An Independent Woman. Бетти Нилс
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He was an excellent surgeon and he loved his work, and he had friends who would be his for life, but he had no use for casual acquaintances. He had a social life when his work permitted, and was much sought after as a dinner party guest. Since he was unmarried, he could have taken his pick of any of the women he met. But, although he was a pleasant companion, he showed no interest in any of them. Somewhere in the world, he supposed, there was the woman he would fall in love with and want for his wife, but he was no longer young and he would probably end his days as a crusty old bachelor.
It wasn’t until he was driving back to London a few days later that he thought about the three Gracey sisters. Ruth would make Thomas a good wife: a beautiful girl with her shy smile and gentle voice. He thought only fleetingly of Julia. Pretty, he supposed, but sharp-tongued, and she made no effort to be pleasant. She was the last person he imagined would spend her days writing sentimental verses for greetings cards, and what woman in her senses wore dresses made from curtains? He laughed, and forgot her.
The dance was ten days later, and, since the firm had had a good year, it was to be held at one of the more prestigious hotels. There was to be a buffet supper before everyone went to the hotel ballroom, and Ruth and Monica, anxious that Julia should enjoy herself, lent slippers and an old but still magnificent shawl which had belonged to their mother. They sent her there in a taxi— an unnecessary expense, Julia protested; the journey there would have been a lengthy one by bus but far cheaper. However, they insisted, privately of the opinion that Oscar could have come and fetched her instead of meeting her there…
The dress, despite its origin, was a success, simply made, but it fitted where it should, and unless anyone had actually seen the curtain, hanging in the spare bedroom, one would never have known…
Julia walked out of the taxi feeling quite pleased with herself, straight into the Professor’s person.
He set her tidily on her feet. ‘Well, well, Miss Julia Gracey. Unexpected and delightful.’ He looked around him. ‘You are alone?’
She bade him good evening in a choked voice. ‘I am meeting someone in the hotel.’
She glanced around, looking without much hope for Oscar. There was no sign of him, of course. He had said that he would be at the hotel entrance, waiting for her. She supposed that she would have to go inside and look for him. She was not easily daunted, but the hotel’s imposing entrance and the equally imposing appearance of the doorman daunted her now, and how and by what misfortune had the Professor got here? Surely he hadn’t anything to do with greetings cards?
It seemed not. He said easily, ‘I’m meeting friends here. We may as well go in together.’ He paid the cabby and took her arm. ‘Your friend will be looking for you inside?’
He was being kind, with a casual kindness it was impossible to resent. She sought frantically for something to say as the doorman opened the doors with a flourish and they joined the people in the foyer.
There was no sign of Oscar. She had been a fool to accept his invitation; she didn’t even like him much.
‘Let me have your shawl,’ said the Professor. ‘I’ll let the girl have it.’ And he had taken it from her and left her for a moment, returning with a ticket which he tucked into the little handbag hanging from her wrist.
She found her tongue then, ‘Thank you. I’ll—I’ll wait here. Oscar will find me…’
‘Oscar?’ She mistrusted his casual voice. ‘Ah, yes, of course. And if I’m not mistaken this must be he…’
She should have been glad to see him, and she might well have been if he had expressed regret at not meeting her promptly. But all he did was thump her on the shoulder and say heartily, ‘Sorry old lady. I got held up; so many people wanted to have a chat.’
He looked her up and down. ‘Got yourself a new dress for the occasion? Not bad, not bad at all…’
His glance fell upon the Professor, who had made no attempt to go away.
‘Do I know you?’
Julia, aware of the Professor’s eyes fixed on the curtain, said tartly, ‘No, Oscar, you don’t. This is Professor van der Maes. He knows Ruth’s fiancé.’
Oscar looked uneasy under the Professor’s cool gaze. ‘Nice to meet you. Come along, Julia, I’ll find you somewhere to sit; I’ve one or two important clients to talk to, but we’ll be able to dance presently.’
He nodded in a condescending manner at the Professor, who took no notice but said pleasantly to Julia, ‘I do hope you have a happy evening,’ and, as Oscar turned away rudely to speak to a passing couple, ‘but I doubt it.’ He looked amused. ‘I can’t say that I agree with Oscar about your dress, but then I know it’s a curtain, don’t I?’
He was sorry the moment he had said it; for a moment she had the look of a small girl who had been slapped for no reason at all. But only for a moment. Julia stared up into his handsome face. ‘Go away, Professor. I don’t like you and I hope I never see you again.’
She had spoken quietly but she looked daggers at him. She turned her back then, surprised at how upset she felt. After all, she hadn’t liked him the first time, and she couldn’t care less if he jeered at the dress or liked it. If Oscar liked it, that was all that mattered, she told herself, not believing a word of it. But presently, when Oscar had finished his conversation, she went with him to the hotel ballroom, to be sat on one of the little gilt chairs and told to wait awhile until he had the leisure to dance with her.
A not very promising prospect—but quickly lightened by a number of men who, seeing a pretty girl sitting by herself, danced her off in rapid succession. Which served Oscar right by the time he found himself ready to partner her.
‘Some of these modern dances are not dignified,’ he told her severely, propelling her round the ballroom with correct stiffness. ‘You would have done better to have sat quietly until I was free to come to you.’
‘But I like to dance, Oscar.’
‘Dancing in moderation is splendid exercise,’ said Oscar, at his stuffiest.
They came to a dignified halt as the music stopped. Julia spoke her thoughts out loud. ‘Do you want to marry me, Oscar?’ she asked.
He looked at her with astonishment and displeasure.
‘My dear Julia, what a very—very…’ he sought for the right word ‘…unwomanly remark to make. I must only hope it was a slight aberration of the tongue.’
‘It wasn’t anything to do with my tongue; it was a thought in my head.’ She looked at him. ‘You haven’t answered me, Oscar?’
‘I have no intention of doing so. I am shocked, Julia. Perhaps you should retire to the ladies’ room and compose yourself.’
‘You sound like someone in a Victorian novel,’ she told him. ‘But, yes, I think that would be best.’
The ballroom was at the back of the hotel; it took her a few moments to find the cloakroom where the Professor had left her wrap. She would have to take a bus, she hadn’t enough money for a taxi, but it wasn’t late and there were plenty of people about. She wrapped the vast mohair shawl she and her sisters shared for evening occasions round her and crossed the foyer, comfortably full of people. And halfway to the door the Professor, apparently appearing from thin air, put a hand on her arm.
‘Not leaving already?’he wanted to know. ‘It’s barely an hour since you arrived.’
She had to stop, his hand, resting so lightly on her arm, nevertheless reminding her of a ball and chain. She said politely, ‘Yes, I’m leaving, Professor.’ She looked at his hand. ‘Goodbye.’
He took no notice; neither did he remove his hand.
‘You’re upset; you have the look of someone about to explode. I’ll take you home.’
‘No, thank you. I’m quite capable of getting myself home.’
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