Victoria and the Nightingale (2 page)

“I’ll have to get help,” he said, looking around him helplessly. “But the housekeeper’s gone to bed, and the maids are off duty. . . .” Voices reached them—it seemed to Victoria that they were a tremendous way off—and laughter, and music that was muffled by closed doors. Both the voices and the music were light and bright, and a trifle hilarious, as if the party was taking place out of sight, and had gotten a little out of hand. “This isn’t a good night, I’m afraid. There are a lot of people here.”

“People?”

“Guests. There was a dinner party, and since then it’s been going on for hours.”

“Hours?” she whispered. “Then what time is it?”

“It’s three in the morning.”

Victoria couldn’t believe it. But then she was only barely conscious, and she was beginning to be quite uncertain how that came about.

In the end, without disturbing the party—which

apparently he hesitated to do—the butler lowered Johnny to a rug and went off to fetch cushions, brandy and a medical kit. He did his best with the medical kit while Johnny lay on the rug and Victoria slowly sipped the spirit that began by degrees to combat her overpowering sensation of faintness. Then he succeeded in arousing the housekeeper, and also one of the maids, who bore Johnny between them up the stairs to a guest room where they put him to bed and provided him with the hot milk and the comfort Victoria had promised him. All the while, Victoria sat in the hall and the butler telephoned for the local doctor, although Victoria protested that it wasn’t necessary, and the sounds of music continued on the far side of the hall, and also the bursts of laughter.

“I think you’d be better off in the library, miss,” the butler said, when he had made her some hot, strong tea and appeared with it on a tray. “Sir Peter isn’t using it at the moment, and he won’t mind if you rest there. When the doctor’s been we’ll know what to do with you.”

“I’d much rather you went and fetched the little girl,” Victoria objected, feeling this was all wrong. Perhaps she ought to go back and fetch the little girl, and relieve the anxiety of the policeman.

“Don’t you worry, miss.” The butler was horrified by the purple smudges under her eyes, and by the evident strain and shock in the dark blue eyes themselves. And although she wasn’t aware of it herself a livid bruise was beginning to disfigure the area above one of her cheekbones. “The doctor says the little girl’s been picked up by a police car and is on her way to the hospital. She’ll be well looked after when she gets there. You don’t have to worry.”

He helped her into the library, and saw her comfortably installed in a deep leather armchair. He placed the tray of tea beside her on a low occasional table, and then although it was June he switched on a powerful electric fire and finally left her to her own devices while he went off to discuss the matter with the housekeeper and decide whether

or not they ought to inform Sir Peter.

Victoria closed her eyes and fought against returning nausea. Try as she would she couldn’t shut the horror of the accident out of her mental vision, and every time it recurred she felt swamped by the nightmare of it, and she wanted to run away somewhere where it couldn’t possibly pursue her. It was like falling into uneasy dozes and dreaming horrifying dreams.

She was so thankful that Johnny was upstairs somewhere in this great house, and that he was safely tucked up in bed with a kindly Scottish housekeeper to attend to him, and an equally kindly maidservant to make a fuss over him.

Poor Johnny. . . . It was what he wanted ... endless fussing and cosseting, and no harsh awakening to realities on the morrow.

For she was horribly afraid that on the morrow Johnny would learn that he no longer had a parent.

It was very quiet in the library, and no intrusive noises shattered the utter peace and tranquillity of it. She opened her eyes and, in the one subdued light that the butler had left burning, as well as the glow from the electric fire, she could see the glass-fronted bookshelves and the beautiful bindings they protected, the chrome leather of the chairs and the deeper chrome of the carpet, the French windows standing open to what remained of the night.

In an hour or so now the cocks would be crowing, and the light of dawn would appear in the sky. Already she thought she could detect a faint lightening of the sky toward the east, and there was that breathless hush that precedes the dawn. The air was cool, and there was the moist scent of roses floating in through the French windows. Far, far away, or so it seemed, a stable clock chimed the hour, and grandfather clocks all over the house joined in in a musical medley.

Victoria felt herself drifting off into another one of those uneasy—even terrifying—dozes, and she tried to force herself to keep awake. She must have partially succeeded, for when she opened her eyes again the stable chimes were still quivering in the atmosphere, and two people had come in through the French window and were standing looking down at her in astonishment.

“How extraordinary,” a woman with a brittle, amused voice exclaimed. “You don’t think we’re seeing things, do you, darling? I mean—you were rather generous with the champagne tonight.”

“Don’t be silly.” The man spoke sharply. “This young woman isn’t a figment of our imagination. She appears to be taking a rest here.”

“And she looks as if she might be the family ghost. She’s awfully pale.”

“And she’s obviously in some sort of trouble.” He coughed. “Excuse me—”

Victoria sat up with a jolt and grasped at the arms of the chair. If someone had presented her with a mirror just then she would have understood why they both continued to stare so hard.

“You are real, aren’t you?” Even he sounded doubtful. “Of course.”

“Then you must have found your way in through the window. Are you looking for someone? Do you want something?”

She shook her head.

“Only to hear how Johnny is. And I think the doctor will be here any moment. . . .”

But at that moment the door opened, and in came the doctor. He was a middle-aged man who had been in bed when he was sent for, and he wore his pajamas beneath an overcoat. He was accompanied by the housekeeper in a thick wool dressing gown, and the butler who was still in his formal black coat and pinstriped trousers. At sight of the two people who were standing staring at Victoria he looked mildly surprised, and then hurriedly explained.

“There’s been an accident, Sir Peter. This young person was involved in it, and there’s a child upstairs who has been put to bed by Mrs. Grainge and at the moment seems to be settling down quite comfortably. I thought the doctor ought to take a look at this young woman first—”

“You were quite right.” The doctor ignored the rest of them and moved forward to the side of the chair that contained Victoria and bent over her. He smiled at her reassuringly as he picked up her wrist and felt her pulse. “You’ve had a nasty shock,” he said. And then, over his shoulder, “I’d be glad if you would all leave the room while I make my examination ... all, that is, except Mrs. Grainge, whom I shall probably need.”

The butler looked mildly scandalized at the very idea of Sir Peter being requested to leave his own library, but Wycherley took the young woman with whom he had entered the room by the arm and propelled her toward the door.

“Out, sweetheart,” he said. “We’re not needed here.”

She protested immediately, looking up at him with great dark eyes. She was a graceful slip of a thing in scarlet brocade, and not only was she attractive, but the depth and color of her dress emphasized her peculiarly exotic type of loveliness.

“But, Peter,” she argued, “you can’t have your house turned into a kind of hospital just because there’s been an accident. We’re having a celebration, remember? And there’s the local hospital. . . .”

“Probably they’re full up,” he replied, still urging her purposefully toward the door. “And Dr. Brown wants us out of here.”

“But what about all the guests? You’re not going to break up the party?”

“It’ll soon be breakfast time,” he said, fairly whisking her into the hall, “and it’s high time the party was broken up in any case.”

As soon as they were outside, and the room was cleared, the doctor gave his undivided attention to Victoria. He pronounced, at last, that apart from a few abrasions and some rather bad bruises she appeared to have sustained little damage—which was, of course, remarkable; and at the moment she was suffering from shock. He could tell by her dilated eyes, and by the quality of her pallor, that she was suffering from rather serious shock, and his prescription was bed immediately, and on the following day he would look in and give her a rather more detailed examination just to make absolutely certain there were no bones broken, or anything of that sort.

He gave her an anti-tetanus injection, which made her feel slightly worse than she had before, and then he took the housekeeper aside and issued a few instructions. Victoria, who realized she was putting these people to an enormous amount of trouble, and perhaps it wasn’t necessary if she could be fixed up with a hotel room, or the local hospital would take her in for the remainder of the night, interrupted the discussion to protest feebly that she was perfectly all right now, and she didn’t think she ought to remain. But the doctor crossed over to her again and smiled at her understandingly.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “You’re not putting anyone to undue trouble, and this house is so full of rooms that are only infrequently used. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Grainge?” He appealed to the housekeeper.

She was a motherly woman with a Scottish accent, and she answered at once.

“That’s right, love.” She laid a hand on Victoria’s shoulder. “And Sir Peter’s a very kind gentleman and you mustn’t take any notice of what Miss Islesworth said because she’s only become engaged to Sir Peter, and tonight they were having a bit of a celebration ... an engagement party I suppose you’d call it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Victoria was sorry, and she looked faintly appalled.

Mrs. Grainge patted her gently on the shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, love. Accidents will happen, and the little lad upstairs is the one to be sympathized with if his father was badly injured in the crash. Let’s hope there’ll be some good news of him tomorrow.” She looked rather more curiously at Victoria. “Is the gentleman a relative of yours, my dear?”

Victoria answered briefly, “My employer.”

“I see.”

The doctor looked impatient at this questioning, and Mrs. Grainge recollected what was expected of her. She withdrew to supervise the preparation of a bedroom for Victoria, and Dr. Brown took his leave after once more feeling the victim’s pulse and explaining that he had left a sedative for her to take, and that he would look in and see her early the following morning. He then made his way upstairs to have a look at Johnny.

Victoria was once more alone when Sir Peter came back into the library and stood regarding her with a good deal of quite unconcealed concern in his eyes.

They were very pleasant—even exceptionally attractive—gray eyes, and for a man his eyelashes were unusually long and thick and dark. He was a slenderly built man a little above average height, and he had light brown hair and well-cut features, and a slight air of diffidence seemed to cling to him, although under normal circumstances his lips could curve humorously and there was often a humorous twinkle in his eyes. It was quite obvious that he had an excellent tailor, for his evening clothes were beautifully cut and fitted him to perfection, and the impeccable quality of his linen threw into prominence the rather dark cast of his countenance.

Either he had lived abroad a good deal, and acquired a healthy tan, or his light brown hair should have been dark as a raven’s wing to suit the bronze of his skin and the strange blackness of his lashes.

When he smiled at Victoria she felt strangely warmed and comforted by his smile. She certainly didn’t feel that he regarded her as a nuisance, even if his recently acquired

fiancee thought of her as such.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as she lay somewhat limply in the chair and he stood beside it and looked down at her. “I’m afraid you’ve had rather a nasty time. Was that needle of old Brown’s very painful when he gave you the injection?”

She shook her head, and for a moment she felt too vague to answer him. Then she managed a rather husky whisper.

“It didn’t hurt at all. But I’m feeling a bit confused. It all happened so suddenly,” she said in a more throaty whisper.

“I understand.” He moved nearer to her, and for one moment she thought he was going to rest his hand on her shoulder as his housekeeper had done. “I’ve been up to look at the child, but I don’t think you have to worry about him too much. Children have a way of surviving these things better than adults.”

She agreed with him that this was miraculously so.

“I understand his father is—in pretty poor shape.”

She nodded and agreed with him, this time soundlessly.

“I telephoned the hospital. The report is not good. But of course it may be better tomorrow.”

She made a faint movement with her lips. For the first time she realized that he was studying her hand—her left hand, which was completely ringless.

“The child is not yours?” he stated rather than asked.

Her drugged blue eyes—and they were as deep and dark as harebells—expressed surprise.