Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (english love story books .TXT) 📗

tires on the gravel. Moments later the glass door of the entrance hall opened and a stout figure let himself into the hall.

Ceecliff stood up. She met David Graham in the dim, heavily beamed dining room, which smelled of potpourri and roses, and put her finger to her lips.

"It's my granddaughter, David, " she murmured as he shook himself like a dog and shed his raincoat on the mellow oak boards.

David Graham was a fair-haired man of about sixty, dressed, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket and woolen tie. He kissed her fondly. "It's probably the storm, Celia. They affect some people like this, you know. Unless it's your cooking. You haven't been giving her that curry you gave Jocelyn and me, have you?" He did not wait to see her mock indignation. His bag in his hand, he was already moving toward the door of the living room.

Nick smiled down at Jo uncertainly. "I'll leave you both to it, shall I?"

"Please. " David Graham looked at him searchingly for a moment, noting the tension of Nick's face—tension and exhaustion, and something else. Putting down his bag beside

Jo, he waited until Nick had closed the door behind him. Guilt, that was it; Nick Franklyn had looked guilty.

He sat down beside Jo and grinned at her, picking up her wrist.

"Do you make a habit of this sort of thing, my dear?" he asked quietly.

Jo shook her head. "It's never happened before. I'm beginning to feel such a fraud. It's just the storm, I'm sure. They always make me feel strung up and headachy. "

"And you're not pregnant as far as you know?" He smiled.

"Certainly not! And before you ask, I've given up smoking. Nearly. "

"There's something wrong with your throat?"

She moved away from him slightly on the sofa. "A bit painful, that's all. I expect I'm getting a cold. "

"Humph. " The doctor bent to open his bag. He withdrew a wooden tongue depressor. "Open up. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Her throat was agony. Not sore. Not raw, but bruised and aching. Without registering any emotion at all the doctor put down the tongue depressor and reached for a thermometer. When it was in her mouth he brought his hands up gently to her neck, and, brushing aside her hair, he felt beneath her ears and under her chin with cool, impersonal fingers.

Jo could feel her hands shaking. "What is it?" she said as soon as she could speak.

He held the thermometer up to the green-shaded table lamp and squinted viciously as he tried to see the mercury. "I'm always telling Celia to get some proper lights in this damn room. In the evening you can't tell your gin from the goldfish water. It is ninety-eight point four, which is exactly what it ought to be. Your pulse is a bit above average for a Sunday afternoon, even in a storm, though. Let's try some blood pressure, shall we?"

"But my throat?" Jo said. "What's wrong with my throat?"

"Nothing that I can see. " He was rummaging in his bag. "Where does it hurt?"

"It aches. Here. " She raised her hand to her neck while her eyes focused on the little pump in his hand as he inflated the cuff around her arm.

It was all coming back to her. She had been in the conservatory with Nick. He had stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, then slowly he—or somebody—had slid them up around her throat and begun to squeeze... She could remember what happened quite clearly now. It was Nick. It had to have been Nick. No one else was there. Nick had tried to kill her! She felt sick. Nick wouldn't hurt her. It wasn't possible. It must have all been some hideous nightmare. She swallowed painfully. But it was too real for a nightmare.

She realized suddenly that the doctor was watching her face and turned away sharply. "Is it high?" she asked as he folded away his equipment.

"A little, perhaps. Nothing to get excited about. " He paused. "Something is wrong, my dear, isn't it? You look worried. Is there something you ought to be telling me?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, Dr. Graham. Except that perhaps I should own up to a few late nights, working. I expect that could make me feel a bit odd, couldn't it?"

He frowned. "I expect it could. " He waited as though he expected her to say more. When she didn't he went on. "I can't explain the throat. Perhaps you're getting one of these summer viruses. Gargle. That will help, and I suggest you take it easy for a bit. Spend a few days here, perhaps. " Smiling, he stood up. "Not that Celia is my idea of a peaceful companion, but this is a good house to rest in. It's a happy house. Better than London, I'll be bound. If it happens again, go to see your own doctor. "

"Thank you. " After pushing herself up, Jo managed to stand. Outside the window there was another pale flicker of lightning. "I'm sorry my grandmother called you out in this. "

He laughed as he picked up his bag. "If she hadn't I'd have slept through it and kicked myself for not closing the vents in the greenhouse, so she did me a favor! Now, remember what I said. Take it easy for a bit. And do see your own doctor if you go on feeling at all unwell.... " He gave her a piercing glance, then with a nod he turned to the door.

As soon as he had stepped out into the hall Jo turned to the sideboard. The lamp shed a green, muted light behind it toward the mirror, and, tipping the shade violently so that the naked light of the bulb shone into her face, Jo stood on tiptoe, peering at the glass. Her reflection was white and stark, her eyes shadowed and huge in the uncompromising light. Leaning forward, she held her hair up away from