Read Online Heirs of the Body by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carola Dunn
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had made her learn how to change a wheel, but she had far rather not. She belonged to the RAC, and this was a main road; perhaps a patrolman would come by soon. Or if she sat on the running board looking disconsolate, perhaps a helpful motorist would stop to give her a hand. If she took the spare wheel off the back of the boot and leant it against the car, it would be obvious what the trouble was.
She glanced at her watch. She had written to Geraldine that she’d arrive at teatime, so there was no hurry. On this glorious day, to sit hopefully in the sun for half an hour, listening to the song of larks and the bleat of sheep, would be no hardship.
Besides, trying to do it herself and making a mess of it might take far longer than waiting for an expert to come along.
With a bit of a struggle, Daisy managed to unbuckle the spare wheel. She was examining with dismay the black marks on her driving gloves when a vast, gleaming car purred over the hill and down towards her.
It slowed as it came alongside. The smartly uniformed chauffeur, in the open front, turned towards her. “Trouble, miss? Puncture, is it?”
In the enclosed rear, a khaki-clad figure leant forward and rapped on the dividing glass with the handle of a stick or umbrella. “Get on, get on!” snapped the passenger impatiently, his voice muffled by the closed windows.
Her would-be gallant rescuer rolled his eyes, shrugged, and mouthed, “Sorry!” as he changed into first gear. With a soft, expensive hum, the bronze Daimler slid away down the steep hill.
“Brute!” Daisy exclaimed indignantly. Khaki—a high-ranking army officer? But the chauffeur’s uniform was not military. Whoever the passenger was, he was a rotten cad.
Contemplating the wheel without enthusiasm, she reminded herself that she was a modern, competent woman. It didn’t help. She just plain didn’t want to tackle the job.
However, the trickle of vehicles she had encountered before seemed to have dried up entirely. She could at least show willing and make a start by getting out the jack from the tool chest. That was easy. Alas, having accomplished it, she realised she had forgotten how to use the blasted thing.
This bar obviously fitted into that hole, but what next?
The drone of a motor caught her ear. Something was coming up the hill, so it couldn’t be going fast. Daisy decided she was jolly well going to stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop.
As she stepped forward, a blue motorcycle came round the bend. Beholding the blue and white RAC insignia, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.
The blue-liveried patrolman pulled up and saluted. “Puncture, ma’am? A chap in a Daimler told me you needed help.”
“The passenger?” she asked, surprised.
“No, the shover.”
“That sounds more likely. Yes, a puncture.”
“You’ve got the spare all ready, and the jack, I see. Won’t take a jiffy.”
And it didn’t. Which made the Daimler passenger’s refusal to stop all the more egregious.
“Don’t forget to get the tyre repaired before you go much farther, ma’am.” Her saviour pocketed a tip, saluted again, hopped onto his bike and buzzed off.
Daisy drove on, passing north of Bredon Hill. Soon the pepperpot bell tower at Upton-upon-Severn came into view. Reaching the drawbridge just as it opened, she watched a brightly painted narrowboat chug through the gap. She refrained from the childish pleasure of waving to the boatman and his wife.
Miranda and Oliver were old enough to enjoy waving to the colourful boats and watching the bridge open and close, she thought. When they all came in August, she would bring them here one day, even if it meant a battle with Nurse Gilpin.
Her own nanny had disapproved, saying it was unladylike. That had stopped Violet, though not Daisy nor, of course, Gervaise. How much fun one could miss through fear of not being considered ladylike!
Daisy got out of the car and, as the bridge closed, waved vigorously at the receding
She glanced at her watch. She had written to Geraldine that she’d arrive at teatime, so there was no hurry. On this glorious day, to sit hopefully in the sun for half an hour, listening to the song of larks and the bleat of sheep, would be no hardship.
Besides, trying to do it herself and making a mess of it might take far longer than waiting for an expert to come along.
With a bit of a struggle, Daisy managed to unbuckle the spare wheel. She was examining with dismay the black marks on her driving gloves when a vast, gleaming car purred over the hill and down towards her.
It slowed as it came alongside. The smartly uniformed chauffeur, in the open front, turned towards her. “Trouble, miss? Puncture, is it?”
In the enclosed rear, a khaki-clad figure leant forward and rapped on the dividing glass with the handle of a stick or umbrella. “Get on, get on!” snapped the passenger impatiently, his voice muffled by the closed windows.
Her would-be gallant rescuer rolled his eyes, shrugged, and mouthed, “Sorry!” as he changed into first gear. With a soft, expensive hum, the bronze Daimler slid away down the steep hill.
“Brute!” Daisy exclaimed indignantly. Khaki—a high-ranking army officer? But the chauffeur’s uniform was not military. Whoever the passenger was, he was a rotten cad.
Contemplating the wheel without enthusiasm, she reminded herself that she was a modern, competent woman. It didn’t help. She just plain didn’t want to tackle the job.
However, the trickle of vehicles she had encountered before seemed to have dried up entirely. She could at least show willing and make a start by getting out the jack from the tool chest. That was easy. Alas, having accomplished it, she realised she had forgotten how to use the blasted thing.
This bar obviously fitted into that hole, but what next?
The drone of a motor caught her ear. Something was coming up the hill, so it couldn’t be going fast. Daisy decided she was jolly well going to stand in the middle of the road and force it to stop.
As she stepped forward, a blue motorcycle came round the bend. Beholding the blue and white RAC insignia, Daisy breathed a sigh of relief.
The blue-liveried patrolman pulled up and saluted. “Puncture, ma’am? A chap in a Daimler told me you needed help.”
“The passenger?” she asked, surprised.
“No, the shover.”
“That sounds more likely. Yes, a puncture.”
“You’ve got the spare all ready, and the jack, I see. Won’t take a jiffy.”
And it didn’t. Which made the Daimler passenger’s refusal to stop all the more egregious.
“Don’t forget to get the tyre repaired before you go much farther, ma’am.” Her saviour pocketed a tip, saluted again, hopped onto his bike and buzzed off.
Daisy drove on, passing north of Bredon Hill. Soon the pepperpot bell tower at Upton-upon-Severn came into view. Reaching the drawbridge just as it opened, she watched a brightly painted narrowboat chug through the gap. She refrained from the childish pleasure of waving to the boatman and his wife.
Miranda and Oliver were old enough to enjoy waving to the colourful boats and watching the bridge open and close, she thought. When they all came in August, she would bring them here one day, even if it meant a battle with Nurse Gilpin.
Her own nanny had disapproved, saying it was unladylike. That had stopped Violet, though not Daisy nor, of course, Gervaise. How much fun one could miss through fear of not being considered ladylike!
Daisy got out of the car and, as the bridge closed, waved vigorously at the receding
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