And suddenly, to his horror, she was crying. She grasped his jacket and leaned against him and he could hear the great gasping sobs, feel the pulse of her body against him, the soft wool of her scarf brushing his cheek, sense the familiar smell of her, of her breath. Taking her by the shoulders, he said, “Flavia, don’t cry. This is a liberation. I’m setting you free.”

She drew apart, making a pathetic attempt at dignity. Controlling her sobs, she said, “It’ll look odd if I just disappear, and there’s Mrs. Skeffington to be operated on tomorrow, Miss Gradwyn here to be cared for. So I’ll stay until you leave for the Christmas break, but when you return I won’t be here. But promise me one thing. I’ve never asked for anything, have I? Your presents on birthdays and Christmases were chosen by your secretary or posted from a shop, I always knew that. Come to me tonight, come to my room. It’ll be for the first and last time, I promise. Come late, about eleven. It can’t end like this.”

And now he was desperate to get rid of her. He said, “Of course I’ll come.”

She murmured a thank you and, turning, began walking quickly back towards the house. From time to time she half stumbled, and he had to resist the urge to catch her up, to find some final word which could assuage her. But there was none. He knew that already he was turning his mind to find a replacement as theatre sister. He knew, too, that he had been seduced into a disastrous promise, but it was one he had to keep.

He waited until her figure became faint, then merged into the darkness. And still he waited. Looking up at the west wing, he saw the faint blur of two lights, one in Mrs. Skeffington’s room, one next door in Rhoda Gradwyn’s. So her bedside lamp must be on and she was not yet settled for sleep. He thought back to that night just over two weeks ago when he had sat on the stones and watched her face at the window. He wondered what it was about this particular patient that had so caught his imagination. Perhaps it was that enigmatic, still-unexplained response when, in his Harley Street consulting room, he had asked her why she had waited so long to get rid of her scar. Because I no longer have need of it.

14

Four hours earlier Rhoda Gradwyn had slowly drifted back to consciousness. The first object she saw on opening her eyes was a small circle. It hung suspended in air immediately in front of her, like a floating full moon. Her mind, puzzled but transfixed, tried to make sense of it. It couldn’t, she thought, be the moon. It was too solid and unmoving. And then the circle became clear and she saw that it was a wall clock with a wooden frame and a narrow inner rim of brass. Although the hands and numerals were becoming clearer, she couldn’t read the time; deciding that it didn’t matter, she quickly gave up the attempt. She became aware that she was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room and that other people were with her, moving like pale shadows on silent feet. And then she remembered. She was to have her scar removed, and they must have prepared her for the operation. She wondered when it would take place.