The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,148

him,’ she advised. ‘He may not respond, but a familiar voice might get through to him.’

And so Millie talked. She chatted about nothing, telling him about her life in London, Dora and Helen, the funny things that had happened to her on the wards. It felt strange, making small talk into nothingness. It was as if her father was at the end of a very long tunnel. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. All she could do was shout to him and hope he knew she was there too. And that he would find his way back to her.

And so it continued throughout the following day, and the day after that. Millie talked to him, read to him from The Times and even tried to do the crossword, although she found it a struggle without her father’s help.

She also persuaded Mr Cossard and the ward sister to allow her to take over some of his practical care, such as washing and shaving him and rubbing methylated spirits and powder into his shoulders and back to keep pressure sores at bay. They even found a spare apron and cap for her once they saw how determined she was to help.

By night, she curled up in the chair in his room. After her first uncomfortable night, when it became obvious that nothing would persuade her to go home to her bed, the kindly nurse brought her an armchair from the sister’s office during the night, whisking it away again at the first light of dawn.

Her grandmother disapproved of seeing Millie, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, starched cap covering her fair curls, tending to her father.

‘It’s hardly fitting behaviour for a young lady,’ she scolded. But even she had to admit she found it a comfort, knowing Millie was there with him.

‘Should I arrange for the rest of your luggage to be brought down from London?’ she asked, as the third day dawned and she watched Millie and another nurse changing the bed.

‘That won’t be necessary. I can manage with what I’ve brought with me.’

Lady Rettingham looked at her sharply. ‘How long are you planning to stay?’

‘I don’t know.’ Millie gazed down at her father, still unconscious in the bed. As every day passed, her hope dimmed. ‘I shan’t leave until – we know how Daddy is. Matron has told me to take as much time off as I need.’

Her grandmother was silent. Millie glanced up at her tense face as she gazed out of the window towards the sunny hospital gardens and sensed that all was not well. She finished tucking in the corner of the sheet and straightened up to look at her. ‘Is there something wrong, Granny?’ she asked.

‘I’m just rather surprised, that’s all. I assumed you would not be returning to London.’

Millie stared at her uncomprehending. ‘But I have to go back. My training . . .’

‘You heard what the consultant said.’ Her grandmother turned to her. ‘We must prepare ourselves for the worst. What if anything happens to your father? Who will run the estate?’

‘The estate manager can look after it, surely?’

‘And who is going to give him his orders? Who is going to make the decisions, make sure everything is done properly?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should come home and run Billinghurst myself?’ The idea was so ridiculous Millie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so worn down by worry and exhaustion.

‘Until the next heir claims the estate, certainly.’ Her grandmother stared at her blankly. ‘We have to face facts, Amelia. I know you believed your father would live for ever and you could chase your dreams to your heart’s content, but that is not the case. We have to accept that he may die . . .’

‘No!’ Millie shouted.

‘. . . and if he does,’ her grandmother continued relentlessly, ‘then Billinghurst will pass to Cousin Robert and that will be the end of it. But if your father survives, there is a very real possibility he may suffer some kind of mental incapacity that will prevent him from resuming his duties of running the estate. And what do you think will happen then? Are we to allow Billinghurst to crumble into the ground while you indulge yourself in London? You have a duty, Amelia. Not to some sick strangers in the East End but to us, your family. And the sooner you realise that, the better.’

The Dowager Countess stared out of the window. ‘Of course, none of this would