On the first official day of spring, George Chandler-Powell and Helena Cressett sat side by side at the office desk. For three hours they had studied and discussed a succession of figures, schedules and architects’ plans and now, as if by silent agreement, both stretched out a hand to switch off the computer.

Leaning back in his chair, Chandler-Powell said, “So financially it’s possible. Of course, it depends on my keeping well and increasing the list of private patients at St. Angela’s. The income from the restaurant won’t even maintain the garden, not at first anyway.”

Helena was folding the plans away. She said, “We’ve been cautious over the St. Angela’s income. Even with your present sessions you’ve achieved two-thirds of the figures in our estimate over the past three years. Agreed, converting the stable block is more expensive than you’d planned, but the architect has done a good job and it should come in slightly below cost. With your Far East shares doing well, you could cover the cost from the portfolio, or take a bank loan.”

“Do we have to mention the restaurant on the gate?”

“Not necessarily. But we must have a notice somewhere with the times of opening. You can’t be too fastidious, George. Either you’re running a commercial enterprise or you’re not.”

Chandler-Powell said, “Dean and Kimberley Bostock seem happy about it all, but there has to be a limit to what they can do.”

Helena said, “That’s why we’ve allowed for part-time helpers and an extra cook after the restaurant gets established. And with no patients—and they’ve always been demanding at the Manor—they’ll only be cooking for you, when you’re here, the resident staff and me. Dean is euphoric. What we’re planning is ambitious, a first-class restaurant, not a teahouse, one that will attract customers from the fringes of the county and beyond. Dean is a fine chef. You’re not going to keep him if you can’t offer him scope for his skill. With Kimberley happily pregnant and Dean helping me to plan a restaurant he can feel is his own, I’ve never known him so happy or so settled. And the child will be no problem. The Manor needs a child.”

Chandler-Powell got up and stretched his arms above his head. He said, “Let’s walk down to the stones. It’s too good a day to sit at a desk.”

In silence they put on their jackets and left by the west door. The operating suite had already been demolished and the last of the medical equipment removed. Helena said, “You’ll need to give thought to what you want done with the west wing.”

“We’ll leave the suites as they are. If we need additional staff they’ll come in useful. But you’re glad the clinic’s gone, aren’t you? You never approved of it.”