2 comments/ 17393 views/ 4 favorites Death, Taxes and Nurses By: infiniteocean A St. Valentine's Day Romance *** "There are only three certainties in life," said Mike: "Death, taxes ... and nurses." George guffawed but big Jake remained silent, his low bovine forehead creasing with the effort of thought. "Our Mel's a nurse," he finally erupted in his bass rumble. George stopped laughing and looked guiltily at Mike. "Sorry, mate," Mike said, "I forgot about your sister. It was only a joke..." "What was?" asked Jake. "Er, you know. About nurses ... being one of life's certainties..." Mike's voice trailed off in embarrassment. "But it's true," Jake assured him. "Mel always knew what she wanted since she was small. She was going to be nurse to some rich bloke and live in a big house and have servants to boss around. And that's what she done. She works for a Yank billionaire, Casper thingy, who lives in a big house on Park Lane." That was probably the longest speech Jake had ever made outside a courtroom. George was impressed and quickly took the opportunity to get the conversation going again before Jake realised what Mike's joke meant. "Casper Greenwood, the oil man?" he asked. "That's him," Jake said. "He's super-rich, he is. He's got a place in Oxfordshire. Owns the whole village. He's about ninety years old. Your Mel works for him?" "Yeah. She's been in his helicopter and everything." "Wow! I've seen the house on Park Lane. It's a mansion; like, about, fifty rooms." Mike thought it was safe to enter the conversation again, saying: "Yeah, but I bet they only live in three rooms: all those billionaires are as mean as hell." "Not American ones, Mike," George insisted: "They throw their money around. Casper Greenwood's always buying art and stuff to save it for the nation. The Queen invited him to Buck House to thank him." "That so?" Mike didn't argue. Jake had reverted to his usual uncomprehending silence. "So how long has Mel worked for Casper Greenwood, Jake?" George wanted to know. "A couple of years, maybe. ... She's coming home tonight." The lads were keenly interested in this news. They remembered Jake's older sister, Melanie, as an exceptionally pretty girl who went off to become a nurse when they were teenagers. They could easily imagine her as a gorgeous twenty-four-year-old woman. Melanie was blonde, with a heart-shaped face, big wide-set blue eyes, a dazzling smile, long legs, erotic curves and large, mouth-watering breasts. "Blimey!" said Mike. "If your Mel is nurse to some ninety-year-old geezer, then it's a wonder he hasn't already died of a heart-attack." George laughed again, trying not to lick his lips in front of Jake while thinking of his sister in a nurse's uniform. Even Jake joined in the laughter after a few seconds, making a noise like a rusty bilge pump. At 1pm, when the lads went back to work, Melanie was playing backgammon with Casper Greenwood in the oak-panelled drawing room of the Jacobean manor house on his Oxfordshire estate. Melanie had administered Casper's medications and, because there were no visitors today, was passing the time with him at board games. She was rolling the dice when Casper's personal secretary, Clara Beaufort, came in. "Mr. Greenwood. I am just about to go to London. If you do not need Melanie, I'd like to offer her a lift." "Are you going to visit your family this weekend, Melanie?" Casper asked. "Yes, Mr. Greenwood, for a few days." "Well, that's dandy. You should go with Clara." "I've checked with Kelly, who arrived back this morning," Clara said, "and she's willing to replace Melanie for the rest of the day." "That's fine. Do we have time to finish the game?" "Of course, though we should go in the next half hour, if possible. I am due to meet Charles Webster at 4pm." "Charles Webster?" Casper had forgotten the name. "The art-loving tax-inspector." "Ah, I remember him. Clara, you'll invite Charles to visit with us here and see the collection, now?" "I will Mr. Greenwood. Thank you. He'll welcome it, I'm sure. ... Melanie, would you mind sparing an hour or so to help at the mansion? I need someone to escort Charles in the vault while he makes his inspection." "Okay." "Good, please be ready by half-past one." It took Melanie another fifteen minutes to win the backgammon game; then she helped Casper get comfortable near the fire before she fetched Kelly, the beautiful red-haired nurse who alternated with Melanie's shifts. Melanie was delayed for a few minutes while the girls chatted and found she had no time to change out of her nurse's uniform, so she grabbed her raincoat and bags and ran to catch her lift. Clara and Melanie sat in the back of the Bentley as it ploughed slowly through the dismal February weather toward London, while the driver, Arnold, silently cursed the heavy traffic that was keeping him away from his wife and home. Arnold had been married forty years to Mildred, the housekeeper of the Park Lane mansion, and still he regretted one week's absence from her while he was at the country estate. Melanie asked: "So, what's Charles like, Clara?" "He's good at his job and ridiculously passionate about art. He visits Casper's collection more often than he really needs to, though he's always welcome, of course. At least he has good taste." Melanie had meant: what does he look like? Always interested in psychology, she knew why Clara had not noticed whether Charles was good-looking or not; something Melanie herself always made a point of assessing, whether she was in love herself or, as now, unusually single. The delays on the journey meant that they did not arrive at the London mansion until a quarter to four, when Mildred met them at the handsome portico'ed door to let them in. Clara let Mildred go back to her flat, adjacent to the mansion, to give Arnold a proper welcome, though this meant the women had time only to deposit their raincoats and luggage in their rooms before reappearing in the hall to let in their visitor. At four o'clock to the second, Charles Webster rang the brass bell of Casper Greenwood's Park Lane mansion. Clara opened the door. "Ah, the taxman cometh," she said, shaking his hand warmly. "Come in, Charles, it's good to see you again." "Thank you, Clara, it's kind of you to receive me." Charles was not really a taxman: he worked for the Inland Revenue as an art-expert. His job was to assess the condition of art-works that were given to the nation in lieu of taxation. He obtained valuations of such donations for tax purposes and revisited them periodically to ensure they were kept in good condition. This was his fourth visit in two years to the Greenwood collection. His real reason was not concern about the condition of the art-works nor his appreciation of the excellent pieces but the chance to see Clara again, with whom he was hopelessly, desperately and secretly in love. Clara was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She was twenty-eight, slightly over medium-height, with chestnut hair, grey eyes and the face of a southern Madonna. Slim and elegant, she was always beautifully dressed and manicured, needing little makeup on her immaculate light-brown skin. It was her cut-glass Home Counties accent that Charles fell in love with when he first telephoned her to request access to the collection. Now his heart melted into his feet whenever he saw her. Clara introduced Charles to Melanie. Because Clara was there, Charles had barely noticed the gorgeous blonde nurse standing beside his divinity. Now that he had looked at her lovely face, he couldn't help also observing that her outfit was halfway between a real nurse's uniform and the saucy postcard version of a nurse. Her skirt was a little too short, her shoes were stylish heels rather than flat pumps; her hat was for decoration rather than hygiene; her painted nails were too long for practical work; and her blouse was too tight (though Charles could not complain about seeing the outline of her luscious breasts). He also suspected her blonde shade came assisted by a bottle. "How d'you do?" Charles politely shook hands with the pantomime nurse. "Melanie also works for Mr. Greenwood," Clara explained. "She has kindly agreed to accompany you in the vault while I take care of some urgent paperwork." Melanie smiled prettily at Charles but noticed a look of disappointment on his face that he struggled to conceal. A rule of the house was that no guest be left alone in the secure vault that stored the part of the Greenwood collection not on display. Most of the London collection was in storage because Casper had been too frail to spend the winter in the damp, foggy town but had stayed on his summer estate. Nor was any member of his household or family occupying the mansion this Winter season. Charles would therefore see almost the whole collection, including the pretext for today's visit, the famous Raphael, 'Madonna with a Chaffinch', that Casper had bought to save it leaving the country and then generously presented to the nation. Charles was disappointed because, on the previous three occasions, it had been just Clara with him in the vault. He had waited six months for the chance to be alone with her again; and this time he would speak. He would declare his undying love. He would say how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect she was. Now the chance was gone again. When he had hung his raincoat on the coat-rack, Charles followed Clara and Melanie to the rear of the entrance hall, down the stairs, along a corridor and through a strong fireproof door into the vault. "It's a bit nippy," Melanie observed when they were inside. "Yes, it's chillier than it should be," Clara agreed, looking at a thermometer by the door. It showed fifteen degrees. "The environment control system is meant to ensure a steady temperature and level of humidity but it's either been set too low or there is a problem with it. I'll go and check. If it's too cold, Charles, then you and Melanie can wait upstairs until it warms up." "I'll be fine: I'm more worried about the art-works. Will it be too cold for you, Melanie?" he asked, considering her short skirt and short-sleeve blouse. "No, it's okay, so long as it heats up a bit soon," she assured them. "I'll ask Mildred to bring you down some coffee. Would you like her to bring you a magazine, Melanie?" Clara was concerned that Melanie would be bored. "No, thanks, Clara," she said, brightly. Melanie had been intrigued by the disappointment Charles showed when he learned that Melanie would escort him. She wanted to check her theory, so she would be happy to study Charles while he studied the paintings. It also helped that he was not bad-looking, in an intellectual, bookish kind of way. Aged about thirty, he was taller than her, with sandy hair over a high forehead, an aquiline nose and sensuous lips. Very pale from spending too long indoors looking at paintings, as an emaciated poet starving in a garret, he would have been a romantic pin-up for an earlier generation. "Charles, you have everything you need?" "Yes, thanks, Clara." "Well, then, use the telephone when you've finished or if you need me. Dial '1' for the study." Clara returned to her work, locking them in the vault as she left. The master control for the vault's heating system was in the hall. A trick Clara had been told when it had gone wrong once before was to turn it off, let it reset itself and turn it back on fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes after that, the vault would be at its proper temperature. She began this procedure and meanwhile returned to the study to attend to Casper's London correspondence. Charles knew his way around the collection. Paintings were stored on wheeled racks that pushed into one wall. Drawings, prints and miniatures were in chests of drawers that formed flat-topped islands along the centre of the vault. Some cabinets toward the far end of the vault contained coins, jewellery, small sculptures and ivories. Also at the far end was a small lobby with a toilet and washbasin. Between the cabinets on the other wall were cushioned benches. There was no natural light in the subterranean vault. Melanie's entertainment at the puzzle of Charles did not last long: she saw he was hopelessly in love with Clara. Only a man besotted with another woman (and such a beautiful one as Clara) could be quite so indifferent to Melanie's own dynamic charms as Charles appeared to be. She filed away this information for later consideration and began to take an interest in how Charles worked. She had rarely seen anyone appear so serious and yet so elated as he examined (or, rather, adored, she corrected herself) the paintings. So Melanie followed Charles about like an inquisitive cat, studying each painting after he had moved on from it, saying loudly "pretty," "okay" or "I don't like it." Charles didn't mind her comments but he didn't take them seriously, either. When Charles got to his favourite Dutch Masters, he went slower, scanning every part of each painting, looking closely and stepping back and forth, staring for minutes at a time. Once Charles stared at a painting so long that Melanie thought he had gone into a trance. When he finally looked away, she asked: "What did you see in that painting, Charlie, that you didn't see in the others?" Although Charles thought Melanie was idly passing her time by asking this question, he answered honestly, his own passion for art driving him to try to explain what he had seen. It was a country scene by Meindert Hobbema, in which a deeply-rutted track led beside a still river to a cottage in the woods; its subtle palette of greys, olives and browns under a diffused light reflected in the water inspired a wistful contentment in the viewer. Beside the beauty of the subject, Charles tried to make the technical accomplishments of the painter comprehensible to Melanie. From then on, they looked at the paintings together, with Melanie asking pertinent questions and Charles explaining their beauties with enthusiasm. Neither had yet noticed that it had got colder and that Mildred had not brought them down any coffee. There was a good reason for this neglect. Ten minutes after she returned to the study to become absorbed in her work, Clara had received a telephone call from Kelly to say that Casper had collapsed with a suspected heart attack and been rushed to hospital. He had briefly regained consciousness there and asked for Clara as well as his family. There was something urgent he wanted to say to her and to his solicitor. He was stable but asleep now. Would Clara come back soon? Clara agreed to return immediately and in her rush and concern for her employer, completely forgot about Melanie and Charles. She also forgot to turn the vault's heating system back on. Clara telephoned the housekeeper's flat and asked Mildred to meet her at the front door and for Arnold to bring the car back around. Leaving her paperwork on the desk, Clara grabbed her coat and bag. She rushed out of the mansion just as Mildred arrived. Clara quickly told Mildred the bad news and asked her to lock up. Arnold soon pulled up with the limousine. Clara jumped into the car and Arnold put his foot down. On the journey, she telephoned the estate to say she was on her way, asking which of Casper's children and grandchildren had yet been informed. Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, and her husband, Robert Moreton, were on their way from Gloucestershire. Messages had been left for Diana, the second daughter, who lived in the south of France, and for Vernon, the son, who ran the business in America. While Arnold broke the speed limit, Clara successfully contacted Diana, Vernon and all the grandchildren. This task kept her mind off the couple locked in the vault. Clara never did ask Mildred to make coffee for Charles and Melanie; nor did Mildred or Arnold know that anyone was in the vault. Needless to say, while they found themselves becoming good friends, Charles and Melanie were oblivious to all the activity above their heads. Because Melanie seemed to understand what Charles saw in the paintings and felt the same emotions as him, he was forced to reject his original opinion of her as a pantomime nurse. He now saw her as a bright girl with natural good taste who was only ignorant of art. This was something he could easily change; and he would enjoy doing so. Melanie was in fact genuinely pleased by art and often wandered around the Greenwood galleries in London and Oxfordshire to absorb the atmosphere, even though she did not understand the paintings or sculptures deeply. She judged them by their subjects: she liked a painting of a dog or a sunset because she liked dogs and sunsets. Melanie was a quick learner, though, and the passion of this curious art-loving tax-inspector had inspired her to discover her own latent talent. It was a Hendrick Avercamp snow-scene that was the ignition point for Melanie. There were ice-skaters on a frozen river in front of a pink castle, with trees in the left foreground and a fence on the right. The river stretched its winding course to the horizon. The whole scene was joyful, if somewhat sentimental. Sharing the fun of the skaters and the charm of the castle made Melanie imagine she was really in the painting, feeling the cold air, smelling the smoke from the wood fires, hearing the cries of laughter from the children and sharing the relief of the mother whose child had fallen unhurt on his bottom. The weight of the pale-grey sky pressed on her head, relieved by the unlimited freedom offered by the open river, on which she imagined she could skate all the way to the sea. Melanie stared at the painting for ten whole minutes, her eyes eagerly seeking every detail but always returning to the centre to follow the liberating river to the horizon. Charles had noticed its effect on her and kept silent to avoid breaking her trance. Melanie shook her head when she came back into the world. "You felt it, didn't you?" Charles softly asked. "Fuck me!" she said. "Crude but appropriate." "Do you feel like that every time you look at a painting you like, Charlie?" "Not every painting I like, but many of them, yes." "Fuck me," she repeated. "It's like being in love, isn't it? All your normal emotions are, like, amplified. Everything is extra sensitive. Everything feels sharp and new. I almost cried because of these two." She was pointing at a young couple, obviously courting. He was helping her learn to skate. Somehow you could feel his concern for her and the thrill he felt in holding her by the waist, while she trembled with every kind of emotion. Melanie's ability to appreciate and be moved by art made Charles positively admire her. "I saw you go into a trance," he said. "You felt yourself in the painting. Do you ever 'lose yourself' in music?" "Yes, when I'm dancing." "I don't dance but I regularly lose myself in classical music. There are moments when I feel the notes are exactly right, that they can't be any other notes. A single wrong note will break the spell but when it is all the right notes, you feel that the composer is talking directly to your soul. Sometimes I feel so much joy listening to Bach it is actually painful ..." Charles paused, not sure if he should be embarrassed by this admission. The glow on Melanie's face and the sparkle in her eye proved she understood. "It's the same with painting," he continued. "Look at that absurd tower. This is Holland: there are no pink fairy-tale castles. It was probably a windmill in real life; but Avercamp is playing with us, making us enter his imagined world; and we go along because it's exactly right. The boughs of this tree carry on the line from the roof of the tower, down to the leg of this skater, drawing the eye into the middle of the painting. The colours do the same: the pink tower matches the clothes on these skaters: her skirt, his pantaloons and the vegetables in that basket; even the horse by the barn is pink. The eye follows the line of pink objects, just as it follows the line of the frozen river to the horizon." Death, Taxes and Nurses "I see it." "I've never taken drugs but I imagine that the heightened sensitivity I feel in art is what drugs are like." "Art is your addiction, then?" "Yes, but I can stop anytime I want." She laughed. "It's nice being able to work with what you are passionate about, Charlie." And, proving the quickness of her ear and the retentiveness of her brain, Melanie asked: "Why did you say it was 'Crude but appropriate' when I said 'Fuck me'?" Charles hesitated again: he was conflicted between the pleasure of instructing a willing student and his sense of delicacy. Then he thought that, despite her 'Carry-On Nurse' outfit, she was a professional medic; she knew how the body worked. "I call it the 'museum erection'," he explained. "After about an hour of looking at art, many art-lovers get sexually aroused." "Blimey! From all those nude women?" "No, curiously, but from landscapes, still-lifes, domestic scenes, even devotional pieces. An art-lover is that curious beast who can look at a painting of a nude woman and think of 'art' rather than 'sex' but when he looks at a painting of a tree or a waterfall, his body thinks of 'sex' for him." "Gosh! So art's a real turn-on for you." "Not only me, I think;" he said, abandoning all delicacy as he lowered his eyes meaningfully to her chest: "... or is it colder in here than I think?" She giggled. He was right. She recognised her own arousal but had not analysed its cause. Perhaps it was a reaction to the art, and it certainly was cold in there now, but another element, she realised, was that a charming, cultured, intelligent man was interested in her for her mind. This was a novel experience for Melanie. She rather liked it and wanted it to continue. She asked: "How do you tell that the artist is really feeling what he shows and is not faking it?" "In my case, I never get the sensation of communing with the mind of the artist when he is faking it. I'll try to show you an example." Charles delved into a drawer and laid a small frame on the tabletop. In it was a chalk and ink drawing of a woman, naked except for a sheet or towel around her waist, dabbing one foot in a pond. "This is by Rubens. It might be a preliminary sketch for a composition of 'Susannah and the Elders' ... but look at the water here and the trees there and the woman's expression: it's all so mechanical, as if he wasn't really feeling it, he just knew how to get the effect he wanted." "Yes, I see it. You know, all this art being around me, and me not seeing it: it's like having short sight and suddenly someone gives you a pair of glasses. I'll never be able to look at paintings the same again now, will I?" "Sorry, no. I compare it to acquiring a taste for fine wines: after you train your palate, you can no longer enjoy cheap wines. Luckily, British art-galleries are free but I would also use your gift sparingly and not wear it out." "I'll try, but I want that feeling again." More than an hour had passed by this time, and while Melanie and Charles had warmed to each other, the room had noticeably chilled. "I think it's got colder, Charlie." "I think you're right. Maybe Clara is having problems with the heating system. Shall we ring her, or will you take my jumper for now?" "Then you'll be cold." "I'll be fine. Here, put it on. I'll just take a look at the Raphael now, then we can go." "Okay. Thanks." He pulled out the last rack of frames. The Raphael was in the centre, on its own. In 'The Madonna with a Chaffinch', the Virgin Mary sat in a three-quarter pose with the Christ-child on her knees, her brown hair tied in a bun. She had a long aquiline nose, pink cheeks and a half-smile on her pink lips. Her eyes were down, looking at her child, who was the usual plump two-year-old, with rosy cheeks and knowing eyes. Outside the window behind the Madonna was a fantasy Italian town set on a hill. On the window-sill was the chaffinch of the title, its normally restless eye focussed on the child. The pink in its breast echoed the Madonna's cheeks and lips, while the yellow tabs in its wings matched the yellow in the chair on which the Madonna sat and the yellow border on her green jacket. Melanie and Charles were bowled over by the painting. Melanie understood when Charles explained how one colour or shape balanced another colour or shape, giving the composition a lyrical quality. A genuine communion was fast developing between the two art-lovers. Still feeling elevated by the Raphael, Melanie and Charles walked slowly and silently to the door, each waiting for the other to speak first, not wishing to intrude on private feelings. It was Charles who reluctantly spoke first when they reached the door, saying quietly: "Time to go, Melanie. I must say, it's been a real pleasure having you accompany me today. I have never enjoyed explaining art to anyone so much as you. You have a real talent for it." "Thank you, Charlie, for teaching me. You were very patient." Melanie was sincere in this. She had also been considering the connexion between art and sex, using Charles as a theoretical model. It was natural for the thoughts of a healthy twenty-four-old to turn to this subject. Even more so a young woman who, in Casper's employ, was officially single. Thus she had admired the passion Charles showed for art and thought to herself: if he is as passionate in sex as he is about art, then he would make a useful lover. Such thoughts would go nowhere, she realised, now that they were leaving and Charles would again feast his eyes on the adored Clara. Resigned, she picked up the telephone and dialled '1'. It rang for two minutes before she put it down, puzzled. She tried again, letting it ring for longer. No response. She rang all the available numbers. No one answered. Melanie and Charles were concerned. What had happened to Clara? Was no one in the house, or was the telephone system perhaps broken? And why had the heating not come back on? "Have you a mobile 'phone with you, Charlie?" "It's in my coat pocket, in the hall. And yours?" "In my room upstairs. We're a pair of ninnies, aren't we?" They tried the house telephone again and fifteen minutes later were justifiably worried. None the less, Melanie said with characteristic patience: "Well, there's nothing we can do until Clara remembers us; which she will, sooner or later. I suppose she's just popped out for some fresh air." Unfortunately, it was unlikely that Clara would remember them. On her journey to the hospital, she had been absorbed in speaking to Casper's family. Now she was almost there, her worry about Casper completely distracted her from any thought of the pair trapped in the vault. Charles looked at his watch and then checked the temperature gauge. "It's nearly six o'clock and it's thirteen degrees. That means the temperature has gone down one degree an hour, which shows the heating has gone off, I think. It also means it will get colder in here faster now it's night-time. We should perhaps think of how we might find another way out or what we can do to stay warm if necessary." They made a futile search for an alternative exit. At least they learned that the toilet in the lobby worked and that there was hot water in the tap. They even discussed setting off the fire alarm. It might automatically open the door, Charles thought; but they decided against it, not wanting to have to make an awkward explanation to the fire brigade and possibly get Clara in trouble. Instead, they chatted for the next hour about ordinary things, such as where they had grown up, places they had been, films they liked, interrupted every fifteen minutes by further attempts to contact someone in the house by telephone. Melanie was an East End girl, from a rough neighbourhood that she had been keen to leave as soon as possible. Charles was from a socially ambitious family in a West London suburb. His parents made sacrifices to give their children a better education than they themselves had enjoyed. He was not brought up with art and music but his parents strongly encouraged their children whenever they showed an interest or aptitude beyond the ordinary. At about seven o'clock, they were both feeling cold and found that walking around the vault was not helping much. Melanie had the obvious idea that they should sit together on the bench and try to share their body heat. He happily agreed, so they sat side-by-side, with a leg and an arm pressing against the other. They were occupied with their own thoughts. Melanie's concerned her response to the courting couple in the skating-scene. Her emotions had been informed by her own current circumstance. It was the eve of St. Valentine's Day and Melanie had not had a boyfriend in nearly two years; she, who had never been without a male admirer. She was on duty last Valentine's Day and pretended not to care; but this year, she would be visiting home for a few days and, frustrated at the idea of being loveless again, despaired yet more at the thought of the quality of men where she used to live. A mixture of her natural playfulness, therefore, and the thought that Charles would do nicely as a Valentine's Day date, motivated Melanie to begin teasing him, saying: "I know a secret, Charlie." "Do you?" "You're in love with Clara." "I'm not." "Yes, you are. I can tell. You gave yourself away when Clara said I would accompany you today." Charles remained silent a moment. He could not resent her knowing his secret if it was that obvious. And, anyway, why should he be ashamed of it? Any sensible man would worship Clara. He wondered if Clara knew as well. "All right, I admit it," he said, happy to confide in the warm-hearted girl. "I have loved Clara from the first moment I saw her. I even intended telling her today; but you know what happened. I am sorry if my disappointment showed. It was not intentional." "I don't mind, Charlie. ... You know it's hopeless, don't you?" she asked, kindly. "I didn't until now. Why is it hopeless: is she in love with someone else? I thought she was single?" "Clara is single only in theory. All the 'Greenwood girls' are. Casper wants it that way. I don't know why, but I had to pretend to ditch my last boyfriend before I could take this job. Then I did ditch him for real because he was a dickhead; but that's another story. The point is that Casper wants us to be 'clean-living girls', as he calls it, and do our courting (another of his words) openly; and if we find someone, then he lets us go but gives us a generous present when we get married." "You put up with these restrictions?" "Oh, I don't mind so much. Casper's sweet and generous and though it can be frustrating, it's not really much to put up with for the job I've always wanted. After travelling and staying in posh hotels, I'm not sure I could work in a dirty, rundown NHS hospital again; though that was real nursing," she said wistfully. "So Clara has a lover?" "Yes. His name is Count Hubert von Starfish-Blunderbuss." "Come on, Melanie, no one is really called 'Hubert von Starfish-Blunderbuss'." "It's something like that. I can't pronounce it. Anyway, he's German, the grandson of one of Casper's friends, and the problem is that he's a really nice man. You'd expect that someone so beautiful as Clara would throw herself away on a mean, cruel, cheating waster, like so many beautiful women do; but Count Hubert is good-looking, seriously rich, generous and kind. He's been educated all over the world and he's a real gentleman. He's perfect for Clara and she's perfect for him. So it really is hopeless, Charlie." He remained silent, looking down. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Charlie, you're not too disappointed, are you? It was really only a dream, wasn't it?" Charles looked hard at her. Melanie had revealed a fact about him that he had secretly known but had not realised until she said it. Had Melanie really understood him better than he understood himself, or was it a lucky guess? "Why do you say that?" he demanded. "Because you've known her two years and you were only going to make your move today. Why didn't you ask her out the day you met her or shortly afterward: you had her phone number, didn't you?" Why hadn't he? He suddenly realised what she was really saying: that he wanted the fantasy of Clara rather than Clara herself. It was horribly close to the truth. Clara's apparent unobtainability attracted him just as much as her beauty. "My, God! You're right. I am such an idiot." "Don't be hard on yourself, Charlie. Clara is adorable. Everyone I know fancies her ... and they all put her on a pedestal, like you" (though maybe not so high a pedestal, she thought to herself). Charles was only deflated, not devastated, which surprised him. Due to the realism injected by the homespun Melanie, he seemed as instantly over Clara as he had instantly fallen for her two years before. He was self-reproachful but not bitter and soon would be laughing at himself for a hopeless dreamer. "Cheer up, Charlie. You'll find someone else, a good-looking lad like you." "I wasn't moping, Melanie. I was thinking." "What about?" "About you, actually." "About me? What for?" The fact that Melanie was right about him made Charles think again that her intelligence belied her manner and costume. "Why do you hide your intelligence, Melanie? You're a bright girl and your judgment in art is just as good as mine: all you need is information and experience." This unusually blunt question from the meticulously polite man so surprised Melanie that she answered automatically. "Where I was brought up, you didn't want to stand out by being good at school. And we thought that art-galleries and classical music were for snobs. It was one reason I always dreamed of leaving." "I understand. So what's the story with the Benny Hill outfit? Is Casper a dirty old man?" "No!" Melanie insisted. "It's my choice to wear showy clothes. I think Casper appreciates my style but he doesn't demand it. It was Kelly who started it. She's been there longer and I just followed her lead. We both like sexy outfits." She pouted at his bemused look. "We do real nursing, as well, you know ... though," she admitted, smiling ruefully at him, "I agree, most of the time we are just company for Casper. For instance, I played backgammon with him this afternoon." Eight o'clock soon came and still no one answered the internal telephone. This was because Mildred was in her flat and Clara had been nearly two hours at the hospital. Casper was asleep in a private apartment, carefully looked on by Kelly and his daughter, Elizabeth, who had arrived in the late afternoon. Elizabeth Moreton was a proper English lady of sixty-five: tall, refined and formidable; her grey hair cut at the neck, her back ramrod straight. Only a slight twang in her accent and her open, friendly manner betrayed her American birth and upbringing. Clara stayed in the private apartment in case Casper woke, answering telephone calls from family members and friends and contacting the manor house to order rooms prepared for the visitors and to check that cook knew how many more people she would be catering for. All this activity contrived to divert her mind from the couple in the vault, where the temperature had fallen to ten degrees and Melanie was feeling the chill. "I'm really cold, now, Charles. Can we sit closer?" "I don't see how, unless you sit on my lap." "That's what I mean." Cuddling was the obvious solution to preserving body heat but Charles was reluctant at first. As an ordinary flesh-and-blood male, he already fancied Melanie, but he did not know what she would think of his erection pressing against her. Melanie divined his feelings and reassured him, saying: "Trust me, I'm a professional. This is a medical procedure." She was none the less pleased to feel his warm interest in her as they sat facing one another across the bench, snuggling closely, his arms around her waist, her legs bent at the knees over his. There was more silence than conversation now. Charles had lots to think about and what he most thought about was Melanie. He thought of her beauty and sexiness, of course; but also of her intelligence and sense of fun. Melanie likewise thought about Charles. Here was someone who admired her mind. She loved learning new things from him. She liked his politeness but there was something that prevented her from falling for him completely, however attractive he was. She could not quite decide what: maybe it was his reserve. With the temperature continuing to fall, making them snuggle ever closer, Charles took to rubbing Melanie's back to help warm her. She enjoyed his touch and leant back to smile at him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he would smile back and then pull her toward him for a kiss. Melanie was not surprised. She had been hoping for this for a while. She kissed him back greedily, holding him tightly. Their cold lips soon warmed up and Melanie was pleased to feel his physical interest in her rising again. They kissed and whispered nonsense and laughed and kissed again. The passionate couple kept this up for an hour or more and it was now well past nine o'clock. Still it got colder as the night advanced. Even though Melanie was wearing Charles' jumper, she had on only stockings under her short skirt. She shivered. Charles noticed and said: "Maybe we should jog around the vault to warm up." "Then we would lose the heat we have conserved by cuddling." Melanie thought for a minute. "The obvious answer is to combine cuddling with jogging." Charles looked blankly at her for a second; then he caught on and smiled. "Would that be a medical procedure as well?" "Of course." "Well, I think you know I'm up for it." "Oh, yes," she said, with a hungry undertone to her voice. They improvised a bed on the floor out of the cushions from the benches and some large papers (in fact, antique architectural plans and Admiralty charts, that Charles had a conscience about using) to play the role of sheets. Pleased with the result, Melanie lay on her side on the bed. Charles lay facing her and pulled the paper sheets over them. They kept their clothes on and intertwined their legs and arms. They went back to kissing and were soon warmer than they had been for a while. After some time, Charles rolled Melanie on her back and rubbed his hands to warm them up. Then he lay on her, pushed his hands under her jumper, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped them behind her back to undo her bra strap. Melanie giggled encouragement, running her fingers through his hair and rubbing her heels on the backs of his legs. He slipped his hands under her loosened bra and fondled her breasts while she kissed him. He felt he could never kiss this wonderful woman enough but there were other pleasures to take, so he began to kiss his way down Melanie's neck while pushing up the jumper and pulling the loose bra down to expose firm white globes. He adored her breasts with his tongue and mouth, kissing from the valley of her cleavage, around one nipple, then to the other and back, before finally taking her left nipple into his mouth and sucking firmly. Melanie's back arched and she gasped. While Charles suckled on left nipple, he fondled her right nipple between his fingers. With his right hand, he rubbed Melanie's pussy through her knickers. Her response was an erotic dance. He carefully kept her on the boil, loving her squeals of delight from his teasing stimulations. Melanie was warm, content and getting firmly aroused. Her breathing was shallow, her nipples hard and her pussy dripping wet. They were ready and, although Charles was having as much fun as Melanie, something held him back. He relaxed his attentions, rolled off her to lie on one side, his hand idly resting on her breast. Death, Taxes and Nurses "I do like these modern medical procedures," he said. Melanie giggled. "However, I've been thinking, Melanie. I don't want it to be only a medical procedure." "What do you mean?" "I don't want it if it is just to keep warm." Now it was Melanie who looked disappointed: an emotion she did not try to conceal. He pushed back the sheets and stood up, offering her a hand to stand up as well. She got up, puzzled; even more so when Charles brought her hand to his lips. Looking solemnly at her, he declaimed: "You might not believe that I love you, Melanie, because I have known you for only a few hours; but just as with art-works, I often fall instantly in love. I did so with Clara and, believe it or not, I have done so with you. No red-blooded male could not love your beauty but I also love your hidden intelligence, your wit, your way of teasing me, your charm and your liveliness. I also love you calling me 'Charlie'. Even my mother never calls me 'Charlie'. And I love the fact that you find me interesting. Not many people do." "They don't see your passion, Charlie. If you looked at a woman the way you look at a painting, she would always find you interesting." "So you believe me that I love you?" "Yes, Charlie, I do." Although Melanie had laughed at his demonstriveness, she was secretly touched and, to cover it up, continued: "So, now you've finished being all formal, Charlie, will you hurry up and fuck me because I'm freezing my tits off here." "I love you, Melanie," he said, seriously, "but you are a coarse little strumpet who deserves a good spanking." "Now you're talking, Charlie, my boy," Melanie said, turning around and bending at the waist to present her bottom to him. "I hope you're not all talk and no action." Charles smacked her bottom hard, the sound echoing around the vault. "Ooh!" she exclaimed; but when there was no repeat she said "More, Charlie" and wriggled provocatively at him. "Later," he said, "I think, for now, we should warm up other parts of you," and he clutched her to him, kissing her greedily, rubbing his hands over as much of her body and legs as he could reach. While she was standing, he removed her skirt and knickers. They were no use to help warm her and were in the way of his hands and lips as he pursued the joy of stroking and kissing every inch of the gorgeous woman he loved. They lay together on the bed again and he dragged the sheets back over them. The temperature had been falling ever more quickly since night set in at six o'clock and it was now four degrees in the vault. The cold was noticeable whenever a limb protruded as they shifted position or when one of them got up to use the toilet but Charles did not let the cold worry him as he kissed his love from head to foot, en route taking his first taste of her pussy, sending ripples of joy through her straining body. When Charles disengaged from kissing her pussy, he intended to undress and take her in earnest, but Melanie had an idea and, forcing herself to stop panting and calm down, stopped him by asking what the time was. "It's nearly eleven o'clock, Darling." "Good, then we should wait an hour." "I can't wait an hour: not in the state you've got me into. Why do you want to wait an hour?" "Don't you know what day it is?" "February thirteenth." "So that makes tomorrow ...?" "February fourteenth," he answered factually. "So what?" "Typical man! February fourteenth is Valentine's Day, silly." "So it is. You think it would be more romantic if our first time was on Saint Valentine's Day?" "Of course." "All right, but what will we do for an hour?" "The same as what we have been doing." "I'm not sure I can hold off that long. I might be able to if I had an incentive, though. How about this: we play a game. I'll try to make you beg for it. If you give in before midnight, I win; if not, then you win. What do you think?" "Sounds fun. What do I win?" "Whoever wins gets to choose what we do all night. Agreed?" "Agreed." They did not go straight back to foreplay but lay side by side, holding each other and talking. Charles gradually added kisses and firmer touches and pretty soon Melanie was back on the boil, bucking and writhing under his touch. Because she put her hands in his trousers to stroke his cock, Charles had to hold her hands behind her back. He would easily have forfeited the game otherwise. "Not fair, Charlie," she protested. "Leave my dick alone, then." "Okay," she agreed far too readily. "I don't trust you," he said, and started sucking hard on her tit while vigorously rubbing her clitoris. "Ahh! ... Oh, God!" She gasped and bucked, losing herself in the delicious sensations of being restrained, suckled and fingered to ecstasy. Charles alternated between sucking on her breasts and kissing her neck, shoulders and mouth, all the while either stroking her thighs, rubbing her clitoris or gently pushing a finger into her vagina. When Melanie came close to her release, Charles disengaged to let her calm down and started again a few minutes later. Half-an-hour more of this treatment had tripped Melanie into a trance similar to the one she felt while looking at the snow-scene. Charles took his mouth and finger away from her, leaving her high and dry in her over-excited state. "Oh, God! Charlie! ... Please, Charlie? ... Do it now! ... I can't take any more. ... Now, Charlie!" she pleaded between gasping breaths. "You give in, then, Melanie. I've won?" "Yes, Charlie. ... You've won. ... I give in." With Melanie begging for it, Charles felt such a wonderful surge of power that he could not avoid wanting to exercise it. He would keep her on the boil some more, gently fingering her pussy. "Now, Charlie ... I need it, now!" she implored. "No." He was firm. "Not until you say you love me." He returned to sucking her nipple. "I ... Oh, God!. No! ... That's not fair, Charlie. ... No! Oh, God! I'm going to cum," at which he stopped sucking and removed his hand quickly from her groin. "No!" she shrieked. "Charlie! No! ... Please fuck me!" "Language, Strumpet! You have earned yourself another spank; and you still haven't said you love me." When she had calmed down, he attended to her clitoris again, stroking around the over-sensitised organ, carefully keeping her on the edge of fulfilment. Melanie shut her eyes and moaned deep in her throat. She stopped trying to pull her arms from his grip but relaxed her struggles. Charles could now use his other hand to fondle a ripe hard nipple. She squirmed. Her hands were flat on the cushions, her mouth open, her eyes rolled in her head and her tongue popped out. Again he pulled back, frustrating her release. She moaned her disappointment. "You've lost our game already, Melanie. You gave in and begged for it. You might as well concede entirely and admit you love me." Moving sides while he waited for her answer, he suckled her right breast and put his left hand on her pussy, gradually building her tension again with his fingers. She arched and her breaths were gasps. "I don't ... love ... you," she managed to say: "This is just ... Oh, no! ... just a way ... ahh! ... of keeping ... Oh, God! ... warm." He squeezed her left nipple hard between thumb and forefinger. "No! Ow! No, Charlie. ... Not fair ... Ow! Shit!" But Melanie was ramming her pelvis into his hand, trying to envelop his fingers and get more friction. He removed his hand again and released her nipples from his fingers and mouth. She writhed in frustration. "Come on, Melanie. You want me in you. You said so. All you need to do is use the magic words. ... Just three little words, Melanie. ... They are easy to say." "All right. All right. ... You win, Charlie ... I'll say them ..." "Good. Go ahead." She paused. Then: "Charlie: ... Please fuck me." She giggled when he got up, pretending to be cross and turned her over, pulling her onto all fours. "All right, Strumpet, you asked for it." He moved the paper sheets to expose her bottom and started spanking her. It was cold for him outside the sheets but the reward was a view of Melanie's bottom. The girl was as beautiful from behind as she was from the front, with delicious round buttocks and a succulent swollen pussy. Charles would have given in and taken her right then if it was not such fun to make her squeal. Melanie squirmed adorably in response to his onslaught, which kept her on the edge of orgasm; yet frustration and sensual pain were working to undermine her defences. More strongly than ever, she needed him inside her and was considering saying she loved him just to make it happen, even if it was not really true. She certainly loved talking to him and she loved the fact that he took her seriously. She loved that he teased her back when she teased him and that he was so physical in sex. She needed something else, though, but was still not sure what it was. Charles slowed his spanks in time with Melanie's arousal, as measured by her breathing, her moans and the dampness coating her labia. Her bottom was warm and pink now but her legs were cold. She didn't care: she barely noticed. Her mind was on her sexual release that was so tantalizingly close and, tantalizingly, in the hands of Charles, who cruelly kept it from her. Charles stopped his spanking and ordered Melanie to lie on her back and spread her legs. She obeyed dutifully, thinking that Charles could wait no longer. Charles told her to raise her knees and, again, she complied immediately. "At last!" she thought; but she was mistaken. Charles covered her with the papers and knelt with his head between her legs to lick her pussy again. And yet, just as the first convulsions of a seismic orgasm threatened to banish all conscious thought, Melanie realized she had found the 'something else' she wanted from Charles before she could love him. Previously, when Charles had asked her to assume a position, he had said 'please'. Now he had ordered her, as if she belonged to him, as if she had no choice; and she had complied automatically. This was what was missing: her sense of being possessed and of being commanded. She could fancy the reserved, polite Charles but it was the authoritative, masterful Charles that she loved. "Stop, Charlie, please stop," she implored. "I'll say it for real, now ... I want to say it." He pushed himself up her body and leant over her. "Go on, then, say it," he ordered. "I love you, Charlie." She saw a look of joy on his face that no painter could capture and laughed her own joy in response. "I love you, Melanie." They kissed, their lips welded passionately together. When he came up for air, Charles looked at his watch. "Two minutes to midnight, Melanie." "Thank God! ... I'm close to bursting." Charles stripped naked and lay on her, kissing her hard. She responded eagerly. When they broke the kiss, he checked the time again. "Happy Saint Valentine's day, Darling." As he lifted his pelvis from her, Melanie lowered a hand to guide his stiff cock. They kissed and she sucked on his tongue as he pushed firmly into her. They made love slowly at first, savouring the first sweet moments of coupling. When they quickened the pace, they did so together, as if reading each other's minds. Melanie had been so near the edge that it did not take her long to succumb to a screaming orgasm. Her back arched and her legs shook as waves of pleasure cascaded around her body. A string of orgasms wracked her body arching her back again and again as Charles thrust relentlessly into her. Her head was flung back as she convulsed. Charles was sucking on her chin and gripping a breast in his hand, squeezing the nipple. Her hands were on his back, her nails dug into his flesh, her legs wrapped around his waist. He could hold off no longer. Another of her spasms brought on his own ecstatic release. He gasped out his love for her as his penis throbbed inside her vagina, gripped by her pulsating muscles. Afterward, they rested, panting, side-by-side and shared their happiness in laughter, tender kisses and gentle strokes, until they were ready to go again. Because he won the game, Charles had the choice of their next position. He ordered Melanie to sit astride him. She did so, riding him to a glorious fulfilment, shaking her blonde hair wildly. Thus they played, talked and loved until three in the morning, when exhaustion claimed them. They slept in warm contentment, Charles holding Melanie possessively to him. Casper Greenwood had slept all evening and night and woke early the next morning, before six o'clock. The first thing he saw was Elizabeth, calm and sad at his bedside. She had sat vigil in her chair all night, occasionally dozing. She wished him 'good morning', gave him a kiss and went to wake Kelly, who was sleeping on a bed next door. Assisted by a hospital nurse, Kelly came in to make Casper comfortable. He had a surge of energy and sent her to fetch Clara and the solicitor. Despite the early hour, Clara was already at the hospital, waiting outside the apartment, ready to attend his bedside. The solicitor was expected from London later in the morning. Casper spoke to Elizabeth and Clara in a thin, reedy voice, interspersed with wheezing breaths; but he stubbornly insisted on completing what he had to say. "Bessie, ... I want Clara to have a million dollars. ... It's to thank you, Clara. ... Now you hurry up and marry Hubert. ... Bessie, you tell my lawyer when he gets here, yes?" "I will, Daddy," Elizabeth assured him. "I think it's already in the will; but, if it isn't, then I will see it's done." Clara did not know what to say. She was red with embarrassment, not relieved even by Elizabeth patting her hand gently and smiling approval. Casper tried to speak again. "Please don't strain yourself, Daddy." He persisted: "... my nurses ... they're to get something. ... Bessie, Clara, you treat them well. ... Give them a hundred-... dollars." "A hundred dollars, Daddy? That's not much." "A hundred-thousand dollars, Bessie." "Very well, Daddy: A hundred-thousand dollars for Kelly and Melanie. ... You're the witness, Clara. It's not legally binding but I promise I will honour the bequest, even if I pay it myself." Clara gasped. She had been stupefied since Casper had mentioned the entirely unexpected gift to her but on hearing the names of the nurses, she suddenly remembered Melanie and Charles were still locked in the vault. Clara collected herself and whispered to Elizabeth that she had to make an urgent telephone call. She would be back immediately. She kissed Casper on the cheek, pressed his thin scaly arm in her delicate hands and ran quickly out of the room, dialling her mobile telephone as she went. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she urged uselessly, pacing the corridor. "Hello" a sleep-filled matronly voice eventually responded. "Mildred! It's Clara. I locked Melanie and Charles Webster in the vault" then she remembered: "and (Oh God!) I turned the heating off. Please will you run and rescue them?" "Now don't fret, Miss. I'll get them out and ring you when they are safe. Are you with Mr. Greenwood now." "Yes, he's just woken up. He's very weak. Please hurry, Mildred." "Right you are, chick. I'm hurrying." Casper was asleep when Clara returned. Elizabeth and Clara wrote down what Casper had asked them. Elizabeth added that all the staff were to have generous gifts. They both signed the paper. It seemed the right thing to do, even if it was legally worthless. When Mildred arrived at the front door of the mansion, there was a huddled form sitting under the portico, out of the cold rain and wind. It stood up when she arrived. "Who are you?" Mildred demanded. "I'm Jake." "Jake who?" "Jake Limes." "Limes, eh? Then you'll be Melanie's younger brother. Are you looking for her?" "Yes." "Then come with me, Jake, she's in here and I may have some work for you." Worried because Melanie had not arrived home last night, nor answered her mobile telephone, her parents sent Jake early in the morning to the mansion to ask after her. He had rung the bell for twenty minutes and then sat down to wait, not knowing what else to do. Mildred unlocked the door and strode purposefully across the entrance hall and down the stairs to the vault. Jake lumbered obediently behind her. She pushed open the vault door to reveal Melanie and Charles in their makeshift bed, soundly asleep in the freezing room. Melanie was huddled into his chest, his arms wrapped protectively about her. Only her blonde hair was visible outside the paper blankets. Jake saw them over the head of Mildred and, with surprising agility in one so large, snuck past the housekeeper and in three strides was looming over them. He lifted Charles out of the bed with one hand and slammed the other into his face. Poor Charles was precipitated from blissful sleep, through rude awakening to unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. He slumped, naked, onto the floor, his cheek beginning to swell, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Jake, you fucking psychopath! What are you doing?" Melanie was awake and furious. She scrambled around her brother to kneel by Charles and take his head in her arms. She didn't care that she was naked and freezing cold. "Oh, God! Charles. Are you OK? Charles!" He remained unconscious. "Jake, if you've broken his jaw, I'll never speak to you again. What were you thinking?" "Sorry, Mel. I lost it when I saw him cuddling you ..." "This here is Charlie. He's my bloke, see? We love each other; though it ain't none of your business. You've no right thumping blokes 'cos they're in love with me!" "Sorry, Mel..." Mildred took charge. "Jake Limes, go and wait in the corridor, where you can't do any more harm." Jake stayed were he was. Mildred tapped her foot. "I shan't tell you twice..." she said. Jake obeyed and lumbered out. "Melanie, it's freezing in here. We've got to get both of you warm. Do you think you can bring him 'round?" "He's out cold, Mildred." "All right, then. I'll get Jake to carry him upstairs. You rush off and fetch your medical kit. We'll meet in the first bedroom on the right. Okay?" "Okay, Mildred. Thanks." Melanie tenderly laid Charles' head down and got up, only then realising her state of undress. She found her skirt and the jumper, hurriedly put them on and ran along the corridor, telling Jake to obey Mildred as she passed him. She had not felt cold while she was angry but now she was shivering. Her teeth chattered as she ran. Mildred ordered Jake to lift Charles up and follow her. Jake carried him as easily as a child, his head lolling on one side in Jake's arms. Charles had gone blue, except for his purple cheek. Jake followed Mildred up the main staircase to the bedroom, where Melanie was waiting with her first-aid kit, shaking with cold. He laid Charles carefully on the bed and followed Mildred into the bathroom while Melanie examined Charles. Mildred started running a lukewarm bath and said to Jake: "Watch the bath for me so it doesn't overflow. Can you do that?" "Yes, mum." "Good boy. I'll be back in a minute." She returned to the bedroom. "How is he, Melanie?" She had checked his pupils with a torch for concussion. He seemed all right and his jaw was not broken, though it would surely ache for a week. "He'll live, no thanks to that great oaf." "All right, let's get him warm now. Jake, come here and carry him into the bathroom." He did so, with Melanie following. Mildred checked that the water was not too hot and allowed Jake to lower Charles gently into the bath. "Jake, your job is to slowly drain the warm water from the bath and add hot water at about this rate." Death, Taxes and Nurses Mildred opened the hot tap to a steady flow. "You'll have to pull the plug occasionally to stop it over-flowing and turn the tap off before it gets too hot. Can you do that for me, Jake?" "Yes, mum." Jake knelt down by the bath and rolled up his sleeve to stir the hot water around the bath with one of his paddle-like hands. "Well done, Jake. Right, my girl: it's your turn. Charles will be fine." "Yes, if Jake doesn't drown him." "Come with me, then." Melanie obeyed, kicking Jake in the ribs as she passed, hurting her foot. "Ow, shit!" "Sorry, Mel." "You will be," she assured him as she hobbled into the corridor, to be aided by Mildred's warm protective arms into her own restorative immersion. Jake didn't drown Charles but carefully tended to him, gradually increasing the temperature of the bath until the blue man turned pink. Fifteen minutes later, Charles had regained consciousness. Though tired and in severe pain from his bruised face and the whiplash in his neck, yet he could talk enough to let the contrite Jake know that he was forgiven for Melanie's sake. When Melanie and Charles were in their baths, Mildred telephoned Clara to put her mind at rest. Clara was grateful and relieved but she was also clearly upset. She had bad news to communicate: Casper was dead. It had not long happened. Elizabeth was holding her father's hand when he woke up again after dozing. He smiled, looking at his daughter. "Rachael, my love, you're here," he croaked thinly. "It's Elizabeth, Daddy," she said, the tears starting in her eyes. "Bessie. You look so much like your mother.... So beautiful...." He tried to lift his hand to touch her face. She helped him and held his palm to her cheek. "So beautiful," he repeated. "Bessie ... I've had a wonderful life ... a beautiful family, ... but it wasn't the same without Rachael. ... I am going to join her now...." "Give Mum a kiss from me, Daddy," Elizabeth said, tears streaming down her cheeks onto his face as she bent over to kiss him goodbye. He closed his eyes to rest and Elizabeth let his arm down to his side, still holding his hand. Two minutes later, he opened his eyes again. It was a post-mortem reflex. Casper Greenwood was dead. Clara was sobbing when she ended her telephone call and Mildred had tears in her eyes when she returned laden with a tray of strong, black coffees. Charles asked after Melanie. "She's fine: she was splashing around like a water-baby when I left her. I'm sorry I had no rubber duck to give her to play with." "Good for her," Charles said, but he groaned, holding his jaw. "Do you think you can drink from a cup, or shall I fetch you a straw?" Charles thought he could detect a slight undertone of dislike in Mildred's attitude toward him but he was not in a position to justify himself, so he chose to ignore it. "I can manage a cup, thank you, Mildred." "If you're okay, I'll go talk to Melanie again. Mr. Greenwood died this morning." "I'm very sorry, Mildred. I liked him a lot. He was a most generous man. ... He'll be a great loss to the art-world." "I suppose so," she agreed, "though a greater loss to his family and household," was her no-nonsense Parthian shot as she progressed to Melanie's bathroom to share the sad news. Melanie sat and wept as Mildred wrapped her in a bath-sheet. She had genuinely loved the kindly old man. Jake had gone to fetch Charles' clothes and, when he was dressed, Charles came to console Melanie. She hugged him and kissed the unbruised side of his face. "I'll miss him so much," she said. Melanie wept again a week later at the funeral of Casper Greenwood. And, one day after that, she wept at the country estate when, in the company of Casper's family, Clara, Kelly and the solicitor, she was informed that Casper had left his nurses one hundred thousand pounds each. Elizabeth would hear neither refusals nor thanks but she hugged the girls and expressed the gratitude of the whole family for the care and happiness with which they had graced the last years of her father. Another time that Melanie wept was one Sunday in May, when she and Charles made their weekly visit to the National Gallery. Charles guided her to the Rembrandts and was charmed to see that the sweet sadness of the late self-portraits moved her to tears. Later on that warm spring day, while walking in St. James' Park, Charles manoeuvred Melanie to a vacant bench, sat her down and then knelt. He kissed her hand and asked her to marry him. She shed tears of happiness as she said "yes". Melanie did not weep again that year until August, when she married Charles in Bow Church. She laughed at the preposterous suit that fitted Jake like a tent. She cried as she hugged Clara, whose angelic beauty was enhanced by a golden glow now that she was Countess von Starfish-Blunderbuss. She wept joyfully when she promised to 'love, honour and obey' Charles. And mischievous laughter consumed her when her new husband happily whispered that he'd seen her cross her fingers as she said the word 'obey'.