The Other Linding Girl Read Online Free
Author: Mary Burchell
quickly, before anyone could query an arrangement which suited him so excellently. “And now perhaps we can have dinner.”
So they all went in to dinner, which was—in spite of the fact that Hester hurried things rather—a much more elaborate affair than Rachel was used to at home. All the same, she more than once spared a nostalgic thought for the dear, shabby dining-room in Loriville, where the family were probably just sitting down to their evening meal.
As soon as dinner was over, her aunt said briskly, “Come on, Rachel, you and I had better get dressed. Will you come back for me, Oliver? I don’t expect Nigel will take the Rolls. He’s funny about driving Everard’s car.” She spoke exactly as though neither her brother nor her husband was present, Rachel noticed. “And there isn’t room for two evening dresses in that little runabout of his. ”
Then she swept her niece out of the room and upstairs, enquiring rather impatiently on the way how long it took her to dress.
“Not long,” Rachel promised, with a smile, and her young aunt left her, to attend to what evidently promised to be more elaborate preparations on her part. True to her undertaking, Rachel was downstairs again in good time, wearing the simple but very well-cut white evening dress which she had bought because Elizabeth had insisted (with all the authority of an affectionate elder sister) that it “did things for her.” Unquestionably it flattered her already admirable figure, and added subtle, warm overtones to the colouring of her smooth skin. And it made her uncle exclaim;
“My dear, you look charming! You make me quite sorry I’m not coming too,” he added gallantly.
“I’m also sorry.” Rachel smiled at him. “But of course there’s no question of your being out late if you start operating early tomorrow.”
“No, no—Hester finds it so difficult to accept these things ” Sir Everard rubbed a hand over his forehead in a worried way, and Rachel felt genuinely sorry for him.
“Being brought up in a doctor’s household makes it easier for me to understand,” she explained soothingly. “It’s difficult, I expect, if one hasn’t had that background.”
“True, true. Hester’s background wasn’t a very good preparation for this sort of dedicated life, I’m afraid.” He used the word “dedicated” with such simple sincerity that Rachel saw him for a moment stripped of his little foibles and poses, and realised why he was a great doctor.
“She doesn’t come of medical people?” Rachel asked gently.
“No, no. Her people were literary .” Sir Everard said this as though it constituted a disease, though a minor one. “Almost ‘arty’, one might say,” he added, in an unexpected burst of family candour. “The father was a clever man, but quite impractical, and the mother had lots of degrees but no sense.”
“Rather a bohemian sort of life, do you mean?” Rachel suggested politely, though she was faintly embarrassed at the personal turn the conversation had taken.
“You know, it was almost that,” agreed Sir Everard, as though shocked at finding the word applied to anything remotely connected with him. “Hester was clever and pretty enough to break away and find her own level. But it was a bad preparation for life in her brother’s case. Very bad,” he repeated, and frowned, as Nigel Seton’s gay voice was heard calling something to his sister upstairs.
Rachel, a little at a loss to know how to reply tactfully to this, was silent. And, a few moments later, Nigel Seton came running downstairs and into the room. She naturally looked at him with fresh interest, in view of her uncle’s recent strictures. But, though he looked quite extraordinarily handsome in his evening clothes, it was difficult to fit him exactly into the role of irresponsible playboy.
It was not, Rachel reflected further, altogether easy to fit him into any role. In some odd way, he defied any sort of real definition. With
So they all went in to dinner, which was—in spite of the fact that Hester hurried things rather—a much more elaborate affair than Rachel was used to at home. All the same, she more than once spared a nostalgic thought for the dear, shabby dining-room in Loriville, where the family were probably just sitting down to their evening meal.
As soon as dinner was over, her aunt said briskly, “Come on, Rachel, you and I had better get dressed. Will you come back for me, Oliver? I don’t expect Nigel will take the Rolls. He’s funny about driving Everard’s car.” She spoke exactly as though neither her brother nor her husband was present, Rachel noticed. “And there isn’t room for two evening dresses in that little runabout of his. ”
Then she swept her niece out of the room and upstairs, enquiring rather impatiently on the way how long it took her to dress.
“Not long,” Rachel promised, with a smile, and her young aunt left her, to attend to what evidently promised to be more elaborate preparations on her part. True to her undertaking, Rachel was downstairs again in good time, wearing the simple but very well-cut white evening dress which she had bought because Elizabeth had insisted (with all the authority of an affectionate elder sister) that it “did things for her.” Unquestionably it flattered her already admirable figure, and added subtle, warm overtones to the colouring of her smooth skin. And it made her uncle exclaim;
“My dear, you look charming! You make me quite sorry I’m not coming too,” he added gallantly.
“I’m also sorry.” Rachel smiled at him. “But of course there’s no question of your being out late if you start operating early tomorrow.”
“No, no—Hester finds it so difficult to accept these things ” Sir Everard rubbed a hand over his forehead in a worried way, and Rachel felt genuinely sorry for him.
“Being brought up in a doctor’s household makes it easier for me to understand,” she explained soothingly. “It’s difficult, I expect, if one hasn’t had that background.”
“True, true. Hester’s background wasn’t a very good preparation for this sort of dedicated life, I’m afraid.” He used the word “dedicated” with such simple sincerity that Rachel saw him for a moment stripped of his little foibles and poses, and realised why he was a great doctor.
“She doesn’t come of medical people?” Rachel asked gently.
“No, no. Her people were literary .” Sir Everard said this as though it constituted a disease, though a minor one. “Almost ‘arty’, one might say,” he added, in an unexpected burst of family candour. “The father was a clever man, but quite impractical, and the mother had lots of degrees but no sense.”
“Rather a bohemian sort of life, do you mean?” Rachel suggested politely, though she was faintly embarrassed at the personal turn the conversation had taken.
“You know, it was almost that,” agreed Sir Everard, as though shocked at finding the word applied to anything remotely connected with him. “Hester was clever and pretty enough to break away and find her own level. But it was a bad preparation for life in her brother’s case. Very bad,” he repeated, and frowned, as Nigel Seton’s gay voice was heard calling something to his sister upstairs.
Rachel, a little at a loss to know how to reply tactfully to this, was silent. And, a few moments later, Nigel Seton came running downstairs and into the room. She naturally looked at him with fresh interest, in view of her uncle’s recent strictures. But, though he looked quite extraordinarily handsome in his evening clothes, it was difficult to fit him exactly into the role of irresponsible playboy.
It was not, Rachel reflected further, altogether easy to fit him into any role. In some odd way, he defied any sort of real definition. With