Katie Oliver - Who Needs Mr Willoughby?

“What does he do, your Mr Willoughby?” Elinor asked.

“Do?” Marianne echoed. “I don’t know. He’s never said, and I’ve never asked. And he’s not ‘my’ Mr Willoughby.” Although she wished he was …

“If I remember rightly,” their mother offered as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it, “Lady Violet said he expects to inherit his aunt’s estate.” She frowned. “Oh, now – what was the name of the place –?”

“Allenham Court,” Marianne supplied.

“Then we’ve established he’s not only handsome, but rich, too – or will be, one day,” Elinor said.

“So does that satisfy your curiosity and lessen your doubts?” Marianne asked tartly.

“It’s not that I have doubts, exactly,” her sister replied. “I’m just saying we don’t know Mr Willoughby very well. Although he seems nice, and agreeable enough, we – you – really don’t know him. Maybe you should keep that in mind, and get to know him a bit better before you go on.”

“I’m not planning to run off to Gretna Green and elope with him,” Marianne snapped. “We only just met.”

“And that’s exactly my point.”

Silence descended over the table.

“I must say,” Mrs Holland offered in an effort to ease the tension, “Mrs Fenwick’s rack of lamb is the best I’ve ever tasted. And her mint sauce is nothing short of superb.”

“Yes,” Marianne agreed, her glance shooting daggers at her sister. “Her mint sauce is very nice, and agreeable enough, too. Isn’t it, Elinor?”

And although Elinor pressed her lips together and glared back at her, she made no comment, and they finished their dinner without further conversation.

***

Marianne’s fingers trembled the next morning as she gripped the wheel of the Fiat Bertie Fenwick had found for them the day before at the Endwhistle auction.

“She’s old,” he’d admitted as he showed the car to Mrs Holland and the girls, “with a bit of rust on the back fender, and she won’t go above seventy-five kilometres an hour, but the price was right and within your budget. Got a clean bill of health from Malcolm, too.”

“Who’s Malcolm?” Elinor asked, puzzled.

“A mechanic,” Marianne informed her. “He works at the petrol station in Endwhistle – the only petrol station in Endwhistle,” she added, remembering her frantic call to the station when the estate car broke down on the way to her interview.

“…and if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone. ”

What a place Hadleighshire is , Marianne thought now, crossly. But it wasn’t the possibility of mum’s Fiat breaking down that worried her. No, her hands shook this morning because it was her first day working at the veterinary clinic with Dr Brandon…and she was more than a little nervous.

Not that answering phones or scheduling appointments was difficult; it was nothing she hadn’t done before, after all. It was Matthew Brandon himself who unsettled her. The man was a puzzle. At first she’d supposed him to be a farmer, one of the many local men who raised sheep or cattle for a living, and he’d done nothing to disabuse her of the notion.

But he was a doctor of veterinary medicine. He was educated and, according to Lynn, an excellent veterinarian. He’d saved the life of a dog who’d consumed rat poison, a dog who, without his help, might have died.

And for whatever reason, he’d decided to give her a chance in his clinic. And she had no illusions that he wouldn’t sack her in a heartbeat if she cocked up.

So…she couldn’t cock it up. She wouldn’t.

Nothing like a bit of pressure , Marianne thought grimly as she shifted into gear and headed the Fiat down the driveway to the road. Although it was true that Dr Brandon was infuriating – Why should I go so far out of my way for you? – and insulting, as well – You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes – there was no denying that, in the end, he’d helped her.

He’d come back and picked her up, and he’d driven her home…even if he’d charged her twenty-five pounds for the privilege.

Which was why, Marianne decided as she turned onto the road that led to Endwhistle, she owed it to herself – and to Matthew sodding Brandon – to be the best damned receptionist the Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic had ever seen.

And she would be, she vowed – no matter how difficult Dr Brandon might make it.

Chapter 13

“Good morning, Miss Holland.”

Lynn smiled at Marianne as she opened the door promptly at eight o’clock – the clinic was still closed to the public – and ushered the girl inside.

“Good morning. I’m a tiny bit nervous,” Marianna admitted. “First day jitters.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” the receptionist assured her. “I’m so glad you could come in a few days early,” she went on as she took the girl’s handbag and stashed it in the top drawer of a filing cabinet. “My sister Mary’s due to have her baby at any time. It’s her first.”

“That’s great! Will you get back in time for the birth, do you think?” Marianne asked.

“I hope so. I’d like to be with her. She had a few contractions yesterday but they turned out to be Braxton Hicks.”

Having no idea who – or what – ‘Braxton Hicks’ was, Marianne said nothing.

“The phones are busy at times, but mostly you’ll fill out and file paperwork, and schedule appointments.”

Lynn showed Marianne where the kitchenette and soda machine was and pointed out the ladies’ loo. “The surgery’s in through here,” she added as she pushed the door open. “Which you’ve seen already, very briefly.”

Marianne’s gaze wandered over the examining tables and wire animal hutches and the small, glassed-in surgical centre. Everything was shiny and new and spotless.

She bent down in front of one of the hutches to admire a guinea pig. “It’s all so…clean,” she marvelled.

Lynn smiled. “Dr Brandon runs a tight ship. And the clinic is fairly new. He usually arrives at nine, except Wednesdays, when the surgery has extended hours. During the week we’re open from nine to four, and from nine till noon on Saturdays. A 24-hour answering service covers emergency calls on nights and weekends.”

“I see. And does Dr Brandon have a pager?” Marianne asked.

“He does. He’s often called out in the middle of the night, especially during lambing. We’ve an assistant vet two days a week who also helps out with the emergency calls. Even so, there’s more work lately than the two of them can manage. Which is why,” Lynn added as she led her back out of the surgery, “he’s looking to hire another assistant.”

A short time later, after a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup and a quick run-through on the phone switchboard, Marianne took a seat behind the reception desk beside Lynn.

“You can watch me for a bit,” Lynn told her. “Get the hang of things. When you feel ready, I’ll let you answer a few calls and schedule some appointments.”

The bell over the main door jingled, and Matthew Brandon came in.

“Good morning, ladies.” His glance went to Marianne. “Is Lynn showing you the ropes, Miss Holland?”

She nodded. “She is. I know where to find the kitchen, the soda machine, and the loo. My work here is done.”

“So it is,” he agreed dryly. “We none of us could function without that swill we call coffee around here. Any messages, Lynn?”

The receptionist turned and picked up several pink ‘While You Were Out’ message slips and handed them over. “Just the usual inquiries, Dr Brandon. Oh – and Mrs Dawson wants to know how often to dose Bingo with his antibiotic.”