Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Winter Wedding

Winter Wedding
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.Would she ever have…a proper marriage. Some people might think Emily Seymour was a bit prim and proper. Emily herself preferred to think of herself as sensible; she was a staff nurse after all.Unfortunately, all the good sense in the world could not stop Emily from falling in love with Professor Renier Jurres-Romeijn. The professor barely seemed to notice her. He was too busy making plans for a winter wedding. But who was his intended bride?



“Louisa gave you my message?”
She gazed at him with astonished eyes. “Message? No—how could she?”
“Easily enough.” He was staring at her hard. “I took her out last night.” He frowned. “She told me that you knew.… No, don’t trouble to think up an answer, I can see for myself that she didn’t tell you.” He frowned down at her. “There was no intention of secrecy, Emily—she begged so prettily to be taken, I hadn’t the heart to refuse.” The frown disappeared and he smiled. “I didn’t want to refuse, anyway.”
Emily conjured up an answering smile. “You make me sound like an elderly aunt! Why should I object to Louisa going out?” Suddenly her calm deserted her. “And she can make what friends she likes,” she said peevishly. “I’m not in the least interested—not in any of them.” She gave a small snort. “And now, if you don’t mind, Professor, I have some treatment to do.”
She flounced away, her head very high, and he watched her go, a quite different kind of smile tugging at his mouth now.

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Winter Wedding
Betty Neels



Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS snowing outside, and the pallid faces of the night nurses coming off duty looked even more pallid in its glaring whiteness. Emily Seymour, one of the last to go, traipsed down the stairs from the top floor, where she had been in charge of the Ear, Nose and Throat wards, yawning widely, longing for her bed and knowing that it would be some time before she could get into it; it would be even longer today, she decided gloomily, glancing out of a landing window. The snow had settled and cycling through the streets would be a slow business. A pretty girl in staff nurse’s uniform, bounding up the staircase towards her, paused to join her at the window.
‘Lucky you, Emily,’ she exclaimed cheerfully, ‘going home to a nice warm bed. Had a busy night?’ She glanced at her companion with sympathy. ‘No, don’t answer, I can see you did. What happened?’
‘Terry had to have a trachy at two o’clock this morning. I got Mr Spencer up—or at least, I rang his flat when Night Sister told me to—and she couldn’t be there because the Accident Department was going hell for leather—and he brought Professor Jurres-Romeijn with him.’ She paused, staring out into the freshly whirling snow. ‘I had everything ready, he did it in seconds flat.’
The pretty girl rolled a pair of fine eyes. ‘Oh, him. He’s the answer to every girl’s dream; such a pity that no one knows anything about him and that he’s not going to stay for ever. I must think up some good reason for going along to ENT this morning and see if I can soften him up a bit. I daresay…’ she paused, listening. ‘Oh, God, that sounds like Sister Gatesby trundling our way. ‘Bye, love, be good.’
And when have I ever had the chance to be anything else? thought Emily, going on her way once more.
She met Sister Gatesby at the bottom of the second flight and that lady, stoutish and almost due to retire, seized on her at once. ‘Just the girl!’ she breathed happily. ‘Just run back for me, Staff Nurse, and get the keys off the hook in Sister Reeves’ office in ENT, will you? You can leave them at the Porter’s Lodge as you go out; Theatre Sister wants them.’
She turned and wheezed her way down again, leaving Emily to trail all the way upstairs once more, muttering darkly under her breath. But she had finished her muttering by the time she had reached the top floor; for one thing she was a little short of wind and for another she had just remembered that her nights off were due in two days’time; she occupied the last few yards in making plans, then opened the swing doors and went through, into the landing which opened into the two wards, the kitchen, Sister’s Office, the dressing room and the linen cupboard. The keys would be in Sister’s Office, the first door on the left. She could hear the nurses in the ward, already well started on the day’s routine; by the time Sister came on everything would be as it should be. She crossed the landing and then stopped with her hand on the door; Mr Spencer and Professor Jurres-Romeijn were in the dressing room, their backs towards her. She could see Mr Spencer’s bald patch on the back of his head about which he was so sensitive because he was still quite a young man, and she could see the Professor’s iron- grey cropped head, towering over his companion, for he was a vast man and very tall. He was speaking now, his voice, with its faint Dutch accent, very clear, although not loud.
‘Good lord, Harry, am I to be fobbed off with that prim miss? Surely there’s another nurse…?’ He sounded annoyed.
Mr Spencer put up a hand to rub the bald patch. ‘Sorry, sir—she’s first class at her job…’
‘I take your word for that—we are talking about the same girl, I suppose? A small, plump creature who merges into the background from whatever angle one looks at her.’
Mr Spencer chuckled. ‘That’s our Emily—a splendid worker and marvellous with children. You’ll find that she grows on you, sir.’
‘Heaven forbid! The only females who grow on me are beautiful blondes who don’t go beetroot red every time I look at them.’
Emily forced herself to move then and in direct contradiction to the Professor’s words, her face was chalk white, not red at all. She went silently into Sister’s Office, took the keys and went back down the endless stairs, the Professor’s words ringing in her ears. She had the nasty feeling that she was never going to forget them for as long as she lived, and through her tired brain the beginnings of a fine temper began to flare.
She was prim, was she, and plump and given to blushing, something which the Professor, loathesome type that he was, found both amusing and tiresome! She gained the Porter’s Lodge, slammed down the keys in old Henry’s astonished face and pranced out of the hospital entrance. Well, he had made it known all too clearly that he didn’t want her for some job or other; she would make it just as clear to him that she wasn’t going to oblige him. Let him find another nurse to wait on him hand and foot; someone with blonde curls and blue eyes… Emily, in the cupboard-like room by the bicycle shed where the nurses who lived out were expected to change, tore the cap off her own unspectacular brown hair, coiled so neatly, and began to race out of her uniform. Presently, buoyed up with her rage, she got her bike from the shed and oblivious of snow and slush, pedalled home.
Home was a small semi-detached villa on the very outskirts of the town. Emily, giving up a good post in London, had searched desperately for some months until she had found both a large hospital and a home close by. The hospital was one of the new ones, magnificently equipped, destined to take the overspill from London, ten miles away, and still a source of some astonishment to the inhabitants of the small town where it had been built. It took her ten minutes to cycle home, but today, because of the snow, she took a good deal longer and arrived at the wrought iron gate with ‘Homelea’ written on it, in a breathless state. Louisa, her younger sister, would be waiting with her breakfast, something she hated to do. She parked her bike in the little shed at the side of the house and went in through the back door.
Louisa was in the kitchen, her pretty face screwed up with peevishness.
‘You’re late,’ she began. ‘The twins are being little devils and they’ve both been sick.’
Emily made soothing murmurs; probably Louisa, who was only eighteen and impatient, had given them their morning feeds so fast that they had no choice but to bring the lot up again.
‘I can’t wait,’ went on Louisa loudly, ‘until I can get away from this hole…only another month, thank God!’
Emily unwound the scarf from her neck. ‘Yes, dear.’ She could have voiced her nightmare fears of what was going to happen when Louisa went; Mary, their elder sister, and the twins’ mother, was still in the Middle East, unable to leave until her husband had been cleared of some trumped-up charge about something or other to do with his work. She, and her husband, should have been home months ago; the twins were to have been left with Emily for three months, no longer, an arrangement which seemed sensible at the time; they were too young to take with her, Mary had decided, and besides, she had had no idea if she would be able to get adequate help, even a good doctor. Louisa, waiting to go into a school for modelling, was staying with Emily, and a month or two in a London flat, with both sisters to look after them, was the answer.
Only it hadn’t worked out like that. At the end of the three months, Mary had managed to get a message to Emily, begging her to look after the twins for another few months at least, and she, looking at them, rapidly growing from small babies to energetic large ones, quite overflowing the small flat close to the big London teaching hospital where she worked, decided that the only thing to do was to move to a small town where she might with luck find a house with a garden. Louisa hadn’t liked the idea, of course, but as Emily had pointed out in her sensible way, the babies mattered; she had promised to look after them until Mary and George came home again and until they did there was nothing else to do about it.
‘And after all, darling,’ Emily had explained patiently, ‘you’ll be starting your course in a few months’ time and probably they’ll be back by then—I know Mary said several months, but she couldn’t have meant that.’
She had been lucky, getting a post as staff nurse at the new hospital on the outskirts of London, with the prospect of a Sister’s post in a few months’ time. Of course it wasn’t a patch on Paul’s, where she had trained, but she couldn’t complain; she had found a house at a reasonable rent, and furnished it rather sparsely with the things she had brought from the London flat, odds and ends of furniture she had brought from home after her parents died. But the house had a small garden and the air was fresh, and if one looked out of the kitchen window one could see fields and trees—not real country, of course, it was too near London for that, but at least the twins could be taken out in their pram along the quieter roads around them.
Emily took off her coat and looked round the little kitchen. It looked untidy and not as clean as she would have liked. Louisa, understandably, hated housework, it spoilt her hands with their long fingers and tapering nails—although she tried hard, Emily told herself loyally, coping with the shopping and the babies.
She dismissed as unimportant the fact that Louisa only did what she had to do, and that grudgingly. At Louisa’s age—and with her pretty face and figure, it was understandable that she should want to avoid all the humdrum jobs; if she had been as pretty herself, she would doubtless have felt just the same. But she wasn’t pretty—oh, pleasant enough; at least she didn’t squint or have enormous ears, but her face was unspectacular and she was a little too plump; Louisa was always telling her so. Emily took it in good part. After all, Louisa hadn’t had the happy childhood and girlhood that she had had and she had loved her three years’ training, going home for days off and holidays while her parents were alive, and Mary in a good job at the local library until she had met George and married him. Louisa had been at school then, impatient to leave and make her mark in the world. She had known what she wanted to do; modelling—and as she had a small legacy due to her when she was eighteen and a half, no one could stop her enrolling at one of the London modelling schools; in a month she would be able to start. In the meantime, she cooled her heels with Emily and the twins and Emily used the money Mary had left for the twins’ needs, to house and feed Louisa too. It was a difficult business, making ends meet, and she had had to give up several small luxuries in order to do it, and when Louisa went she didn’t dare to think of the extra expense of getting baby-sitters to look after the twins while she was working. She would have to continue on night duty until Mary came to collect them and it was to be hoped that it would be soon, before Louisa went away.
Emily stifled a sigh and went upstairs to the babies’ room. They were both sitting up in their cots, a bouncing eight-month-old and disarmingly beautiful. William was an hour or so older than Claire but it was almost impossible to tell the difference between them, for each reflected the other one’s face. Emily, forgetting her tiredness, picked them up to cuddle them, and it wasn’t until Louisa called from the kitchen that she popped them back with their toys and went downstairs.
At the table Louisa said with faint defiance: ‘The hairdresser can only do me at half past nine—I’ll have to go.’
Emily, her mouth full of toast, did her best to sound cheerful. ‘Oh well, yes, of course, love— How long will you be?’
‘I’ll be back by eleven o’clock—I can take the twins out then. I’ll bath them this evening…’
Emily poured more tea. ‘I’ll bath them,’ and added without a vestige of truth, ‘I’m not tired.’ She smiled cheerfully in case Louisa felt guilty. ‘I’ll dress them ready to go out when you get back. It’s a beastly day, but they’ll be all right wrapped up.’
Louisa pouted. ‘Oh, Emily, must they go out? Pushing the pram in all this snow…’
‘I cycled back—it wasn’t too bad. It’s not for much longer, dear; think how you’re going to enjoy yourself living in London and meeting all sorts of exciting people. Did you hear about the flat?’
Louisa’s pretty face became animated. ‘Yes, it’s all settled; four of us, so it won’t cost much. The course only lasts two months and I’m bound to get a job.’
Emily, eyeing her pretty sister, thought that she most certainly would. It would be nice, she thought a little wistfully, to be as pretty as Louisa, so that men looked at one twice instead of not at all. She frowned, remembering Professor Jurres-Romeijn’s remarks, and Louisa said in a surprised way: ‘Gosh, you look simply furious—what’s wrong with me sharing a flat, for heaven’s sake?’
Emily blinked. ‘Not you, love, I was thinking about something quite different. Oughtn’t you to be going? I’ll wash up.’
She washed up and tidied the little house as well as seeing to the twins, and as Louisa didn’t get home until twelve o’clock, she wasn’t in bed until an hour later than that and by then too tired to bother her head about the Professor’s opinion of her. The snow was worse when she got up and she had to walk to the hospital after helping to feed the twins and get them to bed and then eating a meal herself, a kind of high tea so that she wouldn’t be too hungry during the night. Food in the canteen was expensive and although she managed very well, she had to be careful. She told herself often enough that it was good for her to eat less, she’d get slim that way.
The wards were full and busy and it took her and her junior nurse quite two hours to settle their occupants. Men in one ward, women in the other and a small ward for children besides. Terry, who had slept soundly all day after his tracheotomy, was wide awake, sitting up against his pillows, declaring that he wouldn’t be able to sleep like that, anyway. Emily soothed him in a reassuring voice and didn’t tell him that she would have to disturb him frequently throughout the night when she changed and cleaned the tube. She made sure that the suction machine was in position with plenty of Toronto catheters and that there was a tracheotomy mask handy in case she should need one, together with dilators, a spare tube and scissors. Her junior nurse was very junior, unfortunately, and it wouldn’t be fair to expect her to undertake any of the treatment; there should have been a special, thought Emily worriedly as she trotted off to see why the tonsillectomy was bawling. He wanted a drink; she gave him one, tucked him up and promised him ice cream in the morning and sped back to the Men’s ward.
Most of the men had settled for the night, so she did a quick round and then went to the nurses’ station between the wards—but not for long. She had pulled the first of the pile of charts to be filled in towards her when old Mrs Crewe, suffering from a small tumour in one ear, demanded attention. She was a nice old lady who had lived alone for years and was of an independent turn of mind; she made it clear now that she had had enough of bed, enough, moreover, of hospital, and wanted to go home.
Emily took time to talk her out of it. She still had a lot to do and she would have to see to Terry again very shortly, but she gave no sign of impatience and presently, with the old lady sufficiently satisfied to agree to stay until the morning at least, she got up off the bed where she had perched herself. ‘A nice cup of tea?’ she suggested. ‘Just the thing to send you off to sleep.’
Mrs Crewe didn’t answer her at once because she was peering towards the end of her bed, so Emily turned round to look too. Night Sister was standing there and with her, Professor Jurres-Romeijn.
Sister Gatesby nodded and smiled. ‘Nurse shall make the tea,’ was all she said. ‘Staff Nurse, the Professor wants to talk to you—come into the office.’
The strip lighting in Sister’s office was glaringly bright and not in the least kind to one’s looks. Emily put up an absent hand to her cap and hoped that her nose wasn’t shining too much. Not that it would matter; was she not small and plump and prim? She felt a surge of indignation at the sight of the Professor standing there; the bright light didn’t detract from his good looks in the very least. His thick brows were drawn together in a frown and his arrogant nose and stern mouth didn’t make any difference either.
He looked back at her. His eyes were very blue and rather cold and because it annoyed her that he should look so stunning without making any effort at all, she said tartly: ‘I’m very busy; there’s Terry to see to in five minutes.’
Sister Gatesby looked shocked. She was a tolerant woman and prided herself on being with it, but one thing she had never quite managed to swallow—the attitude of the nurses towards the doctors. The Professor’s expression didn’t alter. ‘This will take three minutes, provided that you listen and don’t interrupt.’
Emily drew a calming breath, stuffed back the retort which she longed to utter and went on staring at him.
‘You worked for Mr Wright at your teaching hospital, I believe, Staff Nurse?’ He hardly gave her time to nod her head. ‘He has CA of pharynx, unfortunately no symptoms presented until I examined him last week and found an enlarged gland. He will be coming here as a patient and I shall be operating upon him. I shall be obliged if you will undertake to nurse him.’
Emily had liked Mr Wright. She had worked in ENT theatre with him and specialled several of his cases; it was tragic that he should be struck down by condition which he had so often diagnosed and treated himself. It would have given her the greatest satisfaction to have refused to work for the Professor, but her personal feelings didn’t really matter.
‘Well?’ asked the Professor in a voice which brooked no delay.
‘Certainly I’ll nurse Mr Wright. Am I to work under you, Professor?’
‘Yes. Mr Spencer will give you the details in the morning.’ He sounded annoyed; perhaps she should have said no… His goodnight was brief and unsmiling as he turned on his heel and stalked away. Even from the back he looked super, mused Emily, watching him go. And elegant too—a trendy dresser, even if he wasn’t all that young.
Sister Gatesby’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Well, that’s settled, Staff Nurse. I’m not quite sure when you’re to take up your new duties, but you’ll get your nights off first. Such a nice man, the Professor, always so polite…’
The dear old thing must be joking, thought Emily— or perhaps he was, to those he liked or tolerated. Anyone else, and that meant her, she supposed, was treated as though they just didn’t matter. She stifled a giggle, remembering that he had said that she merged into the background whichever way he looked at her.
‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Sister Gatesby quite sharply.
‘Oh, nothing—nothing at all, Sister. Would you excuse me if I went along to see to Terry? He’s doing fine, but he needs an eye kept on him.’
Sister Gatesby tutted worriedly. ‘There should have been a special for him, but there just aren’t the nurses. I’ll send someone up to relieve you for your meal break, Nurse Weekes is far too inexperienced.’ She frowned, already busy with who she could send. ‘Give me a bleep if you’re not happy,’ she counselled Emily as she went.
The night went rapidly; too fast for Emily, struggling to get finished by the time the day staff came on duty. She had sent Nurse Weekes off duty and was wrapping herself in her cloak when Mr Spencer came through the swing doors exclaiming: ‘Ah, just the girl I want. Can you spare a few minutes?’ He looked at her tired face, and added kindly: ‘You’ve had the hell of a night, I suspect. Here, we’ll borrow Sister’s office until she’s ready to come into it. Just a minute.’
He went off down the ward to where the Day Sister was in the middle of her morning round, and when he came back he swept Emily into the little room, sat her down in the chair beside the desk and went away again.
‘Coffee,’ he told her, seconds later. ‘Sister says we may have some while we talk.’
Emily beamed at him. ‘I hope it’s not too complicated—I mean I’m half asleep…’
‘All very easy. Professor Jurres-Romeijn came to see me last night and we got it all sorted out. Mr Wright’s being admitted in two days’ time, you’re to have two nights off—that’s tonight and tomorrow night, and report for duty at nine o’clock, perhaps earlier, on the following morning. You’re to do day duty and probably you’ll have to do a few extra hours, Emily. You’re to go to theatre with your patient and assist the anaesthetist, got to ITU with him and stay there until he’s fit to take to the ward and you’ll hand over at the Professor’s wish, and if he wants you back on duty you’ll just have to do that, any time. He wants that clearly understood.’
The ward maid brought in their coffee and Emily poured it out. She said in a level voice: ‘I’m surprised that Professor Jurres-Romeijn gets anyone to work for him, but I’ll do exactly as he wishes because I like Mr Wright and I’d want him to recover—that’s my only reason for agreeing to work for the Professor.’
Mr Spencer spooned far too much sugar into his mug. ‘Yes, well…he’s good at his job, you know, Emily.’
‘I’m sure he is. But why’s Mr Wright coming here?’
‘Because he doesn’t want everyone to know about it. It’s bound to leak out, of course, but not at once, and Professor Jurres-Romeijn is going up to Edinburgh in a few weeks and Mr Wright wouldn’t stand the journey. Besides that, you know as well as I do that speed is of the essence for him.’
Emily re-filled their mugs. ‘Yes. Has he a good chance, do you think?’
Mr Spencer thought for a moment. ‘Jurres-Romeijn is about the best there is; he’s done a number of pharyngectomies and had a high percentage of successes. Of course it’s a severe operation, you know that, and it means Mr Wright will have to learn oesophageal speech or have an electric larynx fitted, but from what I hear of him he sounds very able to cope with the difficulties.’ He smiled at Emily, visibly wilting but listening carefully. ‘Besides, he’ll have you to nurse him; you’ve got yourself a marvellous reputation since you’ve been with us, Emily, and it was just as good at Paul’s, wasn’t it?’
She smiled a little and just for a moment was tempted to tell him that she had overheard his conversation with the Professor, but that wouldn’t do any good to anybody and she would regret it afterwards. She finished her coffee and said: ‘I’d better go to the office, I suppose.’
And that was a speedy business; she was in and out again within five minutes. Apparently the Professor had made his wishes known and had paved the way for her. Not because he was taken with her, Emily reminded herself wryly as she wobbled home in the slush which was all that was left of the snow. It was warmer too, but then it was still only the middle of November, time enough for snow during the next month or two.
She told Louisa her news over breakfast and her sister said at once: ‘Oh, good, I wanted to go to London—to see about the flat, you know, and I was wondering how I could manage it before your next nights off. I’ll go tomorrow.’
Emily agreed, pointing out that once she started on her case, she might not have much free time for a little while. ‘Oh, well, perhaps he’ll die,’ observed Louisa airily.
‘Not if I can help it. He’s got a splendid surgeon and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be perfectly OK.’
Louisa shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, darling, let’s hope he’ll get over it. It sounds grisly to me; I don’t know how you can stand it, and for a pittance, too. I’ll earn as much in a week as you do in a month once I get a modelling job.’ She smiled, well pleased at the thought. ‘I’ll wash up if you like while you see to the twins, then I’ll take them out while you have a sleep.’
Emily sighed gratefully and then sighed again as Louisa went on: ‘There’s a film on this evening, that girl across the road asked me to go with her—you won’t mind?’
Emily said that she didn’t; Louisa was only eighteen and being eighteen didn’t last long. She dealt with the twins’ small wants, put them down for their morning nap and went to bed herself.
Her nights off went very quickly. She had more than enough to do when Louisa went to London, but she enjoyed her day; the twins, although hard work, were delightful. She pushed them for miles through the common behind the road where she lived and returned to give the house a good clean. And the next day was almost wholly taken up with shopping and listening to Louisa’s ecstatic description of the flat and her future flatmates. Emily, tired out, slept like a log, got up early to see to the twins, advised her sister that she had no idea when she would be home, and cycled to the hospital.
Mr Wright was to have one of the private rooms attached to the Men’s ENT ward. After a briefing from Sister she retired into it, readied it for its occupant, checked the equipment she would be using, arranged the flowers which her patient’s friends had sent to welcome him, and went down to her dinner, where she shared a table with several of her friends.
‘Lucky you,’ observed one of them, ‘working for that Professor Jurres-Romeijn. I could go for someone like him—I suppose he’s married, they always are.’ The speaker cocked a questioning eyebrow at Emily, who shook her head.
‘I’ve no idea, but I should think so, I mean, he’s not awfully young, is he?’
‘Who cares?’ The ENT staff nurse, Carol Drew, joined in. ‘I’m going to have to go.’
Emily said mildly: ‘Why not?’ And why not indeed? Carol was pretty, as pretty as Louisa, all pink and white and golden with large blue eyes to melt a stone, and surely the Professor as well. She got up to fetch the puddings and when she got back someone asked: ‘Why you, Emily?’
She spooned steamed pudding before she answered. ‘Well, Mr Wright comes from Paul’s and I worked for him there.’
‘The Professor didn’t actually choose you, then? I mean, Mr Wright wanted you, I suppose?’
‘I suppose so.’ Emily bolted the rest of her pudding and got up. ‘I’d better get back, he was supposed to be here before one o’clock, but he hasn’t turned up yet…’
‘Don’t blame him,’ declared Carol. ‘I wouldn’t turn up either.’ She got up too. ‘I’ll come back with you, Emily, you never know, the Professor might be there.’ She whipped out a compact and peered into it. ‘Do I look all right?’
‘You always look all right. I daresay when he sees you he’ll ask us to do a swap,’ said Emily.
But she was wrong. The Professor was waiting in his patient’s room, sitting on the side of the carefully made bed, rucking up the quilt in a careless fashion. He got up as Emily, with Carol hard on her heels, went in, and beyond a coldly polite ‘Good morning,’ showed no signs of being bowled over by Carol’s looks, let alone suggesting that she might do instead of Emily. Indeed, he waited silently and rather pointedly until Carol had gone before addressing himself to Emily.
‘You’re quite ready, Nurse Seymour? Mr Wright will be here within the hour. You will be good enough to let me know when he arrives. I shall probably be in theatre. I should like him to undress and get to bed as soon as possible; there are a number of tests to be done and I shall wish to examine him.’
He strolled to the door. ‘You enjoyed your nights off?’ he asked her surprisingly.
‘Me? Oh—yes, thank you.’
‘Good. I hope Mr Spencer made it plain to you that your off duty is likely to be irregular and curtailed for the next few days. I hope to operate tomorrow—in the morning; you will probably be on duty until late in the evening.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If I am not quite satisfied with Mr Wright’s condition, you may have to stay on call.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He glanced at her curiously. ‘You can make arrangements for this?’
She just stopped herself from saying ‘Yes, sir,’ yet again, and changed it to: ‘Certainly I can.’
He nodded unsmilingly, said, ‘H’m,’ and went away, leaving her to fly to Sister’s office and telephone Louisa, who wasn’t at all pleased at the idea of being left with the twins, even for one night.
‘Well,’ observed Emily, ‘you’ll be all right, love, and probably I’ll be home, and it’s not until tomorrow night, you know—I’ll be back tonight. Only I thought I’d better give you plenty of warning.’
‘I was going to that disco with Roy’—Roy was the rather vapid youth who lived next door. ‘I suppose I’ll have to stay home, now.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Emily felt a little surge of impatience. Louisa was her sister and a dear girl, even if a bit spoilt, but she was making an awful fuss about nothing, especially as Emily was the one who was earning their bread and butter. She squashed the thought, cautioned Louisa about several small chores which would need to be done, and hung up.
Mr Wright arrived presently, the shadow of his former chubby self but remarkably cheerful. ‘Best surgeon in Europe,’ he told her in a frighteningly hoarse voice, ‘and best nurse, too—can’t help but get better, can I?’
He had brought his wife with him, a pretty little woman with grey hair, exquisitely cut, and elegant clothes. She was as determinedly cheerful as he was and nice to Emily. ‘I’ll go away for a bit, shall I?’ she suggested. ‘If you’ll tell me when I can come back?’
‘Ten minutes,’ said Emily promptly. ‘Mr Wright has to undress and get into bed while I get Professor Jurres-Romeijn. I expect he’ll want to talk to you— there’s a waiting room…’
‘I’ll find it, Staff Nurse—no, I shall call you Emily, if I may. Ten minutes, then.’
Mr Wright was in bed and Emily was drawing the covers over him when the Professor walked in. He greeted his patient affably, said briefly: ‘Don’t go,’ to Emily, and sat down on the bed. ‘You’ve brought Maud with you?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’ll have a look at you now; and then I’ll have a chat with her, shall I?’
The look, a very thorough one, took half an hour and Emily was kept on her toes, handing this and that and the other, filling in forms and unscrewing specimen bottles. She was surprised when the Professor thanked her for her service, albeit laconically, and asked her to go and tell Mrs Wright that he would be along to see her in a few minutes, a request which she took to mean that he wanted her out of the way for a bit while he and his patient talked. She found Mrs Wright in the waiting room, leafing through an old copy of Woman and not attempting to read it, gave her message and then sat down and made conversation until the Professor came through the door.
She was about to slip away when he said: ‘I shall want to talk to you presently, Nurse Seymour,’ before turning his attention to Mrs Wright.
It was fifteen minutes or more before he returned to Mr Wright’s room where Emily was making a neat list of the flower givers so that Mrs Wright could send thank-you letters. She wrote the last name without undue haste and looked up at the Professor, towering over her. He looked cross, but then he often did; perhaps he had a gastric ulcer…
‘You’re looking at me as though I were the patient,’ he said blandly.
She said hastily that she really hadn’t been looking at him, ‘Only into the background,’ she added, just as blandly, and saw his eyebrows go up. ‘And that will give you something to think about,’ she told him silently.
The Professor turned away to speak to his patient for a moment, then invited her to follow him out of the room. ‘Sister’s office,’ he suggested, and opened its door for her.
‘This is going to be rather touch and go,’ he began without preamble. ‘Mr Wright isn’t over-optimistic and quite realises that his chances are on the small side. All the more reason for us to make a success of it.’ He smiled suddenly at her, so that she caught her breath. He looked quite different; it was like someone opening a door…‘I shall ask a great deal of you, Emily; you’ll have your work cut out. Will you stay until this evening—until the night nurse comes on duty? and I’ll want you here by seven o’clock tomorrow morning—you’ll be here all day and I’ll want you on call for the night. Probably the next couple of days as well.’
She eyed him calmly. ‘Very well, sir. May I know what you’re going to do?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll have to do a laryngectomy as well as remove the tumour of the pharynx and do a block resection of the glands as well…’He elaborated at some length and she listened carefully, stopping him now and again so that he might make something she hadn’t understood clear. Presently he got up from the table where he had been sitting. ‘That’s the lot, I think,’ and just for a moment she thought that he was going to say something else, but he didn’t, only opened the door for her, remarking that he would be along to see his patient later on in the day, bringing the anaesthetist with him.
The rest of her day was spent in preparing Mr Wright for the morning, explaining just where everything would be when he came round from the an- aesthetic; that she would be with him all the time, and that on no account was he to get fussed about anything. ‘There’ll be a pad and pencil under your hand,’ she reminded him, ‘as well as a bell within reach and me.’
He laughed at her, a funny cracked sound. ‘Never mind the pad and bell,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll do on your own, Emily. I’ve great faith in you, my dear., I’ve never seen you put out by anything yet and I’ve never seen you look defeated, either.’
‘Who’s talking about defeat?’ asked Emily strongly.
The Professor came about nine o’clock, spent five minutes with his patient, and then leaving the anaesthetist with him, went off to brief the night nurse, an elderly staff nurse, recently widowed and returned to nursing, a solid, sensible woman who liked Emily and could be relied upon to do all she could for her patient. He was away for half an hour; it was ten o’clock by the time Emily got on to her bike for the ride home, and midnight before she got to bed. Louisa had been tearful at the prospect of looking after the house and the twins, and resentful too. You’d think, decided Emily, getting ready for bed, that I was going on holiday or something! She got into bed, curled up into a tight ball round her hot water bottle, and went to sleep at once.

CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS DARK, cold and wet when Emily left the house at half past five the next morning. The twins and Louisa were still sleeping and she hadn’t bothered with breakfast, only a quick, strong cup of tea. She tied her overnight bag on to her bike and pedalled briskly through the almost deserted streets. Bar the odd milkman and a police car idling along, giving her a nice sense of security, there were few people about. The rather ugly modern town looked bleak and unfriendly and before many minutes the rain was dripping steadily down the back of her neck. She hadn’t had time to do much to her face and her hair was going to be sopping by the time she arrived. She changed in the cold little room, scraped her fine brown hair back into some sort of a bun, pinned her cap on top of it and went through to the hospital. The early morning rush was on; almost no noise, only the steady hurried tread of the nurses trying to get done before the day staff arrived. Emily gained ENT without seeing anyone at all, checked with the night staff nurse, telephoned Night Super that she was on duty and went along to Mr Wright’s room.
He’d had a bad night, that was obvious, but his cheerfulness was unabated, so Emily was cheerful too, telling him silly little tales of her training at Paul’s and not mentioning the day’s dire work while she readied him.
She was relieved for breakfast after an hour, a meal she swallowed in no time at all, and when she got back she found Mrs Wright had just arrived.
‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ the little lady hadn’t slept either—’ and I’m going again at once, dear.’ She smiled at Emily. ‘I know you’ll do your very best.’
‘I will, Mrs Wright, and don’t worry, Mr Wright is going to be all right. Professor Jurres-Romeijn is tops, you know, he’s done this op before a good many times and he’s successful…’
‘A generous statement, Nurse Seymour.’ The Professor’s voice held mockery and she swung round to see him standing in the doorway, immaculate as usual even at that early hour and the only one of them who looked as though he had had a good sleep. She didn’t speak; she couldn’t think of anything to say and there was no point in it. She stared at his faintly sneering mouth, and disliked him very much.
He didn’t speak to her again but addressed himself to his patient and Mrs Wright, only as he went away he reminded her that Mr Wright would be going to theatre in exactly half an hour and as from now was to receive no more visitors, nor talk, or rather, try to talk. He paused at the door to allow Mrs Wright to say goodbye to her husband, then swept her away with him, not looking at Emily at all.
Mr Wright broke the Professor’s rules the moment the door was closed. He said in his strained voice: ‘I wonder if Renier knows what a treasure he’s got working for him? I must remember to point it out to him—in writing, of course.’ He grinned at her and closed his eyes.
‘Now you be a good boy,’ begged Emily in a motherly voice, ‘or I’ll turn into an old battleaxe!’
The operation lasted a very long time. The Professor worked quickly but meticulously too, muttering to himself from time to time, requesting some instrument or other in an almost placid voice, asking details from the anaesthetist from time to time regarding his patient’s blood pressure and condition. Emily, standing at the anaesthetist’s elbow, had to admire his skill, and he must be getting a frightful backache, she thought inconsequently, bending like that. They were all three very close together with Mr Spencer on the other side of the Professor and an assistant across the table ready to hold things and tie off and cut gut when required. Theatre Sister was scrubbed, of course, and so was the senior staff nurse, and there were other nurses there too. A splendid turn-out, thought Emily, counting heads without taking her mind off her work.
The atmosphere was nicely relaxed; she had worked for surgeons who had everyone biting their nails with nerves because they were so ill-tempered. She could remember one occasion when a surgeon had flung an instrument on to the ground and then had to wait while it was picked up, scrubbed, sterilised and handed back to him; a bad-tempered man he had been, and give the Professor his due, with the exception of herself, he appeared to have everyone there eating out of his hand.
The morning wore on until finally the Professor straightened his great back and stood back from the table. His thanks were pleasantly uttered before he turned on his heel and went along to the changing room. Not that he’d be there long, Emily decided, he’d be in and out of ITU for the next hour or so, getting in her way…
She knew her job well and set about connecting tubes to sealed bottles, setting up a drip again, checking the cardiac arrest trolley, the tracheotomy trolley, the oxygen, the ventilator… She had a student nurse to help her, to fetch and carry, but she was responsible for her patient to the Professor and any mistakes, whether she made them or not, would be her fault.
Just as she had thought, the Professor was in and out of the room for the rest of the day and a good deal of the night as well, and when he had come to examine his patient in the early evening he had requested her politely to remain on duty for a few more hours. Doctor Wright was conscious but fretful and worried because he couldn’t speak. Emily, reassuring him gently, found it pathetic that he had assured so many of his own patients in like case and still needed that reassurance himself, and her opinion of the Professor was considerably heightened by the kindly understanding he showed towards his patient. ‘We’ll keep him doped,’ he told her. ‘I’ve written him up again for another jab at ten o’clock and I’ll be in just after to see how he is. He’ll need more blood—is there plenty available?’
Emily said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I’ll take a blood gas estimation.’
She produced the tray without a word, waited while he withdrew the blood, signed to her assistant to take it to the Path. Lab. at once, and applied a swab to the puncture, standing patiently for five minutes while the Professor leaned over the foot of the bed, watching the patient and, from time to time, her.
‘I should be obliged if you could be on duty as early as possible in the morning,’ he observed quietly.
Emily had her eyes on her watch. ‘Would half past seven suit, sir?’
‘Very well. I’m afraid you’re in for a rough time for the next few days.’
‘Not half as rough as Mr Wright,’ she told him matter-of-factly.
But the next few days were rough. Mr Wright was a good patient but naturally enough irritable, for Emily was constantly busy with something or other, turning him, with the other nurse, from side to side, sucking him out, charting her observations, feeding him through his intranasal naso-gastric tube, tending his tracheotomy. He vented his spleen on to his writing pad, scrawling the invective he would have liked to utter so that on occasion she was forced to admit that she had no idea of what he meant. ‘You see,’ she told him apologetically, ‘there’s no man about the house to swear, so I’m a bit out of touch.’
‘Then it’s high time there was,’ Doctor Wright scribbled furiously. ‘Does Professor Jurres-Romeijn know? about the twins—and your sister?’
Her ‘No!’ was so fierce that he had added hastily: ‘All right, keep your brown hair on; I shan’t tell.’ He put his pencil down and then picked it up again. ‘You don’t like him.’
Emily’s hazel eyes flashed. ‘Never mind that, Doctor Wright. He’s a splendid surgeon.’
‘He’s a man as well,’ wrote her patient slowly, ‘a bit crusty sometimes, but I’d like him on my side in a fight. Nice with children too.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Emily tartly, ‘and now lie still while I see to your feed…’
She was a first class nurse—besides, she had made up her mind that Doctor Wright was going to recover. True, life wouldn’t be quite the same for him ever again, but he had a loving wife and children and in time he might do a little consulting work; there was nothing wrong with his needle-sharp brain and he had been a top man at his job. Emily told him this, over and over again; each time she saw the worried lines deepen on his face, she trotted out her arguments with such sincerity that after a time he began to believe her, and when his wife, primed by Emily, joined in on Emily’s side it was obvious that he had made up his mind to have a future after all. Perhaps not such a lengthy one as most people, but still a future. When the Professor called that evening, he stayed twice as long as usual, listening to Mrs Wright, and reading his friend’s scribbled conversation. And he added his certainty as to the patient’s ability to work again in a calm unhurried manner which carried conviction.
Emily was tired by the end of a week. She had been sleeping at the hospital, working long hours—busy ones too, and over and above that she wasn’t happy about leaving Louisa alone for so long a time. She had managed to get home on several afternoons, just for an hour, but Louisa had sulked and the babies didn’t seem happy. If only the longed-for letter from Mary would come! thought Emily, racing back to duty again. She would miss the twins, but the life they were leading now wasn’t good enough. They should have someone’s undivided attention. Luckily she would have a good deal of off duty and days off to come to her by the time Doctor Wright left, she would make it up to them then, and Louisa too. No wonder she had sulked, tied to the house and the shopping and washing and only the twins for company. Emily, carefully schooling her pleasant features into a look of relaxed ease, presented herself at her patient’s door, declaring cheerfully that in such weather it was better to be in than out.
She had just completed all the many chores attached to her care of Doctor Wright, ensconced his wife beside him and declared her intention of going to supper herself when the Professor joined them. His ‘Don’t go, Nurse Seymour’ left her standing, rather crossly, by the door while he sat himself down on the end of the bed for what she could see was to be a leisurely chat. If he wasn’t quick about it, her supper time would be over and done with and she without her meal—and she had agreed to stay on duty until ten o’clock that evening so that Mrs Crewe, the night nurse, could go to the cinema. The canteen would be closed by then; if she wanted to of course she could wait until the night nurses’ evening meal at midnight, but she knew she’d never stay awake.
The Professor rose presently and turned round and looked at her. ‘Ah, yes, Staff Nurse—I should like a word with you.’
She followed him out of the room and stood in the middle of the landing. It was quiet there. Sister, back from her own supper, was writing the report in her office and the two nurses left on duty were in the ward. She was totally surprised when the Professor said: ‘I have to thank you for your part in Doctor Wright’s recovery. You have worked very well, I am grateful to you as I am sure he and his wife are.’ He smiled and she thought suddenly that in other circumstances she might have liked him.
‘I must admit,’ he went on smoothly, ‘that when you were suggested to me I wasn’t quite sure…’
Emily broke in: ‘No, I know—I heard you; you didn’t like to be fobbed off with a prim miss.’ She paused and quoted: ‘A small plump creature who merges into the background from whatever angle one looks at her.’
The Professor was looking at her in astonishment. ‘Good God—yes, I said that; I’d forgotten. Do you want me to apologise?’ He neither looked nor sounded in the least put out.
Emily eyed him thoughtfully. ‘No,’ she said at length. ‘Words don’t mean a thing—you could say you were sorry and not mean it.’
He shrugged. ‘Just as you like, although I might point out that I’m not in the habit of apologising unless I mean it.’ He added outrageously: ‘You are small, you know, and a bit plump, too.’
Emily made a cross sound, but before she could say anything he went on in a quite different voice: ‘I shall change the drugs this evening—you are on duty until ten o’clock, I understand? Observe Doctor Wright carefully, will you, and ask the night nurse to do the same. We must start talking about speech therapy, too.’ He nodded his head carelessly. ‘I’ll see you later.’
He left her standing there. There were just five minutes left of her supper break; she’d barely reach the canteen in that time, let alone get a chance to eat anything. In a bad humour, she went back to her patient.
‘You were quick over your supper,’ remarked Mrs Wright. ‘Wasn’t it nice?’
‘Professor Jurres-Romeijn was talking to me—I didn’t get down to the canteen.’ And when Mrs Wright protested: ‘I’ll go later.’
It was a little after ten o’clock when the Professor came again. He didn’t speak to her although he gave her a close look as he came into the room. He altered the drugs, checked that his patient was in good shape for the night, said something quietly to him and went away, leaving Emily to give the report to Mrs Crewe, wish her patient goodnight and gather up her cloak and bag. She was very hungry, but it was really too late to go out to one of the small cafés which ringed the hospital. Besides, it was dark and cold and the streets weren’t quiet; the pubs would be shutting. She would have to go to bed hungry…
The Professor was standing on the landing, staring in front of him, doing nothing, but at her quiet step he turned round. ‘I had no idea that I made you miss your supper,’ he observed without preamble. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Why?’ asked Emily baldly.
He ignored that. ‘Allow me to take you out for a meal.’
‘No, thank you.’ It was annoying that as she spoke her insides gave a terrific rumble.
The Professor’s mouth twitched. ‘You’re hungry.’
Emily’s mouth watered at the thought of food—any food. ‘Not in the least,’ she told him haughtily. She wished him goodnight just as haughtily and left him standing there.
Half an hour later, coming from the bathroom on the top floor of the Nurses’ Home, where she had a temporary room on the night nurses’ corridor, she was met by the night cook. ‘There you are, Staff,’ said that lady comfortably. ‘I’ve put the tray in your room, Night Sister said you was ter ‘ave it pronto; special orders from Professor Jurres-Romeijn.’
Emily, her hair hanging damply down her back, her face red and shiny from too hot a bath, goggled at her. ‘Me? A tray?’ she asked.
‘That’s right, love. And be a dear and bring it down to the canteen at breakfast, will you?’
‘Yes—yes, of course—thanks a lot, Maggie.’ She sped down the passage and into her room where there indeed was a tray laden with a teapot, milk, sugar and a mug, soup in a covered bowl and a wedge of meat pie flanked by peas and chips. Emily put the tray on the bed and got in beside it and wolfed the lot. It was over her third cup of tea that she took time to think about the Professor. It had been generous of him to see that she had some supper, or perhaps it was gratitude because he hadn’t had to take her out? All her friends would think her out of her mind to have refused him anyway. But he must have taken the trouble to telephone Night Sister and speak to her about it, and considering he didn’t like her, that had been good-natured of him, to say the least. She would have to thank him in the morning.
But when she did just that after his visit to Doctor Wright, all he said was: ‘But my dear girl, you’re wasting your gratitude; I can’t afford to have you going off sick. I want you here for another four days.’
A remark which effectively nipped in the bud any warmer feelings she might have begun to cherish towards him.
The four days seemed unending. She went home every afternoon, just for an hour or so, and because it was obvious that Louisa was becoming more and more impatient and irritable, she spent the hours there catching up on the chores which her sister declared she had neither the time nor the inclination to do. And the twins looked peaky too. She suspected that Louisa wasn’t taking them out enough, but hesitated to say so, and she would be home for four days. Louisa could be free to do what she liked while she set her little house in order and took long walks with the babies. It would make a nice change too.
Doctor Wright was leaving the hospital the day before she herself was due for her days off; he was going home with Mrs Crewe in attendance and it wasn’t until he was writing his last note to Emily that she discovered that he had asked for her to go with him. When she had given him a questioning look he had taken the pad and scrawled: ‘Jurres-Romeijn wouldn’t allow it; said you were in need of a rest— made him promise that if anything went wrong you’d come and nurse me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Emily instantly, thrusting the question of what to do with the twins on one side. ‘I’ll come like a shot, but you’re going to be fine. Do press on with the oesophageal speech, won’t you?’
‘You’re as bad as Renier, badgering me back to living again.’ But he smiled at her as he wrote, and his goodbye had been warm with gratitude. So had Mrs Wright’s, accompanied by a large box wrapped in gay paper and tied with ribbon. Before Emily set about clearing the room of its complicated equipment and readying it for whoever was to occupy it next, she opened it. Elizabeth Arden, and lashings of it; lotions and powder and perfume, soap and several jars of face creams and a large bottle of bath essence. Emily drew in an excited breath; surely her mediocre looks would improve with such a galaxy of beauty aids? She wrapped everything up again and when she had finally finished her work bore it carefully home.
Louisa, looking it over that evening, agreed that it was a lovely present. ‘Though personally I don’t go for her,’ she observed. ‘I mean, everyone, just everyone, uses Fifth Avenue.’
But Emily refused to be put out. ‘I shall use the lot,’ she declared. ‘It’s bound to do something for me.’
Her young sister looked at her with affection tinged with irritation. Emily was a dear and she had always been able to twist her round her little finger, but she was a bit wet; it would take more than Elizabeth Arden to change her ordinary features into anything glamorous. ‘It’s worth a try,’ she agreed. ‘I say, now you’re back for a day or two, I can go up to London, can’t I? I simply must have some undies…’
There was really no need to go up to town. The shops were adequate enough for Louisa’s modest wants; Emily recognised it as an excuse and agreed without demur. Louisa had earned some fun. It didn’t occur to her that she had earned some fun too, but she was happy enough in the ugly little house, cleaning and washing and taking the twins out for the long walks she had promised. The weather had cheered up a little too, so she took them down the road and then pushed the pram along the bridle path, rutted and muddy, but the woods and fields on either side, although not quite country, were pleasant. She marched along briskly, thinking about Doctor Wright and the Professor. She had heard from various friends at the hospital that he wouldn’t be there much longer and she felt a strange regret, which considering she didn’t like him, seemed strange.
Louisa, happy now that she had no need to be tied to the house all day, was disposed to be generous on Emily’s last day. ‘I’ll take the twins,’ she offered, ‘so you can go to the shops if you want to.’
There were one or two things Emily wanted, she accepted at once and then at the last minute had to alter her plans because William, cutting a tooth, became fretful and feverish. ‘He’ll have to stay indoors,’ she said, hiding disappointment. ‘If you don’t mind staying with him, I’ll take Claire out this afternoon.’
‘What about your shopping?’
‘I’ll do that on the way home tomorrow.’
It was a cold day and grey as was to be expected in November, but there was no wind and Emily, pushing Claire briskly in her pram, was quickly glowing. She had taken the bridle path again, away from the streets of small prim houses because although she never said so, she hated them. One day if she was lucky, she would have a small cottage in the country with a garden. There was plenty of time, she was only twenty-three and if she got a Sister’s post soon she would start to save money. It didn’t need to be full of mod cons, she could improve it over the years, and sometimes one could buy up a small place fairly cheaply if it hadn’t been modernised.
There was no point in dwelling on the fact that she would probably not marry. She only met the young doctors she worked with in hospital and none of them had shown any interest in her to date. It would be nice if she did, of course…her mind wandered off into a vague dream so that she didn’t at first hear the horse’s hooves ahead of her, and when she did she merely turned the pram towards the hedge so that there was room for the beast to pass. She was leaning over the pram handle, encouraging Claire to take a look at the animal, when it trotted round the bend which had been hiding it. It was a very large horse, which was a good thing, for its rider was large too—the Professor, sitting at his ease and looking, as always, elegant. Emily, taken by surprise, gaped. The Professor’s handsome features, however, remained calm. He reined in his horse, got down and said civilly: ‘Good afternoon, Nurse Seymour.’
She muttered a greeting, rather red in the face, and bent to inspect Claire. ‘I didn’t know that you were married.’ He turned to smile at Emily, and the red deepened.
‘I’m not,’ said Emily.
His expression didn’t alter, only his heavy lids drooped over his eyes so that she had no idea what he was thinking. ‘She is very like you,’ he observed. ‘What is her name?’
‘Claire.’
‘Charming. You live close by?’
She jerked her head sideways. ‘Yes, in one of those houses over there—the last in a row, so it’s not too bad.’ She added earnestly: ‘I was lucky to get it.’ She went on, to make it clear: ‘It’s not so easy to get a house, you know—not if you’re not married.’
‘Er—probably not. I’m lost in admiration that you can work full time and run a house and a baby as well.’
‘Well, Louisa—she’s my sister, is staying with me until she can go to school for modelling—she’s waiting for a place.’
His eyes flickered over her sensible coat, wellingtons and woolly cap pulled well down. ‘She must be a pretty girl.’
‘Oh, she is,’ said Emily enthusiastically, ‘and she’s only just eighteen.’
He smiled faintly. ‘And you, Emily? how old are you?’
‘Twenty-three, almost twenty-four.’
‘And Claire?’
‘Eight months.’
‘You moved here because of her, of course,’ he suggested smoothly.
Emily had her mouth open to explain and then thought better of it. He couldn’t possibly be interested. She frowned a little and said ‘Yes’ and nothing more. And then, because he just stood there, saying nothing, she said: ‘I must be getting on; it’s cold for Claire if I stand still.’
‘Of course.’ He got on his horse, raised his crop in salute and rode on, leaving her to continue her walk while she discussed the meeting with Claire, who chuckled and crowed and didn’t answer back, which was nice. She was almost home again when the thought crossed her mind that the Professor might have thought Claire to be her baby. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, so that people hurrying past had to push against her.
‘But that’s absurd,’ said Emily, out loud. ‘I’m not married.’
The elderly woman squeezing past her, running over her wellingtons with one of those beastly little carriers on wheels, paused to say: ‘Then you ought to be, my girl!’
Emily delivered a telling kick at the carrier; better than nothing, for she could think of nothing to answer back.
She went back on duty the next morning, on day duty now, but still on ENT. The wards were as busy as ever and Mr Spencer cheered her up by the warmth of his welcome. Of the Professor there was no sign; she went back home that evening wondering what had happened to him. She hadn’t liked to ask and she had gone late to her dinner, so that she hadn’t had a chance to talk to any of her friends.
He was there on the following morning, though, doing a round with Mr Spencer and his house surgeon, Sister and the speech therapist, a young woman whom Emily envied, for she was tall and slim and always said the right thing so that even the Professor listened to her when she had something to say, and smiled too. He didn’t smile at Emily, only wished her a chilly good morning and requested a patient’s notes. On her way home later, pedalling briskly through the crowded streets, she saw him again, driving a beautiful Jaguar XJ Spider. It was a silver-grey, Italian designed and probably worth a very great deal of money. He lifted a nonchalant hand in greeting as he slid past her which she had to ignore; there was so much traffic about that if she had lifted a hand from the handlebar she would certainly have fallen off.
Louisa wanted to go to the cinema, so Emily stayed home, contentedly enough because she had had a hard day. The little sitting room, rather bare of furniture, yet looked cosy enough in the firelight; she sat by it and sewed for the twins by the light of the lamp at her elbow.
There was a good programme on Radio Three and she allowed her thoughts to idle along with Brahms and Grieg and Delius. They returned over and over again to the Professor—too much so, she told herself severely; it was pointless to get even the faintest bit interested in him when he could hardly bear the sight of her. Besides, with a car like that, he obviously came from an entirely different background from her own. She folded her needlework carefully, left everything ready for Louisa to make herself a hot drink when she came in, and went to bed.

CHAPTER THREE
EMILY SAW saw almost nothing of Professor Jurres- Romeijn during the next few days; beyond stopping one morning to tell her that Doctor Wright was progressing just as he should, he had nothing to say to her other than a good morning or a good evening when he came to the ward. For some reason she felt vaguely discontented and miserable, perhaps because William had caught Claire’s cold. She was worried about Mary too; she had had a guarded letter saying that they hoped to come home before very long, but it really held no news. She confided her worries to Louisa, who treated the matter more lightly. ‘Well, they must be safe enough,’ she pointed out, ‘otherwise Mary wouldn’t write, would she? I expect there’s some sort of delay— you know what it is—some form not filled in properly…’
Emily told herself that she was fussing unnecessarily and resolved not to worry about it. Instead she worried about money. They lived on a tight budget, getting tighter every day, and sooner or later she would have to face up to what she was going to do when Louisa left home. She had suggested tentatively that Louisa might postpone the modelling school for a month or two, to be met with such a shower of reproaches that she hadn’t said any more about it. She had a few savings, she would have to use them, every penny, to pay for a babyminder—if she could find one she could trust. Mary would pay her back when they came back to England, but it would leave her with the nasty feeling that there was nothing to fall back on if an emergency cropped up.
When she got home that evening Louisa met her with scarcely concealed excitement. ‘I say,’ she began before Emily could get her coat off, ‘I was out with Tracey’—Tracey was the girl across the road with whom she sometimes went out—’ well, we were just going to cross the road when this fab car pulled up to let us go over—a huge silver thing, Emily, you never saw anything like it—well, there was this terrific man sitting at the wheel…’ She broke off to exclaim: ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Emily?’ And not waiting for an answer: ‘And Tracey said that he was the visiting professor at the hospital and when I asked her where, she said Ear, Nose and Throat Wards—you never said a word…’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/betti-nils/winter-wedding/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.