“Go ahead, give it to her … or I’ll tell Matron what you had in the hip flask at the vicar’s garden party.”
I was only teasing, but before I could shoot her a grin, Flossie had inserted the cigarette between Fenella’s dry lips.
“You’re a beast,” she said. “An absolutely horrid little beast!”
I could tell she wanted to slap me, as I gave her a triumphant smirk.
But instead, we both of us broke off to look at Fenella. Her eyes were closed, and smoke was rising from her mouth in a series of puffs, like smoke signals from an Apache campfire. They might well have been spelling out the word “b-l-i-s-s.”
It was at that very moment that Matron barged into the room.
In her elaborate cocked hat and starched white bib, she looked like Napoleon—only much larger.
She sized up the situation at a glance.
“Nurse Foster, I’ll see you in my office.”
“No, wait,” I heard myself saying. “I can explain.”
“Then do so.”
“The nurse just stepped in to tell us that smoking is forbidden. It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Indeed!”
“I heard you coming,” I said, “and stuck my cigarette into that poor woman’s mouth. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
I snatched what was left of the cigarette from Fenella’s lips and shoved it between my own. I took a deep drag and then exhaled, holding the thing between my second and third fingers in the Continental manner, as I had seen Charles Boyer do in the cinema, and all the while fighting down the urge to choke.
“Then how do you explain this?” Matron asked, picking up Flossie’s lighter from Fenella’s blanket, and holding it out accusingly towards me.
“It’s mine,” I said. “The
I thought I detected a nearly imperceptible squint—or was it more of a wince?
“Of the Buckshaw de Luces?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was a gift from Father. He believes that the occasional cigarette fortifies one’s lungs against vapors from the drains.”
The Matron didn’t exactly gape, but she
Then suddenly, and without warning, she pressed the lighter into my hands and wiped her fingers on her skirt.
There was the sound of professional shoe leather in the corridor, and Dr. Darby walked calmly into the room.
“Ah, Flavia,” he said. “How nice to see you. This, Matron, is the young lady whose prompt action saved the life of Mrs. Faa.”
I stuck out a hand so quickly that the old dragon was forced to take it.
“Pleased to meet you, Matron,” I said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“BUT HOW IS SHE?” I asked. “Fenella, I mean—really?”
“She’ll do,” said Dr. Darby.
We were motoring home to Bishop’s Lacey, the doctor’s Morris humming happily along between the hedgerows like a sewing machine on holiday.
“Fractured skull,” he went on when I said nothing. “Depressed occipital condylar fracture, as we quacks call it. Has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it? Thanks to you, we were able to get her into the operating room in time to elevate the broken bit without too much trouble. I think she’ll likely make a full recovery, but we shall have to wait and see. Are you all right?”
He hadn’t missed the fact that I was sucking in great deep breaths of the morning air, in an attempt to clear my system of cigarette smoke and the horrid odors of the hospital. The formalin of the morgue hadn’t been too bad—quite enjoyable, in fact—but the reek of cabbage soup from the kitchen had been enough to gag a hyena.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, with what I’m afraid was rather a wan smile.
“Your father will be very proud of you—” he went on.
“Oh, please don’t tell him! Promise you won’t!”
The doctor shot me a quizzical glance.
“It’s just that he already has so much to worry about—”
As I have said, Father’s financial distress was no secret in Bishop’s Lacey, particularly to his friends, of whom Dr. Darby was one. (The vicar was the other.)
“I understand,” the doctor said. “Then he shall not hear it from me.
