Free The Young Nightingales by Mary Whistler Page A

wondered what would happen to her if she was rash enough to take it out on to the lake.
    However, the garden itself was sufficiently attractive to make her feel reasonably certain that she would not want to desert its shade on a day such as this; and on her way back to the house she discovered a summerhouse bowered in roses which would be an ideal retreat with a book. And she discovered why the villa was called the Villa Magnolia. A truly magnificent magnolia tree grew close to the house, and had probably been planted when the house was built. The waxen blossoms filled the air with perfume, and mingled with the perfume of so many exotic shrubs that Jane couldn’t even begin to count them. But she was glad that the magnolia grew close enough to her own window to mingle with the scent of the nicotiana that she had already noted grew in clumps beneath it.
    On her way back to the house she found that she could look down on the main road along which her own taxi had travelled earlier in the day. The short villa drive encroached on to it at a point which she could also observe from a turn in one of the garden walks, and she could see the main gates standing open and a long, sleek grey car apparently parked just outside the gates, with a motionless chauffeur at the wheel, while a man who had his back to her stood entering into what appeared to be quite earnest conversation with the elderly Florence, who was smoothing down the front of her immaculate white apron as she talked.
    There was something distinctive and distinguishing about the appearance of the man, although his back was all that Jane could see. He appeared to be wearing a dark suit and had very dark, sleek hair, and as he bent towards Florence the sunlight gleamed on his hair and an area of tanned skin at the back of his neck showed up plainly between the carefully barbered hair on his nape and an impeccably white shirt collar.
    He walked swiftly towards his car and slipped sinuously on to the back seat and the chauffeur drove away immediately, while Florence retreated inside the villa gates and closed them carefully behind her.
    When Jane joined her on the drive she was looking vaguely satisfied, with that same air of faint triumph that she had worn when Jane complimented her on the appearance of her room. The air said plainly that she had just accomplished a mission, and that she took a certain amount of credit to herself for doing so.
    “The doctor has just been to call on Madame,” she said, as Jane walked with her back to the house. “I explained to him that she was just enjoying her nap and really ought not to be disturbed. Her health has been much better for several weeks now, so he said he would send her some more of her pills and call to see her next week.”
    “Does he normally call and see her every week?” Jane asked, thinking that her new employer must obviously be very fragile at her time of life.
    “Almost every week. Naturally, he calls much more often when Madame is under the weather, as she is sometimes.”
    “She looks to me to be remarkably well preserved,” Jane remarked, recalling the pink skin and the extraordinarily clear eyes of Mrs. Bowman. “But I expect it’s very healthy here, and it suits her. Does she like her doctor?” she asked. “In the case of someone of her age I should think it is important that she has faith in him.”
    “Oh, yes,” Florence answered, at her most complacent ... and Jane was to lea rn that she could be very complacent and not in the least truculent when neither her suspicions were aroused nor she felt she had any reason to be otherwise. “Dr. Delacroix is a very good doctor, and Madame is very satisfied with him. She likes him, too. He often comes to dinner, or just looks in to have a talk with her sometimes. He advises her, too, about a lot of things. Oh, yes, she’s got great faith in him, and so have a lot of people in St. Vaizey. I suppose you could say he’s the most important doctor in the place