Betty Neels - The Vicar's Daughter

‘No one had ever asked me to marry them, Aunt Flo. ’ Well, George didn’t exactly ask; we just kind of drifted, if you see what I mean. We’ve known each other for years...’

‘That’s no reason to marry. One marries for love—or should do. You’re not so old that you need despair, although I must say it is a pity that you haven’t the Pearson good looks.’

A remark which Margo took in good part, seeing that it was true. They had supper after her father had driven away, and Aunt Florence outlined the various treats she had in store for her niece.

‘You have brought a pretty dress with you? Good. We are invited to Lord Trueman’s place for drinks after church. You will meet most of my friends and acquaintances there—a good start.’

Aunt Florence lived in some style, even if in somewhat reduced circumstances. Her little house was well furnished and Margo’s bedroom was pretty as well as comfortable. Life for Aunt Flo was placid and pleasant. The cheerful girl—Phoebe—came each day and cleaned, and did most of the cooking before she left in the evening, and an old man from the village saw to the heavy work in the garden-although Aunt Flo did the planting and planning. Even at the tail-end of the year, it was a charming little spot, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, tidied up ready for the winter.

Margo felt quite at home within twenty-four hours—joining her aunt in her daily walk and playing cards in the evening, or watching whichever programme her aunt thought suitable, with Moses, the ginger Persian cat, on her knee. On the next Sunday she accompanied her aunt to church and afterwards walked up the drive to the rather ugly early Victorian house built by Lord Trueman’s ancestor on the site of the charming Elizabethan mansion he had disliked.

‘Hideous,’ observed Aunt Florence, and added, ‘It’s simply frightful inside.’

There were a lot of people gathered in an immense room with panelled walls and a great deal of heavy furniture. Margo was taken to one group after another by Lady Trueman, a middle-aged lady with a sweet face, and introduced to a great many people whose names she instantly forgot.

‘Now do come and meet my daughter,’ said Lady Trueman. ‘She’s staying with us for a week or two. I’ve a small granddaughter too—Peggy. She’s a handful—three years old.’ She had fetched up in front of a young woman not much older than Margo herself.

‘Helen, this is Margo Pearson—come to stay with Mrs Pearson. I’ve been telling her about Peggy...’

She trotted away and left them to talk. Helen was nice, Margo decided. They talked about clothes and toddlers and babies, and presently slipped upstairs to the nursery to see Peggy, an imp of mischief if ever there was one, who took no notice of her nurse—a young girl, kind enough, no doubt, but lacking authority.

‘Such a naughty puss,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘We never know what she will do next.’

Back in Aunt Flo’s house over lunch, that lady expressed the opinion that the child was being spoilt. ‘A dear child, but that nurse of hers is no good—far too easygoing.’

The days went by with a pleasant monotony: shopping in the village, visiting her aunt’s friends for coffee or tea. And if Margo sometimes wished for a little excitement she squashed the thought at once. Her aunt was kindness itself, and she was sure that the holiday was doing her a lot of good. Taking her mind off things. Well, George for instance. The unbidden thought that she wished that it would take her mind off Professor van Kessel too was another thought to be squashed.

She thought about him far too often, although she tried not to. It wasn’t so difficult when she was with her aunt, whose conversation was of a sort to require close attention and sensible answers at intervals, but when she was on her own, doing an errand for her or in the garden, grubbing up the few weeds which had hoped to escape that lady’s eye, there was ample time for reflection.

So silly, Margo told herself one day, on her way back from taking a pot of Mrs Pearson’s jam to an acquaintance who had expressed a wish to try it. It had been quite a long walk and the afternoon was already sliding briskly into dusk. What was more, it was going to rain at any moment. Margo, taking a short cut across Lord Trueman’s park, abandoned her pleasant daydreaming and put her best foot forward.

The park was vast, and this far from the house, which was just visible in the distance, its planned trees and shrubs had given way to rough ground, a ploughed field or two and sparse woodland through which ran a small stream, swollen now by October rains. The right of way ran beside it for some way and then turned away to join a wider path, leading back to one of the lodges some half a mile away.

Margo walked fast, head down against the rain, which was coming down in earnest now, thankful that she would soon join the path. It was pure chance that she gave a quick glance around her as she stopped to turn up the collar of her jacket. It was a movement in the stream some yards away which had caught her eye—a small, scarlet-clad figure, half in, half out of the water, a small arm trailing gently to and fro, washed by the stream as it raced along.

Margo ran through the rough grass and waded across the water, slipping and sliding, losing a shoe and not noticing, bent on getting to the child as quickly as possible.

It was Peggy, her head, thank heaven, on the bank, but most of her small person in the water. She was unconscious and Margo soon saw why: there was a big bruise on her forehead. She had fallen awkwardly and Margo had a few anxious moments hauling her out of the stream and up the bank. This done, there was the necessity to cross the stream again, for behind her was nothing but wooded country going nowhere.

It’s amazing what you can do when you have to, reflected Margo, slipping and sliding across to the other bank with Peggy hoisted awkwardly over a shoulder. Once there, there was the urgent need to get to the house, for as far as she could see there was no other help nearby.

Hoisting the little girl more securely, Margo started off across the field to where, in the distance, she could see the lights of the house.

It was raining in earnest now, hard cold rain which soaked them even more than they already were. Margo squelched along in her one shoe and thought that she would never reach the outer edge of the landscaped park around the house. She paused for a moment to hitch Peggy onto her other shoulder and trudged on. Surely by now they would have missed the child and there would be a search party? It would be a waste of precious breath to shout, she decided, worried now that perhaps she should have tried to revive the child before setting out for the house. Supposing the moppet died? She had felt a faint pulse when she had reached Peggy, but she hadn’t tried to do anything else.

She was near the house now, close to its grand entrance. She climbed the broad steps and gave the iron bell-pull by the door a terrific tug. Just to make sure, she tugged again. And again...

The door opened slowly under the indignant hand of Bush, the butler, who was affronted by the misuse of the bell-pull and the excessive noise. He had his mouth open to voice his displeasure, but Margo gave him no chance to utter a word.

‘Get a doctor quickly, and get Lady Trueman or her daughter—anyone. Only hurry!’

She pushed past him and made for the stairs, dripping across the hall, short of breath, waterlogged and terrified. There was no time to give way to terror. She drew a breath.

‘Will someone come quickly? I’ve got Peggy...’

She saw the butler hurry to the phone as a door opened and Lady Trueman, followed by her daughter, came into the hall.

‘What is all this noise...?’ She goggled at Margo. ‘Peggy—she’s ill? What has happened? It’s Margo Pearson...’