Waiting for Deborah. Бетти Нилс
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the drawing-room Sir James, with guile, charm and an iron determination, was getting his own way. On their way downstairs Dr Benson had mentioned that the old lady owned a cottage: ‘A charming place but rather far away on the estuary near Kingsbridge—secluded but near enough for the usual medical services.’
An ideal solution to the problem of Mrs Vernon’s future, said Sir James blandly, a few months in peaceful surroundings and she stood a good chance of taking up some kind of life again. And in the meantime Mrs Vernon would be able to have the chance to recover from her weeks of nursing and anxiety. Her present attendant could continue with her since she was accustomed to her and arrangements could be made for the local doctor to attend her and for her to have physiotherapy.
Mrs Vernon opened her mouth to refuse, caught her husband’s eye and closed it again. ‘It could be arranged,’ said Mr Vernon, middle-aged and anxious to have the tiresome affair settled. His aunt had money of her own, a substantial fortune which he would inherit, and since it seemed likely that she wouldn’t live for many more years it would be very convenient to have her out of the house. Her will was safely in the hands of his solicitor and since she was unable to write he saw no danger there. The girl Deborah might prove a nuisance, coaxing money from the old lady, but he could soon put a stop to that …
Sir James watched his face and guessed what he was thinking. ‘Of course, your aunt could remain here; it would mean moving her to a downstairs room so that later on she could be wheeled into the garden.’ A remark which served to make up Mrs Vernon’s mind for her.
‘She shall go to the cottage,’ she declared. ‘It will be a great nuisance arranging her removal but if it is for my aunt’s benefit then nothing is too much trouble.’
Sir James’s eyes gleamed beneath their lids but all he said was, ‘I shall be glad to consult with Dr Benson when he considers Mrs Vernon fit to be moved.’ He then made his goodbyes gravely and drove himself away. He had done what he could for Mrs Vernon and for the carroty-haired girl; he had no doubt that they would both be a great deal happier in the cottage than they were shut away in that upstairs room.
A MONTH passed before Dr Benson judged it was time to consult Sir James again. Mrs Vernon was sitting propped up in bed now with quite a lot of movement in her arms and hands and dangling her legs over the side of the bed under Deborah’s anxious eye. There had been talk of a physiotherapist coming twice a week, but it had come to nothing, so she had followed Dr Benson’s instructions and massaged and rubbed and encouraged the old lady. Her speech was returning too, slurred and almost unintelligible, and each day she laboriously wrote little messages in a shaky hand, and all these little miracles were ignored by her niece, who visited her each morning, asked how she was and went away again.
Deborah, asking for a half-day so that she might go to Lechlade and do some necessary shopping, had been treated to a tirade concerning the pleasant life she led with almost nothing to do, her tiresome habit of asking for this and that that the old lady needed when everyone knew that they were quite unnecessary, but she stuck to her guns in her quiet way and got her afternoon off.
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