The Fortunes of Francesca. Betty Neels

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      Mrs Down had remarked afterwards that Miss Bowen was a nice young lady, but not very forthcoming. Respectable enough, she had conceded, living with an aunt and a young brother who, Franny had told her vaguely, was studying, although she hadn’t said at what.

      For the rest of that week Franny found herself doing a variety of jobs. She was indeed a girl Friday: opening the door to callers on Barker’s half-day, cooking lunch when Mrs Down was prostrated by migraine, taking charge of a toddler while his mother—a niece of Lady Trumper’s—came to call. And besides all this there was the daily routine of post to be opened and answered, phone calls to take, knitting to unravel, bills to be paid…

      At least, reflected Franny, going home tired on Friday evening, she hadn’t been bored. She had a week’s wages in her purse and two days to be at home. As a girl who looked on the bright side of life, Franny was happy. She hadn’t been given notice, so presumably Lady Trumper was satisfied with her work. Franny hadn’t expected to be told as much—Lady Trumper wasn’t a woman to praise. After all why, that lady had often asked her nearest and dearest, should she give praise to someone who was only doing their job?

      Not that Franny minded that. She didn’t dislike Lady Trumper, but neither did she like her. She was, however, providing Franny with her bread and butter…

      It was during the following week that she came face to face with the doctor who had attended to Elsie. She had been sent to the hospital to fetch Elsie back, for her stay there had been prolonged by an infection which had needed treatment and antibiotics. Although Elsie was fit to be discharged she was still not quite herself.

      Lady Trumper, wealthy though she was, was also frugal when it came to spending money on anything which didn’t concern herself, and she bade Franny take a bus to the hospital and procure a taxi for the return journey, which was a brief one. And a good thing, too, for it was another grey, damp day. Even in this, the more elegant district of London, the streets looked dreary. Not that Franny minded; it meant she was out of the house for an hour.

      It was a short walk from the bus stop to the hospital; she arrived at its entrance with her woolly hat sodden on her head and the mac clinging damply to her skirt and blouse. Her face was wet, too, as were the odds and ends of brown hair which had escaped from the hat. She presented not a shred of glamour, and the professor, coming to the entrance hall as she walked through the doors, cast an amused eye over her person, recognising her at once.

      He had told his godmother that he couldn’t remember her face and realised that he had been mistaken. Though not at its best at the moment, he recalled vividly her small, unassuming nose, gently curving mouth and determined chin. It was a face redeemed from plainness by large, long-lashed eyes. Grey, he remembered.

      He crossed the vast place and stopped in front of her.

      ‘Forgive me for not knowing your name, but you were kind enough to help with Lady Trumper’s maid. I had every intention of driving you back from the hospital; I should have told you so. I apologise for that.’

      Franny beamed up at him. ‘Oh, that didn’t matter at all; there were plenty of buses. I’ve come to fetch Elsie back to Lady Trumper’s house.’

      Franny, chatty by nature, was pleased to have someone to talk to. She didn’t know who he was, of course, but he had a trustworthy face. She would have embarked on an account of Elsie’s accident, but was cut short when he moved a bundle of papers from one arm to the other and took a step away from her. ‘Very nice meeting you, Miss—er…’ he said vaguely, obviously thinking about something else.

      He strode off and she wondered if he would remember that they had met again just now. She thought it unlikely. A bit vague, she reflected, but I dare say clever people often are. Being clever must make one feel lonely sometimes, living, as it were, on a higher plane than those around one. Poor man, reflected Franny, going to find out where Elsie was. It was to be hoped that he had a wife and children to keep him normal.

      Professor van der Kettener, unaware of these kindly thoughts, had forgotten all about her by the time he was immersed in a bit of tricky heart surgery.

      Elsie, still looking a bit washed out, was ready and waiting, eager to get back to her job. ‘Not but what they weren’t very kind,’ she told Franny, ‘but, when all’s said and done, hospitals aren’t like home, are they?’

      When they were ready Franny hailed a taxi—much to Elsie’s delight—and on their return to Lady Trumper’s handed Elsie over to Mrs Down, who fussed over her in a motherly fashion, before Lady Trumper sent for her. Franny, sitting at the desk, writing invitation cards for one of Lady Trumper’s bridge parties, listened to her employer laying down the law—extra care in the kitchen was required and Elsie must do her best not to be so careless.

      ‘The kitchen is well equipped,’ Lady Trumper pointed out. ‘There is no excuse for carelessness. I am a most careful person myself and I expect you to be the same, Elsie. You may go.’

      Franny paused in her work. She was quite sure that Lady Trumper knew nothing about knives or kitchens or being tired and sometimes overworked. She spoke her mind without stopping to think.

      ‘I’m sure Elsie is always very careful, Lady Trumper, but she has to handle knives and all kinds of kitchen equipment. She isn’t in a position to walk away from her work if it gets too much for her. When did you last visit your kitchen, Lady Trumper?’ asked Franny outrageously.

      Lady Trumper had become really red in the face and needed to heave several deep breaths before she could speak. ‘Miss Bowen, I can hardly believe my ears. How dare you speak to me in this fashion? The impertinence…’

      ‘I don’t intend to be impertinent, Lady Trumper, but you made Elsie feel that she had done something wrong. No one in their senses cuts themselves with a kitchen knife. But, of course, sitting here for most of the day, you would find it hard to believe that.’

      ‘Miss Bowen, leave at once. I am very displeased with you.’

      Franny gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Of course you are annoyed. I expect you feel a bit guilty; one always does when one has been unfair to someone. But I’ll go, although it would be sensible if I were to finish writing these cards first. Another five minutes is all I need.’

      Lady Trumper took such a deep breath that her corsets creaked. ‘You will go now…’

      The door opened and the professor walked in.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE professor looked at his godmother, whose blood pressure, he felt sure, was at a dangerous level, and then at Franny, composed and cheerful, obviously on the point of leaving.

      ‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked placidly.

      ‘No—yes,’ said Lady Trumper. ‘This girl has had the impertinence to criticise my treatment of one of my maids. I have dismissed her.’

      ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do anything hastily,’ said the professor. ‘This is a free country in which one may express one’s opinion without being flung into prison.’ He turned to Franny.

      ‘Were you deliberately rude, Miss—Miss…?’

      ‘Bowen,’ said Franny, and thought what a very large man he was—he would need a large house in which to live… ‘No, I don’t think so, it was just that it was something I had to say.’ She added cheerfully, СКАЧАТЬ