Home>>read Nurse Abroad free online

Nurse Abroad(7)

By:Essie Summers


Sarah filled a bucket and began to scrub the kitchen floor. Pauline peeled potatoes and carrots and chopped up the rhubarb, delighted to be cook. Rory ran around filling coal buckets, bringing in wood, lighting the range. Sarah felt better for the meal, better still for the long, peaceful afternoon.

At four, Rory, who’d been missing for a while, dashed in to say, “Me and Pauline’s going into Cheviot with Mr. Alexander. He’s got a ring to say our stuff’s arrived—”

Sarah said sharply, “Rory! Did you ask if you could go? ... because you mustn’t make nuisances of yourselves.”

“No—he asked me.”

“Sure?”

Rory sighed. “Och, Sarah, the man said, ‘Coming, kids?’ and we said, ‘Aye, sure,’ and that’s all there was to it.”

Sarah laughed. “All right—but don’t weary him to death asking questions all the way.”

They weren’t away long and Sarah was glad to see the stuff arriving. She could get the beds made before a late tea, the meal that served instead of dinner here, and it would be a heartwarming link with the past to have their own knick-knacks about them, their pictures and ornaments.

Grant Alexander dumped the packing cases in the yard, produced a crowbar and began to lever them open. Sarah went out.

“If you just leave me the crowbar, Mr. Alexander, I can manage them, thank you. I’ll get Rory to return the crowbar.”

“Oh?” He surveyed her coolly, from her sensible shoes to the sacking apron tied over her lilac overall. “So you’re useful as well as ornamental?”

Sarah lifted an eyebrow. She would give no quarter and expect none.

“Do you ever say anything pleasant, Mr. Alexander?”

He chuckled. It was a maddening sound. “Oh, yes. I show my less flinty side to people I like and respect.”

A package fell out of the top of the case. Sarah swooped, picked it up, unwrapped it, anxiously inspected it.

“Oh, the glass isn’t broken,” she said, relieved. The pictured face looked up at her steadily with wise, kind eyes. Roderick Rendall. The suddenness of it brought a rush of tears to her eyes. She blinked rapidly to clear them, furious at betraying sentiment.

The man beside her glanced at her sharply, said, “Oh—I’m sorry.”

She looked up. “Sorry for what?”

“For saying just that ... I—”

“Mr. Alexander!” Her voice held rich amusement, tempered with a fine scorn. “You don’t really think anything you could say would touch me to tears?” She laughed shortly. “It was this,” her fingernail tapped the photograph. “It’s sometimes too much to be suddenly confronted with the photo of someone you loved so dearly. My stepfather.”

She didn’t know if his tone held embarrassment or doubt. “Not all stepdaughters are so fond of their stepfathers. They seem to resent them from the word go.”

Sarah laughed, and for the first time her voice was natural, free from enmity.

“Not all stepfathers are like mine. Besides, the first time I ever met him he saved my life. So resentment would have been impossible. He was a fine man, physically and spiritually. Entirely unafraid, completely just, warmhearted and lovable. When I remember his way of meeting life ... even you can’t intimidate me.”

Grant Alexander said, “And yet, despite the fact that this fine man brought you up, just because my uncle was the unwitting cause of your losing your stepfather and mother, you could actually think it fair that you should inherit his personal fortune?”

Sarah’s eyes held his. “I saw this as a chance for the children to go on leading the sort of life they were used to. Country life. Not cooped up in a city orphanage, or left alone at night in a poky London flat while I was on duty. They were used to running wild after school; the manse had a huge glebe. We had cows and sheep, a goat, pigs. I saw this as the only way out for them.”

“—And feathered your own nest at the same time?”

“No.” Sarah’s voice was quiet, hiding her inner tumult. “I expect nothing from the estate but my keep, and a roof over my head.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh, turned on his heel and left her.

Rediscovering their family treasures, even though this had its poignant moments, did something to ease the ache in Sarah’s heart.

The kitchen was a sunny one, with wide casement windows running the full length of one wall. It had a red and cream enamel coal range, bright blue checked curtains at the windows, painted chairs and table. Sarah realized they would live mostly in here, and concentrated on getting it liveable. She put their willow-pattern dishes on the grey painted dresser, hung their wag-at-the-wall clock, that was as dear as a friend, on the wall, and a picture of their parents, standing on the steps of the old stone manse, above the mantel.

Finally, Sarah set a big stone-colored crock of hawthorn blossom on the table, and felt the house had come alive and was a home.

She took a delight in lining the shelves of the press with clean paper and stacking piles of linen on them. Pauline’s dolls came out, their books went on the shelves. Sarah knew a pang as she opened up a box to see her textbooks in it. She carefully tacked the lid back on.

There was still plenty to do, but Sarah knew she must not attempt everything at once. The mattresses were aired, the beds made, they could have their tea and relax. After the children were in bed and asleep, she would sit and rest, and forget all about her hateful partner.

The next day passed pleasantly enough, with little seen of Grant Alexander beyond his putting his head in the door at milking time and saying, “I could do with a willing lad to manage that skittish heifer, Rory,” and adding, in answer to the frustrated look on Pauline’s face, “And if you’d like to take over the fowls, Pauline ... hens, you’ll call them, I guess ... we’d all be grateful.” She heard him add as he marched away between the two children, “Mind, Pauline, the job’s got to be done well. I’ll show you once.”

She had no fears for her tawny-haired little sister; she could fight her own battles and everyone else’s too. In no time at all Grant Alexander would find his poultry yard and himself organized to the last breath.

The following day Sarah got an official-looking envelope in the mail, opened it, took in the contents in one disbelieving look, read it again, and stood still, her hands clenched. It was from a firm of solicitors in Christchurch ... Grant Alexander’s solicitors—her solicitors.

Baldly, they offered to buy out her share of the estate. Their client, Mr. Grant Alexander, would raise the money, and buy her out for cash. Less baldly, and with a note of persuasion, they informed her that this was indeed a very generous offer, and that no doubt she would see that the advantages of this lay with her. Miss Isbister, they felt, would immediately realize the benefits that would thus accrue to her and to the children under her care. They, the solicitors, were more than willing to assist Miss Isbister to purchase a home in the city, where educational advantages for the children were much better, and she herself would find cultural interest lacking in the country. And they were hers faithfully, Coombes, Bodkin, and Greyfriars.

Sarah put the letter on the kitchen table, walked to the window, gazed out at the overgrown orchard where blossom was falling like snow in summer, the fruit beginning to set ... at the horses in the paddock, the gentle rolling hills beyond, the incredibly blue sky blobbed with soap-sud clouds.... This was so right for Rory who wanted to be a farmer, for Pauline who wanted to train as a veterinary expert.

The offer was tempting. Given a suitable house in Christchurch, which she had heard referred to as “the garden city,” and the balance of the money invested as income, she could probably find some way of doing the work nearest her heart—nursing. Perhaps she could buy a house large enough to take in a few convalescent patients ... then she would be free of Grant Alexander’s sarcastic remarks, the antagonism, the injustice.

Something Sarah would not recognize stirred within her. A desire to prove to this man that the motive of feathering her own nest was not what had brought her here; a longing to disarm him, to gain his respect, to compel him to recognize in her qualities that would give the lie to all he suspected her to be.

Sarah picked up the letter—walked slowly across to the homestead. Her partner was sitting having a cup of morning tea with Mrs. Mac.

“May I use the telephone, please, Mr. Alexander?”

He waved her to the instrument on the kitchen wall. “Or would you prefer to use the extension in my study, if it’s of a private nature?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. It’s purely business.”

She laid down the letter beside the telephone and knew his eyes were resting on it, curiously.

Sarah got the local exchange, gave her name and the Challowsford number, and was told they would ring her back. She leaned nonchalantly against the wall till the call came through, then said, “This is the address,” and gave the telegraphic code name of Coombes, Bodkin, and Greyfriars, which, as it ran “Coombod,” would be perfectly clear to Grant Alexander.

She said clearly, “This is the text: ‘Proposition not to be considered,’ and sign it ‘Sarah Isbister.’ And, exchange, would you tell me how much the charge is, or do I ring another number?”