Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (32 page)

***

After lunch, when Matthew finally emerged from his office and she gave him his messages, Marianne handed over the note from Mr Jenkins as well.

He frowned and glanced up at her. “When did you take this?”

“This morning. About ten o’clock, I think.”

“Why didn’t you let me know?”

Marianne blinked. “Because you were busy. And because Lynn told me, on pain of death, not to ever put Mr Jenkins through to you as he only likes to hear himself talk.”

“His bitch Gypsy is pregnant. This might be a breach, or pyometra. She could die if she isn’t operated on at once. You should’ve told me this straight away.”

He turned on his heel and went into the surgery to grab up his medical bag.

“I’m sorry.” She thrust her chair back. “I didn’t think –”

“No, you didn’t,” he bit off as he strode to the door. “Luckily, your job isn’t to think, Miss Holland; that’s my job. But at the very
least
I expect you to relay my messages promptly. I just hope I’m not too bloody late.”

He slammed out of the clinic and started up the truck, and a moment later he drove off.

Marianne went to the window and watched as the truck tore off towards Carywick, and the Jenkins farm.

I just hope I’m not too late.

She brought her fisted hand up to her mouth and felt tears well up and spill over. Oh, God – what had she done? She prayed that she hadn’t left it too late, that Gypsy and her pups would make it through all right.

More importantly, she prayed that Mr Jenkins – and Matthew – would forgive her if she didn’t.

Chapter 46

It was late in the day and the clinic had closed when Matthew finally emerged from the surgery. His face was tired and drawn. He’d returned from the Jenkins farm early that afternoon with Gypsy and had taken her straight into the surgery.

Marianne pushed his diary aside and looked up at him fearfully. “How’s Gypsy? Will she be all right?”

“She will, yes. But the pups didn’t make it.”

A small sob escaped her. “Oh, God, no! It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Tears welled and streaked down her face. “Because I didn’t get word to you soon enough.”

“Gyspy had pyometra – an infection of the womb. I had to remove her uterus.” He paused. “And no, it wasn’t your fault. It was already too late to save the pups before I arrived; she miscarried. But you should’ve told me sooner, or put Mr Jenkins through.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, stricken. “I truly am. I thought he was just after a bit of attention, like he always is.”

“You thought wrong.” His words were cold. “You’re to put Jenkins – or anyone else who urgently needs to speak with me – through, unless I’m in the operating surgery or out of the office. Then, and only then, you put them through to Dr Wilson, or take a message. Understood?”

She managed a nod. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“See that it doesn’t,” he told her, his words curt. “Or I’ll have no choice but to give you the sack.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, miserably.

He turned back towards the surgery. “So am I.”

***

That night, Marianne barely slept. She tossed and turned and pummelled the pillow as images of Gypsy, so limp and lifeless in Matthew’s arms when he’d carried her into the clinic that afternoon, looped over and over again in her thoughts.

What if the dog had died on the operating table? It would’ve been her fault.

But what hurt more than anything was the disappointment she saw in Matthew’s eyes when he looked at her. She’d let him down; she’d not only failed Gypsy and Mr Jenkins, she’d let herself down, and worse…she’d let Matthew down.

And his good opinion of her mattered more than she realised, especially now that she no longer had it.

Marianne gave up on further sleep at 5 a.m. and threw the covers back to get showered and dressed and ready for work. She dreaded the thought of seeing Matthew, of seeing the censure in his eyes every time he glanced her way.

At least it’s Friday
, she thought dully as she stepped into the shower.
After today, there’s
only another half-day to get through
.

She came downstairs at half-past six to find Elinor sat at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

“What are you doing up so early?” Marianne asked as she switched on the kettle and took down a cup.

Elinor shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I. I spent so much time tossing and turning last night, I felt like I was at sea, sitting in a leaky rowboat with no oars and no direction.”

“I know the feeling.” She watched as Marianne dropped a tea bag in her cup and filled it with boiling water. “I kept seeing Edward’s face in my dreams, telling me how much he loves and admires Lucy and how glad he is that I understand.”

“That’s not a dream,” Marianne said flatly as she sat down at the table with her tea. “That’s a nightmare.”

Elinor managed a wan smile. “I can’t argue that. What kept you up? Are you still upset over Willoughby?”

Marianne took a sip of her tea and considered. “Not as much, no. I don’t understand why he treated me so badly – I guess I never will – but I haven’t much choice except to put it behind me and move on.”

“That’s very sensible,” Elinor agreed.

“Sensible? That’s rich, coming from you,” Marianne said, but smiled. She sighed. “I’m probably the least sensible person on earth.” Briefly, she relayed the incident with Gypsy and Mr Jenkins the day before, and stared into her cup in misery. “I let him down, Ellie. And I feel awful.”

“Who? Mr Jenkins? I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way,” Elinor assured her. “It was an understandable mistake to make, really, given what Lynn told you. You only did what you thought was right based on her instructions.”

“No, I mean Matthew.” She looked up. “He was furious at me, and who can blame him? It was a stupid thing to do. He said it wasn’t my fault the puppies didn’t make it, and I do believe him, but…” Tears welled and stung her eyes once again. “I can’t help but blame myself. And it hurts. It hurts, so much.”

Her sister got up from the table and came to put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders. “Shh,” she soothed, and reached in her pocket for a tissue. “These things happen sometimes. No one knows why, or what the reasons are. But if Dr Brandon says you weren’t to blame, then you weren’t. You have to go easy on yourself, and then you have to try and let it go.”

Marianne blew her nose. “Easier said than done,” she muttered, and sniffled. “How’d you get to be so bloody wise, anyway?”

“I’m hardly that,” Elinor replied as she resumed her seat. “According to you, I’m selfless and unfeeling.” But the quick smile she gave her sister took the sting out of her words. “And although I hate to admit it, you’re right.”

“I am?”

“I’m not without feeling.” Elinor sipped her tea with a guarded expression. “I know it seems that way, but I feel deeply, as deeply as you do. I just don’t show it, or share my feelings the way you do. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, or good,” she hastened to add as she saw Marianne’s lips tighten, “it just means we’re different. But you’re right – I should’ve told Edward how I felt. I shouldn’t have kept everything bottled up inside. It just seemed so…useless, to tell him how I felt, once I learned that he and Lucy were engaged. There was no point. There’s even less hope now.”

“There’s always hope,” Marianne said, and reached out to lay her hand on her sister’s. “Edward’s chosen to marry a silly girl, a girl he doesn’t even
love
, all because of some stupid agreement he made with her eons ago. It’s ridiculous. You’re twice the person Lucy is. He’ll be miserably unhappy, but at least he can live out his life
honourably
.” She snorted and finished her tea.

“When you put it that way,” Elinor agreed, “it does sound rather stupid, doesn’t it?”

“Only because it is,” Marianne retorted. She stood up and pushed her chair back. “Time I got to the clinic and faced the music, I suppose. Dr Brandon’s got a full schedule today.”

“His opinion means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Elinor asked.

She looked at her sister. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I suppose it does. I can’t imagine why.”

But as she returned upstairs to fetch her handbag – which Matthew still stubbornly referred to as her ‘purse’ – she knew very well why his opinion of her mattered.

Dr Brandon was a damned good veterinarian. If she had any hope of ever making it into a decent veterinary college and heading up her own practice one day, Matthew’s good word could mean the difference from being accepted into the programme, or turned away.

That being the case, she had every intention of not letting Matthew Brandon down.

But she wanted more than his good opinion, she realised…she wanted him to see her – really
see
her – as more than just the girl who answered the phones and kept his files and insurance forms in order.

She wanted him to look at her as if she mattered to him, not only as his employee, but as his friend.

Even though
, Marianne reflected grimly as she went back downstairs and out of the front door,
he’s the most moody and opinionated man in all of Northumberland..

She climbed into the Fiat with a determined expression, started the engine, and headed towards Endwhistle.

***

Friday at the clinic went by in a blur of appointments and paperwork. Although Dr Brandon was perfectly civil when they crossed paths, Marianne was relieved he spent most of the day in the surgery. Nor did they have lunch together; there wasn’t time to do more than grab a sandwich and a few gulps of coffee in the kitchenette.

So she was surprised when, at the end of the day, Matthew made his way to the front desk. His lab coat and stethoscope were gone, replaced by a grey Oxford shirt and jeans, and his hair, normally so unruly, was neatly combed.

“Have you any plans this evening, Marianne?” he inquired.

She hung up the phone, her movements slow and cautious, and didn’t take her eyes from him, as if he were a potentially rabid dog who might bite. After all, hadn’t he all but torn her to shreds only yesterday?

“You’re speechless.” He lifted his brow. “I never thought to see it.”

“No,” she said, her expression wary. “No plans. Why?”

“I wondered if you’d like to come to mine for dinner. I want to show you that I can do more than stitch up animals and vent my spleen at my receptionist. I can actually cook.”

She blinked. “But…why? You were right, you know. I screwed up. I should’ve put Mr Jenkins’s call through.”

“Yes, you should’ve. But to be fair,” he added as he rested his forearms on the counter, “he
does
usually only want to bend my ear. And you only did what Lynn told you to do. I can hardly blame you for that.”

“Is – is that an actual apology?” she said.

“It is. I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like I did.” A sombre expression flickered over his face. “It’s down to personal stuff and has nothing to do with you. Anyway,” he added, and straightened, “what do you say? Fancy sharing my gran’s famous meatloaf and mash?”

Marianne hesitated. Of all the things Matthew might’ve said or done, she would never have expected to be invited to his house for dinner.

“But we’re going to your father’s house for dinner tomorrow night,” she pointed out. “At Delaford.”

“So we are.” He shrugged. “Lucky you – you’ll get to dine out two nights in a row with two amazingly handsome, socially adept, and charming Brandon men.”

“Don’t forget ‘modest’,” she retorted.

“That goes without saying.”

Marianne laughed. “All right, Dr Brandon, since you make it sound so appealing, then yes. I’d love to have dinner at yours.”

He looked pleased…and a bit surprised. “Really? You will?”

“I will. I admit it,” she added with a grin as she stood up and reached her handbag down from atop the file cabinet.

“Admit what?”

“You had me at ‘meatloaf’.”

Chapter 47

As they rode up the hill to Greensprings in Matthew’s old Land Rover, he and Marianne didn’t speak. But it was a good silence, she decided – the kind of comfortable silence shared between friends, where words became unnecessary.

“I’m honoured to be invited to dinner,” she joked as he turned the truck up the drive to the farm. “Privileged, even.”

He cast her a wry smile. “You should be. You’re the first girl I’ve invited over to mine since –” he stopped, and frowned as he focused on steering round a pothole.

“Since Philippa?” she finished lightly. Immediately she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Now he’d scowl and go all moody and tetchy on her.

“Ah. You know about that, do you?” He glanced at her but didn’t seem surprised, or even particularly upset. “Word gets round in a place as small as Endwhistle, I suppose.”

“I only know that you and she were engaged, and it didn’t work out.”

“No. It didn’t.”

She fell silent as he brought the truck to a stop near the front door and switched off the engine. He offered nothing more and she didn’t press him. She knew him well enough by now to know he’d talk about it when – and if – he was ready.

“Oh, look – there’s Emily,” Marianne said as she spotted the little Blackface lamb – she was a bit bigger, now – grazing in the pasture alongside several other sheep.

They got out and walked up to the fence. “She’s doing well,” Matthew observed. “She’s weaned off the bottle, and now she’s eating alfalfa and grain, and fit as a fiddle.”

“Because of you.” She turned to face him. “You saved her life.”

“Oh, hadaway wit’ you. I only did what any farmer would’ve done.” He pushed himself from the fence. “Come in now, Miss Holland, so I can dazzle you with my culinary skills.”

She glanced at the lambs and ewes. “Don’t you need to bring them in for the night?”

“No. I leave the dogs out to keep an eye on the flock. The ewes and tups keep the little ones safe.”

“What about foxes?” Marianne asked as they headed towards the house. “Don’t they normally prey on lambs?”

“They do, if they can get at a newborn. But the foxes round here are more interested in dining on rodents than sheep. Which is good news for me; bad news for the rodents.”