A Secret Infatuation
Betty Neels
Just for once allow your heart to rule your prudent common sense…Tempting advice - dare Eugenie take it? A country upbringing had taught her to be practical…not to cherish romantic dreams about tall, handsome strangers! But a chance encounter one misty day in spring changed all that. Eminent surgeon Aderik Rijnma ter Salis was a very special man - he made Eugenie's life seem brighter, full of exciting possibilities! But with the gorgeous Saphira at his side, could Aderik's feelings for Eugenie ever be more than strictly professional?
Dear Reader,
Looking back over the years, I find it hard to realise that thirty of them have gone by since I wrote my first book—Sister Peters in Amsterdam. It wasn’t until I started writing about her that I found that once I had started writing, nothing was going to make me stop—and at that time I had no intention of sending it to a publisher. It was my daughter who urged me to try my luck.
I shall never forget the thrill of having my first book accepted. A thrill I still get each time a new story is accepted. Writing to me is such a pleasure, and seeing a story unfolding on my old typewriter is like watching a film and wondering how it will end. Happily of course.
To have so many of my books re-published is such a delightful thing to happen and I can only hope that those who read them will share my pleasure in seeing them on the bookshelves again…and enjoy reading them.
A Secret Infatuation
Betty Neels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uc30b7b32-d74e-50f8-b86d-0e303c57572b)
Title Page (#u0bb509bc-d086-5b1d-a781-1a9b89e9d2cc)
CHAPTER ONE (#ucb6f3a86-f69a-597e-8c8a-91355088bb6c)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5ef63715-039e-5238-a868-8bd4a5deb0ff)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5ece1742-7c3b-5301-b52c-d84f0eaa44e2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_55f37140-f621-560c-991c-e34bbf690d37)
EUGENIE SPENCER, tall, splendidly built, dark hair, dark eyes and beautiful, put out a reluctant hand to turn off the alarm clock and got out of her bed. She dug her feet into slippers, dragged on a dressing-gown and went to the window and peered out into the early day. The April morning was misty, veiling the moorland and the great outcrops of rock, although the mist was slowly dispersing under the faint warmth of the early sun. She nodded in satisfaction. Driving her father to Exeter would be no problem; she could take the Moretonhampstead road across the moor. It was lonely for most of the way but she had been born and brought up on Dartmoor and was familiar with its vastness, its sudden mists and wild winter weather. Her father had been team rector for as long as she could remember, visiting the remote villages over a wide area, assisted by two fellow clergy. When she had gone away to train as a nurse and then take a post as ward sister at a London teaching hospital, she had returned home at every opportunity until his sudden severe heart attack had put an end to her career; for, after several weeks of hospital treatment, it was obvious that he wouldn’t be fit for work for a long time. He was sent home to recover slowly and she had given up her job and come home to help her mother, take upon her shoulders the mundane parochial jobs, nurse her father and cope with the Reverend Mr Watts who had been sent to act as locum to the parish. A zealous young man who, coming from one of the big inner cities, had no idea of village life and even less of village life on Dartmoor.
The villages were small and widely scattered, not to mention the remote farmhouses, frequently cut off in winter. This morning, though, the moor was inviting, stretching away in grand loneliness as far as the eye could see. Eugenie nipped smartly across the landing to the bathroom to begin her day.
Presently, in a tweed skirt, a sweater over a blouse and sensible shoes on her feet, her hair piled rather haphazardly on top of her head, she went downstairs to the kitchen to open the door for Tiger, the elderly spaniel, and Smarty, the crotchety old cat, and then put on a kettle to make early morning tea.
The Rectory was a short distance from the village, midway between Dartmeet and Two Bridges, a solid house, capable of standing up to bad weather, its rooms comfortably furnished, the kitchen old-fashioned without modern fitments but with an Aga and a solid dresser laden with plates and china, rather haphazardly arranged. Eugenie moved to and fro at her familiar tasks, roused her parents and laid the table for breakfast. It was still early but her father couldn’t be hurried and there were several small chores to be done before they could leave.
Her mother came downstairs first, a woman as tall as her daughter and still with the echo of youthful beauty in her face.
‘You go and feed the chickens! She took the bowl of eggs from Eugenie’s hand with a smile, and then added, ‘Your Father’s a bit edgy—you will drive carefully, darling?’
Eugenie opened the garden door. ‘Yes, Mother dear, and we’ll be back for tea.’
She lingered at the bottom of the garden after she had fed the chickens. Tiger and Smarty, anxious for their breakfast, wove themselves around her as she stood looking about her. The village was out of sight, round the curve of a steep hill, and the only other house in sight was a shepherd’s cottage half a mile away. ‘Very different from London,’ said Eugenie to Tiger, ‘and I wonder if I shall ever go back there? Not that I want to but I dare say I shall eventually.’
They had been good to her at the hospital and allowed her to leave on the understanding that she would return as soon as she could and work out the month’s notice she hadn’t been able to give. It all depended on what the doctors said when they examined her father later on that day.
The drive to Exeter was uneventful. The road was a B class and by no means busy; heavy traffic going to Plymouth and beyond used the fast road further south, skirting the moor, and there were few villages on their route. She had to slow down at Moretonhampstead, a small bustling market town, but after that it was an easy run into Exeter and the hospital.
She took her father straight to the cardiac unit, handed him over to the nurse there, and went to sit in the waiting-room and leaf through the out-of-date magazines there. Rather out of touch for the last few weeks, Eugenie, who loved clothes, found them entirely satisfactory.
Her father was tired by the time the examination was finished and she drove to a quiet restaurant and persuaded him to eat a light meal. The specialist had been pleased with him—another few weeks and he would be allowed to resume some of his lighter duties around the parish, something he was anxious to do after months of convalescence. He talked about it while they ate. ‘Another month, my dear, and you will be able to return to your hospital. Do you suppose that you will get back your ward?’
Eugenie speared spring cabbage on to her fork and popped it into her mouth. ‘Probably not, Father, but I would be quite glad of a change.’
Which wasn’t quite true. She had forborne to tell her parents that once she had done her month’s work she would have to leave. After all, the hospital had allowed her to take extended leave—more than two months already—and by now her post would have been filled. When she went back she would work out her month wherever she was needed and then leave. Time enough to tell them when that happened.
She drove home presently, thankful that the day was still fine although there was a bank of cloud in the west climbing slowly across the sky. It was still early in the year and the weather wasn’t to be trusted …
Her mother was waiting for them with the tea-table laid and a cheerful fire in the sitting-room, and presently Eugenie went along to the kitchen to cook supper. While she peeled potatoes and sliced vegetables she reflected upon her future. She was twenty-five and heart-whole. She had had more than her share of proposals, both honourable and dishonourable, but although she wasn’t exactly sure what kind of man she would like to marry she was quite sure that she hadn’t met him yet. Until then she would need to earn her living, this time at a hospital a good deal nearer home. She had talked to the specialist and he had warned her that her father might possibly have a second heart attack, in which case the Reverend Mr Watts would have to return. She did hope not; a nice enough man, she supposed, but with all the wrong ideas when it came to running her father’s far-flung parishes. Besides, he had made it plain that he had taken a fancy to her and, from his point of view at least, what could be more convenient than that he should marry the daughter of his rector and, in due course, take over the parish?
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she told the animals, as they waited patiently for their suppers.
It was raining when she got up the next morning, and the wind had got up during the night, sending low clouds racing across the sky. She listened to a cheerful voice on the radio telling her that there was bad weather from the Atlantic on the way. She went outside and sloshed around in her wellies, feeding the chickens and making sure that the various shed doors were securely fastened and the washing line was empty, and when she got back it was to be told by her mother that the Reverend Mr Watts had phoned to say that he had a heavy cold and could Eugenie possibly do some of his visits for him? There were several, and she decided to take the car and go to the more distant parishioners first—outlying farms and an old man who lived by himself in a tiny cottage isolated from his nearest neighbours. There was a rough track leading to it and she decided to go there first, driving the Land Rover, and since the Reverend Mr Watts was vague as to the old man’s circumstances she took a supply of milk and bread and various groceries which he might need. She took the local weekly paper too; if she remembered aright, he liked a good read.
Old Mr Bamber was quite well and delighted to see her. He was fine, he assured her, and looking forward to the warmer weather when he could get out more.
Eugenie offloaded the groceries and the newspaper, washed up the accumulation of dirty dishes in the sink, made them both coffee and sat down for a chat. He knew everyone in the village, so she passed on all the small gossip, promised to give the postman some new batteries for his radio and went on her way.
The farms were off the narrow moorland road but easier to reach; she drank more coffee, enquired after the children, listened patiently to lambing problems, admired new puppies and a litter of kittens, looked at knitting and took a handful of letters to post. It was lunchtime by the time she got home and it was still raining although the wind had died down.
The weather was no better the next day. It was the Mothers’ Union in the afternoon and, since the Reverend Mr Watts was still feeling poorly, Eugenie went along to the small village hall, the centre of community activities, and made tea and handed round cake in a practised manner, saying the right things, admiring the babies and small children, listening to the small problems. I would, she reflected, make a good parson’s wife.
The next morning the moors were shrouded in thick mist, a hazard to any stranger to them but to Eugenie, who had been born and brought up there, merely an inconvenience. True, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to go too far from the village, but what to a traveller might seem a thick blanket with an occasional glimpse of bleak landscape was to her quite familiar. She had so often been on the moors and caught in a sudden mist but all one had to do, she had pointed out to her anxious mother, was to stay still and wait for a glimpse of the surroundings—she knew every stone and tree and bush for miles around and had no fear of the profound silence the mist brought with it.
By the afternoon the drizzle had ceased but the mist was as thick as ever. It was almost teatime when the Reverend Mr Watts phoned. He had a small house on the other side of the village, perched off the narrow road on the steep side of the open moor, no distance away but awkward to reach, some way away from the first of the village cottages.
Eugenie, listening to his anxious voice, felt sorry for him. His cold was worse, he complained—if only he had some cough lozenges or even a lemon, and he had finished his aspirins.
‘I’ll come over with whatever you need,’ said Eugenie, cutting short his unhappy complaining.
‘You’ll never reach me in this mist.’
‘Oh, pooh,’ said Eugenie, ‘expect me in twenty minutes or so.’
She collected aspirins, a couple of lemons, throat lozenges and a small bottle of whisky from the cupboard where, from long experience, her mother stored them, got into her parka and wellies and went out into the darkening afternoon, urged to return as soon as she could. ‘I know you can find your way,’ said her mother. ‘All the same, take care.’
Eugenie found her way unerringly to the village, where the lights from the house windows shone dimly, but once past them she began the climb up the road, keeping well to the bank, hoping that the Reverend Mr Watts would have the sense to switch on all the lights in his house. She began the climb up the narrow path away from the road and saw that he had.
She didn’t like him overmuch, but she felt sorry for him, miserable with cold, obviously hating the house and the moor and everything else making life difficult.
‘I don’t know how you stick it,’ he told her. ‘If I had known what it would be like when I was sent here—nothing but mist and wind and rain …’
Eugenie had put on the kettle and was squeezing lemons into a jug. ‘Oh, come now, you know how lovely it is here on a fine day—the peace and quiet and the gorgeous views and no traffic worth mentioning.’
She made a pot of tea and put an egg on to boil, offered him aspirins and turned up the Calor gas fire. ‘You feel rotten, so everything’s horrible. You’ll be better in the morning. Now sit down and eat your tea and go to bed early and take two more aspirins.’
A practical girl as well as a beautiful one, she had set the table, filled a hot water bottle, taken it up to his bed and come down again to inspect the larder. ‘There’s plenty of food here, and as soon as the weather clears Mrs Pollard will be up to see to you. I’ll ring you in the morning to find out how you are.’
‘You don’t need to go? Can’t you stay for a while?’
‘My dear man, have you looked outside? It’ll be dark in no time at all and getting around isn’t all that easy.’
‘You’ve lived here all your life. Surely you must know your way around?’
‘Just so. That’s why I’m going now. Don’t forget to take this aspirin.’
Making her difficult way back to the road, she reflected that he hadn’t thanked her.
‘Men,’ said Eugenie, and slithered to a halt as she reached the road and bumped into a very large motor car.
Its door was open and an amused voice said, ‘An angel from heaven. You are not hurt?’
A very large arm had steadied her and a moment later its owner was beside her. He had taken his arm away but she had the impression that he towered over her even though she could not see him at all clearly.
She said, ‘No, I’m not hurt. You’re lost?’
‘Yes. I was steeling myself to spending a long night in the car. Now I’m hopeful of rescue. Unless you are lost also?’
‘No, no, I live here. Well, not far away. The village is close by. Where do you want to go to?’
‘Babeny …’
‘Tom Riley’s place. You’ll never get there until this mist lifts. You had better come with me. Mother will put you up for the night and you can phone him from our house.’
‘Your house?’ he asked. ‘But perhaps there is a hotel or a pub?’
‘A pub, but no beds. The nearest inn is miles away at Hexworthy and you’ve passed that—I doubt if you even saw it.’ She added in a motherly voice, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t drive around Dartmoor in this weather unless you know your way around.’
‘No, no, very foolish of me. Could you get into the car from this side?’
She wriggled her splendid person past the driver’s seat without more ado. Only when she was settled did she say, ‘Is it a Rolls or a Bentley?’
‘A Bentley.’ He had got in beside her and she turned to look at him under the car’s light. A very large man, bare-headed—his fair hair could be silver, it was hard to see. She could see though that he was good-looking with a high-bridged nose, a thin firm mouth and a strong chin. She wished she could see the colour of his eyes. He was wearing the kind of casual tweeds which, while well cut, looked suitably worn too. Well, she reflected, that stood to reason, didn’t it, if he drove a Bentley?
He said nothing, only smiled a little and then said, ‘I must rely on you, Miss …?’
‘Eugenie Spencer. My father’s the team rector.’
He offered a large cool hand. ‘Aderik Rijnma ter Salis.’
She shook the hand. ‘Not English—Swedish? Norwegian? Dutch?’
‘Dutch.’
He sounded amused again and she said quickly, ‘The road goes downhill for a hundred yards or so and then levels out as you reach the village. Look out for the sheep. There’s a steep bank on your right. Keep as close as you can to it—you can just make it out …’
They began their cautious journey and he asked, ‘You walked to wherever you came from?’
‘I’ve lived here all my life. The Reverend Mr Watts, who’s taken over the parish until my father is well, phoned for lemons and things. He’s got a bad cold.’
‘Lemons—and you came out in this weather to bring lemons?’
‘And aspirins. He’s from Birmingham and hasn’t got adjusted to the way we live here.’
‘That I can well understand.’
‘The road curves to the right. Will you open the window, please?’
When he did she stuck her head out into the mist for a moment. ‘There’s a tree stump right on the corner. Here it is, go a bit to the right—straighten out now, here’s the village.’
The lights were shining dimly through the cottage windows and the neon light from the village post office welcomed them, but they were quickly back in the gloom. ‘Not far now,’ encouraged Eugenie. ‘I must say you drive very well.’
Her companion thanked her meekly.
Her mother had the door open before the car stopped in front of the house.
‘Eugenie, is that you? However did you get a car …?’
Eugenie had got out of the car, surprised to find her companion waiting for her as she did so, shutting the door for her too. Nice manners, she thought, and plucked at his sleeve. ‘Let’s get inside. The car will be safe here.’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s me,’ she called ungrammatically. ‘I’ve got someone with me; he got lost.’
‘Come in.’ Mrs Spencer peered towards them. ‘You poor man, you must be tired and hungry.’
She held out a welcoming hand as the pair of them reached the door.
‘I’m Eugenie’s mother.’ She beamed up at him. ‘You’re more than welcome to stay until the mist lifts. The weather forecast is gales from the west, so there’s a good chance it will be clearing by morning.’
They were in the hall and Eugenie took off her parka and kicked off her wellies. ‘We waited for you to have tea, so come along in and meet my husband.’
‘You’re very kind. May I get my bag from the car first?’
‘Of course—bring in anything you may need for the night. We have more than enough beds in the house and you can borrow anything …’
He went away and Mrs Spencer took the opportunity to say, ‘What an enormous man—wherever did you find him, darling?’
‘Just below the Reverend Mr Watts’s house. Which room shall I put him in, Mother?’
‘The comer bedroom at the back, I think. He’s not English, is he?’
‘Dutch. Going to Babeny.’
He came back as she spoke. ‘You’ll want to phone,’ said Mrs Spencer. ‘It’s in my husband’s study.’ She opened a door. ‘Do come into the sitting-room when you’re ready.’
There was time to tell Mr Spencer about him before he joined them to be introduced to the rector. Eugenie perceived that the two men were going to get on well together; a chance remark of her father’s about the Bronze Age, still strongly evident on the moor, received a reply from their visitor which demonstrated not only a knowledge of that but a lively interest as well. Tea, taken round the fire, was a leisurely meal while the Reverend Mr Spencer expounded his theories about the stone huts, the tors and the very long history of the moors.
It was nice to see her father showing such interest, reflected Eugenie, getting supper ready in the kitchen. Over that meal, presently, the talk turned to just about every subject under the sun. It was only as she was getting ready for bed that she realised that their guest had told them almost nothing about himself. He came from Holland, he was a doctor, he had told them, but more than that they knew nothing. Did he live in England now? Was he on holiday? Why was he going to Babeny? Did he work at one of the hospitals in London perhaps? And just before she dropped off to sleep she wondered, was he married?
By morning the mist had thinned sufficiently for careful driving to be safe enough. Their visitor, eating a hearty breakfast, reiterated his thanks and declared his intention of leaving as soon as possible.
‘Well, don’t take any short cuts,’ said Eugenie matter-of-factly. ‘There’s a lot of boggy ground.’
He assured her that he would be careful.
Her father didn’t come down to breakfast and presently their visitor went upstairs to say his goodbyes, collect his bag and go out to the car. He stowed it in the boot and came back to where Eugenie and her mother were standing at the door.
‘I am in your debt,’ he told Mrs Spencer, ‘and I can never thank you enough for your kindness.’ He shook her hand and turned to Eugenie.
‘Goodbye—you were an angel just when I needed one—a sensible angel. I am greatly in your debt.’
She offered a hand. ‘I’m glad I could help. And do take care.’ She wanted very much to know where he was going after Babeny but he had offered no information, not even the smallest hint … She went out to the car with him and waved as he drove away. Extraordinary, she thought, watching the big car disappear round the bend in the lane, to meet a man and know that you loved him even though you might never see him again for the rest of your life. She hadn’t supposed falling in love was like that.
She went back to her mother and took her arm. ‘I should like to marry him,’ she said, and then added, ‘Don’t laugh.’
Her mother turned to look at her. ‘No, dear. Just remember this: if you’re meant to meet again and love each other and marry then nothing will prevent that happening.’
Eugenie kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’m not surprised Father married you.’ She paused, ‘I mean it, Mother.’
‘I know you do, darling. Now come indoors and we’ll get started on the chores.’
As they washed up together Eugenie said suddenly, ‘I don’t know the first thing about him and yet I feel as though I know him—have known him all my life.’
She went for a long walk that afternoon and allowed common sense to take over from a daydream which held no vestige of reality. The only thing that was real was the fact that she had fallen in love with a man she was most unlikely to see again. ‘Oh, well,’ said Eugenie, making her brisk way home again, ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’
The temptation to find out about him from Tom Riley was very great but she had no reason to phone that gentleman. He and her father were acquaintances but that was all; besides, it seemed a bit sneaky to go behind Dr Rijnma ter Salis’s back …
There was a message for her when she got back home. Could she go and see the Reverend Mr Watts about the Mothers’ Union and the pram service and could she at the same time bring him some more aspirin?
‘He seems rather poorly,’ observed her mother. ‘You might take him some of the soup I made—there’s more than enough for us.’ She looked at her daughter’s faraway expression. ‘Have your tea first, darling.’
The Reverend Mr Watts opened the door to her. He looked woebegone and said peevishly, ‘Mrs Pollard hasn’t come near me. Just left the milk and papers and called through the letterbox that she wouldn’t be coming until I was better. She’s afraid of catching my cold.’
‘You can hardly blame her,’ said Eugenie bracingly. ‘She’s got five small children.’ She went past him into the kitchen to put down the soup. ‘You can look after yourself for a day or two, can’t you? Would you like the doctor to come? Dr Shaw at Holne is very good. Perhaps you need an antibiotic.’
‘No, no, there’s no need of that.’ He gave her an arch glance. ‘Of course, if I had a wife to look after me …’
She ignored the glance. ‘Mother has sent you some soup. Now if you will tell me what you want me to do about the pram service and the Mothers’ Union. Choir practice as usual, I suppose, on Thursday evening? Will you be well enough to take the Sunday service?’
‘I shall do my best. How is Mr Spencer?’
‘The doctors are very pleased with him—another month and he will be able to take over at least some of the parish work.’
The Reverend Mr Watts sneezed, blew his nose, and said, ‘How splendid. Then my services will no longer be required.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, I might be allowed to hope—Eugenie, would you consider marrying me? We could remain here—in a better house, of course, and I could take over from your father. I must say, with some truth, that I would prefer a living in one of the cities but I can see a good many improvements which need to be made. Living here, in the back of beyond, I suppose one doesn’t move with the times as one would in more modern surroundings.’
She was a kind-hearted girl; she also had a fine temper when roused. She allowed her kind heart to damp down the temper and answered him mildly.
‘Thank you for your proposal, but I’m sure that I could not make you happy, and I think that you will be much happier if and when you return to a city parish where your enthusiasm will be appreciated. You see, here life is rather different—more basic, if you see what I mean. We live close to nature and nature doesn’t change, does it?’
She held out a hand. ‘You’ve been such a help during these last few weeks. We are so very grateful. It must have been hard for you …’
The Reverend Mr Watts blew his nose again and looked pleased with himself despite his cold. ‘I believe that I have given your father’s parishioners an insight into various aspects of the church.’
‘Oh, indeed you have.’ She forbore to tell him what they had thought of them. He had, after all, done his best—would still do it once he had got rid of his cold.
She said briskly. ‘Well, I must go—there’s supper to get and odd jobs around the place.’
He went to the door with her. ‘You are happy here?’
‘Yes. This is my home …’
‘You had no difficulty in getting back yesterday? That awful fog.’
‘No difficulty at all …’
‘I thought I heard a car just after you left.’
‘Sound carries in the mist,’ she told him. ‘Let us know if you need any help.’
When she got home her mother asked, ‘What kept you, love? You’ve been ages?’
‘I have had a proposal of marriage which I refused, and the Reverend Mr Watts told me something of his views about updating us.’
‘You were polite, I hope, dear. Oh, I’m sure you were but you do have a hot temper when you are taken unawares. The poor man.’
‘He’ll go back to his big city and marry someone who’ll put his feet in a mustard bath and agree with everything he says.’
She caught her mother’s eye. ‘I don’t mean to be unkind, Mother, he’s a very good man, I’m sure, but somehow I can’t take him seriously.’ She added, ‘I don’t think he minded too much—me refusing him—I dare say he thought it would be a chance for him to take over from Father later on. even though his heart isn’t in rural living.’
‘Well, your father is doing so well that he should be able to return to wherever it is he wants to go before very long.’ Mrs Spencer began to slice bread. ‘I wonder if that nice man found his way safely to Tom Riley’s place?’
It seemed that he had, for the next morning the postman delivered a large box addressed to Mrs Spencer. There were roses inside, not just a handful but a couple of dozen, with a note signed A.R. ter S. The note itself was written in such a scrawl that Mrs Spencer wondered if he had written it in Dutch by mistake. Eugenie, invited to decipher it, being used to the handwriting of the medical profession, said, ‘No, it’s English, Mother. “With grateful thanks for your kind hospitality”.’
‘How clever you are, love. How very beautiful they are, and so many …’
The fine weather held although there was a chill in the air. Eugenie wrote to offer a tentative return date to go back to the hospital and began to make plans for her future. Regrettably, she was told, her post as ward sister had been filled; she would spend her outstanding month in the operating theatres since the second sister there would be going on holiday. She would be given an excellent reference and without a doubt she would find a similar position to suit her.
She put the letter in her pocket and didn’t tell her parents of its contents, only that she would be going back to theatre work instead of her ward.
‘That will make a nice change, dear,’ observed her mother, whose ideas of hospitals were vague, ‘as long as it isn’t like that nasty Casualty we see on television.’
Eugenie left home during the first week of May, on a cloudless morning when the moor had never looked more beautiful, driving her own little car and hating to leave. She took the Buckfastleigh road since she wanted to stop in Holne to say goodbye to a friend of hers who helped out in the little coffee shop there during the summer months, and although it was still early in the morning the two of them spent half an hour pleasantly enough over coffee. Eugenie got up reluctantly presently. ‘I’d better go. I don’t want to get caught up in the early evening traffic in London.’
She promised to let her friend know if she got another job, and went back to the car. There was no one much about. The caretaker was still in the little school getting ready for the morning’s classes, and the pub on the corner showed no sign of life. In another month, she thought, it would be bustling with tourists, for it was on the very fringe of the moor.
She drove past the reservoir, going slowly because of the sheep, resisting an urge to get out and take one last look around her from one of the tors on either side of the road. Instead she drove on steadily through the narrow streets of Buckfastleigh and on to the A38 which would take her to Exeter and the road to London.
London looked its best in the afternoon sunshine but nothing could disguise the overbearing gloom of the hospital. She parked her car behind the building and presented herself at the porter’s lodge to be much cheered by the pleasure of Mullins, the head porter, at seeing her again.
‘Nice to see you back, Sister. You are to report at five o’clock.’ He glanced at the clock behind him. ‘Time enough for you to go to the nurses’ home and get the key to your room.’
The warden was new and looked grumpy, and the room to which she led Eugenie was at the back of the building overlooking chimney-pots and brick walls.
‘I understand you are leaving at the end of the month and your old room is occupied.’
She went away, and Eugenie reflected that the last warden would have offered her a cup of tea and stayed for a gossip. There was time to make a cup of tea for herself, though, so she went along to the pantry and found two of her friends there. They at least were pleased to see her and, much cheered by their gossip and several cups of tea, she made her way to the office.
She was welcomed with as much warmth by the principal nursing officer as that lady was capable of showing. An austere woman, handsome and cold in manner, in her presence Eugenie always felt too large and too full of life.
She was to start in Theatre in the morning. The sister she would replace would work with her for two days until she felt confident. ‘That should present no difficulty, Sister Spencer; you were Staff Nurse in Theatre and Acting Sister before you had your recent post, and you have from time to time returned there for holiday duties, have you not?’
Eugenie agreed politely. She regretted giving up her ward but she liked Theatre.
She spent the evening unpacking and catching up on the hospital news, telephoning her mother and then going to drink tea with those of her friends who were there, and finally going to her bed to sleep soundly until morning. She thought briefly and lovingly of Aderik Rijnma ter Salis before she slept, and her first thoughts were of him when she woke. He was the first person she saw as she went through the theatre block’s swing doors.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b92135e2-6cd3-58fc-b9de-8b8bb7b68f17)
EUGENIE’S beautiful face glowed with delight. She looked up into his calm face. ‘I knew we would—meet again, you know. Didn’t you?’
He had shown no surprise at the sight of her, and now he said, ‘Yes, I knew.’ He stared down at her from his great height. ‘You are to work here as one of the theatre sisters?’
She nodded. ‘For a month. I thought you were a doctor …’
‘A surgeon.’
She nodded again. ‘Of course—Tom Riley had a pace-maker fitted—you were going to see him …’
‘Yes.’
She beamed at him, ‘I expect I shall see you again.’
He stood aside to let her pass. ‘Oh, undoubtedly.’ She thought that she had seen pleasure on his face when they had met, now he was coolly aloof—almost austere. Feeling deflated, she went along to Sister’s office and reported for duty.
That lady greeted her with relief. ‘Well, at least I’m to have some help,’ she grumbled, ‘and you do know your way around, don’t you? There have been several changes since you were last here—last year, wasn’t it? While Sister Thorpe was off sick. I haven’t changed, of course.’
Nothing would change Sister Cross. Elderly, bony and hawk-nosed, with small black eyes which missed nothing, she was a by-word among the student nurses who poked fun at her behind her back but were frankly in awe of her when they were sent to work in Theatre. She was remorseless in her insistence on high standards and ruled the three theatres with a firm hand. Even some of the housemen thought twice before displeasing her. But the surgeons loved her for she was utterly dependable.
Eugenie liked her too; they had always got on well once they had each other’s measure and she found that Eugenie wasn’t in the least scared of her sharp tongue and, when called upon, could work almost as well.
She was bidden to sit down while Sister Cross gave her a brief resumé of the week’s work ahead. ‘We have a visiting consultant—Mr Rijnma ter Salis—Dutch—a first-class surgeon, specialises in cardiac cases. Over here at Mr Pepper’s invitation to demonstrate a new technique with valve replacements. Here for a couple of weeks then goes to Edinburgh and Birmingham. Very civil and easy to work for.’
Eugenie debated to herself whether she should tell Sister Cross that she had already met him, and decided that she had better do so.
Sister Cross heard her out, said, ‘Hm,’ and told her to go and check the second theatre where a staff nurse would be getting ready for a succession of minor ops.
There was a heavy list, starting with a heart valve bypass ‘And you might as well scrub,’ said Sister Cross. ‘The quicker you get back into the routine the better.’
So Eugenie scrubbed and took the case for Mr Rijnma ter Salis, who treated her with an aloof politeness which she found deflating to her feelings. She hadn’t expected him to be overwhelmingly friendly, but on the other hand he had no need to hold her at arm’s length with that icy courtesy …
She need not have worried about being thrown in at the deep end. He was unhurried and unworried as he worked, his massive person bent over the small boy on the operating table, patiently cutting and stitching, so calm that Eugenie, who had been doubtful as to her capabilities, settled down without a single pang of doubt about them. In fact, after the first few minutes, she began to enjoy herself—she had always liked theatre work and it was reassuring to find that she hadn’t forgotten any of her old skills.
The operation wasn’t straightforward, taking more time than expected, so that the list, scheduled to finish sometime after midday, was running late. Mr Rijnma ter Salis finished at last, thanked Eugenie politely, stripped off his gloves, stood while the nurse stretched up to untie the strings of his gown, and went away, then Mr Pepper took over for pacemakers and a cardiac catheterisation. She went away to a very late dinner and the afternoon was taken up by an appendicectomy and a strangulated hernia. By six o’clock she was more than ready to go off duty, hardly cheered by the reminder from Sister Cross that she would be on call for the night. ‘Shortage of staff and holidays,’ said that lady. ‘The night staff nurse for Theatre is capable of taking any routine case; you will only be called for something she might not be able to manage.’
Eugenie spent the evening writing home, gossiping with her friends, and wondering where Mr Rijnma ter Salis had gone. She went to bed presently feeling vaguely ill done by, although when she thought about it she had no reason to be.
At two o’clock in the morning she was shaken awake by an urgent hand. ‘There’s a gunshot wound, Sister, pellets in the heart. Can you be in Theatre in ten minutes? Staffs getting ready.’
The student nurse had switched on the bedside light and put a mug of tea beside it. ‘You’re wide awake?’
Eugenie got out of bed. ‘I will be by the time I get to Theatre. Thanks for the tea, Nurse.’
She dressed within minutes, bundling her abundant hair into an untidy and ruthlessly pinned knot and cramming her cap on top of it. She swallowed the tea, turned out the light and went quietly through the nurses’ home and into the hospital. It was very quiet, the time of night when most of the patients were sleeping. Only the faint metallic sounds of bedpans being fetched, cups and saucers being arranged in the kitchens and the tread of quiet feet could be identified. She reached the theatre wing and went through the swing doors to be met by the night staff nurse, looking relieved. ‘He’s here already,’ she said. ‘I’ve put everything I could think of out, Sister.’
‘Good. The patient isn’t up yet?’
‘No. Will you scrub now, Sister?’
‘Yes. Have IC been warned?’
‘Yes, Sister. Will you be able to manage, just the two of us? Night Sister says she is short-handed …’
‘Then we’ll manage.’ She smiled reassuringly and went down the corridor to scrub. As she passed Sister’s office she was halted.
‘Sister Spencer, a moment please.’
Mr Rijnma ter Salis was sitting at the desk, already in his theatre smock and trousers. He looked up as she went in. ‘Sorry to get you out of bed. A lad in a street fight, took the full blast from a shotgun in the chest. There are pellets in his heart—a wonder he’s still alive—I’ll do a median sternotomy. There are a couple of pellets embedded in the pericardium and at least one in the right ventricle. Mr Symes, the senior registrar, will be here in a moment and a couple of the housemen. I understand your technician has been sent for. Do you need more nurses?’
‘Night Sister left a message for me to say she’s short-handed. Staff Nurse is very competent. If the anaesthetist needs a nurse I’ll ask for one.’
For answer he drew the phone towards him. ‘Run along,’ he told her, ‘and get scrubbed.’
He appeared not to see the indignant look she cast at him. She ran along all the same. There was no time to speak her mind to him, but later … Run along, indeed! She emptied her head of resentment and went to scrub.
In Theatre presently, sorting out her instruments, making sure that the elaborate equipment was ready with Keith, the technician, she discovered that there was a nurse for the anaesthetist and a senior student to help the staff nurse.
Mr Rijnma ter Salis must have been turning on the charm. Even at two o’clock in the morning she had to admit that he had any amount of that; besides, she was in love with him. She stopped thinking about him then and got on with the business in hand.
Time ceased to matter; she concentrated wholly on her work, aware that Mr Rijnma ter Salis was operating with complete confidence, deftly removing shot from the man’s heart and chest wall without any appearance of urgency. It was six o’clock by the time he was completely satisfied that the last foreign body had been removed and began his meticulous stitching up.
That the man was still alive was a miracle, but he was young and had a strong body. It would be touch and go for a few days but his chances of recovery were good. He was borne away to IC, followed by the surgeons and the anaesthetist, and Eugenie and her crew began the task of clearing up. The day staff were coming on duty by the time they were finished.
‘You had better go to bed as soon as you’ve had your breakfast,’ said Sister Cross. ‘Come on duty at five o’clock and stay until Night Staff Nurse comes on duty.’
Eugenie went off to the canteen, ate her breakfast, although she wasn’t awake enough to know what she was eating, and took herself off to a hot bath and bed. Tired though she was, she spared a thought for Mr Rijnma ter Salis. She hadn’t seen him once he had left the theatre with a polite word of thanks to her. It was unlikely that she would see him when she went on duty later. She hoped that he wasn’t too tired.
One of her off-duty friends called her with a cup of tea just after four o’clock. She turned over in bed and closed her eyes again. ‘I’m too tired to go on duty,’ she muttered, and buried her head in her pillow.
‘No, you’re not. There’s nothing in, and nothing to do in Theatre but sit in the office and drink tea and catch up on the day’s news.’
So at five o’clock, whey-faced from tiredness still but none the less as beautiful as ever, she presented herself at Sister’s desk.
‘Had a good sleep?’ asked that lady. ‘Everything’s seen to here. There’s nothing in Cas for the moment. Nurse Timms will be back from tea in five minutes. She can turn out the dental cabinet. I’ve left the off-duty for you to sort out, and you can fill in the day book and see to the laundry.’ Sister Cross handed over the keys. ‘You had better go to bed early.’
Eugenie, who would have gone to bed at that very moment given the chance, said, ‘Yes, Sister,’ in a deceptively meek voice.
Nurse Timms was a small, meek girl with a prim expression, good at her work but not liked overmuch by her colleagues. She made tea for Eugenie when she got back and then went away to start on the dental cabinet. Eugenie was sure she would do a perfect job on it.
She drank her tea and turned her attention to the off-duty book. There were a number of slips of paper inside it with requests from the theatre staff for particular days off duty. No wonder Sister Cross had left it to her, thought Eugenie crossly. If all the requests were to be granted it would be chaos. Sister Cross had pencilled in a few observations of her own, putting herself down for a weekend and Eugenie for two days in the middle of the week.
‘I shall go home,’ said Eugenie in a satisfied voice.
‘A splendid idea,’ said Mr Rijnma ter Salis, coming into the office. He leaned over the desk, reading the off-duty book upside down. ‘Wednesday and Thursday—what could be better? I’m going down to Exeter, I’ll give you a lift.’
Eugenie had gone pink, and she didn’t speak for a moment for she seemed to have lost her voice. Besides, her heart had jumped into her throat and was getting terribly in the way, but since he was waiting for her to reply she took a deep breath. ‘That’s very kind of you to offer, sir, but I’ll drive myself. I have to come back.’
‘So do I. Late Thursday evening suit you? You don’t have to be locked up at ten o’clock, do you? Presumably only the young are considered in need of a watchful eye?’
Eugenie choked. She said peevishly, ‘We older women are trusted to behave ourselves.’ She glared at him. Bad temper, did she but know it, gave her good looks an added sparkle.
‘No need to get cross. You’re tired, of course. But it was worth it; he’s doing very well, holding his own. I’ve just been in to have a look at him.’
‘I’m so glad. I do hope all goes well with him.’
Mr Rijnma ter Salis smiled at her and her heart lurched against her ribs.
‘You are good at your job,’ he observed. ‘Your talents are varied—finding your way through thick mist, looking after parsons with heavy colds, and handing instruments at exactly the right time. I’ll be outside at seven o’clock on Tuesday evening—can’t make it earlier. With luck you’ll be home around midnight.’
‘I haven’t said …’ began Eugenie. His eyes, very bright blue, were fixed on her face. ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’
He nodded then, wished her good evening and went away as quietly as he had come.
There was nothing to hinder her thinking about him; she polished off the off-duty list in between bouts of daydreaming. Was he married, she wondered, or engaged? In love with some girl in Holland? For her own peace of mind she would have to find out. Perhaps she would be able to discover that on their way to her home.
Tuesday evening took a long time in coming. With Sister Cross away at the weekend, Eugenie was in charge of the theatre and although she was kept fairly busy she was by no means overworked; the junior theatre sister dealt with minor cases in the second theatre and there were several part-time staff nurses, and although there was a list on Monday Mr Pepper took it. It was annoying to say the least of it to go off duty when Sister Cross arrived back at midday, and to find on her return that Mr Rijnma ter Salis had operated on a bypass that afternoon.
There was no sign of him on Tuesday; she went off duty at five o’clock uncertain if he had remembered that he was driving her home—and supposing a serious cardiac case needed operating upon?
She changed, picked up her overnight bag and at seven went down to the forecourt, convinced that he wouldn’t be there.
He was leaning up against the porter’s lodge, very large and elegant and apparently deep in thought. Long before she had reached him he came towards her.
‘Hello—’ his smile was friendly ‘—how delightfully punctual you are.’
He took her bag and opened the door and they went outside together. It would be nice, thought Eugenie, if she could think of something to say—light-hearted or witty; instead she remarked upon the weather.
‘It looks as though it might rain.’
His mouth twitched. ‘I think it very likely,’ he agreed gravely as he stowed her into the car and put her bag on the back seat, got in beside her and drove off. No time was to be lost in casual small talk, she supposed, over her initial shyness. She sat quietly as he drove through the city and its suburbs, but once free of the traffic she took the bit between her teeth.
‘Are you married?’ she wanted to know.
If he were surprised at her question he concealed it very well. ‘No.’
‘But I expect you’re engaged?’ she persisted. She hadn’t really expected him to say, ‘Yes I am,’ in a voice which dared her to ask any more questions.
It was a blow and she didn’t know why she had assumed that he was heart-whole. He was, after all, what polite society would call eligible—handsome, esteemed in his profession, possessed apparently of enough money to make life very comfortable. She wondered who the girl was, and Eugenie, being Eugenie, proceeded to find out despite the coolness of his manner.
‘I expect she’s Dutch?’
‘Yes.’
‘And pretty … Is she—that is, what does she do?’
He didn’t answer at once. ‘She has a great many friends, travels a good deal and does some social work …’
‘But not a job?’
‘No. She has no need to work.’
‘Well,’ said Eugenie, ‘that will be nice when you marry. I mean she’ll be able to stay at home and look after the children.’ The very idea made her feel sick.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’ His words were expressionless. ‘Did you phone your mother to say that you would be arriving late in the evening?’
All right, snub me! thought Eugenie, aching with the kind of unhappiness she hadn’t known existed. ‘Yes, I telephoned her. And if you don’t want to talk about your fiancée, that’s OK by me.’
His voice was bland. ‘Did I say I wished to talk about her? It was you—’
‘All right,’ she snapped. ‘I was only making conversation.’
He laughed then but didn’t answer her, and they drove down the A303 for what seemed like a very long time until he pulled in at a Happy Eater.
‘I think we have time for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.’
‘I’d rather have tea,’ said Eugenie haughtily, and skipped away to the ladies. She powdered her cross face, combed her hair and went to find him in the crowded restaurant. He got up as she reached their table. He had the unselfconscious good manners of a man who had been brought up by a good nanny.
‘Buttered toast? I’m sure you could eat a slice. We’re making good time but we still have a fair way to go.’
She sat down and poured her tea and drank it while a gentle flow of small talk flowed over her, nothing that needed her full attention and requiring nothing more than a brief reply from time to time. It was soothing and her ill-humour melted away; she found herself telling him about her father’s illness and the Reverend Mr Watts and how she missed the moor. They went back to the car presently, and although they had little to say to each other the silence was friendly now.
It was late evening by now and dark, and presently it began to drizzle with rain. There was nothing to see and the road ran ahead of them, almost empty of traffic. Uninteresting, even boring, but Eugenie was content; it had been a terrible blow to discover that he was going to marry but just for the moment he was here beside her, large and apparently enjoying her company. As far as she was concerned their journey could go on for ever.
The Bentley tore along, away from the A303 and on to the M5 with Exeter’s city lights shining in the distance, and then presently they were on the Plymouth road and, all too soon for her, turning off through Ashburton, climbing slowly towards Pounds-gate and then down the hill to Dartmeet. They were travelling slowly now because of the sheep roaming free, but it wasn’t long before he took the narrow lane leading to the village and drew up silently outside the Rectory door.
Eugenie glanced at her watch. Just over four hours. They had gone too quickly. He got out and opened her door and she said, ‘You’ll come in and have something? Mother’s sure to have—’
He cut her short. ‘1 would have liked that, but I must get back to Exeter. I’ll see you on Thursday, about six o’clock.’
She was aware that her mother was standing at the door watching them. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be ready for you. And do drive carefully.’
He smiled down at her but she didn’t see his face clearly in the dark. He got into the car and drove away then, leaving her to go indoors and explain to her mother that he wasn’t able to stop.
Her mother led the way to the kitchen. ‘Just as long as he has a bed for the night and a good supper to put inside him. He’s going to drive you back, darling?’
‘Yes, I’m to be ready at six o’clock. How’s Father?’
‘Very well, considering. Mr Watts has got over his cold and I helped him with the Mothers’ Union and Sunday school.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘We miss you, love.’
She put a bowl of soup before Eugenie and cut some bread. ‘He’ll be hungry, that nice Dutchman of yours.’
‘He’s not mine,’ said Eugenie bleakly. ‘He’s engaged to a girl in Holland.’
Mrs Spencer eyed her daughter. ‘But not married. Did you talk about her?’
Eugenie shook her head. ‘He didn’t want to, I think. He just said yes and no, if you see what I mean.’
‘I wonder why. Most men when they’re in love with a girl never stop talking about her.’
Eugenie supped her soup and took a huge bite of bread. ‘I think he thought I was being inquisitive.’
‘And were you, dear?’
‘I wanted to know, Mother, and now I do I can do something about it, can’t I? Forget him.’
She spoke cheerfully, not believing a word of what she was saying.
Her two days at home were crammed full of odd jobs. Tiger had to be taken to the vet in Buckfastleigh to have his injections, and while she waited for him she did the weekly shopping for her mother and visited old Mrs Ash who lived with her son on an outlying farm. She took a cake with her and a bunch of flowers, for the old lady was celebrating her ninetieth birthday in a week’s time, and when she got back home the Reverend Mr Watts was with her father, intent on changing the times of the church services. Eugenie plunged unasked into the discussions.
‘Those times haven’t been altered in decades. You only want to do so because it’s more convenient for you.’ She took no notice of her father’s, ‘Hush, Eugenie,’ but went on with some heat, ‘What is the point? You’ll be gone in another week or two and everything will be changed back again.’
The Reverend Mr Watts, torn between annoyance at not getting his own way and the feelings he cherished towards her, became incoherent, so that she said briskly, ‘You see what I mean; I’m glad you agree.’
She gave him a brilliant smile and clinched the matter by saying that she would walk with him back to his house.
When she came back to the Rectory her father said mildly, ‘You were rather hard on the poor man, my dear.’
‘Oh, pooh, Father. You know you didn’t agree with a word he said only you’re too nice to say so.’ She kissed the bald patch on his head and went away to help her mother get the supper.
It was still raining the next day but there was plenty to do in the garden. She spent the morning pottering happily, digging the ground ready for planting later on—asters and dahlias and chrysanthemums—useful flowers for the church as well as the house. Since it cleared as if by magic while they were having lunch, and there was a steady wind blowing, she washed the kitchen curtains, hung them out and ironed them and hung them up again before changing into the tweed jacket and skirt she had come down in, packing her overnight bag and going downstairs to wait for Mr Rijnma ter Salis.
The last of the rain had long gone and the early evening was clear even if chilly. He arrived punctually, greeted Eugenie with a detached friendliness which ruffled her feelings, accepted coffee and biscuits from Mrs Spencer, chatted briefly to Mr Spencer and observed that perhaps they should be on their way.
He shook hands and Mrs Spencer gave him a warm invitation to call and see them any time he might be travelling in their part of the world. ‘We are a bit isolated,’ she pointed out, ‘but now you know that we are here …’
He thanked her with a smile and moved a little out of the way so that Eugenie could say her goodbyes. It was as they were going out of the door that her mother said in a regretful voice, ‘Joshua will be so sorry to have missed you, Eugenie. Shall I give him your love?’
She smiled at Mr Rijnma ter Salis. ‘The Reverend Mr Watts—he has been helping out while Ben has been ill.’
Eugenie turned a fulminating eye on her parent. ‘Don’t bother, Mother dear,’ she said sweetly, ‘he knows how I feel about him.’
In the car presently Mr Rijnma ter Salis asked, ‘This reverend gentleman—Joshua? He is understandably smitten with your charms? And do you return his regard?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Eugenie, ‘you know quite well that I don’t. He can’t even boil an egg …’
‘You consider that boiling eggs is desirable in a husband?’
‘You’re making fun of me. But since you ask, I do think that a man should be able to do a bit of basic cooking. Can you cook?’
They were rushing towards Exeter, the city’s lights ahead of them.
‘I can certainly boil an egg, make toast and fry bacon. I make a good cup of tea, too.’
‘Oh, who taught you?’ She was being rude and not caring about it.
‘My mother. She has always suffered from the illusion that I might marry someone who had none of the culinary arts.’
She might as well go on being rude, she reflected. ‘Your fiancée—can she cook?’
‘I think it is most unlikely, but since I employ an excellent housekeeper that is hardly a matter which need cause unease.’
‘You’re rich,’ stated Eugenie, aware that she was behaving unforgivably. He would never offer her a lift again …
‘Er—you are refreshingly forthright, Eugenie. I’ll set your mind at rest by saying that I make a living.’
‘You work hard for it, though. I expect you’re worth every penny …’
He said placidly, ‘I aim to give value for money.’
She fell silent then, and presently he asked, ‘And you, Eugenie—from what I have seen of your work, you give value for money too. What do you intend to do when you leave?’
‘I’m not sure. You see, I don’t want to be tied because of Father. I expect I’ll have to go to an agency so that if I need to go home I’ll be able to do so. I don’t think I shall like it very much, but hospitals want contracts.’
He said mildly, ‘You could marry the Reverend Mr Watts—he would, I feel sure, be very satisfied and you would be on hand should your father need you.’
She said forcefully, ‘Have you any idea what Joshua is like? Father has had the parish for years, ever since I can remember; it would break his heart if there were any changes. I do not wish to marry the Reverend Mr Watts …’
That is his loss. You are just right for a parson’s wife, bossy and outspoken and managing and capable.’
Her bosom swelled with rage and regret and sorrow that that was how he thought of her. She said quietly, ‘This is a pointless conversation, isn’t it? Let’s talk about the weather.’
He laughed then but remained silent except for the odd remark from time to time—the kind of remark he might have made to a chance passenger he didn’t know or someone to whom he was giving a lift as a favour.
At the hospital he got out of the car and helped her out, got her bag and walked with her to the entrance. Here she stopped.
‘Thank you for the lift. It was most kind of you.’
He smiled down at her. ‘I shall see you again,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight.’
Of course he would see her again. She was on duty in the morning, wasn’t she? And there was a bypass scheduled. ‘In the morning,’ she reminded him. ‘Goodnight.’
She didn’t sleep well, her mind too active with thoughts of Mr Rijnma ter Salis, so that she was glad to get up and go to her breakfast and then to Theatre. Sister Cross greeted her in her usual snappy manner, but Eugenie, happy at the prospect of seeing him within the next hour, wished her a cheerful good morning and went to make sure that everything was ready for the morning’s work.
She was about to scrub when the senior registrar strolled into the theatre. ‘Look out for old Pepper,’ he warned her kindly, ‘he’s a bit snappy this morning …’
‘Mr Pepper? Is he doing the bypass?’
‘Yes. Rijnma has gone to Edinburgh—a heart transplant—there’s an unexpected donor. He’ll be there for a couple of days, I should imagine.’
‘But he was in the hospital last night …’
He gave her a quick glance. A discreet man who liked her, he had seen the pair of them when they had returned but he wasn’t going to say so.
‘He drove up overnight. There was no time to be lost—it was suggested that a plane should be chartered but he preferred to drive himself. With a car like his, it wouldn’t take any longer than flying up by the time he had got to the airport and been collected at the other end!’
‘I hope the op will be successful …’
‘It won’t be any fault of his if it isn’t. He’s a good chap.’
He went away and she started to scrub, and presently bore with Mr Pepper’s ill humour. She quite liked him but this morning he was living up to his name.
Without Mr Rijnma ter Salis’s vast person to distract her thoughts, Eugenie put her mind to her future. She took herself off to a number of agencies and put her name down on their lists for private nurses. There was quite a demand for them but most of them were in London or the Home Counties. Perhaps she would do better to try an agency nearer home—Exeter or Bristol or Plymouth. Mr Symes, doing his best to be helpful, suggested that she tried a private hospital, but they, when she enquired, wanted contracts too. It seemed that opportunities for experienced surgical ward sisters and theatre sisters were few and far between—private nursing, she was told, was more a matter of staying in the patient’s own home and performing any nursing duties the doctor might order.
Mr Rijnma ter Salis came back four days later, performed a complicated open heart operation which took hours, thanked her briefly and disappeared again. She had days off again the next day and spent them going round the agencies; time was running out.
Back on duty she met him on her way to dinner. She would have passed him with a polite, ‘Good morning, sir’, but he put out an arm and stopped her.
‘Not so fast. Where have you been?’
‘Days off.’
‘You leave soon?’
‘In about ten days’ time.’
‘You have another job?’
‘Not yet.’ She inched away from him. ‘I’m rather late for my dinner, sir.’
He took no notice. ‘I shall be going back to Holland in two weeks’ time. My theatre sister there is leaving to have a baby. I should like you to take over while she is away.’
She goggled at him. ‘Me? Holland?’
‘Not the end of the earth, Eugenie. A temporary post only but it will give you time to decide what you want to do.’
She opened her mouth to refuse, but he said testily, ‘No, I don’t want your answer now. Go and eat your dinner and think about it. Let me know in a couple of days’ time.’
He had gone, leaving her standing in the middle of the corridor wondering if she had dreamt the whole conversation. Over her shepherd’s pie and carrots she decided that it hadn’t been a dream; he wasn’t a man to waste his time on elaborate jokes or light-hearted suggestions.
‘You look very strange, Eugenie,’ observed one of her friends at the table. ‘Miles away.’
Which she was—mentally at least—in Holland.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2ec0e145-9d00-5a8a-8131-ba77de397e26)
IT WASN’T difficult for Eugenie to decide what to do about Mr Rijnma ter Salis’s offer. It was a gift from heaven, a good omen, although she wasn’t sure what good it would do her, except allow her to be with him for a few weeks, when she had been steeling herself to wish him goodbye, never to set eyes on him again. Perhaps she would be able to discover something of his life, find out about his family and his home and this girl he intended to marry.
The knowledge would do her no good, of course, but it would stop her daydreaming …
The tiresome man had gone again; Sister Cross told her that over their coffee the next morning. ‘Birmingham,’ she said. ‘A stab wound—missed the aorta by a whisker—but nicked the pericardium. He went up overnight.’
Wishing to know more, Eugenie said in a diffident voice, ‘He seems to work very hard.’
‘Too hard. Time he settled down with a wife to nag him. He plans to marry in Holland, so I hear. A good thing too; half the nurses are in love with him.’
To which remark Eugenie had nothing to say. She didn’t mind the nurses; it was the girl in Holland, the one who had stolen his heart before Eugenie had met him.
She went away presently to check the theatre, and it wasn’t until much later that day that she had the leisure to think about him once more. She could see that taking the job he had offered her could lead to other things; she wasn’t a conceited girl but she couldn’t help knowing that she was strikingly beautiful, tolerably intelligent and had never lacked eager young men anxious to take her out. She felt fairly sure that given the opportunity she could stir up in Mr Rijnma ter Salis something more than the cool friendliness she had been shown by him. She was nice as well as beautiful, and if he loved this girl then she would be no more than his temporary theatre sister and show the same cool friendliness that he showed her. It would be hard, but she was quite prepared to do it. She told herself that she would make the most of the few weeks she would be with him and then get on with life without him. A bit like a heroine in a romantic novel.
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