The Yuletide Child Charlotte Lamb (classic literature books .TXT) 📖

with lace and white silk ribbons, a blue velvet dressing gown which zipped up the front, and a pair of matching slippers. Dylan eyed them uncertainly. Would she be able to get into them?

To her relief, though, they were very loose and capacious and she had no problem.

As she came down the stairs the smell of food hit her and she realised with surprise that she was hungry. Earlier she had felt she never wanted to eat again—but it was hours since her last meal.

Odd how the body went on working even when you felt your heart was dead.

Ruth looked round, smiling. ‘How do you feel now?’

‘Warm and relaxed,’ Dylan admitted. ‘The spaghetti sauce smells good.’

‘It just occurred to me ... I put garlic in, can you eat it?’

‘Love it. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Thanks, but no need. Everything is ready. Sit down and pour us both a glass of wine. Unless you don’t drink at the moment? Can pregnant women drink wine?’

‘Just watch me,’ Dylan said, filling both the glasses on the table.

Ruth came towards her with a heaped dish of spaghetti, topped with the rich, red sauce. As she laid it in the centre of the table the doorbell rang loudly.

Dylan jumped, her eyes opening wide.

‘Who on earth can that be? Help yourself, Dylan, while I just go to the door.’ Ruth hurried off. Dylan heard her exclaim, heard a male voice reply.

Instantly she thought—Ross! She pushed back her chair, then knew she was crazy. It couldn’t be Ross. He had no idea where she was; he was in York with his lover. He wouldn’t even be thinking about her, let alone coming to find her. Images rose up in her head ... Ross with another woman, Ross making love to Suzy, his dark hair mingling with her blonde strands.

Jealousy and hatred choked her. How could she eat when she felt so sick?

The door into the hall opened and Ruth was back with a middle-aged man. Dylan looked at him, blue eyes dark with pain, and met a penetrating gaze.

‘This is Dr Trafford,’ Ruth told her. ‘By pure luck he happened to be called out to a farm near here and...’

‘I saw your car and your footprints going across the field,’ Henry Trafford told Dylan, undoing his thick tweed overcoat, which Ruth took from him.

‘He loves detective stories,’ said Ruth, laughing. ‘So he—’

‘Used my eyes and my brain,’ Henry interrupted, ‘and worked out that whoever had been in the crash was here, with Ruth. Doctors and detectives have a lot in common, you know—we both have to use guesswork to form a diagnosis. I guessed whoever had been in the car when it crashed might be injured, so I came to see if I could help.’

Dylan shook her head. ‘I wasn’t really hurt—just some cuts and bruises, and a sprained ankle, although I have no idea how I did that. But I’d be very grateful if you could ring a taxi firm for me, or drive me to the nearest taxi office.’

Henry made a wry face. ‘My dear girl, no taxi could get up here tonight. The hills are far too steep, everywhere is snowed in and the police are advising people to stay put except in real emergencies. I had the devil of a job getting to the farm, and I’ve got chains on my four-wheel drive. The phone lines are down, too, I’m afraid, and my mobile isn’t working.’

Her face falling, Dylan sighed. “Oh, dear.’

Looking at the food on the table, Henry said, ‘Youwere just going to eat? Don’t let it get cold. It looks and smells delicious.’

Ruth smiled at him. ‘Wash your hands and face and sit down, Henry—there’s far too much for two.’

‘I was hoping you’d ask!’ With alacrity he went to the sink while Ruth piled spaghetti and sauce on Dylan’s plate, offered her a dish of grated cheese, then held out a woven basket heaped with sliced home-made bread.

Henry sat down, his face pink from cold and wind, running a hand through his curly white hair, and Ruth served him before taking what was left in the dish for herself.

‘I’ll take a look at you later,’ he told Dylan. ‘Then I’ll have to go—this is the sort of night when medical emergencies pile up. I must get back to my surgery in case I get called out again.’

‘I hope your patient is okay now,’ Dylan said shyly.

‘My patient?’ he repeated, looking puzzled.

‘At the farm?’

His face darkened, and he said curtly, ‘No, he died, I’m afraid.’

Ruth looked at him in concern. ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, Henry. We’ll miss him.’

Dylan wished she hadn’t asked, but Henry shrugged his broad shoulders.

‘Oh, he was in his eighties and had been very ill for a long time. It was a blessed release for him, and for his family. Can I have some more bread, please, Ruth?’

Dylan watched Ruth cutting bread, giving him two slices, saw their eyes meet and a smile flash between the two of them. Obviously they were very close—just good friends, like her and Michael, or something more than that? She didn’t know them well enough to guess.

‘More wine?’ Ruth asked, and he sighed.

‘Wish I could, but I can’t afford to drink too much tonight. I need all my reflexes working perfectly.’

Dylan found him an uneasy companion; his combination of hard common sense and offhand courtesy had a bitter tang to it. She sensed he did not like women much. There was a coldness in his eyes whenever he looked at her, amounting almost to rejection, and it hurt. She was in a state to find any rejection, even that of a stranger, painful to take.

Suddenly he said, ‘What the hell’s that?’ staring at the glass door out of the kitchen into the garden.

Ruth and Dylan looked round and both laughed.

‘It’s only Fred,’ Ruth said. ‘I must go and put him in the shed when I’ve finished eating. He must be freezing out there, but he almost knocked the shed down