Dear Tiberius; (aka Nurse Nolan) (20 page)

Lucy, almost certainly, was worshipping at a shrine, and Sir John looked quickly down into his empty coffee cup and saw a lonely country house away up in the northernmost tip of England, and other things awaiting him that did not lighten the expression on his face.

Four months later L
ucy sat on a wooden balcony overlooking a valley that was still filled with snow, while behind her the high peaks soared against a background of clear blue sky. It was very early March, but as yet there was no sign of spring flowers, and on the sheer slopes ski sports were the order of the day among the other visitors to the little hotel overlooking the wide valley that was a green wonderland in summer.

The hotel had a slightly musical-comedy aspect, for it had overhanging roofs specially designed to bear the weight of the winter snow, and a great deal of fine carving. On the many balconies there were tubs that, when the snows vanished, would burst into brilliant bloom. There would be a gay garden surrounding the place, too, and the constant trickle of running water like background music, and the scent of the Alpine flowers like a sweet but pungent incense floating on every puff of air.

Just flow, although everything was hidden beneath a mantle of white, the sun was hot and brilliant, and as Lucy sat with a pad on her knee inditing something in the nature of a weekly report, she looked both tanned and fit, with a gay scarf knotted around her head and a close-fitting, bright-colored sweater calling attention to her shapeliness.

But in spite of the golden tan, and the warm color in her cheeks, her eyes were a trifle lackluster, and there was a pensive, almost a wistful droop to her lips as—temporarily

forgetting the weekly report—she let her gaze travel down into the valley, and watched someone in a vivid-hued
w
indbreaker dragging a sled up the slope almost immediately beneath her balcony.

Sunshine, blue skies, enchanting virginal snow, and some delightful people around her, she thought—but she was constantly letting her mind dwell on Mrs. Abbott and Fiske and Purvis, the three friends she had made at Ketterings, and she wondered often whether the stately house she had grown to love was also blanketed in snow like these Austrian heights around her, and whether the quiet little room she had once used as a sitting room was just as she had left it, and whether—perhaps—she would see it again one day.

A somewhat ragged little sigh tore its way up from the roots of her being, and she once more concentrated on her letter. It was headed: Hotel Arlburg, Gschutt, Austria. It began:

Dear Sir John,

There is nothing very much to report this week, save that Miranda is continuing to make really remarkable progress. She walks now without any sort of assistance, and is most anxious to try her skill on the nursery slopes. Naturally this would
not
be permitted, and I merely mention it because it shows that the spirit is most decidedly willing, and that the flesh is by no means weak any longer
.

Dr. Wern insists on a good rest for at least a part of every day. At the moment she is in her room, and when I looked in at her ten minutes ago she was fast asleep
....

But she wasn
’
t.
“
Hello, Noly!
”
a soft voice breathed very close to Lucy
’
s ear, and when she turned her head quickly over her shoulder she saw Miranda was leaning negligently
against the back of her chair, and there was an impish smile in her eyes.

As always, when she looked upon her these days, Lucy experienced a little uprush of astonished and almost painful pleasure, for the Miranda who had seemed like a small prisoner in the tower during the Ketterings days had ceased to exist, and in her place the present Miranda had full cheeks tanned like her own by the sun, and enlivened with a wildrose color that seldom died away for more than a moment. Her hair was now dressed in flaxen braids that hung past her waist, and suggested that one day she really would develop into the fairy-tale princess with eyes like twin lakes of cobalt blue. And although her body was still thin, and she was in need of constant care and all the nourishment she could assimilate, there was a wiriness and resilience about her movements—and she was seldom if ever completely still—which to Lucy added up to the most rewarding things that had ever happened to her.

This afternoon Miranda was still dressed in her warm blue dressing gown with the thick silk girdle, which had been a present from her father before she left England, and the gay, striped pajamas in which she had lain down for her afternoon rest, and her hair was tousled, and there was an additional flush in her cheeks that was the aftermath of a good sleep. But to Lucy she was a picture of enchantment, and a determined child fighting an equally determined way back to complete health.

She perched herself on the arm of Lucy
’
s chair, and made no attempt to conceal the fact that she was absorbing the contents of Lucy
’
s only partly written letter.

“
Why do you always call my father
‘
Sir John
’
?
”
she asked, swinging a careless foot in a pale blue slipper.
“
Why don
’
t you just call him
‘
John,
’
as Miss Harling does?
”

Lucy smiled a little oddly.

“
Because Miss Harling is on a slightly different footing with your father from myself.
”

“
You mean that he doesn
’
t employ her, or anything like that?
”

“
Well—that
’
s one good reason.
”

“
And another? What is another reason?
”

There was a queer note of insistence in Miranda
’
s voice, but Lucy stared down at her letter.

“
He
’
s probably know her a long time and she him.
”

“
I don
’
t think that
’
s a good reason,
”
Miranda observed. She gave a little kick, and her slipper flew off but, contrary to her usual custom when anything of the sort happened, she did not laugh as she retrieved it and replaced it on her slim foot, and she was not laughing as she slid one arm around Lucy
’
s neck and bent a little closer to her and looked into her eyes.
“
Shall
I
tell you something, Noly?
”

“
You can if you like,
”
Lucy responded lightly, but inwardly she felt a little tense.

“
Something that Abbie once said?
”

“
Yes, so long as it
’
s not betraying a secret.
”

Miranda sent a long look down into the valley where the man in the vivid-hued sweater was once more toiling up the slope, dragging his sled behind him. Miranda seemed fascinated by his movements, but she spoke very distinctly.

“
Abbie told Fiske that one day
‘
that woman
’
—and
I
know she meant Miss Harling—would be
‘
bossing it
’
at Ketterings. She said that she meant to be mistress!
”

“
Well?
”
Lucy asked, feeling her heart beating unevenly.
“
She also said that when that day dawned—as she put it—she
’
d be handing in her notice. Fiske said she expected she
’
d have to go, too, because she didn
’
t think that
‘
the lady in question
’
and herself would see eye to eye about some things.
I
didn
’
t like the way they were talking, and it frightened me at the time. I
’
ve thought about it a lot since, and it worries me, Noly.
”

Lucy was silent. This was something she had expected she would have to deal with before very long, but just then she was not at all sure of the best way to tackle it. Miranda fastened her grip on Lucy
’
s shoulder and looked down at her again.

“
It
’
s not true, is it, Noly
?”
she asked.
“
I know you
’
ll tell me it
’
s not true!
”

Lucy put up a hand and clasped the small hand on her shoulder and she looked around at her with kindly eyes.

“
But you must realize, Miranda, that one day your father is almost certain to want to marry again. It would be selfish to hope that just because you wanted him to do so, he would go through all the rest of his life lonely, as he must often be at present,
”
she pointed out very gently.
“
After all, you haven
’
t been able to give him a great deal of companionship up to date, and although things will be different in the future—
”

“
I don
’
t mind him
marrying
again,
”
Miranda interrupted her, almost fiercely.
“
But I don
’
t want him to marry
her
!”

“
I see,
”
Lucy said, but beyond that she could say nothing.

“
And neither do Fiske, or Abbott, or Purvis want him to marry her.
”

“
It would be better if you said Miss Harling,
”
Lucy corrected her, a little feebly.

“
Well, Miss Harling, then!
”

“
And it is never wise to cross your bridges before you get to them.
”

Miranda
’
s blue eyes were marred by a look of concentration, almost like a tiny scowl.

“
If I ever get to that bridge I just won
’
t cross it! I
’
ll stay here with Frau Wern,
”
she announced,
“
and live all my life at the Hotel Arlberg! I
know
she
’
d let me stay because she
’
s so terribly nice, and Dr. Wern would make her let me stay, even if she didn
’
t feel she ought to let me herself. Dr. Wern is
even nicer than
‘
nice,
’
and everything he says Frau Wern thinks is marvelous, and she
’
d never dream of going against him in anything.
”

Lucy could not help smiling a little at the way in which her small patient had, in her own mind, got everything worked out in the case of an eventuality that disturbed her considerably—although she had never given any indication of this before—and that was apparently one of her secret fears. But, at the same time, she was profoundly worried because Miranda considered it necessary to provide herself with an escape route should these worst fears become realized.

“
My dear child,
”
she urged her,
“
you mustn
’
t talk like that! Your father, you must never forget, has been tremendously good to you.
”

“
Only recently,
”
Miranda said with a stubborn note in her voice.

“
That
’
s not quite fair, Miranda,
”
Lucy murmured, even more gently, for somehow it hurt her to hear Sir John discussed like this.
“
He has been good to you all your life, but he has taken a great deal more notice of you recently.
”

“
Because he thought I was going to die,
”
Miranda muttered, and she sounded much older than a twelve-year-old.

Lucy was still more profoundly shocked. She realized now how unwise Sir John had been in concealing any affection he might have for her from this daughter of his until she was almost into her teens, and expecting her to accept it as natural that her sudden critical illness should betray him into a display of his genuine feelings. Miranda had lived a lonely life for so long entrusted to the care of servants who—if one
del
ved deeper into the depths of her obviously resentful small mind—probably nowadays meant a great deal more to her than her only parent. For Mrs. Abbott she certainly had a genuine affection, and the