The Gemel Ring

Dr. Everard van Tijlen didn’t look in the least fatherly. He looked shockingly handsome, very sure of himself and slightly amused. Charity’s tongue spoke the words she had thought but never intended to voice. “You didn’t look in the least fatherly the other evening.”

Her green eyes sparkled with rising temper, not improved at all by his laugh. “I’m flattered you were sufficiently interested to notice us,” he said smoothly, “but I must point out that I said I was fatherly toward my nurses.”

She bit savagely into a sandwich. If that wasn’t a snub, she would like to know what one was. “I’m not in the least bit interested,” she began haughtily.

He was smiling faintly. “A pity….”

About the Author

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, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

The Gemel Ring

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE QUEUE of cars waiting to go aboard the ferry which would take them across the River Schelde to Breskens, so that they might continue their journey to the Dutch border, was large, untidy and impatient, and not the least impatient of the car drivers was Lieutenant-Colonel Dawson, retired, whose somewhat peppery disposition was ill-equipped for delays of any kind. After only a few moments of coming to a halt behind an enormous trans-continental transport, he was already drumming on the wheel with his fingers, poking his head out of the window, and snorting in a rising indignation, actions which caused his wife, sitting in the back of the car with their younger daughter, to murmur soothingly: “Think of your blood pressure, dear,” and exchange a wary glance with her companion. Her well-meaning remarks did nothing to help, however her husband began a growling diatribe about foreigners and blew out his military moustache, a sure sign of growing ill-temper—a sign noted by the girl sitting beside him, for she said with an affectionate matter-of-factness: “Don’t worry, Father—I’ll go and see what the hold-up is—it can’t be anything much.”

She got out of the car as she spoke and began to make her way towards the head of the queue. She was a tall, well-built girl, her rich, red-brown hair tied back with a silk scarf, her attractive face, with its straight nose and nicely curved, too-big mouth, made almost beautiful by a pair of green eyes, fringed by lashes whose curly length, while genuine, gave rise to a good deal of speculation amongst those who met her for the first time.

She made her way now through the press of cars, intent on finding the cause of the delay, feeling a little guilty about it, for it was at her suggestion that her father had agreed to return across Holland from Bremen, where they had been visiting an old friend, instead of driving down through Germany to Cologne and across to the coast to catch the ferry. It wasn’t the first time they had made the trip; each time she had wanted to see more of Holland and each time there had been some reason why they shouldn’t. And now she had had her own way and it looked as though it was to result in her fiery parent having a fit of bad temper.

She sighed and caught the admiring glance of a lorry driver as she wormed her way between the cars; he called to her and she answered him readily in his own language in her well-taught boarding-school French. She could see the cause of the delay now—the small group of people crowding round an Opel Rekord, peering in at a man lying back in the driver’s seat, while one of the dock police bent over him. Charity sighed again, foreseeing a lengthy delay before they could get on to the ferry; the man, if he were ill, would have to be taken away by ambulance or taxi; his car would have to be moved too, for it was the first in line and was blocking one lane of traffic… She edged her way to the policeman’s side and enquired if she could help. “I am a nurse,” she explained, and at his blank look repeated the remark in tolerable German.

The man understood her this time and broke into voluble talk, half German, half Dutch—the driver of the car had slumped across the wheel of his car with no warning, he explained, luckily he was at a standstill—no one had noticed at first, not until he had made no move when the barrier was raised for the cars to start going on board the ferry.

Charity nodded as she undid the man’s collar and tie and took his pulse. It wasn’t too bad, a little rapid, perhaps, and he was very pale. A faint, probably—it was a warm day in late June and even though there was a wind blowing from the sea, it was hot sitting in a car in the sunshine. She leaned across him, tilted his chair back and slipped a cushion behind his head. It wasn’t a heart attack, she was sure, nor did he look desperately ill; all the same she asked: “A doctor? There may be one in one of the cars.”

The policeman nodded and spoke to someone in the group; he moved away at a rapid trot and Charity asked a little diffidently: “Could you get rid of this crowd?”

They melted away at the policeman’s order and she bent over the man again. His pulse had improved, she was counting it when the door on the opposite side of the car was opened and she looked up to encounter the gaze of a very large man whose grey eyes, after the briefest of glances, dropped to the unconscious man between them.

“You’re a doctor?” asked Charity, speaking in her stiff, correct German and giving him no time to reply. “His pulse is better and quite strong—his pupils are all right too, though he has a squint…”

“It will be better if we speak English,” said the man, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He was opening his bag as he spoke. “You have a very marked English accent, you know.”

She would have liked to have made some telling reply to this piece of rudeness; her German was good enough not to have merited it, but she was forced to remain silent because he was using his stethoscope and by the time he had finished examining his patient, the man was showing signs of returning consciousness and presently opened his eyes.

It was apparent when he spoke that he was an American; it was also apparent that he had no idea why he had fainted. In answer to the doctor’s few inquiries he admitted to a tingling sensation in his hands. “I felt kinda jerky,” he explained. “I guess I’ve been overdoing it a bit.”

To the doctor’s suggestion that he should spend the rest of the day at an hotel, have a good night’s sleep and continue his journey on the following day, he agreed without enthusiasm, although when the doctor went away to make arrangements to have the car moved and a taxi fetched he raised no objection. His colour was normal again, indeed, he seemed perfectly well again—it must have been the heat, thought Charity, and wondered uneasily about the squint, because the man wasn’t squinting any more.

“I’m grateful to you, little lady,” he said gallantly, and Charity, a nicely curved five feet ten inches in her stockings, suppressed a giggle. “My name is Arthur C. Boekerchek, from Pennsylvania, USA, I’m at The Hague, attached to the Trades Mission.” He gave her a hard stare. “And what’s your name, ma’am?”

“Charity Dawson, from England, and if you’re sure you’re quite all right, I’ll be getting back to our car.” She put out a hand. “I hope you’ll be quite fit after a rest, Mr Boek—Boekerchek. Goodbye.”

He shook her hand. “You a nurse?” he wanted to know, and when she nodded: “Which hospital?” She told him, said goodbye for a second time and turned on her heel.

Charity couldn’t see the doctor anywhere as she went through the crush of cars and transports. She admitted to herself that she would have liked to have seen him again, if only to tell him that his manners were bad. She wondered which country he came from; his English was faultless, but he wasn’t an Englishman. She had almost reached her father’s car when she caught sight of him, strolling ahead of her to the back of the queue. Six feet and several inches besides, she guessed, and with the shoulders of an ox. Not so very young either, with that grizzled hair, but very good-looking. His laconic manner had irritated her, and she frowned, remembering it, as her father said: “Well, what on earth was it all about, Cherry?”

She got into the car and explained why she had been so long, making rather less of the doctor than she need have done, so that her mother asked: “Wasn’t he a nice man, dear?” and Lucy wanted to know: “And what was he like?”

Charity bit her lip. “I only said about two words to him, Mother, so I couldn’t possibly know if he’s nice—and I didn’t notice what he was like.” Which wasn’t true.

She saw him again—when they drove off the ferry at last, on the south side of the river and started up the road towards Sluis and Belgium. He passed them, driving a white Lamborghini Espada. He was travelling fast too. Charity pondered the fact that such a placid man as he had appeared to be and not young any more either should own such a powerful car and drive it, moreover, with all the nerve of someone half his age. She kept her surprised thoughts to herself, however, even when her father made some derogatory remark concerning the youth of today driving flash cars they probably couldn’t afford.

“They’re very expensive,” pointed out the Colonel. “Probably some pop singer,” he added disgustedly, and Charity, her head bent over the map, wondered what the doctor would have said to that. It was a great pity that she would never know.

She still had a few days of her holiday left; driving down to Budleigh Salterton beside a calmed and rested parent, she was thankful for them. She hadn’t really wanted to go to Bremen; she would have preferred to have stayed at home, pottering in the garden and taking the dogs for long walks on the common, but somehow she had found herself agreeing to accompany her parents and sister, mainly because she knew that her calm common sense could cool her father’s little rages when her mother or Lucy aggravated them.

He was getting elderly, she thought lovingly, glancing sideways at him as they drove westwards; small things annoyed him, and Lucy, younger by five years than herself, had a gentle nature whose acceptance of his contrariness merely irritated him still further. Her mother, of course, was perfectly able to manage him, but she was recovering from a bout of ill-health and hadn’t yet regained her usual fire and spirit. He was a devoted husband and a kind and indulgent father; his irascible nature had never bothered her—it didn’t bother her brother George, either, although now that he was away from home, he seldom encountered it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her father’s enquiry as to where they should stop for lunch and her mother’s “Somewhere quiet, dear,” and Lucy’s “We’ve just passed such a nice hotel,” were neither of them much use. She said peaceably before he could speak: “How about that place in Petersfield? It’s right on the square and easy to park the car.” Even as she made this sensible suggestion she was wondering with one tiny corner of her mind where the doctor was now. She moved restlessly in her seat; it was strange how he had remained in her thoughts. She told herself with her usual sense that it was probably because he had annoyed her and had been so very good-looking.

They arrived home in the early evening and the next few hours were taken up with fetching Nell and Bliss, the two English setters, from the kennels, unpacking and helping her mother to get a meal. It was nice to be home again, back in the unpretentious Edwardian house perched up on the hill behind the little town, with its large garden and only a glimpse between the trees of the neighbouring houses. Charity had been born there and been brought up—with suitable intervals at boarding school—in its peace and comfort. She knew, now that she was older, that there wasn’t a great deal of money, but looking back, she couldn’t remember feeling anything but secure and well cared for, and although the house was a little bit shabby now, it still provided the same comfort.

She went up to her room, and instead of unpacking, hung out of the window which overlooked the side of the house where her father grew his roses; they were in full bloom now and their scent filled the evening air. For some reason which she couldn’t guess at, she sighed, unpacked and went downstairs again to undertake the task of setting the supper table so that Lucy, who was more or less engaged to the doctor’s son down the lane, could pay him a quick visit.

The remaining days of Charity’s holiday went far too quickly, taken up as they were with the pleasurable occupation of discussing Lucy’s still distant wedding, taking her mother to Exeter to shop, exercising the dogs and helping her father sort through the mass of papers he had spent years in collecting, with an eye to writing a book on military strategy during the last war. She thought, privately, that the book might never be written, but her father so much enjoyed his hours of research that she took care not to voice her doubts; besides, it gave him something to do when the weather interfered with his gardening.

She left early in the morning, in the MG which had been a present from her godmother on her twenty-first birthday and her most treasured possession, for it was a means of getting home for a weekend at least once a month as well as for her holidays. She was a good driver and a fast one, so once over the winding road which crossed Woodbury Common she joined the main road and put her foot down. She was on duty the next morning, and she wanted an hour or two to settle in once more before she went on the ward. Her brain was already busy with the work ahead of her; there would be two new student nurses to absorb into the staff of the Men’s Surgical ward she had been running for two years now; her staff nurse would need—and deserve—a long weekend off; there was that little tussle with Matron before her, concerning the new ward curtains—and there was Clive Barton, the Surgical Registrar, who had shown signs of becoming serious about her, and for some reason she couldn’t quite understand, she didn’t want to encourage him. Which was silly really, for she liked him very much, perhaps she was a little fond of him even and might get fonder, but she hesitated to commit herself.

She whizzed past a couple of slow-moving transports, wondering why it was that Lucy, quiet and retiring and shy, who had little or no opportunity of meeting any men, should have known the moment she had set eyes upon David that she wanted to marry him.

Charity’s dark winged eyebrows drew together in a frown. Perhaps she was never going to meet a man who would make her feel like that—willing to hand over her whole life without question. She slowed down to go through Axminster, to get caught up in the early morning traffic filtering its way through the narrow, curling main street. She glanced at her watch; she was doing nicely, she would stop for lunch just before she got on to the M3 and then press on, for London would take a bit of getting through even outside the rush hour.

She reached St Simon’s Hospital in time to join her friends in the Sisters’ sitting-room for an early tea. They hailed her with pleasure and a spate of questions about her holiday, brought her up to date with the hospital news and settled down to drink their tea and eat as much bread and butter and jam as time allowed.

“Did anything exciting happen, Charity?” Nancy Benson wanted to know as she got up to fill her cup.

Charity sat down on the arm of the chair. “No—at least, not exciting, exactly; a man fainted while we were waiting to cross one of the ferries—an American, Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek…” There was a shriek of laughter. “Yes, I know it’s a gorgeous name, isn’t it—I couldn’t believe my ears.”

“I suppose you did your Florence Nightingale act?” a small girl remarked, “or was there a doctor around?”

Charity, a little belatedly, discovered that she didn’t want to tell anyone about the doctor. She said briskly: “Oh, yes—someone or other came along, and the American was taken to a hotel to rest. It wasn’t in the least exciting. Tell me, how is our Alice doing with Mr Wright?”

“Our Alice” was Accident Room Sister, a quiet retiring girl in her early thirties. Her younger colleagues had despaired of her seeming content to remain single, and when Mr Wright, the assistant radiologist, equally quiet and retiring, had shown interest in her, they had combined in a conspiracy to bring them together as often as possible. Her inquiry was met with a triumphant cry of: “They’re engaged—isn’t it marvellous? After all our hard work and patience.”

“I wonder who’ll be next?” asked Nancy, and looked at Charity, who said instantly and strongly: “Don’t look at me—I’ve no one in mind,” which wasn’t quite true, but how could one be serious about a man one had glimpsed for the briefest moment of time and would never see again?

They dispersed very soon after that, most of them to go back on to their wards, the lucky ones off duty to change for an evening out, and Charity to her room to unpack and get ready for the morning.

She had only been away a fortnight, but there were a number of new patients, although old Mr Grey, who had been in the ward for some time, was still there, as were Mr Timms and Charlie Green. During her absence, she noticed, they had contrived to get moved into the four-bedded, partitioned area at the top of the ward where doubtless they were continuing their cosy little card parties whenever it was possible to get someone to push their beds together. There was a fourth man there, and she passed from her patients’ glad cries of welcome to his bed—a small, cherubic-faced elderly man, recovering from a not too serious operation, and, as Charlie was quick to tell her, a tip-top rummy player. She smiled at them in a motherly fashion, begged them to be good boys and went on down the ward.

The patients here were all new, so she began the task of getting to know them—twenty-odd men who had been admitted during her fortnight’s absence—supported after a while by her staff nurse, Lacey Bell, who presently, at Charity’s invitation, followed her into her office, where they drank their coffee together while Lacey added a few details about the patients—details best left unsaid in the ward. She was a good nurse, thought Charity, listening to her astute summing-up of the cases, and one day she would make a good Sister—perhaps she already had aspirations to step into her own shoes. Charity was very well aware that the hospital expected her to marry Clive Barton.

She gathered her scattered thoughts together and said cheerfully: “Thanks, Lacey, you’ve done a good job while I’ve been away.” She smiled at the girl opposite her. “How about a weekend off? I’m sure you’ve some overtime to work off.”

Her staff nurse looked pleased. “Lovely, thank you, Sister, if you’re sure it’s OK.” She got up. “I’ll just go and make sure the ward’s straight, shall I?”

Charity nodded. “Do—I’ll flip through these notes, and mind you’re at hand during Mr Howard’s round, I may need a reminder.”

She had never needed a reminder yet, thought Lacey as she swung down the ward once more. Sister Dawson might be one of the most eye-catching girls at St Simon’s, she was also one of the brainiest; she had never been known to forget anything; she learned new techniques within minutes and she had been the Gold Medallist of her year—a sufficiency of talents to swell her pretty head, and yet they hadn’t; she never mentioned her medal, nor for that matter had she ever been heard to tell anyone that she had the Advanced Driver’s Certificate, could speak fluent French and passable German, even if with a strong English accent; that she swam like a fish and played a first-class game of tennis, and had received more proposals of marriage than any other female in the hospital.

She deserved better than Clive Barton, mused her faithful staff nurse, plumping up pillows and straightening counterpanes while she kept a stern eye on the student nurses. Clive was all right, but Charity Dawson needed someone even cleverer than she was and with a brain just that much quicker; someone to be the boss, however gently he did it. Lacey, reviewing the eligible males to hand, couldn’t discover one who might do. It vexed her so that she spoke rather more sharply than she had intended to Mr Grey, and then had to tell him she hadn’t meant a word of it.

Charity, left alone, started on the notes, she read them fast and carefully and when she was half way through them, got up to peer at herself in the small mirror behind her desk. She was by no means vain, but no ward Sister would wish to do a round with one of the consultant surgeons, with her pleated muslin cap at an incorrect angle; she adjusted her headgear minutely, wrinkled her nose at her reflection, and sat down again. She was studying the last of the notes when Clive Barton came in.

Charity raised her green eyes for a moment and smiled. “Hi,” she said briefly, “I shan’t be a tick—there’s some cool coffee on the tray and a mug behind you.”

She bent her head again while her companion did as she had suggested and then took the chair opposite her. He was a middle-sized young man, with a pleasant face and pale hair already receding a little. He looked to be a mild man too, but Charity knew that there was a good deal of determination behind his placid features. Clive wanted to get to the top—to become a consultant—he had been a registrar for several years now and was liked and respected by the consultants he worked for. Sooner or later one of them would retire, and he, if he was lucky, would have a chance of stepping into his shoes. He sat quietly now, admiring Charity; he was almost in love with her, he certainly liked her enormously and she would make him a splendid wife. Besides, she was known to all the consultants and a great many of the local GP’s and they liked her, a fact which would be of considerable help to him. She was certainly a good-looker, although he had sometimes wished that she weren’t so clever. Not that she ever paraded the fact; there was no need, it was so obvious, and he had never quite liked her hair, it was so vivid, and somehow the simple knot she wore above her slender neck made it all the more so. A vague longing to change her into someone smaller and meeker and less spectacular entered his head, to be instantly dismissed as treason; Charity was a darling girl; he made the thought positive by asking: “How about coming out this evening? I’m sick of canteen food.”

She slapped the notes tidily together and smiled across the desk at him. “I’d love to—how I loathe coming back—it seems worse than usual.”

“Meet anyone interesting?” he asked her idly, and because she sensed that he didn’t really want to know, she was able to say composedly: “Father’s friends.” Her ear had caught the sound of feet. “Here’s Mr Howard.”

The round went off well; Mr Howard was in good spirits, which meant, naturally enough, that those who accompanied him were in good spirits too, even though they were forced to listen to his often-told jokes, but better that than the sharp questions he fired at them; medical students who so often regrettably gave the wrong answers.