Rags To Riches Collection. Rebecca Winters

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      She glanced at her mother and father and the euphoria of the morning ebbed way; they so obviously sided with Dr Jenkell.

      ‘Of course you must take this post Dr Jenkell has so kindly arranged for you,’ said her mother. ‘Indeed, you cannot refuse, for I understand that he has already promised that you will do so. As for your training, a few months here or there will make no difference at all. You have all your life before you.’

      ‘You accepted this job for me without telling me?’ asked Araminta of the doctor.

      Her father spoke then. ‘You were not here when the offer was made. Your mother and I agreed that it was a splendid opportunity for you to see something of the world and agreed on your behalf. We acted in your best interests, my dear.’

      I’m a grown woman, thought Araminta wildly, and I’m being treated like a child, a mid-Victorian child at that, meekly accepting what her elders and betters have decided was best for her. Well, I won’t, she reflected, looking at the three elderly faces in turn.

      ‘I think that, if you don’t mind, Dr Jenkell, I’ll go and see this uncle.’

      Dr Jenkell beamed at her. ‘That’s right, my dear—get some idea of what is expected of you. You’ll find him very sympathetic to any adjustments you may have in mind.’

      Araminta thought this unlikely, but she wasn’t going to say so. She loved her parents and they loved her, although she suspected that they had never quite got over the surprise of her arrival in their early middle age. She wasn’t going to upset them now; she would see this man, explain why she couldn’t accept the job and then think of some way of telling her parents which wouldn’t worry them. Dr Jenkell might be annoyed; she would think about that later.

      Presently the doctor left and she collected the coffee cups and went along to the kitchen to unpack her shopping and prepare the lunch, leaving her mother and father deep in a discussion of the book of Celtic history they were writing together. They hadn’t exactly forgotten her. The small matter of her future having been comfortably settled, they felt free to return to their abiding interest…

      As she prepared the lunch, Araminta laid her plans. Dr Jenkell had given her the uncle’s address, and unless he’d seen fit to tell the man that she intended visiting him she would take him by surprise, explain that she wasn’t free to take the job and that would be that. There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot. It would be an easy enough journey; Hambledon was barely three miles from Henley-on-Thames and she could be in London in no time at all. She would go the very next day…

      Her mother, apprised of her intention, made no objection. Indeed, she was approving. ‘As long as you leave something ready for our lunch, Araminta. You know how impatient your father is if he has to wait for a meal, and if I’m occupied…’

      Araminta promised cold meat and a salad and went to her room to brood over her wardrobe. It was early autumn. Too late in the year for a summer outfit and too warm still for her good jacket and skirt. It would have to be the jersey two-piece with the corn silk tee shirt.

      Her mother, an old-fashioned woman in many respects, considered it ladylike, which it was. It also did nothing for Araminta, who was a girl with no looks worth glancing at twice. She had mousy hair, long and fine, worn in an untidy pile on top of her head, an unremarkable face—except for large, thickly fringed hazel eyes—and a nicely rounded person, largely unnoticed since her clothes had always been chosen with an eye to their suitability.

      They were always in sensible colours, in fabrics not easily spoilt by small sticky fingers which would go to the cleaners or the washing machine time and time again. She studied her reflection in the looking glass and sighed over her small sharp nose and wide mouth. She had a lovely smile, but since she had no reason to smile at her own face she was unaware of that.

      Not that that mattered; this uncle would probably be a prosey old bachelor, and, since he was a friend of Dr Jenkell, of a similar age.

      She was up early the following morning to take tea to her parents, give Cherub his breakfast and tidy the house, put lunch ready and then catch the bus to Henley.

      A little over two hours later she was walking along a narrow street close to Cavendish Square. It was very quiet, with tall Regency houses on either side of it, their paintwork pristine, brass doorknockers gleaming. Whoever uncle was, reflected Araminta, he had done well for himself.

      The house she was looking for was at the end of the terrace, with an alley beside it leading to mews behind the houses. Delightful, reflected Araminta, and she banged the knocker.

      The man who answered the door was short and thin with sandy hair, small dark eyes and a very sharp nose. Just like a rat, thought Araminta, and added, a nice rat, for he had a friendly smile and the little eyes twinkled.

      It was only then that she perceived that she should have made an appointment; uncle was probably out on his rounds—did doctors who lived in grand houses have rounds? She didn’t allow herself to be discouraged by the thought.

      ‘I would like to see Dr van der Breugh. I should have made an appointment but it’s really rather urgent. It concerns his two nephews…’

      ‘Ah, yes, miss. If you would wait while I see if the doctor is free.’

      He led the way down a narrow hall and opened a door. His smile was friendly. ‘I won’t be two ticks,’ he assured her. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

      The moment he had closed the door behind him, she got up from her chair and began a tour of the room. It was at the back of the house and the windows, tall and narrow, overlooked a small walled garden with the mews beyond. It was furnished with a pleasant mixture of antique cabinets, tables and two magnificent sofas on either side of an Adam fireplace. There were easy chairs, too, and a vast mirror over the fireplace. A comfortable room, even if rather grand, and obviously used, for there was a dog basket by one of the windows and a newspaper thrown down on one of the tables.

      She studied her person in the mirror, something which brought her no satisfaction. The jersey two-piece, in a sensible brown, did nothing for her, and her hair had become a little ruffled. She poked at it impatiently and then looked round guiltily as the door opened.

      ‘If you will come this way, miss,’ said the rat-faced man. ‘The boss has got ten minutes to spare.’

      Was he the butler? she wondered, following him out of the room. If so, he wasn’t very respectful. Perhaps modern butlers had freedom of speech…

      They went back down the hall and he opened a door on the other side of it.

      ‘Miss Pomfrey,’ he announced, and gave her a friendly shove before shutting the door on her.

      It was a fair-sized room, lined with bookshelves, one corner of it taken up by a large desk. The man sitting at it got to his feet as Araminta hesitated, staring at him. This surely couldn’t be uncle. He was a giant of a man with fair hair touched with silver, a handsome man with a high-bridged nose, a thin, firm mouth and a determined chin. He took off the glasses he was wearing and smiled as he came to her and shook hands.

      ‘Miss Pomfrey? Dr Jenkell told me that you might come and see me. No doubt you would like some details—’

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