the cool-headed, efficient Corinna. But it had been Joanne whom Mark had loved enough to marry. . . . "Do you understand what I mean?" Ruth asked anxiously. "Father Mark wouldn't always be quoting Mother and telling his new wife what Mother did. You wouldn't have to be afraid of that." To her vexation, Rosemary felt her cheeks burning. This child was remarkably perceptive. She must have caught that acid note—and misinterpreted it. "My dear child, I understand your wanting your father to marry again, but that's nothing to do with me. He's a stranger to me, even if he is a distant relative, so you can't expect me to be deeply interested in his plans," Rosemary retorted. "Oh, but you are interested!" Ruth protested. "You're sorry for him—I saw it in the way you looked at him." "That's quite different."

"Is it? Not if you've a kind heart. When you're sorry for people, doesn't it make you fond of them? Don't you want to rescue people when they're in trouble and put things right for them?" "Sometimes. Not always. A lot of people bring their trouble on themselves." "Asking for trouble? That's what Aunt Agnes said Aunt Jeanie was doing. She said Aunt Jeanie ought to have more pride. Do you have lashings of pride, Rosemary?" "I doubt it," smiled Rosemary. "This is a darling little van," Ruth said appreciatively, as she climbed into the passenger seat. "What do you take in the back of it?" "Masses of things. Flowers for decorating churches . . . and sometimes provisions for a wedding breakfast. Clothes to display to a bride at our office, samples of this and that. I do all the fetching and carrying for Weddings. My cousin deals with the business side." "It all looks very fresh and clean and spruce—like you," Ruth said naively. "I expect you have what Aunt Agnes called a tidy mind. She said that meant keeping your emotions tidy as well as your belongings. Do you?" "Not always. When you share a small flat, you have to be tidy— especially if you're sharing with someone as methodical as my cousin. It's not so easy to keep your feelings in the right place," Rosemary said wryly. "Mine tend to spill over sometimes."

CHAPTER EIGHT BOTH apprehension and feminine curiosity were very much to the fore as Rosemary parked the van neatly in the hospital's car-park. The children and Miss Winnie and Mark had all spoken of Jeanie Ridley as if she was a knotty problem and the stormy petrel of the family. Their references to her hadn't been exactly enlightening. Rosemary had been left with a confused impression of a "spoilt baby," who was given to dramatising her emotions to the verge of hysteria, and who had no intention of pulling her weight in that oddly ill-assorted household. It had occurred to her that they all appeared to be ridiculously indulgent towards Jeanie. Why, Rosemary had wondered in some exasperation, didn't Mark and Miss Winnie insist on Jeanie's tackling some of the chores? The receptionist at the Black Abbot evidently saw Jeanie as a wild, reckless youngster, with a permanent chip on her shoulder caused by her disability. Lameness could be a severe handicap, of course, but Jeanie's couldn't be crippling, if she could drive herself around—and at high speed, too. Jeanie had "hated" Aunt Agnes—who had probably tried to sort her out—and she "hated" Mark's no doubt competent but "bossy" receptionist. She was "in love" with Mark's partner, Doctor Humbert, and dead set on inducing him to marry her. Ruth had been emphatic on those aspects of her aunt's emotions, and Rosemary was developing considerable respect for Ruth's perception. What about Mark? Nobody had indicated what Jeanie's relations were with her brother-in-law. Was she genuinely attached to him? Or had she been merely taking advantage of his loyalty and affection towards his wife? Rosemary could sympathise with the girl's reluctance to return to New Zealand to an uncongenial

stepmother, but she couldn't understand Jeanie's being content to drift around at the Old Priory, apparently dependent on her brother-in-law. Why on earth didn't Jeanie find herself a job of some kind? "This is quite a nice hospital," Ruth said encouragingly, as they walked up the wide, shallow steps side by side. "Aunt Winnie was here for a week after she'd collapsed at the inquest. She said everyone was very kind and the food was good. Naomi and I visited her and we were given tea and delicious little cakes. Once we came with Father Mark. The other time Aunt Jeanie brought us, but she stayed in the car." "Oh?" "She has this thing about hospitals. She thinks it was the hospitals' fault that her leg never got quite right again. Father Mark says that's nonsense, but she won't believe him. Aunt Jeanie never listens to anyone." "She sounds rather difficult," Rosemary said tentatively. "Everyone gives in to her too much. That's what Aunt Agnes said—and she had a lot of common sense," Ruth pronounced. "Aunt Jeanie worries Father Mark an' Aunt Winnie, an' upsets Naomi. I don't take any notice of her tantrums. That's the best way, really." "I expect so." "You won't let her upset you, will you, Rosemary? There's no reason why you should, because you didn't know Mother," Ruth said sagely. "It's because she has the look of Mother that Father Mark an' Aunt Winnie let her make rings round them . . . but she isn't a bit like Mother in herself. I think that's partly what riles her.

You can be jealous of your sister, even when you're fond of her. Did you know that?" "I haven't a sister," Rosemary told her. "If you had, I guess she'd be madly jealous of you. Not just because you're pretty, but because you're the kind that people like," Ruth informed her. "Naomi gets hurt sometimes because people notice me more than they notice her, but it isn't anything that I do. . . ." They passed through swing doors into a reception hall, and Ruth broke off abruptly to dart at a tall, pleasant-looking woman who was heading for the stairs. "Hello, Sister Rayner! Are you looking after Aunt Jeanie? We've come to fetch her," she announced. "This is Miss Rosemary Rose, Father's cousin. Rosemary, this is Sister Rayner who was so kind to Aunt Winnie." Sister Rayner turned and gave Rosemary a swift, appraising glance. Then she smiled. "I'm sure Miss Ridley will be very glad to see you, Miss Rose. We would have kept her here overnight, but she didn't like the suggestion at all. Doctor David said that if she felt so strongly about it, we had better let her go home." "Doctor David? Not Doctor Humbert?" Ruth interposed. "We tried, at Miss Ridley's insistence, to contact Doctor Humbert, but apparently he's off duty today. Doctor David saw her," Sister explained. "She was temporarily concussed, and badly shaken, but she had a miraculous escape. She was thrown clear when the car overturned."

"The poor ewe was killed," Ruth said mournfully. "Yes. It's not possible to stop sheep and cattle and ponies from wandering across the moorland roads. One needs to keep a sharp look-out for them," Sister said practically. "Don't distress yourself about the sheep, dear. It was killed instantly. It didn't suffer." "Miss Ridley. . . ." Rosemary began tentatively. "Her bruises will be painful for some days, I'm afraid. Doctor David gave her an anti-tetanus injection and a sedative. He left some tablets for her to take at night, if the pain keeps her awake. Not more than one every four hours. Perhaps it would be as well for you to take charge of them, Miss Rose," Sister said, with a significance which wasn't lost on Rosemary. "Miss Ridley Senior is somewhat absent-minded, and Miss Jean Ridley appears to be highly nervous and overstrung." "Did Aunt Jeanie have hysterics?" Ruth asked interestedly. "How did you calm her? Aunt Agnes used to throw cold water at her, but Aunt Winnie thinks that's too drastic and liable to give her a chill." "Yes, indeed. We don't resort to those old-fashioned methods here," Sister answered, giving Ruth the kind of indulgent smile which Ruth seemed unconsciously to evoke. "Then how did you cope? I wish you would tell me. Naomi and Aunt Winnie get so upset when Aunt Jeanie is hysterical . . . and then Aunt Winnie has the palps an' Naomi cries. I'd stop Aunt Jeanie if I knew how," Ruth persisted. "I'll have a word with Doctor David about that. Possibly he will prescribe some sedative tablets for her," Sister said noncommittally. "It's certainly not good for Miss Winifred to be distressed. Now, I'll take you to your aunt."

"Doctor David is quite old," Ruth confided to Rosemary, as they followed Sister Rayner upstairs. "He has a beard and a lot of hair. Naomi and I think he looks like a minor prophet from the Old Testament. He's a bit gruff, but quite kind, if anyone's really ill." Rosemary nodded abstractedly. She wasn't looking forward to having to cope with Jeanie Ridley. Obviously, a "spoilt baby," neurotic and highly strung and prone to hysterics, would need tactful handling. In all she had heard about Jeanie, there hadn't been anything flattering. Nobody had hinted that Jeanie was attractive or appealing. Consequently, when Sister Rayner ushered them into a small private ward, Rosemary's first reaction was one of complete surprise. The girl huddled in an armchair by the window bore a certain family resemblance to her two young nieces, in build and colouring, but when she raised her head, Rosemary barely suppressed a gasp of astonishment. Even with one strip of sticking plaster across her forehead and another strip on her pointed chin, with her long dark hair in disarray, and the traces of tears on her cheeks and reddened eyelids, Jeanie was beautiful. She had small, delicately chiselled features, a creamy skin, and strikingly large, velvety brown eyes, with long curling black lashes and attractively arched black eyebrows. "Hello, Aunt Jeanie! We've come to fetch you," Ruth announced, in a determinedly cheerful tone. "This is Rosemary. She's a kind of cousin." "Rosemary?" Jeanie echoed, in a soft, faintly husky voice. "Rosemary Rose. Aunt Agnes was my mother's cousin," Rosemary explained hurriedly. "I came down for the weekend to see Doctor Dakin . . . and the house. He's out on a maternity case just now."

"Rosemary and her cousin run Weddings. She has a darling little van," Ruth added. "You've come to give me a lift home? That's very kind of you," Jeanie said, her brown eyes lighting up in a quite enchanting smile. "I know it's absurd, but hospitals make me feel really ill. Let's go !" She stood up—and winced. She was even smaller and slimmer than she had looked, huddled up in the armchair, Rosemary perceived. Her head barely reached Rosemary's shoulder as, impulsively, Rosemary put a steadying arm around her. "Thanks," she said, clutching at Rosemary's wrist with her small but surprisingly firm fingers. "I'm all right—just a bit stiff and sore. Goodbye, Sister. Sorry to have been such a nuisance." "All in the day's work," Sister assured her. "Take things easily for a while, Miss Ridley. I expect Doctor David will look in on you tomorrow. He left some tablets for you, to ease the pain. I'll give them to Miss Rose. . . ." "In case I'm tempted to swallow them all at once?" Jeanie's delicately cut lips curved upwards mischievously. "Don't worry! I'm not that type." "Accidents can happen," Sister said significantly— and Jeanie jerked up her chin. "Accidents, yes. If you're as muddle-headed as my aunt—and if you've a cupboard full of pills and potions. I haven't. I hate medicines in any form," she retorted defiantly, but Rosemary could feel the slight figure's trembling against her. "If you imagine that I deliberately gave Miss Dakin what the newspapers called the fatal dose, you're quite wrong."

"You misunderstand me, Miss Ridley. I was merely pointing out that one can't be too careful," Sister said calmly. Jeanie didn't answer, but she was still trembling as Rosemary helped her down the stairs. She had quite a pronounced limp, Rosemary noticed compassionately. In the car-park, Jeanie freed herself from Rosemary's supporting arm and stared up at her, the big brown eyes stormy and challenging. "I suppose that's what you think, too? That I wanted to make Aunt Agnes ill? That I knew those tablets weren't aspirin—and didn't care?" "I don't know anything about it," Rosemary said coolly. "Did you?" "No, I didn't! She got in my hair sometimes—but I didn't wish her any harm. I admired her. She had brains. And she was about the only person who never tried to baby me. Have you any idea how utterly sick- making it is to be perpetually humoured and indulged and wrapped in cotton-wool?" Jeanie demanded. "No. That's never happened to me." "Then you're lucky! Even Mark treats me as if I were fragile—'to be handled with care'—-and not much older than Ruth. Nobody— nobody at all—takes me seriously. Sometimes I reach screaming point from sheer exasperation and frustration. . . ." "Well, please don't scream here," Rosemary said mildly, as Jeanie's voice rose ominously. "Unless you want Sister to come out and take you back to the ward."

"You—" Jeanie glowered at her. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. "Sorry! You're rather like your Aunt Agnes, aren't you?" "Am I? That's news to me." "Oh, not to look at, of course! Your mother was quite a beauty, according to Aunt Agnes, and you've obviously taken after her. But you seem to have something of Aunt Agnes's astringent common sense. I've an idea that you and I are going to get along, Rosemary." "Good! Now we'd better get along back to the house before the joint disintegrates." "Oh, gosh, yes!" Ruth said concernedly. "Aunt Winnie will have forgotten all about it . . . and Father Mark will be hungry when he comes home. I'm hungry now." "When aren't you? Oh, heavens, I'm sore all over!" Jeanie was wincing again as she slid gingerly into the passenger seat. "Mind my leg!" as Ruth scrambled in from the driver's door. "There's not much room for three of us." "There's enough," Rosemary assured her, following Ruth and settling herself behind the wheel. "I often carry two passengers, and you're both slim." "I should have thought that coining money as you do, Weddings would have had a more impressive, luxury car." "We don't make money as easily as that," Rosemary protested, starting up the engine. "I don't know why Aunt Agnes imagined that we were rolling in it."

"From what your cousin told her, Weddings is a small goldmine," Jeanie retorted. "All those fat commissions!" "Only the usual ten per cent in most instances, and we have to work quite hard." "It sounded fun to me. Aunt Agnes had a notion that you might find a place for me in the business. I was all for it—but Father Mark put his foot down firmly," Jeanie said regretfully. "He was sure Joanne would have been horrified at my taking part in such a racket." "But it isn't a racket." What on earth could Corinna have told Aunt Agnes, to have conveyed such an erroneous impression? Rosemary wondered again. "I wouldn't call it strictly on the level to take the name tags out of chain store goods and make the customers believe they were getting things from expensive Salons at cut prices," Jeanie said critically. "In a way they're being cheated, even if they don't ever know it." "We don't do anything of the kind. How on earth did you get hold of that idea?" Rosemary demanded indignantly. "Sometimes, when brides ask us to help them choose a trousseau on a very limited budget, I go with them to the chain stores. Sometimes my cousin manages to buy underwear at wholesale prices, from friends she has made in the rag trade, but there's no question of removing tags. Brides who can afford to pay fancy prices usually do their own shopping and just leave us to deal with the actual wedding . . . flowers, caterers and so forth." "That wasn't the way we heard it from Aunt Agnes. Perhaps your cousin doesn't tell you everything? Who keeps the books?"

"Corinna. She and our secretary tackle all the office work. My job is to design the weddings, to think out colour schemes, and what will suit a bride and her bridesmaids. But Corinna wouldn't . . . wouldn't put anything across on me." "I expect she reasons that what you don't know won't hurt you. That's what she told Aunt Agnes about fooling the customers. Every woman likes to imagine that she's getting a bargain—so why not let her? Aunt Agnes said that was how successful businesses were run. It's the idea behind advertisements, too, isn't it? To convince people that your goods are cheap at the price," Jeanie said with conviction. "You'd never sell inconvenient old houses like the Old Priory if you pointed out the disadvantages." "I don't know anything about how estate agents work—but Weddings gives brides the best possible value for their money," Rosemary insisted. "As long as your customers believe that. . . . Ouch !" Jeanie made a grimace as the van jolted over a pothole in the lane beyond the hospital. "Father Mark keeps on badgering the Council to make up this lane, on account of the ambulances. It certainly needs resurfacing." "Yes. Sorry!" Rosemary said briefly, and concentrated on avoiding the too frequent depressions in the worn surface. Inwardly she was seething. She had worked her very hardest to make Weddings a success, ever since she had joined Corinna. She had been proud of the results they had achieved together, and of her share in them. They couldn't have carried on unless they had made a profit, but she had been content to leave the financial side to Corinna. That first year they had barely paid their way, and their personal expenses had been kept to the absolute minimum. In the

second year things had been easier. For the past two years Rosemary had been drawing twenty pounds a week as her share of the profits. Maggie, as secretary, was being paid fifteen pounds a week, with a bonus at Christmas. Rosemary had been entirely satisfied with her earnings. She had supposed that Corinna was drawing a similar amount. Somehow they had never got around to discussing exactly how much they had cleared every year, after all expenses, including Maggie's salary, had been paid. Corinna saw to their income tax returns and Maggie's P.A.Y.E., and stamped their insurance cards. It hadn't occurred to Rosemary to investigate Corinna's carefully kept ledgers and files. She hadn't even attempted to understand the balance sheets which Corinna drew up for the income tax inspector. It had always been Corinna who had worked out each individual bride's budget; Corinna who had arranged for and collected the commission they had earnt. Rosemary had never queried any decision of Corinna's on the financial side. The business appeared to be flourishing—and increasing steadily in volume— but certainly not to the extent which Aunt Agnes had evidently imagined. Presumably, in that encounter with Aunt Agnes, Corinna had been deliberately seeking to impress Aunt Agnes with her business acumen . . . but it wasn't like her to exaggerate. It wasn't like Aunt Agnes, either, Rosemary was obliged to admit. Yet Aunt Agnes had, it seemed, convinced Mark that her young cousins were working a highly profitable racket, a racket in which Mark had refused to let his sister-in-law become involved. Mark's attitude had stung Rosemary, but she had supposed that he had simply been leaping to an unflattering but typically masculine

conclusion. A man couldn't be expected to understand the many problems with which some young brides were confronted, or to realise just how valuable the service which Weddings undertook could be. Now Jeanie's cynical comments had shaken Rosemary quite severely . . . and bewildered her, too. There couldn't be any truth in Jeanie's cool assumption that Weddings was inducing brides to accept chain store goods as the products of exclusive salons. That would be a despicable form of trickery. Rosemary refused to believe that Corinna would even consider it. Yet how had Jeanie come up with such a notion? Something Aunt Agnes had said must have put it into her head. It was disturbing in the extreme to be suspected of such shady dealings . . . especially by Mark Dakin. Not for personal reasons, of course, Rosemary hastened to assure herself. Mark was a stranger. Why should she care what he thought of her? But she had come down here in the hope of establishing friendly relations and avoiding any tiresome, legal battle over Aunt Agnes's will. Now, with that prejudice against her and Weddings, Mark was unlikely to believe in her good intentions. He would be more likely to suppose that she was trying to put something over on him. Actually, the reverse was true. Already her compassion for his motherless stepdaughters and for their well-meaning, amiable, but hopelessly ineffective aunt had made her more than prepared to meet him halfway and look for a compromise. No matter what line Corinna chose to take, Rosemary knew that she herself couldn't be a party to any attempt to rob Mark's family of their home.

CHAPTER NINE RUTH, who had chattered away so freely on the drive to the hospital, was singularly silent on this return journey, Rosemary noticed. Why should Jeanie's presence have that effect on the child? What was the real reason for the antagonism which seemed to lurk between them? Jeanie should surely have felt some affection for her only sister's children . . . but she was ignoring Ruth completely. Jeanie, after lamenting the damage to her car, had lapsed into silence, too. She was huddled in her corner, her eyes downcast, her creamy forehead creased. Suddenly she jerked up her chin and demanded : "Why aren't you married, Rosemary? You must be years older than I am." "I'm twenty-three." "Is that all? I'm twenty. Aren't you even engaged?" "Not yet," Rosemary answered calmly. "Not yet?" Jeanie echoed. "Then there is someone? Someone special?" "No. I've friends, of course, but nobody special." "Why not?" Jeanie persisted. "With your looks . . . and money, too?" "I don't really know. I suppose we're too busy. We don't have much social life," Rosemary answered good-humouredly.

Why not? That, more tactfully phrased, was the question her mother put to her whenever she went home for a brief break. Her mother, secure in her own happy marriage, was evidently disappointed that to date there had been no special man in Rosemary's life. The success of Weddings meant little to Rosalind Rose. To her, a career seemed just a poor substitute for a husband and family. "Does your cousin spoil things for you? Some girls are like that. They resent anyone who's more attractive than they are," Jeanie said bluntly. Rosemary blinked. The startled denial which sprang to her lips was suddenly checked; checked by a flash of insight. How Jeanie had guessed, Rosemary couldn't imagine, but there was some truth in her assumption. Rosemary realised in dawning dismay that Corinna had been the main reason why none of her tentative friendships with potential admirers had come to anything. Corinna hadn't been crude enough to show any resentment of Rosemary's dates . . . but she had frequently found unassailable reasons why Rosemary shouldn't repeat them. She had a knack of making subtly denigrating comments on Rosemary's men friends; of inducing Rosemary to view them through her sharply critical eyes. "If I had ever been in love, Corinna wouldn't have been able to stop me—any more than her family could stop Mother from marrying Father. Only I've never managed to get to know a man well enough to love him . . . and that's been Corinna's doing," Rosemary decided, with a pang. "Why on earth didn't I see it before this? All along, I've been letting her push me around as she pleased. . . ."

Corinna had tried to dissuade her from coming down here, Rosemary remembered. When that hadn't worked, she had done her best to prejudice Rosemary against Mark Dakin. "Mother never tried to spoil a romance for you," Ruth interposed abruptly. "She wanted you to find a nice husband." "I dare say—but what chance did I ever stand, while she was on the horizon? Everyone preferred her to me," Jeanie said bleakly. "And now . . . now, there's Greta." "Greta?" Rosemary echoed, relieved by the change of subject. "Mark's receptionist?" "Yes. She's a pain in the neck. She's determined to marry again. She was after Father Mark first . . . but she hasn't got very far with him, so now she's concentrating on Dick Humbert," Jeanie said savagely. "She's convinced him that I'm just a kid, not to be taken seriously." "Is that why you were driving too fast and killed that poor ewe?" Ruth inquired. "No, it wasn't. The Humberts had gone out to lunch when I got to their house. The ewe suddenly leapt down from a wall into the road. I nearly killed myself, trying to avoid her. Don't you start needling me, child!" Jeanie said sharply. "I just wondered," Ruth said innocently. "Really, it's a pity you were only bruised. If you'd been hurt more, Rosemary would have stayed on to look after you." "Another of your crazy brainwaves? Why on earth should Rosemary care two hoots about me?"

"She's that kind of person. Can't you see that she's exactly what we need?" Ruth retorted. "I'm praying fervently that something will happen to keep her here. Only I'm not a righteous man, like it says in the Bible. Remember? 'The fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.' Do you suppose Doctor David is a righteous man? The Vicar must be, of course, but I don't know him awfully well." "You're crackers!" Jeanie said impatiently. "Joanne always believed that she could make things turn out the way she wanted them to be . . . and now you're starting on the same track. Life isn't like that." "If you have enough faith it can be. That's what Mother used to say. Her prayers were always answered." "For heaven's sake, don't pray that I shall be laid low again, you horrid child!" Jeanie snapped. "I'm sore enough already." She winced exaggeratedly as the van bumped over the narrow stone bridge. Rosemary was thankful that they were nearly home. Obviously, Jeanie wasn't mature enough to take a dispassionate view of her young niece. She found Ruth an irritant and didn't hesitate to show it. The village still appeared to be drowsing in the sunshine. Plenty of subjects for Miss Winnie to paint here, Rosemary reflected, admiring the smooth thatched roofs of the old cottages. Once again her two passengers had relapsed into silence; Ruth looking thoughtful and Jeanie looking glum. The right-hand iron gate was still standing open when she reached the entrance to the drive. "Want to shut the gate after us, Ruth?" she asked.

"When it's open, it means that Father Mark's out, so we'd better leave it. He doesn't like having to stop to open it. Doctors are always in such a hurry," Ruth answered regretfully. "Drive slowly, please, in case Naomi has let the dogs out again." Rosemary nodded, and proceeded at a crawl up the drive and over the shaky wooden bridge. She couldn't have been doing more than five miles an hour, she decided afterwards, as she approached the last sharp bend . . . but that didn't save her. She had one horrified, fleeting glimpse of a large blue car, and then there was the shattering crunch of a violent impact. The light van didn't stand a chance. It seemed to crumple up like a child's toy. Rosemary had never fainted in her life. She had a vague recollection of a sickening bump, as her forehead hit the windscreen. Then she must have blacked out, because when she opened her eyes dazedly she was sprawling on the grass verge of the drive, with a man bending over her. "I didn't mean that to happen. I didn't want Rosemary to be hurt. . . ." Ruth's voice faltered, somewhere close at hand. "She isn't . . . dead? Oh, please say she isn't dead!" "Of course she isn't! Just knocked out. She's coming round." Rosemary blinked . . . and blinked again. She must be dreaming, she thought confusedly. It was only in dreams that a girl saw a man who looked like a young Apollo or Adonis bending over her concernedly; an incredibly handsome man, with crispy waving fair hair, the bluest of blue eyes and virtually flawless features. "I'm terribly sorry about this, but you're all right, aren't you?" She tried to sit up . . .and instantly waves of pain seemed to wash over her like a black tide. Vaguely she was conscious of a cool,

firm hand on her forehead. Then she was being raised in a pair of strong arms and something roughish, which felt like tweed, was tickling her face. She forced her eyes open—and looked up into those startlingly blue eyes again. So she hadn't been dreaming? Blue eyes . . . blue car. . . . Memory came back with a rush. "You !" she said accusingly. "You didn't even sound your horn. You—you just charged round that bend like a tank. . . ." "I've said I'm sorry, and I am. If you'd been wearing your seat belt, you wouldn't have hit the windscreen." "I couldn't wear it with three of us . . . and anyway, I was just crawling." "Luckily for you. I really am sorry, but I was in a hurry." "Rosemary! Oh, Rosemary, are you all right?" That was Ruth, a white-faced, shaken-looking Ruth, clutching at her hands. "I thought you were dead . . . and it would have been all my fault. . . ." "Nonsense! It was entirely this—this lunatic's fault, charging round that sharp bend and ploughing into us. . . ." Rosemary's voice sounded shaky in her own ears, as shaky as she felt. She tried to smile at Ruth's white, anxious face, but her lips seemed to be quivering uncontrollably. "You weren't hurt, Ruth?" "I banged my knee, that's all." "Mercifully the windscreen didn't shatter, although it was badly cracked, but I'm afraid the radiator has had it," the man with the blue eyes said deprecatingly.

"What? Oh, no!" With an effort, Rosemary managed to struggle to her feet. Pain shot through her forehead again and she swayed. Instantly those strong arms were round her again, steadying her. "Take it easy! That's a nasty bump you had on your forehead," he said concernedly. "Oh, never mind that!" Rosemary was staring aghast, at the crumpled bumper and crushed radiator of her cherished van. Water was already oozing out from the radiator. "Just look what you've done ! How am I to drive back to London now?" "You can't," he said decisively. "Don't worry, my insurance company will have to foot the bill for the necessary repairs. I'll get on to them first thing in the morning, and they'll arrange for a garage to fetch your van." "And what do I do?" "You'll stay here, of course." The colour had come back to Ruth's thin face now. Her lips curved upwards in an impish smile. "It must have been an answer to my prayers." "A somewhat drastic answer," Rosemary said wryly. Then her brows contracted as, belatedly, she remembered her other passenger. "Jeanie . . . Where's your aunt, Ruth?" "She wasn't hurt, just frightened. She thought you'd been killed, so she ran away," Ruth answered matter-of-factly. "She can't bear to be near dead people. Remember how she was when Aunt Agnes died, Doctor Humbert?"

"Jeanie. . . ." he said, in an indescribable tone. "It was on her account that I was in a tearing hurry. I'd only just heard from Doctor David about her accident." So this man was Jeanie's heart-throb and Mark's partner? This tall, fair, incredibly handsome man? It certainly wasn't surprising that Jeanie had fallen in love with him. What girl wouldn't have found him attractive? "Two accidents in one day! She'll be in a state," Ruth said ruefully. "And Aunt Winnie, too, if Aunt Jeanie tells her that Rosemary's dead. Aunt Winnie can't stand shocks." "Come on, then. We'd better go and pick up the pieces. And I suppose I should notify the police," Doctor Humbert said resignedly. "Have to leave the scene as it is till the police have taken notes. Confound it! This'll raise my insurance premium skyhigh. I lost my no claim bonus last year." "I'm not surprised, from the way you drive," Rosemary said severely. "Don't rub it in, there's a good girl! I could kick myself as it is," he said feelingly. "I've had my licence endorsed twice already. Once more, and I shall have to hire a chauffeur." "I should think you need one!" "You wouldn't call yourself vindictive, would you?" he asked reproachfully. "I told you I was sorry. Who are you, anyway? Weddings? Are you a commercial traveller or something?" "No, I'm not."

Rosemary felt her cheeks burning. She had every right to be furious with the man, she assured herself. Did he imagine that a smiling apology would be any compensation for the shock he had given her? Or for the inevitable inconvenience—to Weddings as well as to herself? No doubt, like most exceptionally attractive men, this Doctor Humbert was impossibly conceited. He imagined that he could get away with anything. Well, he was mistaken, as far as she was concerned. She had no intention of letting him off lightly. She wasn't susceptible to masculine charm. "She's Rosemary Rose, a kind of cousin," Ruth was explaining. "At least, her mother and Aunt Agnes were cousins, so Rosemary's related to Father Mark. She came down from London to talk to him about the house and Aunt Agnes's will." "Oh, indeed? One of the two enterprising young cousins of whom Miss Dakin boasted? She tried to persuade my sister to contact you," Doctor Humbert said, pausing to retrieve his case and then piloting Rosemary past his large blue car. "It all sounded too commercial to appeal to Moira, though." "Is your sister thinking of getting married, Doctor Humbert? Everyone thought she wanted to marry Father Mark," Ruth said in naive surprise. "Village gossip! You shouldn't listen to it, child," he said impatiently. "Moira has had an understanding for some time now with a fellow who's doing a stint with the Ministry of Agriculture overseas. He'll be coming home in the autumn and taking up a post in this country. Then, I suppose, he and Moira will get married. Keep that under your hat, though."

"I will, of course, but—" Ruth's eyes widened. She said eagerly : "Then you'll have to find a wife, Doctor Humbert, to look after you, or you'll be all alone. Couldn't you marry Aunt Jeanie?" "That child? Don't let your imagination carry you too far, Ruth. I can see that you've the makings in you of a highly successful romantic novelist, but keep your plots on paper." His tone was light, but Rosemary fancied she could detect a slight edge to it. He could hardly be unaware of Jeanie's feelings towards him. Did he find them an embarrassment? Probably . . . but he had obviously been concerned to learn of Jeanie's accident. He had rushed to the Old Priory to check up on her condition—and had then taken off at high speed en route to the hospital. That didn't look as if he were entirely indifferent to Jeanie. He said, as if arguing with himself: "Use your intelligence, my dear. A girl who invariably runs away from any crisis would scarcely be a suitable wife for a G.P. Moira is an adept at coping with nervous or tiresome patients. I shall find it extremely difficulty to replace her." "A wife doesn't have to be a receptionist, too. Mother wasn't," Ruth said thoughtfully. "Anyway, I 'spect you could train Aunt Jeanie. . . ." "Please, child—" He made a wry face at her. "Let it drop, will you? A man likes to choose his own wife, as I tell my matchmaking sister repeatedly." "Greta says you're spoilt. You have too much fun as a 'legible bachelor," Ruth said reprovingly. "Oh, dear, the dogs are whining.

That means Aunt Winnie's having the palps. They always know and get upset." She broke into a run, and disappeared through the back door. "What a household!" Doctor Humbert sighed, quickening his steps. "Enough to put a man off marriage permanently." "Ruth and Naomi are sweet," Rosemary said defensively. "And Miss Winnie is a dear." "Too much for a mere man to cope with, unaided. Your cousin has had a raw deal . . . losing his aunt, and being landed with this zany household and this white elephant of a house." "He didn't have to marry Joanne Wakefield and adopt her daughters. He didn't have to fall in with his aunt's plans. . . ." "Some men don't know how or when to say no. Mark doesn't." "But you do?" she flashed, unreasonably irritated by the halfpitying, half-patronising manner in which he had spoken of Mark Dakin. "Oh, certainly! No woman is going to play on my sympathies in order to make a fool of me," he said confidently. "You'd be doing me a big favour if you could convince Jeanie of that." "It isn't any concern of mine . . . and I'm afraid I don't feel like doing you a favour, Doctor Humbert." "Still sore about your van? Who knows, you may end by being grateful to me for stranding you here."

She couldn't imagine what he meant to imply by that. She hadn't a chance to ask him. As they walked into the stone passage, ominous sounds of distress were proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Doctor Humbert promptly dropped her arm and strode on ahead of her. Still feeling unfamiliarly shaky, Rosemary followed.

CHAPTER TEN MISS WINNIE and Naomi had evidently decided not to wait any longer for lunch. Naomi's half finished plateful was on the table. Miss Winnie's was on the floor, being cleaned up by the two dachshunds. Miss Winnie herself was slumped over the table, breathing heavily. Naomi was hovering anxiously behind her chair. The sheepdog was nuzzling her ankles. The Jack Russell was emitting plaintive squeaks. "Aunt Winnie, listen!" Ruth was saying imperatively. "Rosemary isn't dead. She's all right." "Out of the way, children!" Doctor Humbert ordered peremptorily. "And get those dogs out of here." There was a scurry of movement and he added : "One of you had better find Jeanie and set her mind at rest. Now, Miss Ridley, let's have a look at you. . . ." The only answer was a moaning sound from Miss Winnie. Then as he put one hand on her shoulder, she gave a convulsive shudder. "I can't ... I can't bear any more. I can't breathe . . ." she gasped. "The pain . . . it's killing me!" "I'll give you something to ease it. Try to relax. There was no real damage done," he said soothingly. "Here's Miss Rosemary to reassure you." "What?" With what looked like a painful effort, Miss Winnie slowly raised her head, stared at Rosemary and gasped again : "You . . . you're here? Jeanie said. ..." "I was knocked out for a minute or two, but the only real damage was to my poor little van," Rosemary said quickly. "I'm sorry you were alarmed."

"Can you pull up her sleeve? I'll give her an injection," Doctor Humbert interposed, putting his case down on one end of the cluttered table. "Yes, of course." Naomi had disappeared through a door at the far side of the kitchen, presumably to contact Jeanie. Ruth had collected the dogs and taken them down the passage. The house seemed suddenly abnormally silent, except for Miss Winnie's painful breathing. Rosemary rolled up the faded cardigan and held Miss Winnie's arm steady while the doctor administered the injection. Miss Winnie flinched and clutched at Rosemary's hand. "You won't leave us . . . will you . . . dear?" she panted. "I'm—I'm such a useless old thing. And Jeanie . . . she's very much distressed. . . ." "That's all right. Don't worry about anything, please! I'll see to things," Rosemary promised. "Playing the Vicar's daughter again?" She could almost hear Corinna's and Maggie's familiar gibe, as she retrieved the cracked plate from the floor and mopped up the spilt gravy. Then she set about clearing the used dishes from the table and piling them in the sink. She turned down the oven and put the kettle on to boil. As she moved around quickly, she was acutely conscious of the fair-haired, handsome young doctor. He was standing beside his patient, his fingers on her pulse, but his eyes were following Rosemary. She tried not to meet his gaze; but she couldn't help being warmed by it. She had had enough experience to recognise

that particular look in a man's eyes. It said frankly that he found her attractive and liked to watch her. She had to admit that she found him attractive, too, in spite of his reckless driving. Only there were sufficient complications and undercurrents in this household already. She mustn't let herself become any further involved in them. She would have to stay till the van was fit for the road again, she supposed resignedly, but not a day longer. The injection took effect quite swiftly. Miss Winnie's breathing eased and she professed herself ready for "a nice cup of tea." Rosemary helped her into the battered old rocking chair and settled her comfortably. "That's better, isn't it?" Doctor Humbert said, taking her pulse again. "I'm just going along to the surgery to ring up the police and the garage, then I'll be right back with you." "Such a dear boy, isn't he?" Miss Winnie murmured as the door closed behind him. "If I were twenty years younger, I wouldn't dare to have him for my doctor. He would set my heart thudding every time I saw him. One can't wonder at the way Jeanie feels about him . . . but I do think that it's a mistake to show it so plainly. Don't you agree?" "He's certainly very good-looking," Rosemary conceded. "And naturally he knows it. He's much more likely to fall for a girl who appears to be indifferent to him. Men like to do their own hunting," Miss Winnie pronounced. "Jeanie can't see that. She's like Joanne. She goes straight for what she wants." "Oh? Did Joanne?" Rosemary asked impulsively.

"Indeed she did, both times. It worked, too! They were the same type, you know, Lewis and dear Mark. Not at all self-confident, and secretly shy of girls. They were thankful to Joanne for smoothing the way and making up their minds for them. At least that's what she told me," Miss Winnie answered. "But Jeanie can't see that Dick Humbert is different. I noticed the gleam in his eyes when he looked at you." Rosemary was measuring tea into a sturdy brown earthenware teapot. She was glad she had her back to Miss Winnie, because she could feel herself flushing. So she hadn't imagined it? Dick Humbert had been giving her that special look? Well, what of it? She hadn't come down here to fall in love on sight with a brash, handsome young doctor who didn't know how to drive. "Won't you have some tea too, dear?" Miss Winnie suggested, when she was sipping her cupful. "You've a nasty bump on your forehead and you must be feeling shaken. Such a horrid shock!" "Yes, I'm still seething. I've had the van for two years now and there wasn't a scratch on her. It's utterly infuriating to have the radiator bashed in such a stupid, unnecessary accident." Rosemary poured out a cup of tea for herself and sat down on the edge of the table. She ought to tackle the pile of dishes in the sink . . . but her legs were still ominously shaky. Footsteps sounded in the stone-floored passage— and then Mark strode in, case in hand. "What's been going on here? The drive's blocked, and I had to leave my car by the bridge," he exclaimed. "Dick in trouble again? Can't that fellow learn how to drive?"

"Apparently not. He came charging round that sharp bend at high speed and hit my van head on. Did you see what he did to my radiator?" Rosemary demanded. "I certainly did. How did it happen that you were coming up the drive and Dick Humbert was going down it?" "I was on my way back from the hospital. I'd been with Ruth to fetch her aunt." "Her aunt?" he echoed blankly. "Jeanie," Miss Winnie explained. "Of course, you haven't heard about that. Jeanie had an accident in her car and was taken to hospital. . . ." "Oh, no? No! This is too much," Mark ran one hand distractedly through his silvering hair. "What happened?" "She collided with a sheep. She's all right, though; just bruised and shaken," Rosemary said quickly. "Sit down and have some tea." "Tea?" He made a grimace. "I've swallowed about a gallon of tea already today. Jack Palmer kept on brewing fresh supplies." "And you haven't had any lunch, I suppose?" She was mildly surprised to hear that note of concern in her voice. What did it matter to her whether Mark had been fed or not? Why was it that, even when he was exasperating her, she felt the same kind of compassion towards him which his stepdaughters aroused in her? "Not a bite."

"You must be exhausted. I'll see if the meat's still edible." "You don't have to wait on me," Mark said curtly. "You're not looking quite so fairy-taleish. What have you done to your forehead?" "Bumped it against the windscreen. I haven't had any lunch, either." She was about to take the casserole from the oven when Dick Humbert came sauntering in, a tumbler in each hand. "Hello there! Been raiding your sideboard, old man. I hope you don't mind," he said breezily. "It occurred to me that you might be glad of a bracer when you heard about the two contretemps." "Contretemps? Is that what you call the result of your darn fool driving? And Jeanie's?" Mark retorted grimly. "Why not? Accidents will happen, and these things are sent to try us. Mustn't let them get us down," Dick Humbert said easily, handing him one of the tumblers. "This one's for you, Cousin Rosemary, to bring the roses back to those fair cheeks." "No, thank you! I've just been drinking tea," Rosemary told him. "Oh, well, mustn't waste good whisky!" Dick Humbert leaned against the old-fashioned open dresser and began to sip the drink. "Have you been delivering someone's offspring, old man? You look a bit the worse for wear." "Mrs Palmer—a tricky business. I tried to contact you or David, but you were both out, and Nurse Denver wasn't available, either."

"I'm officially off duty, remember? And I dare say David was at the hospital, coping with Jeanie. How did the job go?" "Not too well. Twins. I lost one." "I thought that woman was in for trouble. She was grossly overweight." "Then why didn't you warn me?" Mark demanded. "If she wouldn't listen to me and follow her diet sheet, she wouldn't have paid any more attention to you," Dick Humbert assured him. "Cheer up, you can't win 'em all!" "If you expected complications, Mrs Palmer should have been in hospital," retorted Mark. "She was determined to have the kids at home. Lay off it now, there's a good fellow! One infant is enough for any woman." He was answering Mark, but once again his eyes were on Rosemary. Once again she was conscious of his look, and it sent a little quiver through her veins. It was just a kind of chemistry, this instant attraction between a man and a woman, she reminded herself. It didn't mean anything. Mark, his lips pressed tightly together as if to suppress a sharp retort, was turning concernedly to Miss Winnie. Dick Humbert flicked an eyelid at Rosemary. "Your esteemed cousin thinks I'm a lightweight and wildly irresponsible . . . but where's the sense in worrying oneself into an early grave?" he grinned. "Ours is just a job like any other. I refuse to let it get me down. Believe me, it pays to leave patients and

their problems in the surgery. You don't notice any grey hairs on my head, do you?" He turned his head from side to side, like a cock preening himself, Rosemary thought, with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Oh, he was well aware that he was a handsome fellow! "You certainly don't look careworn," she said tartly. "And that goes down well with our patients. Better than Mark's serious, conscientious manner. He gets them worried. They say a visit from me is as good as a tonic," he assured her. "If I prescribed coloured water for them, they'd swear it had done the trick. One needs to give people confidence." "You appear to have plenty of your own to distribute," Rosemary said pointedly. "You obviously believe in auto-suggestion." "Why not? It's sound psychology. You should know that. It's your line, isn't it? Persuading plain, dull girls that you can transform them into ravishingly lovely brides for a nice fat fee. . . ." "Encouraging and helping girls to make the best of themselves," Rosemary amended. "That's not just a confidence trick, whatever you choose to imagine. It means hard work." "So does doctoring the sick . . . but I don't let it become any harder than necessary. I don't lie awake at nights brooding over other people's troubles, as your conscientious cousin does," Dick Humbert said easily. "I'm three years his senior, but you wouldn't guess it, would you?" "Leave the girl alone, can't you?" Mark interposed abruptly. "She's had a shaking. You can sell yourself to her some other time."

There was an edge to Mark's tone, which made Rosemary blink. Evidently he didn't appreciate his partner's light-hearted badinage. "All part of my therapeutic technique, old man," Dick Humbert retorted, unruffled. "Switch the patient's mind off herself and on to her doctor. It works like a charm." Then yaps and the scamper of feet heralded the return of Ruth with the dogs. "There's a policeman, measuring the cars and looking for you, Doctor Humbert," she announced breathlessly. "He came on a motor-bike and the dachs were terrified, but Scamper tried to nip his ankles." "Let's hope he'll find your celebrated charm therapeutic, Dick," Mark said sardonically. Rosemary had an uneasy feeling that a storm was blowing up between the two men. She said hastily: "You haven't had any food yet, Ruth. Shall we see if the meat's still edible? You must have something, too, Mark." Dick Humbert sauntered out and Mark scowled. "That fellow will land himself in real trouble one of these days," he said darkly. "You take him too seriously, Mark dear," Miss Winnie said mildly. "He likes to tease you, but he doesn't mean any harm. He's the kindest of men at heart. . . ."

"Whatever his intentions, the results of his kindness can be disastrous," Mark said grimly. "Don't try to convince me that he hasn't encouraged Jeanie to hover round him!" "I think it's Moira who encourages her. Moira's very fond of Jeanie. Also, she's anxious to see Dick safely married before she fixes her own wedding day. She dreads leaving him unprotected," Miss Winnie said reflectively. "Of course, dear Jeanie is a little young for Dick." "Jeanie's just a child, with her head full of romantic dreams," Mark frowned. "She couldn't hope to cope with Dick Humbert." "Anyone can see that, but it's no use telling Aunt Jeanie," Ruth said matter-of-factly. "I expect he'd like Rosemary, but he can't have her. She belongs to us." Mark started slightly, as if he had forgotten that Ruth was there, listening to the exchange. He glanced at her in a helpless, baffled fashion. "Come along! Food," Rosemary said firmly—and finally got the casserole on to the table. "Oh, yes, I'm starving," Ruth declared, her attention instantly diverted. "I suppose I should see how Jeanie is," Mark said— as if bracing himself. "Have something to eat first," Rosemary said persuasively. "Jeanie's all right." Mark was still looking harassed as he sat down to the table and he had barely touched the drink Dick Humbert had handed him, she

noticed. It was certainly true that he looked older than his years . . . and again she was conscious of a reluctant compassion towards him. It was his own fault, of course. Had he stuck to Corinna, he might have retained his youthful good looks and charm. Instead, he had chosen to marry a widow with two children, and had allowed her to land him with her aunt and her young sister . . . not to mention four dogs. Perhaps he had intended to make a fresh start in a new practice after Joanne's death, but Aunt Agnes had seized the helm and manoeuvred him into this huge old house. It couldn't have been a very satisfactory home-life for Mark, with Aunt Agnes in charge, sniping at Miss Winnie and Jeanie, and dictating to the children. Why had he let himself in for it? Because he had been too dazed and grief- stricken to look ahead? Or was he basically the kind of man who was fated to be pushed around by some determined woman? He and Ruth were making short work of the remains of the joint. In spite of the vicissitudes it had suffered, it was still quite appetising, but Rosemary had to force herself to swallow a few mouthfuls. Too much had happened to her too quickly, she thought confusedly. She had met Mark and his household for the first time only this morning. Now, already, she seemed to have been drawn into the family and, thanks to Dick Humbert's careless driving, she had no easy means of escape. "I'm sorry about all this," Mark said suddenly. "It's been a poor kind of welcome. From the look of your radiator, you'll have to put up with conditions here for the next few days. Does the prospect appal you?"

"Not exactly, but. . ." "You don't have to let the girls exploit you . . . and I presume that you've had sufficient experience to know how to cope with Dick, if he makes a nuisance of himself?" "Is that likely?" she asked. "He obviously finds you attractive—and he can't resist making new conquests. Collecting pretty girlfriends is something of a hobby with him. His sister says resignedly that there's safety in numbers, but does that apply to the girls? I'm afraid some of them, like Jeanie, are apt to take him seriously." '"I'm not likely to make that mistake," Rosemary assured him,, with forced lightness. "I suspect you of being a compulsive worrier, Cousin Mark, but please don't begin to worry about me."

CHAPTER ELEVEN "YOU'VE had an accident with the van? Oh, Rosemary!" "Not exactly," said Rosemary. "What on earth do you mean?" Corinna's voice sharpened. "Either you've bashed it or you haven't." "I mean that I didn't have an accident. I was just crawling up the drive when this partner of Mark's came charging round a bend and hit the radiator head-on . . . hard. His insurance company will have to pay for the damage." "How infuriating! How long will the repairs take?" Corinna demanded. "About a week, I think." "Then you'll have to come back by train." "I can't. Everything's in such a state of chaos here. I had to take the girls to school this morning. Mark was out on a call and Jeanie didn't feel up to it. She's in bed, groaning over her aches and pains. She was in an accident, too, yesterday, and her car was badly smashed. Luckily Aunt Agnes's old Morris 1,000 is still here, so I can use that," Rosemary explained breathlessly. "Steady on! I'm not with you. Who in the world is Jeanie?" "Joanne's young sister. Mr Thirkell told us about her and Miss Winnie, the aunt. Remember? Miss Winnie is a bit under the weather, too." "What of it? They're nothing to do with us."

"I can't just walk out on them. Besides, I haven't settled anything with Mark yet. About the house, I mean. It's an enormous house and fearfully inconvenient. I should think it would be very difficult to sell, unless one spent a packet on modernising it." "I suppose that's Mark's version?" said Corinna sarcastically. "No. My own observation. No central heating and only two bathrooms. No immersion heater or washing machine. An Ideal boiler and an old-fashioned kitchen range," Rosemary retorted. "I'll visit the house agents when I have a chance, but I'm sure they'll say the same." "Aunt Agnes was much too shrewd to buy a white elephant." "She fell for the gardens. They're quite something—masses of huge old rhododendrons and camellias and azaleas," Rosemary explained. "Corinna, why didn't you tell me that you'd seen Aunt Agnes?" "Didn't I? It must have slipped my mind." Corinna's tone was airy, but her brows were puckering. "She looked in at the office quite unexpectedly." "And you forgot to mention it? Am I really expected to swallow that?" Rosemary's tone sounded decidedly sceptical. "What in the world did you tell her about Weddings? Apparently you convinced her that we were running a highly profitable racket." "Oh, nonsense! I merely rubbed in the fact that we'd made a success of it without her backing." "Well, she's given the family here a most distorted idea of the way we operate. Mark seems to view us as if we were confidence tricksters. He doesn't trust me an inch."

"Do you want him to, Rosemary? Are you telling me that you've fallen beneath his spell?" "Spell? What spell? Either you gave me a distorted picture of him or else he has changed drastically. He isn't the least charming. He's harassed and worried and decidedly snappish. I'm worried for him, but he isn't in the least endearing," Rosemary said emphatically. "It's his partner who oozes charm." "Then keep out of his reach. You'd better come back by train first thing tomorrow." "I can't, I told you. They're in such a muddle here." "What concern is that of ours?" snapped Corinna. "We've had two new prospective clients today. One wants a really big, slap-up wedding, and her people can obviously afford it. Her name's Rose, and she's dreaming of a rose wedding, in every shade from blush pink to old rose; with the church decorated in roses and the house where the reception's to be held, too. As the wedding's fixed for the end of July, that should be easy." "Not exactly original," commented Rosemary. "We did two rose weddings last summer." "Yes, but not with expenses ad lib. This girl wants even the refreshments to carry out the theme. You'll have to think up something super for her. I promised her some preliminary sketches by next Monday." "Oh, well—" Rosemary's tone was noticeably lacking in enthusiasm, "I expect I shall be back by then." "You expect? You jolly well must be. What's got into you?" Corinna demanded. "This is business."

"We can't discuss it over the phone, but I've been rather shaken by things I've heard here. Corinna, you haven't ever sold chain store goods as from an exclusive salon, have you?" "Good heavens, no! What a suggestion! Mark's?" "No. I heard it from Jeanie. Of course, I said it was nonsense—but how did she get hold of the idea, if it wasn't from Aunt Agnes?" "Search me! Rosemary, if you let Mark make mischief between us, I'll never forgive you." "He wouldn't try. He isn't like that. Anyway, he thinks I'm waist deep in the racket with you," Rosemary said impatiently. "I can't imagine why you've been seeing Mark as larger than life-size all these years. There's nothing special about him. He's just a tired, harassed widower, who looks middle-aged even if he isn't. Not a trace of the gay Lothario now, if there ever was. The pips are sounding again, so I'll ring off now. So long!" "No, Rosemary, wait!" Corinna called imperatively—but already the telephone was dead. She turned, frowning, to Maggie, who was at her desk, ostensibly checking over an account. "Confound it! I knew it was a mistake to let Rosemary go down there," she exploded. "Why did we?" "Once that old solicitor had suggested it, I doubt if we could have stopped her. What's wrong?" Maggie asked curiously. "Aunt Agnes seems to have talked much too freely to Mark and his appendages—and it's all come back to Rosemary, with embroideries," Corinna answered sourly. "What amused Aunt

Agnes—who never had any illusions about anyone or anything— has shocked the Vicar's daughter to the marrow." "It's generally a mistake to give trade secrets away," Maggie said primly. "I thought at the time you were telling your aunt too much." "I had to convince her that we knew what we were doing. It worked, too. Those legacies were a demonstration of her confidence in us." Corinna's brows contracted. "How was I to guess that Aunt Agnes would brag about our business acumen to Mark? I didn't suppose she would even admit to him that she had seen me." "Does it matter?" asked Maggie. "I'm not sure. Rosemary isn't always easy. Most of the time she's too deeply absorbed in her designs and in the clients themselves to bother about the financial side . . . but she can show flashes of shrewdness. She isn't a fool," Corinna said slowly. "And . . . well, she's her parents' daughter." "The Vicar's daughter." "Her mother's, too. One expects a parson to have rigid standards, but Aunt Rosalind is just as sticky in her own way. She really cares about people. She'd never admit that in the world today it's a question of 'do—or be done.' She's one of those absurdly generous and full of loving-kindness women who'd share her last pound note with an undeserving beggar." "You mean, like Rosemary's paying for that wretched little Lily Smith's bouquet? But she doesn't often break out in that way," Maggie said consolingly.

"She hasn't had much opportunity. I've seen to that," Corinna's frown deepened. "I thought I'd talked common sense into her, but it is her romantic, sentimental approach which appeals to our clients, so I've had to walk warily. You know perfectly well that young brides wouldn't go for our kind of cynicism and worldly wisdom, Maggie dear." "Naturally not. Love's young dream and stars in their eyes are what bring them here, and Rosemary is a romantic at heart. So—what?" "I don't know. . . ." Corinna said again. "I've this feeling that Rosemary isn't safe on her own. It isn't just the damage to the van that's keeping her in Devon. She sounds as though she's worried about Mark and his precious family—or rather his wife's family." "She must be crackers. Those people are no concern of hers," Maggie said blankly. "Doing her mother's ministering angel stunt," Corinna said moodily. "Unless, of course, she's fallen for Mark's attractive partner. Heaven help us if she has! If and when Rosemary falls in love, she'll be Aunt Rosalind all over again." "That's worrying," Maggie conceded. "What are you going to do about it?" "Give her a day or two to realise that she's letting herself be exploited. Then, if she doesn't come to her senses, I shall have to charge to the rescue," Corinna said grimly. "We can't possibly let her get involved with a man who's two hundred miles away." Two hundred miles away, Rosemary had put down the receiver thankfully . . . and yet with an odd nagging sense of regret. She had loved and admired Corinna ever since her childhood. Corinna had taken the place of the elder sister she had never had. In the

years they had worked and lived together there had been singularly few clashes between them. If secretly Rosemary had at times been jarred by Corinna's cynical outlook, she had always made excuses for her. It had been easy to blame Mark for having soured and disillusioned Corinna. Any girl who had been badly let down by the man she had loved and trusted could be forgiven for adopting that kind of defensive attitude, Rosemary had reasoned. One day, some other man would come along and penetrate Corinna's armour. Now . . . Rosemary pushed the bright hair back from her forehead in a bewildered, uneasy gesture . . . now she was beginning to wonder if she knew Corinna as well as she had imagined she did. It was difficult to appraise your own family dispassionately, she supposed. Perhaps she had been too close to Corinna to see her clearly. She had realised, of course, that her cousin was hardheaded and practical and ambitious, but she hadn't guessed that she could be hard-hearted, too. When she had tried to explain how chaotic conditions were here, Corinna had flatly refused to listen. "No concern of ours," had been her way of dismissing the subject. Surely, if Corinna had really loved Mark, she couldn't be utterly indifferent now to his problems? Could love vanish like that? Could it turn to bitter dislike? If you loved people, didn't you go on loving them no matter what they did? Perhaps romantic love wasn't as enduring as the kind of love you had for your parents and family and friends, but even if it faded, oughtn't it to leave a certain tenderness behind it? Before she had come down here, Rosemary hadn't queried Corinna's picture of Mark as a heartless charmer who had abandoned his first love in order to marry a wealthy widow. Now

that she had met Mark, Rosemary found that picture much less convincing. In fact, it seemed absurdly distorted. To begin with, Joanne, not Corinna, had apparently been Mark's first love. The understanding with Corinna was something he had drifted into and subsequently regretted. He had come over from New Zealand to that big city hospital. Probably, in spite of his good looks, he had been shy and awkward. Corinna had been there to welcome him. Corinna was his cousin, and a very attractive cousin at that. Hadn't it been natural, if not inevitable, that Mark should have allowed her to annex him? Probably, at first, the idea of marriage hadn't entered his head. He had been a hard-working, hard- up student, in no position to land himself with a wife. He might or might not have fallen in love with Corinna . . . but either way he would have been no match for that steely determination of hers. According to his version, he had broken things off with Corinna before he had taken that fateful holiday at Aunt Agnes's cottage and met Joanne again. Possibly he had tried to free himself, but Corinna had swept his attempts aside. She had made up her mind to marry Mark and turn him into a successful consultant. "Well?" The abrupt question made Rosemary start. She had been standing beside the telephone in the entrance hall, lost in her own uneasy thoughts, and hadn't heard Mark emerge from his dispensary. It gave her quite a shock to turn and see him, perched on the arm of the old oak settle behind her. "Oh, you made me jump !" she said weakly. "So I perceived. Sorry! You looked miles away . . . and deep in the blues."

"I was thinking." 'Obviously. About what?" "You. You—and Corinna," she answered frankly. "Were you ever really in love with Corinna? I was wondering. ..." "Good! That's an encouraging sign. I thought you had me firmly cast as the deep-dyed villain who had broken your cousin's heart. If you're beginning to wonder, there's hope for me yet." "You don't fit the part," Rosemary said flatly. "But Corinna was terribly in love with you." "No, she was in love with what she wanted me to be. I didn't realise that at first. When it dawned on me, I saw the red light. I knew I would inevitably disappoint her and her ambitions. I knew I hadn't the necessary brilliance or self-assurance or dedication to become a somebody," he said slowly, as though thinking aloud. "I didn't covet that kind of life, anyway. All I ever wanted to be was a good, competent general practitioner. So I thought it was wiser to end things between us. Unluckily, Corinna couldn't or wouldn't see it that way." "She couldn't believe that she'd been mistaken in you? Then you must have let her imagine that you loved her." "Granted. I was young and lonely—and only human. She was attractive and could be a delightful companion. I dare say I did behave badly," he said jerkily. "I should have had more tact, should have tried to let her down lightly. I hoped she would realise in time that we'd made a mistake . . . but I didn't give her enough time. If I'd guessed that I was going to meet Joanne again. . . ."

His tone softened on his wife's name. A half smile curved his lips upwards, as if he was reliving the gladness of that reunion. "You loved her compassionately.

very

much,"

Rosemary

murmured

"Who didn't? She had such a warm, loving spirit in her. She seemed to have a vast store of affection to lavish on everyone she met. People couldn't help but respond. Dogs and cats and children gravitated to her as to a magnet. I suppose you could say that she was the eternal mother." "Oh? That doesn't sound very romantic." "Romantic? No, Joanne wasn't romantic—" He paused, his brows puckering. "No fairy-tale princess, if that's what you mean by romantic . . . but neither was Corinna. Haven't you come up against that tough, steely streak in her? The streak which she must have inherited from Grandfather?" "I've had glimpses of it," Rosemary admitted. "She isn't at all pleased that I'm staying on here." "So I gathered," he said absently. "What?" Rosemary's eyes widened. "You were listening?" "Not intentionally. I lifted the receiver in my consulting-room to put a call through to the hospital— and heard Corinna's voice, with that familiar edge to it." "Oh!" Rosemary said blankly, wondering just what he had overheard. "She has two new prospects and was urging me to come back by train tomorrow."

"Exactly why did you refuse? I must confess that your decision puzzles me," he said, looking at her thoughtfully. "Obviously it wasn't on my account since I'm no gay Lothario . . . merely a tired, harassed, middle-aged widower." "Oh!" Rosemary said again, hot colour flaming into her cheeks. "You heard that? I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have been listening." "Why apologise for speaking the truth? In actual fact, I never was a gay Lothario. No time, no money, and no inclination. As a young man I was obsessed with trying to get through my exams as fast and creditably as possibly, before Aunt Agnes could decide to suspend her financial help," he said wryly. "Then as soon as I married I was plunged into being a responsible father figure and a hard-working G.P., with a family to provide for as adequately as I could." "Then Joanne wasn't wealthy?" "Good heavens, no ! She had a small income from her first husband, but the capital was securely tied up for her daughters." He quirked his brows. "Was that Corinna's version? That I'd married Joanna for her money? Well, I suppose that notion was a salve to Corinna's pride." "But decidedly unfair to you," commented Rosemary. "And to Joanne . . . but Corinna isn't noted for her sense of fair play. I've an uncomfortable conviction that she has been deliberately exploiting you, Rosemary." "Oh, no!"

"Are you sure? Hasn't she been using you . . . your looks and your essential niceness and honesty and trustfulness, as well as your artistic ability?" Rosemary gave a confused little laugh. "Thanks for the tribute . . . but it comes oddly from you, Father Mark! I thought you saw me as a confidence trickster?" "That was before I knew you. And don't call me Father Mark. I don't feel in the least fatherly towards you," he said with sudden vehemence. "You must be aware of that. Are you trying to provoke me?" "Of course not. I don't know what you mean." "Don't you?" In two quick strides he was beside her. His hands reached out for her and clasped her to him. "Even middle-aged widowers are only human, with primitive human instincts. And you're very lovely, Cousin Rosemary." He had called her "Cousin," but it was in no cousinly fashion that he kissed her. It was though the pent-up emotions of the years since Joanne had died had suddenly found an outlet. His lips exerted a fierce bruising pressure which seemed to draw all the breath out of her. She was conscious of an unfamiliar weakness at her knees. She ought to be furious, she thought confusedly . . . but how could she be angry with a man who was starving and grabbed at the nearest unguarded loaf of bread? A doctor had to be so careful. However strongly he was tempted to make love to an appealing feminine patient, he had to resist the temptation. Mark, with his family responsibilities, hadn't the time to go hunting for unattached girls who weren't his patients. Was it so surprising that he should have grabbed his pretty cousin?

Stupid to make a fuss about it, she told herself firmly. Wiser and more dignified to stay cool and calm. Only she wasn't feeling cool or calm. The blood was rushing through her veins and up to her temples. The strong, heavy beat of Mark's heart against her gave her a curious sense of excitement ... of a power she had never before experienced. It didn't mean anything, except that Mark was only human, but . . . "Oh, goody-goody!" Ruth's clear, childish soprano called out eagerly. "I knew Rosemary was just right for you, Father Mark. You are going to keep her, aren't you?" Mark let go of Rosemary as if she were red-hot. He stepped back, glowering at his stepdaughter. Ruth, without her attendant pack for once, was poised by the baize door which led to the kitchen quarters. She flashed him a reassuring smile. "It's all right, I know about love an' things," she said airily. "I've watched Aunt Jeanie with Doctor Humbert. You do it better, though, Father Mark. I don't think his heart's in it. He's just playing up to please her." "Ruth! Really—" Mark drew out a crumpled handkerchief and mopped his brow. He didn't look middle-aged now. He looked remarkably like a schoolboy caught raiding an orchard. "I expect Rosemary's nice to kiss," Ruth said encouragingly. "She looks so lovely and she smells of roses. Honestly, I didn't mean to interrupt." "Heavens!" Mark cast a harassed glance at Rosemary. "What does one do or say? I'm terribly sorry about this, Rosemary. I certainly didn't intend to let you in for such an embarrassing situation."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed," Ruth said reprovingly. "Miss French, our form mistress at school, says nobody should ever feel ashamed of showing honest emotion. She says it's insincerity which is a crime. She's always telling us that self-expression is vital . . . and you were expressing yourself, weren't you, Father Mark?" Ruth's eager, earnest face and the hopelessly "caught" look on Mark's were too much for Rosemary's composure. She burst out laughing. Ruth nodded at her in swift approval. "There, you see? Rosemary didn't mind. I 'spect she quite enjoyed it. Didn't you, Rosemary?" "It was an experience," Rosemary conceded. "I bet Father Mark kisses better than Doctor Humbert. An' he's much more reliable. That's what Aunt Agnes used to say," Ruth told her encouragingly. "That's quite enough, Ruth !" Mark made shooing gestures, but Ruth didn't appear to notice them. Her expressive brown eyes were dwelling thoughtfully on Rosemary. "We can still call you Rosemary, can't we? You're too young to be called Mother Rosemary. You'll be more like an elder sister to Naomi an' me. Just what we need," she said brightly. "We're too old now to be mothered." "What the dickens are you talking about, child?" Mark interposed impatiently.

"About after you've married Rosemary. She'll be our stepmother, but she won't look like it." "After I've married Rosemary?" Mark's face was a study in conflicting emotions. "Heavens! Where do you find all your crackbrained notions?" "I saw you. I can't pretend I didn't," Ruth reminded him. "What of it? My dear child, a man can kiss a pretty girl without instantly deciding to marry her. You should know that at your age. You said you'd watched Doctor Humbert." "Oh, yes! I've seen him kiss Greta as well as Aunt Jeanie. Only you're not like Doctor Humbert, Father Mark," Ruth said reproachfully. "You wouldn't kiss a girl just for fun. It was quite different, I know that." "Can't you see that you're embarrassing Rosemary? Run away now, and forget it," Mark said, in an exasperated tone. "All right!" Ruth said amiably. "I came to tell you that the toad in the hole has turned brown, so I 'spect it's cooked . . . and Naomi an' I are fearfully hungry. We only had boiled mutton an' rice pudding for lunch at school. The mutton was all greasy, and' the pudding just stodge." She gave them both an impish grin and beat a swift retreat behind the baize door. "That child!" Mark made a wry grimace. "Sorry again, Rosemary!" "Think nothing of it!" Rosemary kept her tone deliberately light, but she couldn't quite suppress a note of irritation. Did he have to

look so wretchedly abashed and at a loss? "It's not exactly a crime to kiss your cousin." "Of course not. I didn't mean that. You were asking for it, anyway," he said jerkily. "I was referring to Ruth's wild conclusions. Her imagination carries her away. Sometimes I feel like taking a slipper to her!" "That's scarcely fair. To vent your exasperation at being caught out on Ruth, I mean. She's a bright child and not without common sense," Rosemary retorted. "She thinks you need a wife—and she isn't far wrong at that. Poor Miss Winnie simply can't cope." "As if I didn't know that!" he said irritably. "But one can't order a wife as one orders a new car. And what time have I for going wifehunting?" "Your partner appears to find time for romantic interludes." "Dick?" He scowled ferociously. "I suppose it's on Dick's account that you're ignoring Corinna's urgent summons?" A queer little tremor ran through Rosemary. She thought incredulously: "Good gracious, the man's jealous!" Aloud, she said demurely: "Suppose what you please. We'd better go and rescue the toad in the hole before it's dried to a crisp."

CHAPTER TWELVE "IT'S never satisfactory to settle these things over the telephone. Much wiser to go to the garage and see for yourself," Dick Humbert said persuasively. "I'll pick you up after surgery; say, around seven o'clock. Then we can have a meal in Sheriton Abbot afterwards." "Thank you, Doctor Humbert, but—" "The name's Dick. Remember?" he interposed swiftly. "You can't stand on ceremony after the way you slanged me on Sunday. Seven o'clock this evening?" "I didn't say I could manage it," Rosemary protested. "Oh, but you can! Mustn't bear malice. Come on now, give a fellow a break," he coaxed her. "Not scared of me, are you? Believe me, my lurid reputation is grossly exaggerated." "I don't doubt it. I was thinking of Jeanie," she said frankly. "Oh, Jeanie!" He gave a mock groan. "Have you never heard that sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind? It's high time that child stopped mooning around after me and made some friends of her own age." "Granted, but—" "Forget the buts ! See you at seven." He rang off before Rosemary could protest again. Her lips twisted into a smile as she replaced the receiver. Dick Humbert certainly had a most beguiling manner. He had that rare knack of making a girl feel that she was the one person in the world who mattered to

him. Even though one knew it was simply an act, one couldn't help finding it gratifying. An evening out with Dick might be fun, Rosemary thought dispassionately. It might also be a sound move. It wasn't only Jeanie who needed to be brought down to earth. Ruth and Naomi were dreaming, too. Their fantasy picture of a lovely young stepmother who would solve all the family problems was becoming highly embarrassing. It was useless to insist that a man might kiss a girl simply because she was attractive and he was in that kind of mood. Ruth and Naomi remained stubbornly convinced that "Father Mark" had fallen in love with Rosemary and she with him. Even Miss Winnie, who was old enough to have acquired more worldly wisdom, seemed to imagine that a quick-fire romance was in progress. To accept Dick's pressing invitation might convince them all that she was heart and fancy free, Rosemary decided, her spirits rising. That would undoubtedly be a relief to Mark. He was obviously furious with himself—and to a lesser degree with her—because he had yielded to that fleeting temptation. She was prepared for the girls to resent her outing, but she hadn't anticipated Mark's reaction. "So the old magic is still working? Even on a slick career girl?" he said harshly. "Well, don't say you haven't been warned!" "I think you overrate your partner," Rosemary answered demurely. "He isn't all that dangerous. His tactics are much too obvious." "Obvious or not, they appear to work. Some girls will always believe what they want to believe," Mark said darkly.

"Naturally," Rosemary conceded. "Basically everyone needs love, just as every living thing needs air and sunshine." "Love?" His tone deepened abruptly. "Love is something else again. I doubt if Dick has ever experienced it . . . except for his precious self. He merely enjoys squiring pretty girls in the way some men enjoy a round of golf." "It's women, not men, who are supposed to be catty," Rosemary reminded him—and his colour rose. "All right, I get the point," he said irritably. "But you are my cousin . . . and I can't help feeling responsible for you while you're under my roof. You ought to be perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but I doubt if you are. There's an untouched, unawakened look about you. Have you even been in love?" Rosemary shook her head. "I haven't had any hectic affairs, either. In this day and age I'm shockingly old-fashioned. You can put that down to my upbringing. Also, Corinna's a pretty strict duenna." "I can imagine." His forehead creased. "She must find you a thorn in her side." "Oh, no! We're very good friends," Rosemary said quickly. "Do stop worrying, Mark, or your hair will be snowy white before you're forty." His colour deepened. He touched the silvery streaks over his temples, as if defensively. "I may look middle-aged, but I don't feel it," he said jerkily. "Do I seem terribly old to you?"

"Of course not. You're not old. You just don't have much chance to be your age." "Perhaps you don't, either, in London," he said perceptively. "Corinna must work you hard. She's a born slavedriver. Well, have a good time . . . but don't let Dick go to your head." Rosemary wasn't sure whether to be amused or exasperated by his evident concern for her. It was clear that Mark possessed an outsized sense of responsibility, but surely he didn't see her as naive and susceptible and in need of protection? Was he, she wondered again, unconsciously jealous of his attractive partner? He easily might be ... on her account or Jeanie's or even Greta's, though the only one in danger of taking Dick too seriously was Jeanie. Girls of Jeanie's age were usually vulnerable. Greta, whom Rosemary had met briefly, looked well able to safeguard her own emotions. She was a large, brisk, competent woman. She appeared to be friendly enough, but certainly she merited the girls' description of her as bossy. Given a free hand, Greta would have ruled the household at the Old Priory quite as firmly as Aunt Agnes could have done. As it was, Greta's domain didn't extend beyond the surgery, waiting room and dispensary, all of which she kept in immaculate order. When she tried to extend her influence to the rest of the house, Miss Winnie made vague apologies—and continued in her haphazard ways. Jeanie openly sulked. There was, Rosemary fancied, a very real danger that Mark might, in sheer desperation, let himself be pressured into marrying Greta. It would be the line of least resistance. Greta was on the spot and quite plainly available. She was thoroughly competent and obviously had an affection for Mark, though it seemed to be a

maternal rather than a romantic affection. She tended to treat him as if he were a teenager, in need of care and protection. Greta must be at least five years Mark's senior, Rosemary guessed. No doubt she would make Mark an admirable wife, in many ways, but if he married her, Mark would have to say farewell for ever to the fires and dreams of youth. She wouldn't give house-room to any "romantic nonsense," as she called it. When, after the morning surgery was over, she joined Miss Winnie for elevenses, Greta had evinced a lively interest in Weddings, and had drawn Rosemary out about its workings. "Nice work if you can get it, I suppose—but I would never have the patience to humour a bride's whims and fancies," she had pronounced bluntly. "All that romantic nonsense! What difference does it make how and where you're married? I was married in a registrar's office. We saved the money we would have had to spend on a fancy wedding, and put it towards the furniture we needed. Much more sensible, if you ask me." "Sensible" was one of Greta's favourite words, Rosemary had discovered. Greta herself seemed to typify it, with her smooth, greying hair swept back from her broad forehead and secured in a neat bun, her crisp, nylon overalls, over a trim jumper and skirt, and her good, sensible flat-heeled shoes. Common sense was a highly desirable quality, no doubt, but did one always have to be sensible? Wasn't it fun to let oneself go, just occasionally? To wear frivolous clothes and indulge in a light-hearted flirtation? "All work and no play" might be Corinna's way of forging ahead, but it wasn't entirely to Rosemary's taste. She dressed for her outing with Dick Humbert with a vibrant feeling of escape. Just for once, she was going to "be her age." Instead of one of her practical trouser suits, she put on a dress which she had tucked into her

suitcase on a last-minute impulse. It was of uncrushable sapphire blue nylon, patterned in a deeper blue; brief and clinging but not mini. She was too tall for mini-skirts, she had decided ages ago. They made her look and feel as if she were wearing a swim- suit. Blue might be a hackneyed choice with her eyes and hair, but no other colour did so much to enhance them. Corinna liked her in black, but black was too dramatic for her, Rosemary was wont to protest. She had no desire to look like a femme fatale, and why ape a sophistication which she didn't possess? Blue was her mother's favourite colour and, according to her mother, the favourite of eighty men out of a hundred. The way Dick Humbert's eyes lighted up, when she ran down to meet him, told Rosemary that he was evidently one of that eighty per cent. "Hail, vision of delight!" he greeted her, with a mock ceremonious bow. "So you've escaped?" "Escaped?" She raised her delicately arched brows. "I accepted your invitation." "I scarcely dared to hope that you would be allowed to keep the date." He opened the car door for her with a flourish. "Come along! Let's get going before Miss Winnie stages another collapse." "She doesn't stage those attacks of angina," Rosemary said defensively. "That's not fair." "They tend to occur somewhat conveniently," Dick Humbert grinned. "Hasn't it dawned on you yet that the whole family's in a conspiracy to keep you here?"

"The girls would like me to stay," she said guardedly, "but I can't, of course. As soon as my van's ready, I must go back to work." "Not only the children. Mark's like a drowning man, clutching at a lifebelt . . . but you deserve a better fate than to be used as a lifebelt, you lovely creature." Dick swung himself in beside her, and brushed her knees in a light caress as he reached for the gear lever. " 'Beware of pity,' my mother used to tell me. 'It's all too easy to respond to an emotional appeal, and then regret it bitterly afterwards'. One has to harden one's heart in sheer self-defence." "Has that been your experience? You're wrong about Mark, though. He hasn't made any emotional appeals." "I'm relieved to hear it." His tone was faintly sceptical. "You can't convince me that he greeted our plans for this evening with shouts of joy, all the same. I've noted the possessive gleam in his eyes when he looks at you." "You've a lively imagination," said Rosemary. "Mark and I are practically strangers." "Does anyone regard you as a stranger for longer than a few minutes? Do your clients? Don't they immediately begin to confide in you as if you were an old friend? Isn't that one of your chief assets?" "Steady! You sound as though I'm in the witness box. All those questions!" Rosemary protested. "And all with an answer in the affirmative . . . unless I'm very much mistaken. Right?" "Perhaps," she conceded. "I like people—and it's part of my job to win their confidence."

"Part of my job, too. That's why I recognised the technique." "It isn't a technique!" "An inborn knack, then. Whatever you choose to call it, you must admit that it's highly effective," he said easily. "You'd make a wonderful wife for a parson, or a doctor. I can't imagine why you haven't been snapped up before this." "Possibly, because I don't happen to know any young, unmarried parsons or doctors." "You didn't," he amended significantly. "You have two of us on your visiting list now." "Temporarily," she reminded him. "I must get back to London as soon as my van's ready." "That won't be just yet," he said airily. "Anyway, I'm quite a fast worker." "If you've been telling the garage people that there's no hurry for my van—" "Not guilty! The fact is, as old Lascombe himself will explain, it would be a waste of time to attempt to repair your radiator. You'll have to wait for a new one." "Oh, no !" Rosemary exclaimed in dismay—but the middle-aged proprietor of Sheriton Abbot Motors confirmed Dick's statement. He explained at length exactly why a repair job was unlikely to be satisfactory. Much wiser, since the insurance company would be footing the bill, to replace the radiator by a brand- new one. In fact, he had already ordered one from the Works. It should arrive

in a day or two, and he would get on with the job right away, he assured her cheerfully. "Blast!" Rosemary exploded, as they drove away from the garage. "I shall have to go back by train." "What's the urgency?" Dick demanded. "Can't you take a brief break once in a while?" "Corinna—my partner—will feel that I'm letting her down." "Let her! She doesn't own you, does she? And accidents are accidents." "This one shouldn't have happened," Rosemary said pointedly. "Relax now! I've told you repeatedly that I'm sorry." "Repeatedly—but not very convincingly." "Forget it! What are a few days out of a lifetime? You can afford to pass up a commission or two, can't you? I wouldn't have thought that money was all that important to you." "It isn't the money, it's Corinna." "I believe you're afraid of your partner. Is she so formidable?" "She can be," admitted Rosemary. "Then you should welcome a red-hot excuse for a few days' holiday," Dick said breezily. "Don't frown like that! You're making furrows across that delightfully smooth forehead. I've booked a table at the Royal, and you must try to look as if you're having fun—for the sake of my reputation."

"Your reputation? Proud of it, aren't you?" "Why not? Aren't there enough dull, ordinary, thoroughly estimable and reliable men in a town like this? Someone has to give the gossips food for speculation," he grinned. "A dangerous hobby for a doctor, surely?" "Not if he's careful never to overstep the line . . . but merely gives women patients the notion that he would like to, if he dared. And there's safety in numbers," Dick said sagely. "I bring a different girl to the Royal nearly every time I dine there." "Variety is the spice of life?" "Up to a point, yes, That's not to say that I shan't settle for one girl eventually." "You may find that difficult." "Not if she's the right girl . . . the kind of girl a man can face across the breakfast table, every day of the year, with pride and delight," he assured her. "When I do ask a girl to marry me she won't have to doubt that I know my own mind. You can count on that, Rosemary." "I can? It's no concern of mine," she said hastily. "It could be. It quite easily could be," he said significantly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN IT was a delightful evening. Rosemary couldn't deny that. Indeed, it was quite one of the most delightful evenings she had ever spent. The food at the Royal was delicious, and impeccably served . . . asparagus soup, obviously not the tinned variety, freshly caught trout, home-reared lamb cutlets, and iced fruit salad with lashings of Devonshire cream. Dick was an entertaining and considerate host. So he ought to be, with so much experience behind him, Rosemary reminded herself defensively. That knack of his, of convincing a girl that she was vitally important to him, was a carefully acquired knack. It didn't mean a thing . . . but all the same, it was pleasing. It was guaranteed to make any girl feel that she was lovely and desirable; precious and cherished. Just technique, perhaps, but a technique which very few men ever bothered to acquire. It wasn't confined to his guest, either. Dick was charming to the elderly waitress, with whom he was clearly a great favourite, and to the wine waiter, as well. Whether he was a good doctor or not, Rosemary had no means of knowing, but she didn't doubt that he was popular with his patients. Probably, as Dick himself had said, he was vastly more popular than Mark was ever likely to be. Charm, self-confidence and good looks were assets which could take a man a long way up any ladder he elected to scale. In addition, Dick was basically a very nice person, Rosemary decided. A trifle selfish, no doubt, but in a frank, disarming fashion. He would never feign virtues which he didn't possess. "My father was one of those dedicated, self-sacrificing souls—the good old-fashioned family physician —and where did it get him?

When he died there was very little money left for Moira and me; just a host of accounts owed to him, which he had been too softhearted to collect, masses of wreaths and patients in tears at the graveside. That's not for me," he said candidly. "For men like my father and your father, virtue may be its own reward, but I'm convinced that the labourer is worthy of his hire. Don't you agree? You like making money, or you wouldn't be working for Weddings. You would be a nurse or a school-marm." "I've no vocation for either job," Rosemary said ruefully. "My parents would have liked me to teach, but I hadn't the brains. Exams paralyse me. I never even achieved any A-levels at school." "Luckily for you," he said. "A successful business is a darn sight more profitable than teaching." "It's all very well for you to talk about making money. Doctors don't amass fortunes." "They don't do too badly . . . provided they steer the right course. I'm not going to stay on in a country practice indefinitely," Dick said easily. "I've my sights set on Harley Street, or its provincial equivalent." "What a pity it wasn't you, instead of Mark, for Corinna!" Rosemary said involuntarily. "What do you mean?" "Oh, nothing! I was just thinking aloud," she said hurriedly. "About Mark . . . and your cousin? That's a new one on me," he said curiously. "It's a very old story. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"Tell me! You've excited my curiosity now. You can't leave it unsatisfied." "There's not much to tell. When Mark was doing his training, he and Corinna went around together. Corinna's very ambitious. She planned to marry him, and push him up the ladder," Rosemary said reluctantly. "Only he didn't see his future that way. He preferred to marry his boyhood's sweetheart." "Mark's a born old stick-in-the-mud. Stubborn, too. Nobody would ever push him into a position of prominence," Dick said tolerantly, but with a hint of condescension. "He loathes the limelight—and he hasn't any financial sense. Your cousin had a lucky escape." That could be true, Rosemary realised, with a faint sense of shock. Corinna would never willingly have settled for life as a general practitioner's wife, in a small country town in Devon. She was essentially a big city girl. Corinna, with all her brains and ambition and ability, wouldn't have succeeded in moulding Mark to her specifications. Mark was stubborn, as Dick had divined. Mark had been too stubborn to listen to Aunt Agnes and her threats. If he had been certain that he would lose half his legacy from her, by refusing to get rid of Miss Winnie and Jeanie, he would still have refused to send them packing. It was odd how her few days at the Old Priory had changed her perspective, Rosemary reflected, a little guiltily. For six years she had championed and sympathised deeply with Corinna. She had been convinced that her cousin had been cruelly let down by Mark. Now she was compelled to agree with Dick that Corinna had had "a lucky escape." Only Corinna herself wouldn't see it that way.

She would never admit that she could have failed to influence Mark. "Poor old Mark! He's a good fellow, but a born loser," Dick said, with an unconscious patronage which made Rosemary bite her lips in sudden vexation. "I never met his wife, but I've gathered from Jeanie that he didn't stand a chance when Joanne decided to marry him . . . for her children's sake." "They were in love," protested Rosemary. "I dare say Mark was. Joanne was merely fond of him. She had been madly in love with her first husband, according to Jeanie. Mark was simply the best alternative to returning to New Zealand to their father and an uncongenial stepmother—or getting herself a job. She couldn't have lived on the income from her first husband's money, and the capital was tied up for the children." "Don't! You make it all sound dreadfully un- romantic," Rosemary protested. "And you're as romantic as you look? A real fairytale princess, as Ruth calls you? 'They fell in love at first sight, were married, and lived happily ever after.' Is that how you expect life to be?" Dick asked teasingly. "It hardly ever is." She flushed, but she said firmly: "It can be. It has been like that for my mother and father." "They must be the exception. For most people, love is just the icing on the cake . . . and all too often the cake itself proves highly indigestible," he said cynically. "I'm a realist. I saw what marriage did to my mother. Never enough money, never enough help in the house, two children, and a husband who was absorbed in his patients' problems and blind to hers. . . . She was worn out by the

time she was fifty, and went out like a light from a bad bout of 'flu." "I'm sorry," said Rosemary. Dick had obviously cared deeply for his mother. His air of gay bonhomie had vanished as he spoke of her. He looked suddenly much older and harder. "When she died, I made up my mind that things would be different for my wife," he said, as if thinking aloud. "She won't have to cope with an old-fashioned Victorian house. As soon as my sister's married I shall sell the house. It's not as vast and inconvenient and isolated as the Old Priory, but it's too big for present- day conditions." "Houses like the Old Priory have a certain charm." "All right in the days of plentiful and cheap labour —or for wealthy business magnates. A man in Mark's position can't possibly afford such a white elephant. You and your cousin would be doing him a kindness if you forced him out of it." "I wonder! Not many modern houses have five or six bedrooms and sizeable gardens." "All the better. If he has to move, he'll have to get shot of Miss Winnie and Jeanie and that pack of dogs," Dick said crisply. "Don't let yourself be sentimental about them, Rosemary. Try to be practical!" "That's Corinna's speciality, not mine," Rosemary said defensively. "She made me promise to consult the local estate agents about the house, but I haven't got around to it yet. I hate the thought of the children's being turned out of their home."

"That's nothing to do with you. It's up to your aunt's solicitors. You weren't responsible for her will." "I wasn't, but Corinna was ... at least, partially," Rosemary thought uneasily. She shook her head when Dick suggested more coffee and another liqueur. She felt suddenly flat, as if the champagne quality of the evening had evaporated. She looked regretfully at Dick. He was attractive; dangerously attractive. She had been acutely conscious of his charm. She had let herself respond to it. Now the spell had been broken. He had broken it. Deliberately or unwittingly? It scarcely mattered. He had lifted the curtain and shown her what lay behind that facade of gay, devil-may-care bonhomie. A realist, he had called himself. Well, that was one way of summarising the hard, cool, calculating streak in him, she supposed. "An essentially practical man," would have been Corinna's verdict; a man who secretly despised the romantic and the sentimental. Perhaps he despised his patients, too, even while he charmed them. Certainly he didn't care about them in the way Mark did. Dick had been entirely unmoved by the loss of one of that mother's twins on Sunday, Rosemary remembered. He had said flippantly that one baby was enough for any woman. Dick would never take his cases to heart; never share their sufferings. Probably he was incapable of putting himself in any other person's place. He was concerned wholly with his own place in life; determined that it should be "a place in the sun." Yet so convincing was his facade that few people would penetrate it. Girls, the pretty girls he chose to collect, would readily believe that he doted on them. Patients would welcome him with open

arms, drawing comfort and reassurance from his breezy selfconfidence. That deceptively warm charm of manner would effectively cloak his lack of heart. Mark had called Dick dangerous. Mark, in constant contact with him, must have gauged Dick accurately. Or possibly Mark's own sincerity had acted like a touchstone. Yes, Dick was dangerous, because he made one yearn to believe that he was all he appeared to be, the traditional Prince Charming, guaranteed to sweep any Cinderella off her feet, with his good looks and his gay, beguiling charm, Rosemary thought regretfully. He was word-perfect in his part. Like all accomplished actors, he had got into the skin of it. Only no actor went on living a part. When the lights dimmed and the audience dispersed, he reverted to his natural self—as Dick had done this evening when they had reached the coffee stage. Had that been inadvertent? Or had it been prompted by a sense of fair play? Rosemary couldn't guess. It might even have been a challenge, she decided. His hands lingered on her shoulders as he helped her on with her coat, and she couldn't suppress the slight, delicious tremors which ran through her at his touch. There was an attraction between them, she thought again. It wasn't all on her side. He was equally aware of her. He didn't say much on the drive back to the Old Priory. She wished she could divine what he was thinking. There was a faint, secret smile on his well- cut lips, as if he was congratulating himself on a successful undertaking. Before they reached the little bridge and the last bend in the drive, he pulled up suddenly beneath the shadows of a dense mass of rhododendrons. He switched off the engine and turned to her. His hands were warm and his grip possessive as he drew her into his arms. She didn't resist. It seemed the fitting climax to the evening.

His lips travelled lightly and caressingly, almost teasingly over her face. Again Rosemary was acutely conscious of his magnetism. She even found herself wondering if she had misjudged him. Perhaps it was his so-called realism which was the act. Perhaps he was as impulsive and reckless and warm-blooded as she had first thought him. "Lovely . . . lovely . . . lovely Rosemary," he said between his kisses. "I'm half in love with you already. Did you know?" His lips were on hers now, still provocatively gentle. A sudden sense of revulsion made her jerk her head back violently. "That's it," she said, with a sharp pang. "You'll never be more than half in love with any girl, Dick. The other half is reserved for yourself." He started perceptibly. His hands tightened on her. "That's not very kind," he said reproachfully. "Truth often sounds unkind." "All I meant was that it's too soon to be one hundred per cent certain. Too many poor devils have paid dearly for the 'love at first sight' caper." "You won't. You don't have to worry. You have your emotions firmly under control." Rosemary was surprised to hear herself speak so crisply and evenly—as if on a matter of complete indifference. She didn't feel that way at all. She was in the grip of a deep regret and a nagging sense of disappointment.

It would have been such bliss to have fallen in love with this attractive doctor, in the way her mother had fallen in love with her father. Away from the absorption in Weddings and Corinna's guiding hand, she was realising with increasing force that, more than anything else, she wanted to be part of a real life, "happy ever after" story. Six years of planning weddings for other girls had been enough. No matter how tempting the next commissions might be, she would much rather be thinking about her own wedding. She sighed, and Dick said in a puzzled tone: "You've got me guessing. What have I done?" "Nothing. Your technique is impeccable." "Then why that sudden recoil? Are you already engaged? Is there someone else?" "No. Oh, no!" "Well then—" He tried to draw her close to him again, but again she jerked back her head. "What on earth's the matter? I thought we were getting on like a heath fire." "Until you douched those tentative flames in me," she thought wryly. "It's been a grand evening. Don't let's spoil it," she said hurriedly. "I must go in now. They'll have heard the car." "So what? We're not answerable to Miss Winnie or Father Mark for our actions." "I just don't feel like any more action tonight." "As you please."

He shrugged his shoulders and pressed the self- starter. He was frowning now. Unaccustomed to even the mildest of rebuffs, she supposed. No doubt, with his collection of girl-friends, he was always the one to call a halt. The big car bounced over the little bridge and Rosemary hoped fervently that Ruth wouldn't come running to meet her with the dogs. Dick was swinging round the narrow bend much too fast. She held her breath, till he drew up on the gravel safely. He sprang out to open the car door for her. Simultaneously the front door swung open letting out a stream of light. Rosemary glanced up in surprise. It was the first time she had seen that heavy oak door opened. The family invariably used the back entrance. She caught her breath in a startled, incredulous gasp. Standing at the top of the steps, as if floodlit, was Corinna; Corinna, sleek and elegant in one of her tailored black suits, her dark hair smooth as silk, but her finely chiselled features looking oddly as if they had been jolted from their normal composure. Her pale creamy skin was flushed and she looked as if she were ablaze with anger. "So this is it!" she exclaimed. "All that talk of having to look after a sick woman and a chaotic household was simply a smoke-screen. You've been out all the evening!" "Corinna!" Rosemary couldn't suppress a note of dismay. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? Why have you come? Is there anything wrong?" "That's what I came to find out. I knew there must be a reason for your staying on here, some attraction." Her fiery glance swept past Rosemary to rest significantly on Dick, his well-built figure barely distinguishable beside his car. He

moved forward, putting two fingers lightly under Rosemary's elbow to pilot her up the steps. "Your formidable cousin, I presume?" he said, staring up at Corinna. "Corinna, please. . . ." Rosemary felt her cheeks burning. "You're being absurd." "It was quite obvious that there must be a man behind those flimsy excuses," Corinna cut her short caustically. "You'd better introduce us." "Mark's partner, Doctor Dick Humbert," Rosemary said automatically. "Dick, as you've guessed, this is my cousin, Corinna North." "How do you do, Miss North? I'm flattered by your assumption, but my only part in detaining Rosemary was to bash in her radiator," Dick said easily. "We've just been inspecting the damage." "Did that take you all the evening?" Corinna demanded, with unconcealed contempt for such a feeble excuse. "I've been waiting in this madhouse for Rosemary since seven o'clock." "Bad luck! If you'd arrived ten minutes earlier you could have joined us—in an excellent dinner in Sheriton Abbot," Dick said, unruffled. "Another evening, perhaps?" "There won't be any others. I've come to fetch my cousin back to town," Corinna said curtly.

"Corinna, really—" Rosemary felt her own temper rising. "I told you I would come back as soon as the van was ready, but it has to have a new radiator." "We can hire another van. That's just an excuse! We can't afford to turn down two good commissions while you're playing around here." Had Corinna always sounded so coldly authoritative? Beneath Rosemary's anger there was an unpleasant sense of shock. Had she let Corinna push her around to such an extent that Corinna could talk as if her partner were just another piece of office property? She was of an age to make her own decisions. She wasn't going to be treated as if she were a child, playing truant, Rosemary told herself indignantly. Before Dick, too. What must he be thinking? Why was Corinna in such a fury anyway? It wasn't like her at all. Normally her self-control was cast-iron. "All work and no play—" Dick said tritely. He looked down at Corinna's slender, tense figure, and smiled. "Relax, now! You're tired after your long train journey, Miss North. I should think you could use a few days' break." "I'm not interested in your thoughts, Doctor Humbert." "Aren't you? Are you sure? You might well be . . . if you could read them," he said significantly. "You're not in the least what I'd expected, from all I've heard about you." For some reason which Rosemary failed to comprehend, that checked Corinna—in mid-stride. Her lips moved, but no fiery retort came from them. She looked up at Dick with a bewildered expression, as if for the first time she was seeing him as a person.

The light from the doorway was on him now, turning his fair hair to gold and silhouetting his fine figure against the darkness behind him. Rosemary was vaguely, perplexedly aware of drama in the moment; this moment when Corinna and Dick Humbert stood motionless, staring at each other. She saw Corinna's lips twist. She saw the gleam in her dark brown eyes and the imperious lift of her shapely dark head. She feared that Corinna was about to explode, in another of those uncharacteristic outbursts. She couldn't guess that Corinna was thinking bitterly : "How like Rosemary! She's captivated this man, of course . . . the first really attractive man we've met in ages. I must have been mad to imagine that it was Mark who was keeping her here. What girl would give poor old Mark a second thought when he has a partner like this? Damn and blast! Why on earth have I wasted years yearning over Mark when there are men like this man in existence? Why didn't I come down here instead of Rosemary? Why wasn't I the first to meet him?" Uneasily, into the strained, tense silence, Rosemary said: "Will you come in for a nightcap, Dick? Or must you get back now?" "What? Oh, thanks!" he responded absently. "Just a quick one." Corinna swung round swiftly. In silence they followed her across the dimly lit hall. Dick's eyes were on her trim, elegant figure, as if drawn by a magnet. He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. What an escape! he was thinking. He'd had narrow escapes before, but never one as narrow as tonight's. If Rosemary hadn't drawn away from him, if she had been just a shade more responsive, he might have committed himself to her. He had been tempted. Throughout the evening he had been carefully assessing her, and had come to the conclusion that he

was unlikely to do better for himself. Rosemary was very lovely. She had charm, too, and a warm, endearing personality. She lacked sophistication, admittedly. Her views on life were decidedly naive. He suspected that she tended to be too impulsive and too generous—but he would know how to curb those tendencies. She had money, which was always an asset in a wife. Not a fortune, but a quite useful sum. Properly invested, the income would supply all her needs with something to spare. She would be a possession of whom any man could feel proud. Intellectually, she wouldn't be his equal, but did he really need a clever wife? He didn't suppose that he would ever find her boring, although there might be times when her concern for other people became embarrassing. Yes, he had been on the very verge of asking Rosemary to marry him. It didn't cross his mind that she wouldn't have answered with a fervently grateful "yes, please." He might have been committed to her . . . and then, five minutes later, have been bowled over by her cousin. He shuddered inwardly at the thought. If Rosemary was lovely, so was Corinna. If Rosemary had inherited a nice little legacy, so had Corinna. If other men would cast covetous eyes at Rosemary, the discerning would be even more impressed by Corinna. The poise, the sophistication, and the go-ahead qualities he hadn't found in Rosemary were staring at him tantalisingly now. Corinna was elegance personified. She was crisp and decisive. She was obviously the brains behind Weddings. Corinna was ambitious, Rosemary had admitted. Corinna had once planned to turn old stick-in-the-mud Mark into a successful consultant. She might have managed it, too, if Mark had been ready to string along with her . . . but Mark would never have appreciated her efforts.

What an escape they had both had, he and Corinna! Dick thought, with rising excitement. They were absolutely made for each other, but it was only by the merest chance that they hadn't discovered that too late. Corinna was a challenge and an incitement. Corinna he must have. He, who such a brief while ago had been scoffing at romance and love at first sight, could marvel now at his vaunted cynicism. It could and did happen that, all in a flash, one met and recognised the ideal partner. One could be so completely sure that there was no need to weigh the pros and cons. One simply knew that this was it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN "I'M sorry, but I just can't see why you're so furious with me," Rosemary said in bewilderment. "What?" Corinna said absently. She was sitting at the dressingtable, performing her nightly ritual of creaming her smooth, ivory skin. There were two beds in the spare room which Rosemary was occupying, and Corinna had insisted, with unusual graciousness, that there was no need to prepare another room for her. Rosemary and Naomi had made up the bed and put the electric blanket in to air it, while Corinna had made tea downstairs and dispensed it to Mark and Dick and Aunt Winnie. "You flew at me as if I'd been A.W.O.L. for six months," Rosemary persisted. "Did I? Sorry," Corinna said casually. "Why? That's what I want to know." There was a sudden silence. Then Corinna said slowly: "I was really furious with myself. I oughtn't to have taken it out on you." "With yourself?" "For all the time I've spent fretting over Mark. I must have been crazy," Corinna said, with a twitch of her slim shoulders. "What on earth did I ever imagine I saw in him? He's exactly what you said—a dreary, harassed, middle-aged family man, stuck in a

narrow groove. He'll never get anywhere now; never make any serious money." "I don't think he cares about money. . . ." "When we were talking on the phone, I thought you were simply trying to put me off him, because you'd fallen for him. I owe you an apology for that," Corinna admitted wryly. "A girl would have to be pretty well desperate to settle for Mark and his family appendages. You were right about this house, too. It would take a packet to modernise it, and even then it would still be horribly isolated. I can't imagine who would willingly take it on and be content to be buried here. Aunt Agnes must have been suffering from senile decay when she bought it." "The gardens fascinated her," explained Rosemary. "Gardens? Who wants to be landed with gardens, with the cost of labour what it is now? In a year or two, the gardens will be a wilderness." "They're very lovely. . . ." Rosemary began. "Don't try to sell me this place—or Mark!" Corinna cut her short. "I suppose you think you've been uncommonly clever, throwing dust in my eyes and grabbing a man who really is worth while?" "Certainly not! If you're referring to Dick Humbert, I haven't grabbed him—and I've no intention of letting him grab me," Rosemary retorted indignantly. "What?" Corinna swung round to stare at her incredulously. "Do you mean that? Then you should have your head examined."

"Oh, he's attractive! He has lashings of charm and he's good company. Delightful for an odd evening or two, but not for keeps." "Not?" echoed Corinna. "Not for me. Much too ambitious and ruthless—too obsessed with the main chance," Rosemary said candidly. "Anyway, that's not the point. I'm not a child—and I resent your coming down here after me as if I were." Corinna had turned to the mirror again and was smiling at her reflection. "I didn't," she said over her shoulder. "Or at least, that was only partly the reason. You know the people who run the Orange Blossom Shop?" "Our deadliest rivals, as you call them? Of course I know them. What about them?" "Apparently, although their business has been so much longer established, they're not liking the competition we've been giving them. They want to buy us out, at quite a handsome figure," Corinna explained. "I said I must discuss it with my partner before I gave them an answer—and hinted that you would expect more. Then they said that they might be disposed to increase their offer. They're really keen." "Oh!" Rosemary said, startled. "What's called a take-over bid? But you'd never give up Weddings, would you?" "In certain circumstances I might ... if the bid was tempting enough. How do you feel about it?"

"I? Really, I don't know. It's up to you," Rosemary said hesitantly. "I don't mind, one way or the other." "You don't? You've done quite nicely out of it, and business is rapidly increasing." "Yes. It's been fun, but ..." Again Rosemary hesitated. "I wouldn't want to go on for years and years, giving up so much time to the job. I know I was fearfully keen to get to London, but I suppose I am a country person at heart." "Oh, well, there's no need to decide immediately!" Corinna said calmly. "Mark's invited me to stay over the coming weekend." "I thought you hated him?" "So did I," Corinna admitted. "Then suddenly, when I saw him again, I just didn't feel anything at all. He didn't matter any more. I ought to have realised that years ago. I could kick myself because I didn't." "Better late than never," Rosemary said tritely. "Yes, indeed! Thank goodness it isn't too late!" Corinna said feelingly. Rather to Rosemary's surprise, Corinna was neither bored nor at a loss in this oddly assorted household. Being Corinna, she couldn't just take it as she found it. She had to set about reorganising it. In fact, she gathered up the reins in a way Rosemary hadn't ventured to do. To Jeanie she was crisp but friendly, and Jeanie appeared to take a genuine liking to her. Jeanie was wasting her looks and her potential talents in this remote country district, Corinna said frankly. She would make a first-rate photographer's model, given a minimum of training and grooming. Her limp? What did that

matter? She wouldn't be photographed in motion. Her features and her figure were precisely what were most in demand today. She must certainly spend a few weeks at the flat and see if she could land on her feet. Corinna was equally encouraging about Miss Winnie's artistic efforts. Undoubtedly they were saleable, Corinna pronounced. They should be properly framed and then Miss Winnie must show them. During the holiday season her local landscapes should appeal to tourists. Rosemary tried to be as appreciative of Corinna's efforts as the recipients were, but she couldn't suppress a faintly hurt "left out" feeling. Even Naomi seemed to hang on Corinna's freely expressed opinions. Only Ruth hung back. Only Ruth ventured to criticise Corinna. "I wish she hadn't come," she confided to Rosemary. "I know she's brand-new, but she isn't right for Father Mark. She's too bossy; too much like Aunt Agnes. I'd rather, far rather have you." "I don't think there's any question of either of us staying on here indefinitely," Rosemary told her. "We're going back to London on Monday." "Oh, no, you can't! You mustn't," Ruth protested. "You don't really want to go, do you?" Rosemary didn't know the answer to that question. She didn't discover it until the Sunday evening, when Mark, who had been on duty, came in to a belated supper. Ruth and Rosemary were alone together in the kitchen, feeding the dogs.

As Rosemary hastened to get his supper from the oven, he glanced around him with a mildly inquiring look and asked : "Where's everyone?" "Jeanie's upstairs packing and Naomi's helping her. Miss Winnie is sorting out her paintings to take to the picture framers' tomorrow. Or if by 'everyone' you mean Corinna, she went to have supper with the Humberts," Rosemary answered—and was dismayed to hear the slight edginess of her own tone. "Isn't it lovely and peaceful?" Ruth said naively. "Just us and Rosemary." That produced a brief, awkward silence. Mark was frowning down at his plate of crisply fried fish and chips—as if Rosemary had presented him with one of the dogs' portions. Was he annoyed because Corinna was out with Dick Humbert? Rosemary wondered with a pang. How did he feel about Corinna? His manner towards her was as coolly friendly as hers towards him. That early romance of theirs might never have happened. Corinna had obviously thrust it right behind her now ... but had Mark? The silence lasted while Mark in an abstracted fashion began on his plateful and the dogs gobbled up the contents of their dishes. Then he said abruptly: "Better give the dogs their last run now, Ruth, before it's dark." Ruth glanced from him to Rosemary, with a pleased, impish smile. "All right," she said obligingly. "Come on, chaps!"

The dogs went scampering after her, and Mark looked at Rosemary, his black brows contracting. "I'm sorry about this—but I did warn you," he said grimly. "Warn me? What do you mean?" "That you couldn't rely on Dick. That he has to chase after every new girl who comes his way." "Oh!" Rosemary said—and gaped at him. "But. . . but I wasn't relying on Dick Humbert. And I don't think he does see Corinna as just another attractive girl. I believe he has really and truly fallen for her. She likes him, too." There was another brief silence. Then they both asked simultaneously, and in the same diffident tone : "Do you mind?" Almost instantaneously they both answered : "Good heavens, no ! Why should I?" Then it was: "You're not hurt?" anxiously, from Mark, and: "You don't care about Corinna still?" tentatively from Rosemary. Mark sprang up, almost overturning his chair. "This is ridiculous! We sound like a convention of parrots," he exploded. "Drop this cross-chat and answer me properly!" "Answer what?" "You know. You must know. Don't tantalise me," he said—and caught her to him. "I'm in love with you, Rosemary Rose. Madly and irrevocably in love. What do you propose to do about it?"

"What—what do you want or expect me to do?" "I don't dare to expect anything. What I want is you—for keeps." "Oh? Oh, do you?" Then his lips were on hers. No preliminary, half teasing caresses from Mark. He was kissing her with a fiery, bruising pressure— and her heart began to thud as her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. "I want to marry you. Get that? I'm not looking for a housekeeper or a receptionist or a mother for the girls. I want you for my wife . . . my wife," he said huskily. "I've never felt this way before, and I never shall again." "I haven't either, and I don't suppose I ever shall again," she said confusedly. "You'd better not! You won't be given the chance, Rosemary . . . my darling love. . . ."

"Darling Mummy," Rosemary began on Wednesday morning. "I've just seen Corinna off—back to London. We've had a good offer for Weddings and we've decided to take it. I've a feeling that, any time now, Corinna will be asking me to plan a wedding for her! I'm already planning my own. Mark and I don't want any fuss, but he does yearn to see me as the traditional bride and the girls, of course, insist on acting as bridesmaids. Fix any time that's convenient for you and Father, after the school holidays begin. There's no point in a long engagement. I'm needed here . . . and I'm just as sure about Mark as you were about Father.

"Mummy darling, I hope you'll be as happy about this as I am. You mustn't imagine that I'm just a substitute for Joanne, or second-best in any way. Mark loved Joanne from his schooldays, but it wasn't like this. She married Mark because she'd lost her adored husband and had two small children on her hands. She was fond of Mark, of course, but not romantically in love. "This is really and truly Mark's first romance . . . and he looks and sounds years younger already. When he can get a weekend off, I'll bring him home, and then you won't have any qualms about us. "Darling, you were perfectly right—as usual! It's sheer heaven to be loved and in love. I shall have to go back to town next week, to help Corinna settle things, business-wise, and to do a spot of shopping. Then I'll come home. "Oh, I've so much to tell you that I shan't know where to begin! One thing will amuse you. I told you about that solicitor, Mr. Thirkell, who was mainly responsible for my coming down here, didn't I? Well, he turned up at the Old Priory yesterday—in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce! Ostensibly it was to inspect the house and have it valued officially for probate. He brought an estate agent pal of his with him. "When he was leaving he turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes and breathed benignly in my car how delighted he was that his little plan had borne fruit. Can you believe it? He had actually expected this to happen between me and Mark! He said it had dawned on him, when Corinna and I were in his office, that I was warm-hearted and sympathetic and would never be able to steel my heart against Mark and his problems. "I was rather taken aback, and protested that he couldn't have guessed that Mark would fall in love with me.

"He answered : 'Oh, that was a foregone conclusion ! No normal man could help loving you, my dear.' "I think that's one of the nicest things I've ever had said to me. It isn't true, of course. Dick Humbert fell like a ton of bricks—not for me but for Corinna. And I certainly haven't noticed my would-be admirers lying strewn in heaps on the ground ! "Still, it did happen with Mark, and so I'm tremendously grateful to that shrewd old man. Corinna's doubtful about what I shall be taking on, but she's whisked Jeanie off to town. I love the girls, and Aunt Winnie's a pet—like a nice, cuddly old pussy. I'm not worried about a thing. I'm too happy. "It's evening now. I've been writing this at odd moments during the day. Mark's finished his surgery, and he's calling me to take a stroll in the gardens with him. Honestly, our camellias and rhododendrons are quite out of this world. "Oh, Mummy, the way he says 'Rosemary' brings a lump to my throat and makes me quiver all over! I never guessed that it would be like this. "Oceans of love to you and Father. "Your very loving, blissfully happy and truly loved, Rosemary."