"Those letters you asked for, Sir Anthony."
Anthony looked up from his perusal of the accounts' ledger, startled still by Mr Everington's voice rather than the altogether more pleasant tones of Mrs Crawley. "Thank you, Everington. Have you heard back from the Manchester agent about last quarter's rent yet?"
Everington shook his head. "Sorry, sir. I… haven't telephoned yet. Was it particularly urgent?"
Suppressing a sigh of frustration, Anthony shook his head. "No. No. Just… get on to it this afternoon, would you?"
"Right you are, sir." Everington strolled back to his desk, humming tunelessly under his breath. As he bent his head once more to his work, Anthony heard the click of a cigarette lighter and a loud exhalation as Mr Everington began to smoke his fourth cigarette of the morning. Not that he objected, necessarily - after all, he was more than happy to smoke his pipe in the evenings - but… Everington was… different to what he was used to, that was all. His approach to his work was certainly more… relaxed than Mrs Crawley's had been. But then again, what else was he supposed to do? Mrs Crawley wasn't coming back. He'd had to find someone, and even if Everington weren't all that might have been hoped for, he would learn soon enough.
Surely he would.
"Everington, could you - "
The door burst open and Stewart launched himself like a bullet from a gun into the room. "Sir, you must come quickly. It's Mrs Dale. She's… collapsed."
They hadn't dared to move her. Instead, Mrs Dale lay on the kitchen floor, a cushion from the armchair tucked under her head. She was still half-unconscious. From her position kneeling at her friend's side, Mrs Cox heard Sir Anthony ask Mr Stewart, in an angry undertone, "Where in God's name is that ambulance?"
"I'm sure it won't be long, sir - "
The sound of the front door bell ringing made everyone sigh with relief. Stewart headed for the kitchen door and a moment later returned, leading with him the ambulance drivers and Dr Clarkson. "Well, what's happened here?" he asked in that reassuring Scottish voice he had, the one that always reminded Mrs Cox of her long-dead mother, who had been brought up in Edinburgh.
"We were just getting the tea trays together, doctor, and then she went all pale and just… keeled over," she replied.
"I see. Any signs of illness recently? Sir Anthony?"
An expression of guilt passed over the master's face; inwardly Mrs Cox clucked her tongue in sympathy. No wonder he hadn't noticed, poor man. He'd had more than enough on his mind of late. "Tiredness. A little breathlessness. Some - some dizziness, I think?" Sir Anthony looked as if for help at Stewart and Mrs Cox.
"And she's been complaining of a pain in her back, recently. Her arm, this morning, too," Mrs Cox put in helpfully.
Stewart nodded in agreement, making the doctor frown. "In that case, I'm afraid that it sounds very much like a heart attack - "
"Oh my Lord!" exclaimed Mrs Cox.
" - which is why it's very important for us to get Mrs Dale to hospital as soon as humanly possible," Dr Clarkson finished firmly, taking masterful control of the situation.
Mrs Cox got to her feet, a determined look on her face. "Then I'll get out from under your feet, doctor."
"I'll go in the ambulance with her, if that's permitted, Clarkson," she heard Sir Anthony add as she hurried down the kitchen passage.
The hall was empty, the telephone sitting on its side-table. Mrs Cox squared her shoulders, marched over to it, and picked it up. "Operator? I want a trunk call to Rutherford House School, Somerset. Yes, Somerset - and if you're not sharp about it, Dilys Lane, then I shall be having words with your mother!"
Edith shivered as she climbed the front steps back into the school. She'd towelled herself off as best as she could on the beach, and it was not a terribly cold day, but with November melting into December, she had to admit that this would probably have to be her last swim of the year.
"Mrs Crawley!" Matron's voice greeted her warmly as Edith dripped into the hall. "Oh good, you're back - there's someone on the telephone for you."
"The telephone? For me? Whoever…" Edith sighed. "Thank you, Matron. I'll go up and take it at once."
Matron raised her eyebrows in obvious disapproval. "And then get yourself in front of a fire and into some dry clothes. I've got a horrid suspicion that Georgia Murphy's coming down with the measles, so I don't need you catching a chill just now, thank you."
"Of course, Matron." Edith ducked her head with a sheepish grin. "Message received and understood."
In her office, Edith picked up the telephone, stretching out her hand to grab the poker and stoke up her little fire as she did so. "Hello, Edith Crawley speaking."
"Oh, thank God!" came Mrs Cox's familiar tones, a little broken by distance and poor weather. A sigh of relief crackled down the line.
"Mrs Cox, whatever - "
"No time for quest - " Mrs Cox's voice was dropping in and out. Inwardly, Edith cursed. This line had been the bane of her existence, it seemed, for the last few months. "Mrs Dale… Sir Anthony… ill… Clarkson… heart attack."
A leaden ball of terror thunked into Edith's gut.
"What? Sir Anthony has - that's impossible, Mrs Cox!"
"Come… worried… quickly." The line crackled again, a blizzard of white noise utterly obscuring whatever else Mrs Cox had intended to say.
"Mrs Cox? Mrs Cox?!"
The line died. "Damn!" Edith cursed and slammed the receiver down, standing up again without conscious thought. Every nerve ending in her whole body seemed to be jumping and frizzing with fright. She didn't know what to do first. Pack a bag? Tell Dr Robinson? Try to telephone Locksley again? Look up the trains?
Her decision was made for her by an authoritative knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Dr Robinson herself. "Ah, Miss Crawley - do take a seat," she said, quite as if she were in her own office.
That voice was not one which was often argued with. Unsteadily, Edith sank back into her chair. "Y-yes, Dr Robinson. I - "
"Now," Dr Robinson interrupted, taking the seat nearest the fireplace, "you know Miss George will be retiring at the end of term?"
"Y-yes?" Edith replied. If her mind had been less occupied by what she had just heard, she might have wondered quite where this conversation was going.
"Well, then, would you consider taking on the role of Bursar when she does leave?"
For a moment, there was a stunned silence, as Edith tried to force herself to speak. It was as if her mind were one of the rocks out to sea along the coast here, suddenly being swamped by wave after enormous wave - all she could do was wait for the deluge to be over. "You - you want to promote me?" she managed at length.
"Yes."
"I - " Edith began, and then stopped.
"Yes, Miss Crawley?" Dr Robinson prompted, in a gentler tone of voice than Edith was used to hearing from her.
"I've just had a telephone call," Edith found herself saying. "From - from Locksley."
Dr Robinson blinked. "From Sir Anthony Strallan?"
"No. I - the line was very bad. I - I fear he may be v-very ill."
"And what has that to do with you?" Dr Robinson's face creased with a confused frown. "You no longer work for him."
"No. I know." Edith fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. "But… but he may… need me."
Dr Robinson lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. "My dear Miss Crawley, might I be brutally honest for a moment?"
"Of course, Dr Robinson."
"You must make a decision," said Dr Robinson, "here and now, as to whether you wish to make something successful of your life, or to go crawling back to this man, with no hope of a job, a home - of anything." Dr Robinson frowned. "I know which I would choose."
Edith swallowed. "I'm sure you do, Dr Robinson. But… but I think we are very different women."
"Are we indeed?"
"Yes," Edith trembled. "I… I have no great intellect, Dr Robinson, no vaulting ambitions. I only know that - that I must go where I am needed, and right now… that is Locksley."
