The Young Nightingales (7 page)

“But—” At this point Jane thought she ought to say something about the reason why she had arrived at the Villa Magnolia. “I haven’t come here just to forget. Roger said you needed someone like myself to live with you and act the part of a companion, and perhaps do a certain amount of secretarial work for you. He said that you were actually looking for
someone...”

“And so I was, child, so I was.” The other nodded comfortably. “But I’ve been looking for someone for years, and until now she hasn’t turned up. I was quite reconciled to living here alone with Florence and Andre—who is my chauffeur-gardener—and writing my letters myself. But now perhaps you won’t mind doing them for me, and you can read to me sometimes in the evenings, and perhaps play bezique. Do you play bezique, my dear?” putting on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles the better to peer at her.

“I’ve played once or twice with my father. But I’m better at chess,” Jane admitted.

“Then we’ll play chess, and you shall teach me, because I’ve never played it in my life. However, it’s always fun doing something new.”

Jane felt a little uncertain.

“It seems that you’ve created this position for me, Mrs. Bowman,” she said.

The other waved a beringed hand.

“Think nothing of it,” she returned. “I’m always only too happy to do something for my nephew ... who is my only nephew, you know! And naturally, when I heard about you I wanted to help you, too. I was
most anxious
to do all I could for you
!”

“Thank you,” Jane said again, rather feebly, realising that this put her in a somewhat awkward position. She couldn’t possibly accept a salary if the job was to be a kind of sinecure.

And yet she needed some sort of recompense if she was to help Toby
...

Mrs. Bowman must have read her thoughts, and read them swiftly.

“
Of
course
I’ll pay you a salary,” she said. “I’m a very rich old woman, and money is nothing to me, so you must have whatever you want. As a matter of fact, I agreed with Roger that I would pay you monthly in advance, and I’ll give you a cheque to-morrow.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t possibly—” Jane was beginning, when the beringed hand fluttered again.

“Don’t be silly, my dear. I hope you’ll be very happy here, but it is also a purely business arrangement. Now,” she touched a silver bell on the table, “I’m going to ring for Florence and get her to show you your room. If you don’t like it you must choose another, because there are lots of rooms in the villa. I do so want you to be comfortable,” beaming on the new arrival. “I want you to settle down and make this your home, at any rate for a few months.”

“Thank you,” Jane heard herself say, yet again. And then she added with genuine warmth: “You are very kind, Mrs. Bowman.”

“Not at all, child. I shall si
m
ply love having a young thing like you about the house. Besides, you hardly know me yet, and you may find I’m not in the least kind by the time you’ve lived with me a month.”

“I don’t think so.”

Florence arrived and looked highly disapproving because she said her mistress looked tired, and she must certainly have a nap before lunch. As soon as she had shown Miss Nightingale her room she would settle her comfortably in the conservatory.

Jane followed Florence upstairs, and was pleased to discover that her room was completely uncluttered and furnished very simply and charmingly in cool tones of green and cream. She had been half afraid that the bed would be shrouded in lace curtaining and the windows difficult to approach because of voluminous draperies, but she need not have worried. The bed was a starkly simple affair covered with hem-stitched linen, and in place of a carpet the polished floor was strewn with off-white rugs. There was a deep, comfortable armchair with a foot-rest, a dressing-table with triple mirrors, and plenty of wardrobe space. And outside the main window there was, as there had been at the hotel, a wide and inviting balcony protected from the fierce glare of the sun by green sun-blinds.

The first thing Jane did when she had expressed aloud her approval of the room was to step out on to the balcony and gaze with delight at the magnificent view of the lake which was hers. Florence, looking as if she had long ago got over the urge to rhapsodise about the scenery, sniffed and said shortly that she must return to her mistress, and lunch would be at half-past one, and all meals were served promptly at the villa.

Jane turned round and smiled at her.

“I’ll remember,” she said.

Florence hesitated.

“If there’s anything you want, miss
...
Madame said you’re to be made as comfortable as possible. Just press the bell, and I’ll send up Freda, who comes daily from the town, to find out what it is. But I think I’ve thought of everything you’ll need.”

Jane nodded.

“I expect you have. This whole room is quite delightful, and I’m sure I’m going to love it.”

Florence sounded mollified.

“Ah, well, it’s had a thorough do out, I can tell you that. When I knew you were coming I set Freda on it for one whole day, and it’s sweet and clean. These Swiss girls are good workers, but they have to do the thing properly to please me.”

She went out with a vague air of triumph as if she was aware that her qualities as a housekeeper were second to none, and as soon as she was alone Jane unpacked her cases and put away her personal possessions, and then, as it was still only a quarter to one, decided to go outside into the garden and discover for herself what it was like at close quarters.

When she passed the conservatory she found that all the blinds were drawn and, despite open windows, the whole house
h
ad a faintly shrouded air as if it was cowering from the too fierce attentions of the sun. And it was certainly, on this day at least, a
v
ery hot sun, and the glare from off the lake seemed to increase the heat and also to offer a warning that if one stayed out in it too long the heat might become unbearable; and she was glad to plunge into the comparative coolness of shrubberies that skirted a well-kept lawn and a tennis-court, and eventually brought her out on to a kind of stone bridge or parapet that overlooked the lake and the trees that overhung it and the landing-stage.

The trees were weeping willows, and their feathery branches all but caressed the cool waters of the lake. As Jane stared downwards fascinatedly into the placidly lapping water she was quite sure that the water of the lake was very cool indeed, for even as she leaned there she could feel the temperature lowering itself dramatically, and when she lifted her eyes to the snows on the farther shore she was not really in the least surprised.

Melting flood water must remain cool for a long time after it was melted, and the lake was fed by those continuous trickles that found their way down from the snows. And the branches of the willows were reflected in the water, and so was the bridge on which she stood. She could see her own face gazing back at her, wavering gently in the lightest of summer breezes.

She climbed down the slightly dangerous steps to the landing-stage, and went into the boat-house and inspected its contents. There was an old and obviously no longer seaworthy canoe, and a battered punt. The punt Mrs. Bowman had already mentioned to her was moored to the landing-stage, but it, too, looked a trifle derelict, and she wondered what would happen to her if she was rash enough to take it out on to the lake.

However, the garden itself was sufficiently attractive to make her feel reasonably certain that she would not want to desert its shade on a day such as this; and on her way back to the house she discovered a summerhouse bowered in roses which would be an ideal retreat with a book. And she discovered why the villa was called the Villa Magnolia. A truly magnificent magnolia tree grew close to the house, and had probably been planted when the house was built. The waxen blossoms filled the air with perfume, and mingled with the perfume of so many exotic shrubs that Jane couldn’t even begin to count them. But she was glad that the magnolia grew close enough to her own window to mingle with the scent of the nicotiana that she had already noted grew in clumps beneath it.

On her way back to the house she found that she could look down on the main road along which her own taxi had travelled earlier in the day. The short villa drive encroached on to it at a point which she could also observe from a turn in one of the garden walks, and she could see the main gates standing open and a long, sleek grey car apparently parked just outside the gates, with a motionless chauffeur at the wheel, while a man who had his back to her stood entering into what appeared to be quite earnest conversation with the elderly Florence, who was smoothing down the front of her immaculate white apron as she talked.

There was something distinctive and distinguishing about the appearance of the man, although his back was all that Jane could see. He appeared to be wearing a dark suit and had very dark, sleek hair, and as he bent towards Florence the sunlight gleamed on his hair and an area of tanned skin at the back of his neck showed up plainly between the carefully barbered hair on his nape and an impeccably white shirt collar.

He walked swiftly towards his car and slipped sinuously on to the back seat and the chauffeur drove away immediately, while Florence retreated inside the villa gates and closed them carefully behind her.

When Jane joined her on the drive she was looking vaguely satisfied, with that same air of faint triumph that she had worn when Jane complimented her on the appearance of her room. The air said plainly that she had just accomplished a mission, and that she took a certain amount of credit to herself for doing so.

“The doctor has just been to call on Madame,” she said, as Jane walked with her back to the house. “I explained to him that she was just enjoying her nap and really ought not to be disturbed. Her health has been much better for several weeks now, so he said he would send her some more of her pills and call to see her next week.”

“Does he normally call and see her every week?” Jane asked, thinking that her new employer must obviously be very fragile at her time of life.

“Almost every week. Naturally, he calls much more often when Madame is under the weather, as she is sometimes.”

“She looks to me to be remarkably well preserved,” Jane remarked, recalling the pink skin and the extraordinarily clear eyes of Mrs. Bowman. “But I expect it’s very healthy here, and it suits her. Does she like her doctor?” she asked. “In the case of someone of her age I should think it is important that she has faith in him.”

“Oh, yes,” Florence answered, at her most complacent
...
and Jane was to lea
rn
that she could be very complacent and not in the least truculent when neither her suspicions were aroused nor she felt she had any reason to be otherwise. “Dr. Delacroix is a very good doctor, and Madame is very satisfied with him. She likes him, too. He often comes to dinner, or just looks in to have a talk with her sometimes. He advises her, too, about a lot of things. Oh, yes, she’s got great faith in him, and so have a lot of people in St. Vaizey. I suppose you could say he’s the most important doctor in the place
...
and very fashionable, too,” as if that appealed to her snobbish instincts, “He has his own clinic just outside the town.”

“Really,” Jane murmured. “I must say his means of doing his rounds indicates a fashionable clientele. Not many English doctors nowadays can afford a chauffeur, and that car of his looked expensive. What is it? A Bentley?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Florence answered, considering it impertinent that she should be asked. After all, the doctor was a friend of her mistress
...
and whatever they did in England nowadays a great many of her mistress’s friends had extremely expensive cars. Madame Bowman’s own car, driven by Andre, was an old-fashioned Daimler, and Madame Bowman was very proud of it because it had such an opulent appearance despite its vintage years.
”

She stood aside for Jane to precede her into the house, and then stalked through into the kitchen, after murmuring that lunch would be on the table in five minutes.

Jane smiled to herself. It was plain to her that Florence loved this salubrious backwater in a
corner
of Switzerland, and apparen
tl
y Dr. Delacroix was all part of the general atmosphere of comfortable security and spacious living.

She would have to be careful not to tread on Florence’s corns from time to time. Otherwise life at the Villa Magnolia might not be as smooth as it could be if she was consistently tactful.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FOR the next week Jane found that it was a perfectly easy matter to settle down as Mrs. Bowman’s companion at the Villa Magnolia, and the only thing that troubled her was that she didn’t seem to be doing very much to earn her salary. Mrs. Bowman was a most understanding employer who liked life to flow past her like a placid stream, and fitting into her routine was as uncomplicated as trying on a pair of well-
worn
gloves.

She never appeared outside her room in the mornings until eleven o’clock, and then she liked the English newspapers read to her and in particular any reports of Stock Exchange activities which seemed to interest her enormously. After that she toyed with the idea of writing a few letters, although as her only regular correspondent nowadays was her nephew, and occasionally she had something to say to her solicitor, never more than one letter at a time was dictated to Jane, and the latter typed these on her own portable typewriter in her own room, and afterwards took them to the post herself, together with letters she wrote to Irina and Toby, because it was a pleasant walk to
t
he nearest post-office, and the better part of it skirted the lake, and she could never have enough of the sheer beauty and the extraordinary placidity of the lake at St. Vaizey.

They lunched at half-past one every day, and in the heat of the afternoon Mrs. Bowman dozed in her room. Sometimes after a cup of tea at five o’clock precisely the Daimler was brought round from the garage by Andre and Mrs. Bowman and her companion sallied forth for an evening drive. It never lasted longer than forty minutes, and Andre was not permitted to proceed at anything more than a snail’s pace along the lake shore, and at certain vantage points he was requested to pull up and a particularly attractive aspect of the lake was gazed at with much appreciation by both ladies.

The air at that hour was pleasantly warm, a pathway of westering sunlight cut like a sword thrust across the lake, and although there was a considerable amount of traffic and a layer of hot dust covered the sidewalks and the ornamental gardens Mrs. Bowman seemed particularly to enjoy these late afternoon excursions.

Jane found travelling in the Daimler rather like travelling in an old-fashioned chariot that had been most carefully preserved, and had the most comfortably sprung seats of any vehicle she had ever travelled in.

Dinner was at eight, and after that they played card games and listened to the Swiss news on the radio. There was a
television set in the villa, but Mrs. Bowman never watched it and Jane found the programme unfamiliar and without much appeal for her. Her French was good enough for short conversations and shopping, and she knew a certain amount of German and a very little Italian; but plays in French and German were definitely over her head
...
although Florence, with no knowledge whatsoever of any language but her own, spent hours when she was off duty glued to the television set. It was, in fact, her only real diversion.

Usually Mrs. Bowman went to bed about ten o’clock, and at that hour Jane also went to her room, and sometimes she wrote letters, and sometimes she simply drew a chair up to her window and gazed at the tranquil loveliness of the lake, and the night-enshrouded garden below her.

No visitors came to the villa during that first week, but Dr. Delacroix paid his regular visit at the beginning of the second week, and Florence warned Jane when he might be expected on the morning of the
day on which he actually looked in to see his patient.

Mrs. Bowman had sat up rather late the n
i
ght before, and she was still in her room at a quarter to twelve when the doctor’s car turned in at the villa gates. Apparently Mrs. Bowman objected very strongly to being visited by her doctor in her bedroom unless she was really ill, and
Florence showed the doctor into the main
salon
to await the descent of her mistress as soon as she had finished her dressing. Jane, who had been reading in the arbour, came in from the garden wearing dark glasses and a striped cotton dress with no sleeves and a low neck, and although she had seen the doctor’s car she was not prepared to find Mrs. Bowman’s practitioner striding up and down a trifle restlessly in the
salon
, while his patient remained upstairs in her room.

She took off her glasses and stared at him, and he stared back ... in fact, he stared so hard that but for her surprise she would have been quite disconcerted.

She was disconcerted in any case, but it was for a different reason.

“You!” she said.

Dr. Delacroix had picked up a book and had been glancing idly through it as he prowled restlessly about the room, but now he put it down and concentrated all his attention on Jane.

“I do not understand,” he said, and his black brows met in an enquiring frown.

Jane didn’t understand, either
...
but now she knew why there had been something vaguely familiar about that tall dark figure striding back to his car a week ago. She had seen him before, and she had seen him on two occasions. He was, in fact, her passenger in the taxi on the way to the Hotel Continental, and the very same man
whom a beautiful young woman had delightedly welcomed as ‘Jules’.

“You must be Dr. Delacroix,” she said.

Still frowning, he bowed to her very slightly in acknowledgment.

“I am,” he said.

“And we’ve met before
... on two occasions
!”

“I do recall them.” Her frock was candy pink and white stripes, and she had already acquired a delightful coating of tan which overlaid the smooth perfection of her skin in a most attractive way. Her hair was a little disordered, because a breeze from the lake had been ruffling it, but the sun had bleached it, and there were bronzish patches highlighting the blackbird darkness that was rather like the darkness of his own hair. But by contrast with his swarthy virility she was a symphony in delicate hues that quite obviously was inclined to intrigue him, for he seemed unable to remove his eyes from her. However, to prove that he was not entirely bowled over by her appearance he added with considerable dryness: “You must forgive me if I seem a lit
tl
e surprised, but the last time I saw you you were a tourist, and now it seems you are also a friend of Madame Bowman.”

“Madame Bowman is my employer.”

“I beg your pardon?” He simply stood and stared at her. “Did you say your employer?”

“Yes. I have come out from England to be her companion.”

“
You? Her companion
?”

Jane smiled wryly.

“It is obvious you don’t think I am the ideal companion for anyone,” she commented, “and most certainly not Madame Bowman. But then you don’t know much about me, do you?”

“I know even less than I thought I knew about you,” he returned, in such a tone of frozen disapproval that it was her turn to stare questioningly at him. “When we met by chance outside the railway station you gave me quite clearly to understand that you were a tourist, and I gathered you were making the Hotel Continental your headquarters for so long as you remained in St. Vaizey. Why, you even accepted advice from me concerning various expeditions you should make during your stay—”

Her face flushed.

“Oh, come now, Dr. Delacroix,” she expostulated. “I did nothing of the kind! I allowed you to
offer
me advice, but I never said I had the smallest intention of acting upon it. As a matter of fact, I saw no reason why I should discuss my concerns with you, and it was you who took it upon yourself to treat me as a tourist, when you had no reason whatsoever to suppose I was anything of the kind. You saw my name on a suitcase and deduced that I was a Miss Nightingale—without, I must point out, giving me the least idea who you were!—and because I was booked in at the Continental were apparently
unable to believe I was anything
but
a tourist. Only tourists, apparently, ever arrive in Switzerland—”

“You could have corrected me when I assumed you were here on holiday.”

“It didn’t seem to me it was important enough to be made so crystal clear.”

“I see.” She could tell by the angry flash in his eyes and the sudden tightening of his lips that this unusually attractive man, who was apparently a fashionable local doctor, accepted this as a deliberate snub—which, as a matter of fact, it was intended to be. “You did not think it polite to return interest with truth? Had you done so I could have explained that I was Madame Bowman’s medical adviser, and that I highly approved of her engaging a companion to live with her. She needs someone apart from the dour Florence to look after her
...
and, naturally, had I had the least idea who you were, I would have properly introduced myself.”

She tried to sound casual.

“It didn’t really matter, Doctor. We were bound to meet sooner or later.”

“Quite.” But the icy snap in the word surprised her. “However, we might have met without confusion, and without my making quite so many false assumptions. You are not a tourist, and you are, apparently, someone quite well known to Madame Bowman ... she did, in fact, discuss you with me before your arrival. I gather
that there is some connection between you and a member of her family?”

“Connection?” Her vividly attractive eyes opened wide. “Now, I wonder what you mean by that?”

It was his turn to look slightly embarrassed. He turned a little away from her, and set down the book he had been holding.

“I apologise,” he said stiffly. “Your concerns are, as you pointed out to me just now, your own. I was not attempting to pry into your affairs.”

She stared at
him ...
and then a gradual glimmering of what he meant broke like a faint light over her. Mrs. Bowman had already made it clear to her that she
more than suspected an attachment between her one and only nephew and the girl for whom he had secured a temporary respite in Switzerland, and apparently she had passed on what little information she thought she had to her doctor. Jane bit her lip, tempted to correct his wrong impression there and then.

And then—perhaps because of his attitude—she decided that it really was no concern of his, and the less he knew about her the better. He was not her medical adviser, and apart from his weekly visits she was not likely to see much of him while she was in St. Vaizey.

At any rate, she hoped not. From the very beginning he had antagonised her for a reason
that was not quite clear, unless it was that she suspected him of arrogance and a kind of lofty condescension, and had particularly objected when he insisted on paying for her taxi. He hadn’t even given her the opportunity to argue with him about it.

The door opened, and Madame Bowman came in. She was wearing one of her warm woollen dresses, despite the heat, with a silk shawl draped round her shoulders, and as usual she fairly sparkled with rings and brooches. She apologised in her faded, charming voice for keeping the doctor waiting, and then was apparent
l
y delighted because he had already met Miss Nightingale. It didn’t apparently strike her immediately that their getting to know one another had scarcely awakened much pleasure in their respective breasts, and she simply exclaimed in a happy tone that it was so nice that Jane had managed to prevent the doctor from becoming bored.

“You know, he is such a
terribly
busy man, and I feel guilty whenever I keep him waiting,” she said, addressing Jane. “But when in addition to keeping him waiting I know that he is kicking his heels down here and wondering why I refuse to open my windows in the heat of the day, and why I
will
surround myself with so much unnecessary furniture, w
h
y then, it really agitates me.”

And in proof of her agitation she smiled placidly at Dr. Delacroix.

He put her into her chair and smiled back at her in a restrained manner.

“It’s not the amount of furniture with which you surround yourself that I object to,” he replied, “it’s the bric-a-brac. I’m inclined to fall over it.”

Madame Bowman chuckled.

“You should see his clinic,” she said to Jane, “and his own house. So clinically clean and impartial, I call it.”

“I like to be impartial,” the doctor observed quietly.

His patient looked up at him. For the first time it struck her that he was slightly ruffled about something ... and when she transferred her attention to Jane she thought she appeared somewhat ruffled, too.

Obviously they had not made the sort of impression on one another that one would have thought.

“Well now, I am rather pressed for time this morning, so if you don’t mind my putting the usual leading questions to you I will,” he said.

He looked round with an enquiring eye at the English girl. “Do you wish Miss Nightingale to remain?” he asked stiffly.

“But of course.” Mrs. Bowman was still very placid. “She and I have already got to know one another and in the future I shall have no
secrets from her. If you think my health shows
signs of deteriorating she must certainly be the first to hear about it.”

He frowned.

“There is no question of your health deteriorating, Madame, and you are really very tough.” He had his finger on her pulse, and he nodded to confirm his statement. “Yes; I find you in very good health this morning, Madame.”

“Splendid.” She smiled whimsically. “Since Jane arrived I have really felt quite remarkably well, and it must be because her arrival was like a tonic. We play games after dinner until an hour you would consider quite unrespectable for one of my advanced years and frailty; and each drive Andre takes us lasts a little longer because Jane knows nothing at all about Switzerland, and I absolutely insist that we show her as much as we can. Really, Doctor, nothing that you can prescribe in tablet form can do me as much good as my new companion, I’m sure of that,” and she beamed across at Jane affectionately.