“I doubt if I shall ever be sure of myself as far as you’re concerned,” Alexander remarked quietly.

“And serenity is the last feeling I have when I’m with you. Rather, you stir me up…but of this I am sure, I am completely happy.”

Victoria drew a breath. “So am I.” She spoke simply; the words had tumbled out without her even thinking about them.

He pulled her close. “Oh, my dear Victoria, my dear delight,” he said softly, and kissed her and kissed her again. They were still alone and there was all the time in the world. He let her go just a little. “I want you to come to Holland, Vicky, and meet my parents. I should like to take you back tonight, but that’s impossible, isn’t it? Will you go to Matron and resign this evening? Tomorrow morning I suppose it will be. When you leave I’ll come and fetch you and take you home, your future home in Holland.”

“But,” said Victoria, “I can’t. I don’t have a job…”

“You won’t need one, darling. You’ll be my wife.”

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. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Victory for Victoria
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

IT was going to rain very shortly; the grey woolly clouds, blown into an untidy heap by the wind, were tearing across the sky, half hiding the distant island of Sark and turning the water to a reflected darkness. Miss Victoria Parsons, making her brisk way along the cliff path from St Peter Port to Fermain Bay, paused to watch them, sighing with content and pleasure as she did so, for it was the first day of her holiday and she was free to tramp where she wished, uncaring of wind and rain, uncaring too of her appearance, a fact amply demonstrated by her attire; a guernsey, quite two sizes too large for her, which gave her slim curves a deceiving bulkiness, and a pair of slacks, well fitting but decidedly worn, but after several months of nurse’s uniform they were a delight to wear besides, there was no one to see her on this windy March afternoon. She stood, sniffing the air and calculating how long it would be before the clouds reached Guernsey and the rain started. Ten minutes, she thought, perhaps a little less, and she was barely halfway. She had passed the new houses built overlooking the sea, there was nothing now until she reached Fermain Bay, only the narrow up and down, roundabout path between the trees, halfway between the cliff top and the sea below. She went a little nearer the edge of the cliff now and stared down at the rocks below and a gust of wind tore at her hair, loosening the pins, so that she took the remainder out and let the coppery mass tangle in the wind.

A drop of rain fell on to her face as she turned back on to the path once more and she remembered, just in time, the old disused powder magazine cut into the cliff, not so very far away. She could shelter there; the rain was coming down in earnest now and while her guernsey kept her dry, her hair was already hanging wetly around her shoulders and the rain pouring down her face, and by the time she reached the magazine she was drenched and a little breathless from hurrying.

The magazine was built of granite and had lost its door long ago, but its four walls were solid, as was its roof. She squelched inside; here at least it was dry—the rain wouldn’t last long and there was time enough before she need be home again. It was dim inside and quite warm, she turned her back on the interior to peer out at the sky, squeezing the wet from her sopping hair as she did so; it might be an idea to take off her guernsey and give it a good shake— She was on the point of pulling it over her head when a voice from the furthest corner of the magazine said mildly: ‘Er—if you would wait one moment…’

Victoria spun round, indignation at being frightened out of her wits eclipsing her fear. She snapped: ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

‘Why, as to who I am, I imagine that’s hardly relevant to the occasion, and I’m doing exactly the same as you—sheltering from the weather.’

The owner of the voice had advanced towards her as he spoke—a tall man, wide in the shoulder, with dark hair and blue eyes and the kind of good looks which on any other occasion would have caused her to wish to know him better. But not now; she said crossly: ‘You could have said something…’

‘My dear good woman, I was sitting in the furthest corner of this—er—building with my eyes closed.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘Having a nice rest,’ he added. ‘You disturbed it.’ And while she was still searching indignantly for a rejoinder to this candid remark, he went on: ‘You’re very wet. Here, have my handkerchief and at least wipe your face.’

His look implied that her appearance was so awful that drying her face wouldn’t be of much use anyway. She took the handkerchief he was holding out to her, dried her face and began on her hair; it was a pity that her usually ready tongue was incapable of fashioning any of the biting remarks jostling each other so hopelessly inside her pretty head. She seethed quietly, handed the handkerchief back with a muttered thank you and retreated against a wall.

‘Now don’t do that,’ said her companion in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Come here and I’ll dry as much of your hair as I can.’ And when she hesitated, ‘Don’t be a fool, girl,’ he added in a lazily amused voice which sent the blood to her cheeks. It would be silly to refuse and anyway she liked his face—his mouth was firm and kind and his eyes steady. She advanced with dignity and turned her back at his bidding while he began to rub her hair with the damp handkerchief.

‘Untamed,’ he remarked, ‘your hair, I mean. Don’t you find it a nuisance?’

Really, thought Victoria, what a man he was! Could he say nothing pleasant? He had done nothing but find fault with her, and now her hair… Her beautiful tawny eyes flashed, she said with deceptive sweetness: ‘No, not in the least—I like it like this,’ and heard him laugh softly.

‘Ah,’ he commented in the same mild voice with which he had first spoken, ‘one of those young women who are above fashion and suchlike nonsense. There, that is the best I can do, and the rain has stopped.’ He stuffed the sopping handkerchief into his pocket. ‘Shall we go? You’re on your way back to St Peter Port, I suppose?’

Victoria gave him a considered glance. She could of course go on to Fermain Bay as she had planned to do, but on the other hand, although he had vexed her quite unnecessarily and frightened her out of her life, she felt a strong urge to find out a little more about her companion. When, after a moment, he said: ‘You’re quite safe, you know,’ any doubts about the advisability of joining him on the return walk were instantly swamped by indignation, and as if that wasn’t enough he added: ‘It’s rather a lonely walk for a girl on her own, isn’t it?’

Victoria looked down her nicely shaped nose. ‘I’m twenty-three,’ she informed him in a voice which, though controlled, throbbed with anger.

‘That isn’t quite what I meant.’ He spoke carelessly as he turned away from her. ‘The path will be abominably muddy. Shall I go first?’

She walked behind him, answering his occasional remarks with a politeness which admitted of no wish to be friendly on her part. Not that this seemed to worry him; his own friendliness was quite unforced and he made no attempt to find out anything about her, and Victoria, who was used to men looking at her at least twice and certainly wanting to know something about her, felt let down. She wasn’t a conceited girl, but she was a remarkably pretty one and she would have been a fool not to know it. It irked her now that she had made no impression on this man; he had even implied that she had no idea how to dress. She eyed his broad back resentfully; it was a pity that she was unlikely to meet him again when she was dressed with her usual careful eye to fashion.

‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

He didn’t slow his pace but said over one shoulder, ‘No,’ and nothing more. She was right, her chance of seeing him again was negligible. For some reason she felt sorry, then she told herself that it was because she had taken a dislike to him and it would have given her great satisfaction to have met him again, herself becomingly dressed, and put him in his place. She began reviewing her wardrobe, deciding what she would wear for that occasion, and then grinned ruefully to herself because of course they wouldn’t meet again. He was probably an early visitor to the island; there was nothing about his clothes to suggest otherwise—a guernsey, just like her own—but a great many visitors bought them as a matter of course—and bedford cord slacks which had seen better days. She longed to ask where he came from; she had detected a faint accent when he spoke. Before she could stop herself, she asked: ‘You’re not English, are you?’ and exactly as before, got a ‘No’ over one shoulder. After that she didn’t speak again, not until they were past St George’s Fort and the town was in full view, not ten minutes’ walk away. He stopped then and asked, ‘Which way do you go?’

She answered briefly, ‘Havelet,’ not caring if he knew where that was or not. Apparently he did, for he said: ‘I’m going to the harbour. Would you like me to walk up with you first?’

She forbore to tell him that, born and bred on the island, she knew every yard of it, and as for St Peter Port, she could walk blindfold through its length and breadth and know exactly where she was. Her reply was a sedate refusal. She thought, she added pleasantly, that she could find her way. His, ‘Oh, good,’ was disconcertingly casual.

They parted at the end of the cliff path, she to turn up the narrow hill away from the sea, he presumably to walk along the sea front to the harbour. The Jersey boat was in, so possibly he was going to board her—a great many people came over for the day, although he didn’t look like a day tripper, for despite his clothes he had an air of assurance, almost arrogance. Victoria frowned as she wished him a coolly polite goodbye, and was left gaping at his parting words.

‘You’d be quite a pretty girl if you smiled more often,’ he pronounced—and he didn’t say goodbye either. She crossed the road and then turned to watch him walk away without a backward glance.

Her parents lived almost at the top of Havelet, in a pleasant elderly house tucked away from the road. It had a glorious view of the harbour and the sea beyond, and a garden which, although not large, was a riot of colour for most of the year. Victoria climbed the steep, narrow road without effort, went through the gate—just wide enough to take the car—and into the house through its open front door.

‘If that’s you, Victoria, shut the door, will you, darling?’ called her mother from somewhere upstairs. ‘Did you have a nice walk?’ her parent continued as she began a descent of the staircase. Victoria shut the door and turned to meet her mother. Mrs Parsons was a large woman, still very handsome and despite her size, surprisingly youthful in appearance. She had a commanding presence and a voice which, while not loud, was so clear that no one ever failed to hear it. She paused on the stairs now and peered down at her daughter.

‘Victoria, my dear child, did you really go out looking like that?’

‘No,’ said Victoria reasonably, ‘I was dry then, Mother. I got caught in that downpour.’ She advanced to plant an affectionate kiss on her mother’s cheek, reaching up to do so because Mrs Parsons was five feet eleven inches tall and Victoria, the eldest of her four daughters, was only five feet six. Her mother returned the salute with warmth.

‘Well, I’m sure you enjoyed yourself, child. I must say you need the fresh air after London—why you have to work there…’ she sighed. ‘Your father could speak to—’

‘Yes, Mother dear,’ interposed Victoria hastily, ‘but I do like nursing, you know, and when the Old Crow retires next year, I’m hoping to get the ward.’

Her mother fingered the sleeve of her guernsey. ‘You’re wet,’ she said rather absently, and then: ‘Don’t you want to marry and settle down, Vicky dear?’

‘Only when I meet the right man, Mother.’ She had a peculiarly vivid memory of the man in the powder magazine as she spoke and dismissed it as nonsensical.

‘But they fall over each other…’

Her daughter smiled. ‘I bet they fell over each other for you before you met Father.’

Mrs Parsons’s composed features broke into a smile. ‘Yes, they did. Your father will be home in a minute, so you’d better go and change, Vicky—your sisters are upstairs already. They take so long to dress, try and hurry them up, dear.’

Victoria said, ‘Yes, Mother,’ and went up the stairs to a half landing which had a door on either side of it; she passed these, however, and went through the archway at the back of the landing and up half a dozen more stairs leading to a corridor running at right angles to them.

There was a good deal of noise here; her youngest sister, Stephanie, sixteen years old and already bidding fair to out-shine them all with her beauty, was hammering on the bathroom door with a good deal of strength.

‘Come out, Louise,’ she shouted. ‘You’ve been in there ages, you’re mean…’ She broke off as she saw Victoria. ‘Vicky darling,’ she begged, ‘get her out, I’ll never be ready…’

Victoria approached the door and knocked gently. ‘Louise?’ she called persuasively, ‘do come and see my dress and tell me what you think of it.’

The door was flung open and her sister sailed out. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but let it be now, this minute, so that I’m not interrupted while I’m doing my face. Where’s Amabel?’

‘Here.’ Amabel was two years younger than Victoria and the quietest of the four. The two of them followed Victoria to her room and fell on to her bed while she took the dress from her cupboard and held it up for their inspection. It was a midi dress of leaf green crêpe with a demure collar like a pie-frill above a minute bodice and a very full skirt. It was admired and carefully examined and Louise said, ‘You’ll put us all in the shade, Vicky.’

Victoria shook her head. She was a very pretty girl, but her three sisters took after their mother; they were tall—even Stephanie was five feet ten and she hadn’t stopped growing—and magnificently built with glowing blonde hair and blue eyes. Their faces were beautiful. Victoria, putting the dress away again, looked at them and wondered how it was that she, the eldest, should have copper hair and tiger’s eyes and be of only a moderate height; she was slim too and although she had a lovely face it couldn’t match the beauty of the other three girls. She grinned at them suddenly. ‘Me for the next bath—I’ll be ten minutes,’ and started for the bathroom, shedding the guernsey as she went.

They collected in her room as they were ready, squabbling mildly and criticising each other’s dresses as she sat at the dressing table putting up her hair. She had combed it back from her forehead and arranged it in three thick loops on her neck and it had taken a long time, but the result, she considered, staring at her reflection in the mirror, had been worth the effort. Rather different from her hair-style of that afternoon—it was a pity… She dismissed the thought and said briskly: ‘If we’re ready we’d better go down.’ She eyed her sisters with loving admiration. ‘I must say you all look smashing, my dears.’ And they did, with their fair hair combed smoothly over their magnificent shoulders and their gay dresses. As usual, they would create a small sensation when they entered the restaurant presently. She smiled proudly at them, for they were such splendid creatures and the dearest sisters.

Their parents were waiting for them downstairs. Victoria’s mother, splendid in a violet crêpe dress which was the exact foil to her grey, simply-dressed hair, was sitting by the small fire in the sitting room, and her father was standing at the window, looking out on to the harbour, but he turned round as they went in and crowded around him, for they hadn’t seen him since early that morning. He saluted them each in turn with a fatherly kiss and being just a little taller than they were, he was able to look down upon them with benign affection. He said now:

‘You all look very nice, I must say. Shall we walk or do you want the car?

A routine question which was merely a concession to their finery, for the hotel was only a few minutes’ walk away, but it was asked each time they dined there, and that was frequently, to mark each of their birthdays as well as the first evening of Victoria’s holidays. They chorused a happy ‘no, thank you’, picked up their various coats and wraps and left the house in a cheerful chattering group with Mr and Mrs Parsons leading the way.

The restaurant was full, but they had a table in one of the windows overlooking the harbour. Mrs Parsons, sweeping regally through the doors, acknowledged the head waiter’s bow with a gracious smile and sailed in his wake, seemingly oblivious of the four eye-catching girls behind her, and they, by now used to being stared at and not in the least disconcerted by it, followed her; Stephanie first, then Amabel, Louise and lastly Victoria, quite dwarfed by her sisters and her father behind her.

They sat down, with Victoria on her father’s left with her back to the semi-circular room, and her parents facing each other at each end of the table. They had finished their soup and were awaiting their crabmeat patties when Stephanie, sitting opposite Victoria, remarked:

‘There’s a man across the room—I’ve never seen him before.’ A remark sufficient to awaken interest in the two younger Miss Parsons, for they knew most of the young men on the island and they had deduced, quite rightly, that the man was good-looking and tolerably young—otherwise she wouldn’t have noticed him.

It was Louise, sitting next to Victoria, who asked: ‘How old? Is he nice-looking? Dark or fair?’ Before her sister could reply her mother interposed.

‘Louise, you should know better, encouraging Stephanie like that! We don’t know him, I fancy, do we, dear?’ She raised her eyebrows at her husband, who laughed.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I can hardly inspect the man without embarrassment on both our parts, but if you’ve never seen him before, then I’m fairly sure that I haven’t either.’

Victoria speared her last morsel of patty. ‘All the same, I’m dying of curiosity and I can’t turn round, can I?’ She looked enquiringly at her mother, who smiled a little and said, ‘Oh, very well, but he’s with a very pretty young woman, so it really is a waste of Stephanie’s time.’

Stephanie ignored the young woman. ‘He’s very large and he’s got dark hair and one of those high foreheads—he doesn’t laugh very much, but he looks swoony when he smiles. He’s got one of those straight noses, just a little too big for his face, if you know what I mean—he turns me on.’

This vivid description met with her sister’s interested approval, but her mother said briskly before any of them could speak:

‘That is a vulgar expression which I dislike, Stephanie, you will be good enough to remember that.’

‘Amabel says it,’ muttered her youngest born rebelliously.

‘Amabel is twenty-one,’ said her mother sweepingly as she helped herself to poached salmon, and Stephanie made a mutinous face so that Victoria said swiftly, before the mutiny should become an open one:

‘I thought of going down to Castle Cornet tomorrow to see Uncle Gardener’—the curator and an old family friend, and such a ferocious horticulturist that they had called him by that name all their lives. ‘Anyone want to come with me?’

A cheerful babble of argument broke out as she had known it would. Her holiday this time was a short one, and her family, anxious that she shouldn’t waste a precious minute of it, were full of suggestions.

‘It’ll have to be in the afternoon, then,’ said Amabel. ‘Remember we’re going to the market in the morning and you’ve got some shopping to do—if you don’t do it straight away you’re sure to forget it and go back with only half the things you want.’

‘There’s a dress in the Jaguar shop,’ began Louise. They settled down to a happy discussion as to what Vicky should do with her days and the stranger across the restaurant was forgotten—or almost. Only Stephanie glanced across at him once or twice and Victoria, eating her ice pudding with a healthy appetite, wondered if he could possibly be the man she had met that afternoon. It seemed so unlikely that she dismissed the idea from her mind and bent it instead to the conversation going on around her.

They lingered over the cheese board and the coffee; it was only when Mr Parsons suggested that they should go to the bar below the restaurant for a drink before they returned home that the family made a move. They left as they had entered, Mrs Parsons in the lead, her daughters following and Mr Parsons ambling along behind them, and this time the girls contrived to get a good look at the man Stephanie had described. Victoria, waiting for the others to file out ahead of her, had the best chance of all of them to study him. It was the man of the afternoon, this time elegantly dressed and, as her mother had remarked, in the company of a very pretty woman. He was smiling across the table at her and as she lifted her hand for a brief moment Victoria, who had excellent sight, clearly saw the rings on her left hand. His fiancée, his wife even. She felt a sudden surprising sensation of loss and after that one look followed Louise through the restaurant, aware as she went that he had seen her.

She spent the next morning shopping with her sisters, stocking up on soap and lipsticks and face powder because they were all so much cheaper in Guernsey. They were clustered round the door of ‘La Parfumerie’ arguing where they should go for their coffee when Victoria saw him again, looking exactly as he had done when she had met him, and accompanied by a man of his own age, similarly attired. He was holding a very small boy by the hand too, which substantiated her guess about the pretty girl with the rings. She stared after him and Louise, looking up, caught her at it and said at once: ‘There he is again, that man Stephanie was so smitten with—and that was a waste of time, ducky, he’s trailing a kid.’

They all laughed, and if Victoria’s laughter sounded a little hollow, nobody noticed. They went, arm-in-arm, into the arcade, to Maison Carré for coffee and enormous cream puffs, which should have spoiled their appetites for lunch, but didn’t.

As it turned out, Victoria went alone to Castle Cornet, for it began to rain after lunch and none of the others liked the idea of getting wet doing something which they could so easily do on a fine day, but Vicky, they all agreed, should certainly go if she had a mind to. After all, it was her holiday, and she, who would have gone whatever her sisters had said, agreed pleasantly to be home in good time because they were all going to the theatre that evening. All parties being satisfied, she set off, sensibly dressed in slacks and a hooded anorak, down the hill and along the Esplanade, deserted now, and along Castle Pier to the castle. Uncle Gardener would be on the battlements, brooding over his spring flowers whatever the weather.

She entered by the visitors’ gateway and waved to the woman sitting idly in the little booth where summer visitors paid their fees, and walked on to the Outer Bailey and so eventually to the ramparts, where sure enough, Uncle Gardener was working. He was at the far end and Victoria made her way unhurriedly towards him, pausing to look down to the rocks below and then out to sea. There was a wind, but it was surprisingly light for the time of year and the sea had been beaten flat by the rain. All the same, it was hardly the weather to take a boat out, she thought, watching a yacht, its white-painted hull and brown sails showing up vividly against the greyness of the sea and sky, coming out of the harbour, running fast before the wind, going south towards Jerbourg Point. She could see the orange-coloured lifejackets of the two people aboard—two men, one at the tiller, the other…there was no reason to be so sure that it was the man she had met on the way to Fermain Bay, only—even at that distance—his size.

Victoria began to run along the path beside the battlements until she reached Uncle Gardener, who looked up and smiled. ‘Uncle,’ she wasted no time in greeting him, ‘have you got your binoculars with you?’ and when he handed them to her without speaking, turned and raced back along the ramparts. It was the same man, and his companion was the man she had seen him with that morning. There was no sign of anyone else on board, but they could be in the cabin, for it was a fair-sized boat—a Sea King—built for a family, although surely he wouldn’t take his family out on a day such as this one was? She watched it pass the castle and alter course out to sea—Jersey, perhaps? She walked slowly back to where the man she had come to visit waited. ‘And what’s all that about?’ he wanted to know.

He was elderly and short and rather stout and her father’s closest friend, and like him, was one of the Jurats of the island, perhaps the highest honour a citizen of Guernsey could aspire to. Victoria had known him all her life; when she had been a small girl and his wife had been alive, they had come frequently to her home, but now he was alone and although they saw him often, he seldom came to see them any more. Nevertheless, she knew that he was always delighted to see them. She looked at him with deep affection and said: ‘Oh, nothing. Just that yacht, it seems such a daft sort of day to sail.’

‘Well, as to that, it’s a matter of who’s sailing it, isn’t it? It seemed to me that the boat was being handled by someone who knew what he was about. Do you know him?’

Victoria perched herself on the end of the wheelbarrow. ‘No—yes, well, we met—just for a little while when I was out walking. I’ve no idea who he is.’ She shrugged her shoulders and added falsely, ‘And I don’t really care.’

Mr Givaude, alias Uncle Gardener, lifted a face which bore strong traces of his Norman ancestors and stared at her rain-wet face. He didn’t answer, only made a grunting sound and said: ‘How about tea? It’s early, but I’ve finished here. Come on up to the house.’

His home was tucked away to one side of the Prisoners’ Walk, and although it was still early, as Mr Givaude had observed, his housekeeper was waiting for them, ready to take Victoria’s wet anorak and then to bring in the tea-tray with the old silver teapot and the cherry cake she made so well. Victoria ate two generous slices while she told Uncle Gardener about hospital and how she hoped to get the ward within a year, and how beastly London was except when she went to the theatre or out to dinner, when it was the greatest possible fun.

‘Want to live there for ever?’ her companion asked.

‘No,’ she sounded positive about it.

‘Then you’d better hurry up and find yourself a husband. After all, you’re the eldest, you should have first pick.’

She grinned at him. ‘And what chance do I have when the others are around?’ she demanded. ‘They’re quite spectacular, you know. I only get noticed when I’m on my own.’

Her companion took a lump of sugar from the pot and scrunched it up.

‘Bah,’ he said roundly, ‘fiddlesticks, I’ll tell you something—I was out with your mother and father a little while ago and do you know what I heard someone say? They were talking about your sisters, and this person said: “Maybe they do make the rest of the girls here look pretty dim, but wait until you’ve seen the eldest of ’em—and the best, a real smasher.” What do you think of that?’

‘Codswallop,’ stated Victoria succinctly. ‘It must have been someone who had never seen me—and anyway, Uncle Gardener, I don’t care overmuch about being pretty.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘I want to be liked—loved because I’m me, not just because I’m pretty.’

Mr Givaude nodded in agreement. ‘Don’t worry, Vicky,’ he said, ‘you will be.’

She went soon afterwards, mindful that she had to be home in good time, and with the promise that she would return to say goodbye before she went back to London. The rain had stopped and the clouds were parting reluctantly to allow a watery sunshine to filter through, probably it would be a fine day tomorrow. She walked quickly home, wondering what she should do with it—they could take the Mini if their mother didn’t want it and go across the island to Rocquaine Bay; it was still early in the year, but on the western shores of the island it would be warm in the sheltered coves. She turned towards the town when she reached the end of the pier and instead of going along the Esplanade and up Havelet, turned off at the Town Church. At the corner, before she reached the shelter of the little town’s main street she took a backward look at the sea. It was empty; her half-formed idea that the yacht with the brown sails might have turned and sailed back into harbour died almost before she became aware of it. All the same, that evening, sitting in the theatre waiting for the curtain to go up, she looked around her, just in case the stranger might be there too.

They went to Rocquaine Bay the next morning with Victoria driving. She wasn’t a good driver, but she knew the island well, and most of the people on it; it wasn’t like driving on the mainland where there was no one to give her a hand if she reversed down the wrong street or met a bus head-on. It was a grand morning with a wind which was going to strengthen later in the day and a pale sky from which a surprisingly warm sun shone. Victoria stopped the car when they reached Pleinmont Point and they all piled out and walked along the cliff path, past the radio station to the edge of the cliffs to get a view of the lighthouse. The keen air made them hungry and they were glad enough to stop at Portelet and have coffee and buns, arguing briskly among themselves as to whether it was worth leaving the car and walking back along the cliff path for a mile or so. They decided against it at last, although Victoria promised herself that when next she came on holiday she would walk from her home and swim in Venus’s Pool and explore the Creux Mahie—a cave she hadn’t visited for several years. Louise teased her gently about it.

‘Honestly, Vicky,’ she declared, ‘there’s heaps of other things to do. Who wants to poke round an old cave, and the water in the pool is cold until summer. When will you be home again?’

Victoria thought. ‘Well, this is the last week of my holidays for this year—I start again in April. I think I’ll try and get a week in May.’

‘Don’t forget we’re all going to Scotland in September,’ Amabel reminded her. ‘That’ll be two weeks. You’re awfully lucky getting six weeks. Doctors aren’t so lucky.’

There was a sympathetic murmur from her sisters; Amabel and a newly qualified, overworked young doctor at the hospital had taken a fancy to each other. The affair was in its very early stages and the entire family were careful not to mention it unless Amabel brought the subject up.

‘They do better as they get more senior,’ said Victoria soothingly. ‘And once they’ve got a practice…’

Amabel brightened and her sisters smiled at each other; they quarreled fiercely among themselves on occasion, but their affection for each other was just as fierce, and Amabel had the sweetest nature of them all.

‘We’d better go,’ suggested Victoria, and the other three rose at once because she was the eldest and although she couldn’t match them in size she had always led them. It was when they were almost in St Peter Port again that Stephanie remembered that she had promised their mother to buy some fruit in the market, which naturally enough led Amabel to say that in that case she might as well pop into the arcade and see if they had got the belt she’d ordered.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Louise. She looked at Victoria, ‘You don’t mind, Vicky? We shall only be a minute or two.’

Victoria nodded and pulled into the side of the street, there wasn’t much traffic about and even fewer pedestrians. She switched off the engine and said: ‘Five minutes, and if you’re not back you can jolly well walk home!’

She watched them cross the road and turn off in the direction of the arcades and the market. Even in slacks and sweaters and at a distance, they looked striking. When they were out of sight she stared idly around her. Across the street was the man who had been so much in her thoughts. His face was grave and unsmiling, which should have stopped her smiling at him but didn’t. He crossed the street slowly, almost as if he were reluctant to speak to her, but when he reached the car he said politely enough: ‘Good morning. I hope you took no hurt from your wetting the other day?’

He still hadn’t smiled and she found herself wishing that he would.

‘No, thank you.’ She felt curiously shy and was furious with herself for being so and presently when he didn’t reply she added inanely: ‘You’re still here, then.’

The thick black brows were raised very slightly and he smiled suddenly and her heart lost its steady rhythm. She was still searching wildly for something interesting to talk about, something which would keep him there just a little longer, when someone whistled from across the street and he straightened up and looked over his shoulder and said: ‘Ah, I see I’m wanted,’ and added, ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’

His tone had been so formal that she thought it very unlikely; she watched him regain the opposite pavement and disappear, going up the hill, away from the sea-front, to join the little boy she had seen before, and this time the girl she had seen him with was there too. Victoria looked away. Oh, well, she thought, there must be a great many more men in the world like him, and knew it for cold comfort.

She didn’t see him again for several days, not, in fact, until she was getting out of her father’s car on the White Rock Pier, preparatory to boarding the boat back to Weymouth, on her way back to St Judd’s. He was standing so close to the car that it was impossible to avoid him. She said: ‘Oh, hullo,’ and looked quickly away in case he should think that she might want to talk to him. Which she did very much indeed, but there was no fear of that, for by the time the rest of the Parsons family had got out of the car, he had disappeared, and for a little while at least she forgot about him while she said her goodbyes and went on board. It was the night boat, and although the boat was by no means full her father had insisted that she should have a cabin to herself. She felt grateful for this as she settled herself for a short night’s sleep.

She would have breakfast on the train and get to London in time to go to dinner in the hospital if she wanted to. She hated going back; she always did, but she would be coming again in a couple of months. It was silly at her age to feel even faintly homesick. She switched her thoughts to St Judd’s and kept them there despite an alarming tendency to allow the man she had met and would doubtless never meet again to creep into her head. Besides, she reminded herself firmly, he was married, and she was old-fashioned enough to believe that was sufficient reason to forget him. The highminded thought was tinged with sadness as she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

It was almost light when they docked at Weymouth. Victoria got into the waiting train and went along to breakfast and schooled her thoughts so well that by the time her taxi drew up outside the hospital, she had almost succeeded in forgetting him—but not quite.

CHAPTER TWO

THE brisk, instant routine of St Judd’s was something Victoria almost welcomed, so that she could tell herself as frequently as possible that it was her life, the one she had chosen even though her parents had wanted her to stay at home, busying herself with voluntary work of some sort; indulging her talent for sketching while she waited for, and in due course married, some suitable man. She alone of their four daughters had rebelled against this pleasant tameness even while she suffered acute homesickness each time she returned to work. That she was more fortunate than many of her friends in hospital she freely admitted, for she didn’t need to depend upon her salary; her father was generous so that she could make the long journey to Guernsey whenever she could manage her holiday. All the same she prized her independence, although she knew in her heart that while nursing satisfied her need to do something with her life, she would leave it at a moment’s notice if she met a man she could love.

She went on duty the morning after her return, to find a ward whose inmates had changed very little during her week’s absence. Sister Crow welcomed her back with the mixture of fussy grumbling and gossip to which Victoria had become accustomed. The staff nurse who had replaced Victoria had been most unsatisfactory—she had overslept; she had insisted on having a free evening on the very day Sister Crow hadn’t wanted her to; she was, said Sister Crow crossly, far too modern.

Victoria, pouring out their morning coffee in Sister’s office, said gently: ‘Staff Nurse Morgan’s sweet with the patients, Sister, and so kind.’

Sister Crow bridled. ‘That’s as may be, Staff Nurse Parsons, but I for one am unable to understand the half of what she says—she is not good Ward Sister material.’

Victoria suppressed a strong desire to observe that perhaps Morgan didn’t want to be a Ward Sister anyway; she was pretty and gay, and Victoria happened to know that her life was both full and lively, which probably accounted for her kindness and understanding of the patients under her care. But to say that to the Old Crow was merely to annoy her further and would do no one any good at all. She contented herself by saying:

‘The patients liked her, Sister.’

Sister Crow stirred her coffee and remarked snappishly: ‘They like you too, Staff Nurse, and you are a far better nurse. Much as I regret retiring from this ward I am at least satisfied that you, if given the opportunity, will carry on in a way worthy of the training I have given you.’

To which highminded speech Victoria could think of nothing to say, although the thought, completely unbidden, that perhaps she didn’t want to be a Ward Sister after all did cross her mind, to be rejected as there was a knock on the door and Johnny Dawes, the medical houseman, came in followed by a tallish young man, good-looking and fair.

Johnny said politely: ‘Good morning, Sister Crow, here’s Doctor Blake, you met yesterday, didn’t you?’ He looked at Victoria. ‘But I don’t think that Staff and he have met yet?’ He had half turned his back on the Old Crow as he spoke and gave Victoria a wink, for when that lady wasn’t about he was apt to treat her staff nurse like one of his sisters—an attitude which Victoria found quite natural, but now, as Sister Crow was present, she replied formally: ‘Good morning, Doctor Dawes. No, we haven’t met.’

‘The new RMO,’ said Johnny, ‘Doctor Jeremy Blake— Staff Nurse Parsons.’

She offered a hand and said, How do you do? and gave the new member of the staff a frank, friendly look. He seemed at first glance rather nice and very good-looking, although his mouth was a little too full for her taste and his eyes too pale a blue. Probably, she thought goodhumouredly, he was weighing her up too and finding her not quite to his taste either. She got up and fetched two more cups; Sister Crow poured coffee and settled down to a ten-minute lecture on how to run a ward and, what was more important, how the members of the medical staff should behave on it. Victoria and Johnny had heard it all a great many times before, but Doctor Blake hadn’t; he listened with polite attention and drank his coffee and when she paused for breath, suggested that a ward round might be a good idea. He looked at Victoria as he spoke and added: ‘If you’re busy, Sister, I’m sure Staff Nurse…’

‘Staff Nurse has a great deal to do,’ interrupted Sister Crow. ‘I shall go with you myself, and you,’ she finished, addressing Johnny, ‘may come with me.’

That left Victoria to collect the coffee cups on to the tray, ready for Dora the ward maid, and then go along to the treatment room to make sure that the various injections had been drawn up correctly and then supervise their giving, before disappearing into the linen cupboard to check the clean linen, a task she loathed and considered a fearful waste of time. She preferred to be with the patients, but Sister Crow considered that the ward staff nurse should do all the duller administrative jobs. ‘And that’s something I’ll change,’ Victoria promised herself crossly as she counted sheets. But some of the crossness, although she wouldn’t admit it, was disappointment at not doing a round with the new doctor, even though, upon reflection, she wasn’t quite sure if she was going to like him.

She had a split duty that afternoon because the Old Crow wanted an evening. She hated splits; there was no time to do more than rush out for any necessary shopping, or if the weather was bad, sit for an hour or so in the sitting room, reading or writing letters. Splits weren’t actually allowed, but they were sometimes inevitable and she seemed to collect more than her fair share—another thing she would put right when she had a ward of her own. She sat in front of the electric fire, writing home; she told them all about the new doctor, and all the while she was writing another image, quite a different one from that of Doctor Blake, kept dancing before her eyes. It was a relief when two of her friends came to join her, full of questions as to what she thought of the new RMO and what she had done on her holiday, a topic which naturally enough led to the more interesting one of clothes. They were all deep in this vital conversation when Victoria looked at her watch and exclaimed:

‘Lord, look at the time—I’m on in half an hour! Come up to my room and I’ll make some tea—I brought a cake back with me.’

The three of them repaired up the bare, clean staircase to the floor above where her room was, and being healthy and young and perpetually hungry, they demolished the cake between them.

Doctor Blake came again that evening as Victoria was sitting in the office writing up the Kardex. She looked up with faint surprise and some impatience as he came in, because she had got a little behind with her work and she wouldn’t be ready for the night staff unless she kept at it. He must have seen the look, though, for he said reassuringly:

‘Don’t stop, I only came to read up some notes—it’s the ward round tomorrow, isn’t it, and I want to be quite sure of things.’

Victoria made a small sympathetic sound. ‘Of course—behind you on the shelf, they’re in alphabetical order,’ and bent her bright head over her writing. She had turned over perhaps three cards when she became aware that he was staring at her. She finished writing ‘Paracetamol’ because it was a word she had to concentrate upon to get the spelling right and looked up.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, ‘Do you want something, or is my cap crooked?’

He smiled, his eyes like colourless glass. ‘I can’t help staring,’ he said, ‘you’re so utterly lovely.’

She had been called lovely before by various young men; usually she accepted the compliment gracefully and without conceit, for it would have been foolish to pretend she wasn’t pretty when she so obviously was. She had learnt at an early age to take her good looks as a matter of course—nice to have, but not vital to her happiness. But now for some reason she felt embarrassed and annoyed as well. He was almost a stranger and she hadn’t liked the way he had said it; as though he had expected her to be pleased and flattered at his admiration. She said with a composure which quite hid her distaste:

‘Thank you. Perhaps you would like to take the notes away with you? I have quite a lot of work to do still, and I daresay you have too.’

The annoyance on his face was so fleeting that she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. It was replaced at once by a smile. ‘I’ve annoyed you, I’m sorry.’ He got up and put the notes away. ‘I’ll come back later if I may.’ His smile became apologetic. ‘Don’t hold it against me, will you?’

Victoria smiled too. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her judgement of him. ‘No, of course not. Goodnight.’

Sir Keith Plummer’s bi-weekly ward rounds were always a sore trial to Victoria, and she knew, the moment she set foot on the ward the next morning, that that day’s was to prove no exception to the rule. Not only had one of the diabetics thrown away a valuable specimen and been unable to produce another in the short time left to him before the great man appeared, but Mr Bates, that most docile of patients, had decided to feel sick, so that instead of lying neatly in his bed he was sitting up apprehensively over a basin, and to add to all these trials two sets of notes had disappeared into thin air. Victoria had sent two of the nurses to look for them and dared them to return without these vital papers. ‘Try Physio,’ she whispered urgently so that Sister Crow shouldn’t hear, ‘and OPD; the Appointments Office, X-ray, anywhere—and for mercy’s sake, be quick!’

They sidled in, a few yards ahead of Sir Keith and his retinue, and behind Sister Crow’s back, shook their heads and rolled their eyes heavenwards, then melted away into the sluice as the ward doors opened and Sir Keith walked in. Victoria, from her station by bed number one, watched a routine which she knew by heart. Sir Keith stopped short just inside the doors and Sister Crow, who had been lurking in wait for him, advanced to his side so that they could exchange civil greetings before forming the procession which would presently wend its way up one side of the ward and down the other. It was a pity, thought Victoria, that the Old Crow had been trained so long ago that she regarded all consultants as gods and had made no move to change her views and treat them like anyone else. Victoria watched her standing with her head reverently bowed, listening to Sir Keith’s pleasant voice rambling on, but the head came up with a jerk as the wretched student nurse Black, whose shoes squeaked, came out of the sluice, to retreat immediately under Sister Crow’s threatening gaze. The same gaze hovered over Mr Payne, who had bronchitis, and Mr Church, who had asthma, daring either of them to allow a cough to disturb the utter quiet of the ward, and both gentlemen, anxious to please, lay rigid, their slowly empurpling faces bearing testimony to this fact. When at last human nature could stand no more, they coughed in such good earnest that Victoria was forced to leave her position with the exalted group around the consultant and fly to their aid. She had only just succeeded in quieting them both when there was a fresh disturbance, this time at the ward doors, and obedient to the indignant jerk of Sister Crow’s head, Victoria sped silently down the ward. Some poor soul who had mistaken the visiting hours, she supposed, and saw at once how wrong she was. He looked different, of course, for he had exchanged his guernsey for a suit of clerical grey; her eyes took in its well-cut elegance and the exquisiteness of his tie as he advanced, with no sign of unease, to meet her.

She would have liked to have said hullo, but bearing in mind the Old Crow’s dislike of any sound at all during the round she merely raised a cautionary finger to her lips and then pointed to the doors—a gesture to which he appeared to take exception, for he said without any effort at all to lower his voice: ‘My dear girl, don’t you try and send me away. I’ve had the devil’s own job getting here in the first place.’

Victoria just stopped herself from wringing her hands. ‘It’s the round,’ she hissed. ‘Please wait outside, there’s a chair on the landing.’

‘Do I look as though I need to sit down?’ he enquired with interest.

She conquered a strong desire to giggle, shook her head and said coldly: ‘I must ask you to wait.’

He beamed at her. ‘But I will, dear girl, I’ll wait as long as you like.’ He went on; ‘You know, I liked you better with your hair down your back, even if you did look a bit of a fright.’ She was still struggling to think of a dignified but quelling reply to this piece of impertinence when Sir Keith’s voice, smooth and resonant, floated down the ward.

‘There you are, dear fellow. Come and join us—I was beginning to think that you had found it impossible to come after all.’

He bent to say something to Sister Crow and the ‘dear fellow’, with a friendly pat on Victoria’s outraged shoulder, advanced to the group of people by number six bed, and she, because it was expected of her, followed him, to take up her position just behind Sister, so that when that lady wanted notes or a tape measure or a tendon hammer to hand to Sir Keith, Victoria was there to supply them. Sir Keith put out a hand and said: ‘Alexander, this is delightful, it seems a long time—Sister Crow, let me introduce Doctor van Schuylen, on a visit to this country. He’s by way of being a specialist in chests.’ He looked round the circle of faces. ‘My RMO,’ he went on, ‘Doctor Blake, and my houseman, Doctor Dawes.’ His gaze passed over the physiotherapist, his secretary and Victoria and rested on his patient, the hapless Mr Bates, his basin removed pro tem and looking very uneasy without it.

Victoria, handing X-rays, Path Lab forms and a pin to tickle the soles of Mr Bates’ feet to see if he reacted in the proper manner, kept a wary eye on him; Sir Keith had most luckily finished with him and was about to move on to the next bed when Mr Bates went a little paler than he already was, so that she dropped her burden of forms and notes and made a beeline for the basin, but Doctor van Schuylen was ahead of her; he had it nicely in position under Mr Bates’ pallid chin even as she reached him; he did it with a calm and matter-of-fact air which took no account of Sister Crow’s horrified indrawn breath, waiting impassively until Nurse Black squeaked out of the sluice and took over, and only then did he relinquish the basin, giving that damsel—a small, plain girl known inevitably among her colleagues as Beauty—a smile of such charm that she smiled widely back at him.

He rejoined Sir Keith without a word, to be drawn instantly into a discussion on bronchiectiasis. Victoria listened to his deep, quiet voice, comparing it with Doctor Blake’s. That gentleman, intent no doubt on impressing his chief, was holding forth at some length, addressing most of his observations to the Dutchman, in a manner which Victoria considered unnecessarily patronising, although their recipient apparently did not, for he lolled against the end of the bed with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed steadfastly upon Doctor Blake’s face. It was only when that gentleman paused for breath that Sir Keith declared in a dry, gentle voice:

‘My dear Blake, all that you have said is most admirable, but I must point out to you that you are taking coals to Newcastle, for our good friend here happens to be the author of the various papers you have been quoting at him.’

Victoria was forced to admire the way Doctor Blake bottled up his rage; he even managed a laughing apology to Doctor van Schuylen, his pale eyes colourless with a dislike he almost, but not quite concealed. She shivered a little. He would be a bad enemy, she decided, studying his good looks, and then transferred her gaze to Doctor van Schuylen, still lolling, with a lazy, good-natured smile upon his face, just as though he was taking the other man’s apologies at face value. Surely he could see…? He turned to look at her and she realised that he certainly had seen; his eyes, in such a placid face, were very alert. She was so relieved that she smiled warmly at him and Sister Crow, catching her at it, gave an indignant snort and commanded: ‘Staff Nurse, be good enough to ask someone from the Path Lab to come here at once.’ She accompanied this command with a heavy frown. In her opinion, nurses—even staff nurses—did not smile at consultants, nor for that matter at any strange doctor who happened to turn up, especially the kind of smile Victoria had just given.

Victoria, aware of the Old Crow’s wrath, murmured: ‘Certainly, Sister,’ and went off down the ward and out of its door and into the office to telephone, something she did with dispatch and her usual competence, using only a small part of her brain to do so; the rest of it was deeply occupied by speculation upon Doctor van Schuylen’s sudden appearance, his probable departure and whether there was any likelihood of seeing more of him. She went back to the ward presently, the missing notes, which she had quite forgotten and which she had providentially discovered on Sister’s desk, under one arm. She added them tidily to their fellows and took up her station once more just behind Sister Crow without looking once at Doctor van Schuylen.

In fact, she studiously avoided his eye for the entire round—a fairly easy matter as it turned out, for Sister Crow saw to it that she was kept busy, and when the slow procession had at last wound its way out of the ward doors, Victoria, having made very certain that Dora had the right number of cups on the tray, was instructed to go back into the ward and make sure that the patients’ beds were tidied once more.

‘But have your coffee first, Staff Nurse,’ the Old Crow invited, and looked at the clock as she spoke so that Victoria would know that she had observed the time and would expect her back in ten minutes exactly.

Victoria, once in the main corridor, flew down it at a good speed; she seldom went to coffee break, for it was usual for the staff nurses to have coffee with Sisters on the ward, but on round days Sister Crow didn’t want her, and anyway, Victoria admitted fairly, the office didn’t accommodate more than four people in comfort and the Old Crow disliked people sitting on the floor or perching on the sides of her desk. The dining room was only half full, but there were several of her friends gathered round a table in a corner. She joined them with an eye on the clock as she did so. ‘Ten minutes,’ she exclaimed breathlessly, ‘Sister Crow made a note of it as I left.’

Kitty Blane from Women’s Medical groaned in sympathy. ‘I don’t know how you stand her!’ She filled a mug and pushed it across the table to Victoria. ‘How did the round go? What do you think of our Jeremy?’

Victoria blew on her coffee to cool it. ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know anything about him yet. He’s good-looking…’

‘Talking of good looks, did you get a sight of a tall dark and handsome stranger up your way? He came sauntering into ours about an hour ago and when I asked him what he wanted he said he was looking for Sir Keith Plummer, and when I told him where he was, he said: “Oh, yes—is that where the staff nurse has long bronze hair?” Someone you know, Vicky?’

‘Well, not really,’ said Victoria calmly, covering sudden feelings which weren’t calm at all. ‘Perhaps he mistook me for someone else.’ Even while she spoke she wondered how he had found out that she worked on Men’s Medical or if it had been coincidence. The latter, she decided, for was he not almost for certain a married man and had he at any time shown interest in her? Not to speak of. She grinned ruefully and Bunny Coles from Cas. asked:

‘Fed up, Vicky? I’m not surprised with the Old Crow always fussing around. When are you off?’

‘Five.’ Victoria put down her mug. ‘I must fly, you know what she is—all the beds to be tidy by the time she comes out of the office.’ She made a face. ‘So long, girls.’

There was no sign of anyone as she went back along the corridor and past Sister’s office, although there was a murmur of voices and a sudden burst of laughter. Sir Keith must have made a joke, for that was the only time Sister Crow laughed about anything. Victoria went into the ward, sent all but one nurse to their coffee and started to straighten the beds and to get out of bed all those patients who had been kept in them for the round. She had reached Mr Bates and had sent Nurse Black to fetch a cool drink for the still queasy old man when the ward door was swung open with a good deal of vigour and a firm footfall trod towards her. She knew who it was, of course, and turned to face him as he fetched up within a few inches of her. He said without preamble: ‘You’re off at five. I’ll be outside at five-thirty—no, five-forty-five, you’ll want to do that hair of yours. I should like to take you out.’

She stared at him speechlessly, delight and doubt warring with each other in her lovely face, and before she could reply Mr Bates answered for her in his dry old voice.

‘That’s right, you go, Staff. Have a bit of fun, yer must feel like it after the whole day here with the likes of us.’

‘No,’ said Victoria with a firmness denied by her eyes, ‘thank you.’

‘Why not?’

She glanced at Mr Bates, who said at once, ‘Cor, luv a duck, Staff, I’m stone deaf—can’t ’ear a word.’

She smiled at him. He’d been in number six bed for so long and he was really an old dear; all the same, she half turned away from him to say in a low voice: ‘You see, I don’t go out—with m-married men.’

‘Very laudable,’ commented Doctor van Schuylen approvingly. ‘Shall we make it five-thirty and never mind the hair?’

She raised enormous tawny eyes fringed with curling dark lashes and met his blue ones. There was a glint in them which made her blink and falter. ‘You are married?’

‘No,’ he answered coolly, ‘not yet.’ He said nothing further, only looked amused, and it was so obvious that he was awaiting an explanation that she began to explain. ‘Oh—well, you see you were dining with someone and she had a wedding ring, and the next day you had a little boy with you, and then I saw you with them…’

It was impossible to know what he was thinking, for his voice was as bland as his face and his eyes were almost covered by suddenly drooping lids.

‘Ah, yes—of course. A natural mistake, but a mistake. Shall we say half past five?’

The ward door was pushed open and allowed to close with a minimum of noise—Sister Crow. Victoria’s eyes met the Dutchman’s and Mr Bates said happily: ‘I ain’t ’eard a word, but ’ave a nice evening of it, the two of yer.’

‘Half past five,’ breathed Victoria, and began on Mr Bates all over again while she listened to the doctor, skilfully and with great charm, draw a variety of red herrings across the Old Crow’s path so that by the time she eventually reached Victoria she had quite forgotten why she had come into the ward.

Sister Crow had wanted an afternoon; Victoria, working through seemingly endless hours, prayed that she would come on duty as punctually as she usually did. She had been foolish, she decided as she prepared the medicine trolley for Sister’s use later on, to say half past five, for she would almost certainly be late, and supposing he didn’t wait? Supposing he were impatient? She contradicted herself; he wasn’t an impatient man, of that she was quite certain, although for the life of her she couldn’t guess how she knew that. She smiled with relief at the thought and Major Cooper, whom she was hauling back into bed after his afternoon exercises, stared at her.

‘What the devil have you got to smile about?’ he demanded irascibly. He was an ill-tempered old gentleman; that anybody would be otherwise was something he would not condone. Victoria had no intention of telling him, so instead she asked: ‘What do you think of the Government’s intention…’

It was a safe and sure red herring; he seized upon it and grumbled happily while she worked him out of his dressing gown and pulled on the woolly bedsocks he insisted upon wearing, and since she had heard it all before, it left her free to devote the greater part of her mind to the important question of what to wear that evening.

It was twenty minutes to six as she crossed the hospital entrance hall. The Old Crow had been punctual, but she had been chatty too, and it was all of a quarter past five by the time Victoria had got away. It was impossible to go to tea, and dinner, if that was the meal she hoped the doctor was inviting her to, was several hours off. She drank a glass of water from her toothmug and started tearing off her clothes. Luckily the bathrooms were empty and very few of her friends were about, and those who tried to engage her in conversation were told ‘No time’, and swept on one side. She was kneeling before the mirror in her room, because there were no stools before the dressing tables in the Home, putting her hair up very carefully, when the staff nurse on Children’s came in with a cup of tea. ‘Leave it if you haven’t time,’ she advised, ‘but I bet you didn’t get any—who’s the date?’

Victoria, her mouth pursed over hair-grips, made sounds indicative of not telling, but her friend disregarded them. ‘We think it’s the foreign doctor who went to Kitty’s ward.’

Victoria, having disposed of the grips, swallowed half a cup of tea.

‘Yes—well, we met while I was home—and don’t,’ she went on severely, ‘start any ideas. He’s only asked me out because he happened to meet me again—you know, being polite.’

She was wriggling into her dress—a very plain cinnamon-coloured wool—and her friend obligingly zipped her up the back before she spoke.

‘Why should he have to be polite?’ she asked forth-rightly. ‘I’ve never met a man yet who asked a girl out unless he wanted to.’

Victoria was head and shoulders inside the wardrobe and her voice was muffled. ‘Maybe he wants someone to listen to him while he talks,’ she suggested, and hoped not. She slid into the matching topcoat and dug her feet into brown patent shoes which had cost her a small fortune and flew to the door, snatching up her handbag as she went. ‘See you,’ she said briefly, and hurried downstairs.

He was leaning against the little window behind which Smith, the head porter, sat, enjoying a chat, but when he saw her he came to meet her across the linoleumed floor and without giving her a chance to say that she was sorry that she was late, swept her outside and across the forecourt to where a Mercedes-Benz 350SL coupé was standing. It had, Victoria’s sharp eyes noticed, a Dutch number-plate.

‘It is yours?’ she wanted to know as he opened the door for her to get in.

‘Yes.’ He shut her in with an almost silent snap of the handle and went round to his own seat.

‘You didn’t have it in Guernsey.’

‘No.’ He was sitting beside her now. ‘What a girl you are, always asking questions!’

‘I never—’ she began, and then remembered that she had asked him quite a lot and closed her pretty mouth firmly, thinking better of it.

‘Have you had tea?’ His voice was pleasantly friendly.

‘No—that is, I had some in a mug while I was changing.’

He nodded with the air of a man who was in the habit of drinking his own tea in such a manner. ‘I’ve brought a picnic basket with me, I thought we might run a little way out of town and have tea in the car and then go on somewhere for dinner.’ He glanced sideways at her and smiled. ‘Unless there’s something else you would rather do?’

There was nothing else that she would rather do; she said so.

‘Good—let’s go, then.’

It was the evening rush hour; she was relieved to find that not only did he drive very well indeed; he displayed none of the irritation or impatience she had come to expect from anyone negotiating London at such times; moreover he talked as he drove, an unhurried flow of smalltalk which put her at her ease. St Judd’s was in the East End, or almost so. He had left that part of the city far behind and was across the river, travelling in a south-western direction when she remarked: ‘You know London very well.’

‘You sound surprised.’ He didn’t give her any reason, though, but went on: ‘There’s a quiet pub at Abinger, we’ll go down through Leatherhead and turn off as soon as we can find a reasonably quiet spot for tea, and then go on to Abinger Hammer. I presume you don’t have to be in at ten o’clock or whenever you have your curfew.’

Victoria chuckled. ‘I’m exempt. Once we’re trained we’re allowed to stay out until a reasonable hour.’

He said ‘Good’ as he edged the car past a loaded van and then a string of slow-moving cars, and after a minute or two when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything else for the time being, Victoria ventured: ‘Was it just…I mean, were you surprised to see me?’

‘I’m surprised each time I set eyes on you—you’re very lovely. You must get a little bored with being told that by all the men you meet.’

She remembered the last man to say that to her, Doctor Blake, and how she had hated it, yet now she was glowing with delight. She said with admirable calm: ‘It’s according to who says it, and if I were with my sisters no one would think of saying any such thing—they’re beautiful.’

He glanced at her. ‘Yes, they are.’ He turned the car off into a side road whose signpost said Walton-on-the-Hill, but after half a mile he turned it again, this time into a mere lane, saying: ‘Somewhere here, I should think, wouldn’t you? I’m not quite sure where we are, but we can look at the map presently.’

It was quiet and the late afternoon had brought a wintry nip with it. The doctor stretched behind him and produced a tea basket from the back of the car. ‘Do you want to stay in the car or shall we try outside?’ he enquired.

‘Outside,’ said Victoria promptly. ‘We can always get back in if it gets too cold, can’t we?’ She looked around her. ‘Look, there’s a little hollow there under the hedge, it shouldn’t be too bad.’ She looked up at him, laughing. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it, having a picnic tea at half past six in a dropping temperature?’

He laughed too as he got out to open her door and help her out and picked up the basket. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘but I fancy anything with you would be fun, Victoria.’

They had reached the little hollow and she stood looking down at her shoes, conscious of her quickened heartbeats. She said rather shyly:

‘It was strange that we should meet again,’ and looked at him startled when he gave a great rumble of laughter.

‘No,’ he said, still laughing, ‘not strange at all. I had this meeting arranged with Sir Keith Plummer; I had seen you board the boat for Weymouth and I heard your mother telling you to be sure and have breakfast on the train. I gambled on it being the London train and I already knew that you were a nurse.’

‘Oh? How?’

‘My friends knew someone who knows your father. It was only a question of enquiring at the London hospitals.’

She gaped at him. ‘You mean you didn’t know I was at St Judd’s? But you asked Kitty if there was a copper-headed nurse…’

He stared back at her, his eyes glinting with amusement. ‘I had resigned myself to visiting each hospital in turn, but luck was on my side, wasn’t it? You were in the very first one, and one, moreover, in which I have every right to be.’ He spread a rug on the bank and put the basket beside it and observed placidly: ‘You must be dying for your tea. Sit down and we’ll have it now or we shan’t have an appetite for dinner.’

Victoria sat down with the speechless obedience of a little girl while she sorted out the muddled thoughts surging around her head.

‘Why did you do it?’ she enquired at length.

He opened the hamper and took out the flask of tea and two cups as well as a variety of tidily wrapped sandwiches. He undid them, poured the tea, added milk and sugar, handed her a cup and proffered one of the packets, with the remark that the sandwiches were cucumber. She took one mechanically, feeling a little breathless and at a complete loss, an experience she had until then not had. She took a bite and drank some tea. ‘I still don’t see why…’ she began.

‘No? Never mind, let’s enjoy ourselves and be glad that we have been fortunate enough to meet again. Tell me about your work.’

He sounded like a big brother or a kindly uncle; she tidied away her disturbing, exciting thoughts and told him while he plied her with delicate sandwiches and little cakes and tea, which even from a thermos tasted delicious. He didn’t eat much himself, but Victoria hardly noticed that, for she was telling him all about the hospital and why she had trained as a nurse and how much she loved her home, but presently she came to a stop, peered at him through the gloom and asked: ‘And you? What part of Holland do you come from, and are you going to be in England long?’

‘The Hague. I have a practice there, though my home is just outside—in Wassenaar. My parents live in Leiden, my father is a doctor but more or less retired—he does consulting work and sits on various committees, and when I am away, as I am from time to time, he helps out with my practice. I have two brothers and two sisters, all younger than I, and all married.’ He paused and she knew that he was smiling at her through the dusk. ‘There, have I not answered all your questions before you could ask them?’

‘No—well, that is, almost. Are you here to lecture or were you on holiday in Guernsey?’

‘I’m here for a few days before I go up to Birmingham and Edinburgh and then back home. I was on holiday in Guernsey—I have friends there.’

Victoria started to re-pack the hamper. ‘You must be very clever,’ she began, ‘to lecture, you know. Are you older than you look?’

She heard his rumble of laughter. ‘That’s a difficult question, for I have no idea how I look, have I?’ He leaned over and fastened the tea basket and put out a hand to help her to her feet. ‘I’m thirty-five, give or take a month or two—almost eleven years older than you.’

She stopped in her tracks. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Oh, a friend of a friend, you know.’ His voice sounded casual as he opened the car door for her and then went to put the tea things in the boot. In the car beside her again he looked at his watch. ‘I booked a table for eight o’clock—supposing we cut down behind Hindhead and circle back?’

‘That would be nice, Doctor…’

‘My name’s Alexander,’ he prompted her mildly. ‘You may have noticed that I call you Victoria, for I find myself quite unable to address you as Miss Parsons. What are your sisters’ names?’

Victoria told him; she told him how old they were too and what they did with their days and how clever Amabel was with her sketching and what a formidable couple Stephanie and Louise were on the tennis court. One thing led to another; by the time they arrived at the Abinger Hammer, she had told him a great deal without being aware of it; it was only afterwards she realised that he had told her only the barest facts about himself.

They had leisurely drinks in the bar of the peaceful old pub and dined off Chicken Savoyarde, followed by chocolate roulade washed down with white burgundy. They went back into the bar for their coffee, sitting at a little table in the now crowded room with so much to talk about that they hardly noticed the cheerful noise around them. It was only when the landlord called, ‘Time, gentlemen, please,’ that Victoria broke off in mid-sentence. ‘It can’t be as late as that already,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve never been here as long as that?’

Doctor van Schuylen laughed. ‘Indeed we have. Are you in a hurry to get back?’

‘No—’ She paused. ‘That is, I mustn’t be too late because I’m on in the morning and I must make up a clean cap…’

He laughed again and she flashed at him: ‘That sounds like a silly excuse, but it isn’t.’

He stared at her across the table. The gleam in his eyes could have been amusement, she didn’t know, but perhaps it wasn’t after all, for he said gravely: ‘I know it isn’t, Victoria, I know you well enough for that.’ He smiled gently at her and her heart rocked against her ribs.

‘I shall take you straight back and you shall make up your cap and have your beauty sleep—not,’ he added softly, ‘that you need it.’

‘Oh, I do,’ she contradicted him, ‘it’s been quite a day on the ward.’

Just as though she hadn’t spoken, he added: ‘You’re beautiful enough as it is.’

She got into the car wordlessly. That was the second time he had called her beautiful and she was astonished at the delight she felt—just as though he were the first man ever to have said so. She considered the idea for a moment; he was the first man—none of the other men counted any more.

She was rather quiet on the trip back because she had a good deal to think about, but he didn’t seem to notice, rambling on in a placid fashion about topics which must have been of so little importance that she was unable to remember anything about them later, only the pleasant sound of his voice—a quiet, calm voice, and deep. She liked listening to it.

They arrived back at St Judd’s just before midnight and although she hastened to say: ‘Don’t get out—I’m going through the hospital to the Home,’ he ignored her and got out too and walked with her to the big front doors. When she thanked him for her evening he said:

‘It was delightful—I shall remember it while I’m away.’

‘Oh yes.’ She felt bereft. ‘Birmingham and Edinburgh.’

He nodded without speaking and after a moment she put out a hand.

‘Well, goodbye, Alexander. I hope you have a good trip. I don’t know Birmingham, but Edinburgh’s beautiful and there’s a lot to see.’

‘You know it? So do I—I’ve an Edinburgh degree.’

He was still holding her hand and when she pulled on it gently he merely tightened his grip and said: ‘I shan’t have much time for sightseeing, I must get back to Holland as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She made her voice sound coolly friendly, for after all, what was theirs but a casual meeting? And this time he let her hand go. She said, maintaining the coolness with difficulty: ‘Well, goodbye, and thank you again,’ then whisked through the door and across the hall and out of sight of him.

If Victoria wanted to forget him, she had no chance; her friends, during the next few days, saw to that, for they wanted to know every detail of her evening with him and then fell to discussing him at length and often, and when Tilly had exclaimed: ‘He turns me on,’ Victoria had felt a pang in her chest which was almost physical and no amount of reasonable thinking could dispel him entirely from her thoughts. After the first day or so she managed to convince herself that he had gone for good. There must be girls enough for him to choose from if he wanted an evening out; probably he had forgotten her already—a sensible thought which did nothing to dispel a sense of loss which bewildered her. She worked a little harder in order to get rid of it and when Doctor Blake invited her to go to the cinema with him, she accepted, although she wasn’t really keen on going.

Jeremy Blake had behaved well, rather to her surprise, for he struck her as being a young man conceited enough to expect a quick conquest of any girl he cast his eyes upon, but beyond an attempt to hold her hand in the cinema which she parried without difficulty, he did nothing to which she could take exception, and when she was bidding him goodnight at the door of the Nurses’ Home with a rather brisk thank you, he had been equally casual. She had gone up to her room convinced that she had been mistaken about him after all—he was really not too bad and certainly not the wolf she had suspected.

His behaviour bore out her opinion during the subsequent days—he was friendly in a casual way both on the ward and when they met outside it, and when Ellen, the night staff nurse and one of Victoria’s closest friends, remarked one morning after she had given the report that she didn’t fancy him at all, Victoria had felt impelled to defend him.

‘He’s quite nice,’ she remarked. ‘I didn’t think I was going to like him, but he’s quiet and just friendly.’

Ellen sauntered towards the door. ‘As long as he stays that way,’ she said darkly.

It was two days later that he asked Victoria to go out with him again and she refused. Afterwards she didn’t know why she had done so, for he had proved a pleasant enough companion when they had gone to the cinema. Perhaps it was because he had suggested that they should go to a little club he knew of in Chelsea and dance that she had refused so promptly. He had said nothing, only shrugged his shoulders and said carelessly: ‘Another time, perhaps,’ but his eyes had seemed paler than ever even though he was smiling.

She hardly thought about him during the day; they were busy and although he came on to the ward several times, the only speech they had was to do with the patients.

She met him on the way off duty that evening. Men’s Medical was on the top floor, reached by a bleak corridor of the narrow, dreary type so beloved by mid-Victorian architects of hospitals. It ran through most of the wing and then turned at right angles to continue on its way to an equally bleak staircase. It was depressing, with margarine-coloured walls and mud-coloured linoleum, polished to within an inch of its life. Victoria was perhaps halfway down this miserable passage when Jeremy Blake appeared around the corner ahead of her. He was walking very fast and she supposed him to be on his way to the ward, but when he drew level with her he stopped suddenly and caught her round the waist.

‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded in a voice chilled with angry surprise.

‘Oh, come off it, Vicky, you don’t have to play the little lady with me.’

He laughed at her and for answer she attempted to remove his hands, but he only went on laughing and pulled her closer. ‘We could have fun together.’

‘I can think of nothing less likely,’ she retorted indignantly. His face was only inches from hers and although he smiled his eyes glittered and his mouth looked mean. ‘Let go!’ she ordered him furiously. ‘I don’t want to go out with you, I said so and I meant it, and I certainly wouldn’t want to go out with you again or have anything more to do with you!’

She lifted a capable hand, doubled into a fist, and pummelled his chest.

‘Playing hard to get?’ he wanted to know. ‘Shall I tell you something, girlie? I always get a bird if I want her, and here’s something on account.’

His face was very close. Victoria lifted a foot, neatly shod in its hospital regulation lace-up, and kicked his shin, and he loosened his hold. In a flash she was away, making for the bend in the passage. Once round it the stairs would be in sight and there might be someone about…

He caught up with her a couple of feet from the corner and clamped his hand on to her shoulders and forced her to a halt, turning her around to face him, but not without difficulty because she was a strong girl, then putting a hand under her chin to force her face up to his. ‘You spitfire,’ his voice was soft and unpleasant, ‘now you’ve fooled about enough!’

She couldn’t move her head, his hand was too strong. ‘I’ll scream!’ She spoke with spirit and stopped at his smile.

‘And a lot of good that will do you—you see, I shall say that I found you hysterical on my way to the ward, and you won’t stand a chance, my dear. I’ve done it before and it always works…’ He broke off, his smile frozen.

‘Er—so sorry to interrupt,’ said Doctor van Schuylen gently from somewhere behind her left ear, ‘but I think you’ve got it wrong, my dear fellow.’

Victoria felt his hand, gentle and strong, on her waist and the next moment she had been whisked to one side, allowing the doctor just enough room to knock Doctor Blake down, having done which he dusted his hands off carefully, turned his back on the prostrate form and said with an air of calm, ‘Hullo’. The smile he gave her was so kind that she would have liked to have burst into tears, but before she could do so he went on: ‘I wondered if we might go out to dinner—somewhere gay where we can dance.’ He was walking her round the corner and down the stairs as he spoke, and at the bottom Victoria stopped and put out a hand to touch his well-tailored sleeve almost timidly.

‘I must explain,’ she began, but was stopped by his quiet voice.

‘Not a word, Victoria, or I might be tempted to go back and knock the fellow down again.’

She was very sure he meant it. ‘Are you angry? He’ll be all right, won’t he?’

She felt it was a foolish question, but he stopped then, right outside Women’s Surgical where one of the Office Sisters was taking the report from Sister Kennedy. He said simply: ‘Yes, I’m angry, but don’t worry, I have an excellent control over my temper and he’s not much hurt, I believe.’ He smiled at her and she found herself smiling back. ‘I’ll be very quick,’ she assured him. ‘What time will you come for me?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Seven sharp—I must go back to the hotel and put on a black tie.’ He took her hand and held it for a moment in his and didn’t let it go when the Office Sister walked towards them. She wished them a civil good evening, looking at them with purposeful vagueness which Victoria found rather touching. She liked Office Sister, who was a widow with grown-up children, so that she treated the nurses rather in the same manner as she would have used towards her own children, and was loved for it.

When she had gone, Alexander gave her back her hand. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the Home,’ he stated calmly. ‘Do you mind where we go this evening?’

Victoria shook her head. She would have been quite happy sitting in a Wimpy Bar with him for the whole evening. At the Home door she tried to thank him again and he said: ‘No, Victoria, there’s no need to say any more— I’m only sorry I wasn’t there a few minutes sooner.’

She had her hand on the door handle. ‘I kicked him on the shin,’ she observed with belated satisfaction.

She was looking at him as she spoke and he smiled: ‘That’s my girl!’

Victoria went on staring at him. That was exactly what she was and she had only just discovered it. His girl—for ever and ever and nothing could change that. She had often wondered what it would feel like to fall in love—really in love—and now she had, suddenly. It left her bewildered and uncertain and wildly happy. She gave him a dazzling smile, repeated ‘Seven o’clock’, and went through the door.

CHAPTER THREE

VICTORIA wasted ten minutes just sitting on the edge of her bed. For part of that time she didn’t even think, only allowed her head to fill with delightful fairy stories with happy endings, but these gradually faded before common sense. That she was in love with Doctor van Schuylen she didn’t dispute, but whether he felt the same about her was another matter. She was a pretty girl, but there were other girls just as pretty—moreover, he had two countries to choose from—there might be someone in Holland. And although he had come to her aid just at the right moment that evening, he would probably have done just the same for the Old Crow. She was momentarily diverted by the picture of Sister Crow repulsing Jeremy Blake, then felt mean, because the poor Old Crow must have been rather pretty when she was young—and then allowed her thoughts to return to her own problems. She would find out during the course of the evening if he was staying in London—she did a little arithmetic on her fingers; he had been gone for six days, surely time enough to go to Edinburgh as well as Birmingham, but perhaps he was on his way to Holland. It was a depressing thought, but there was nothing much she could do about it. She went to run a bath, dismissed her gloomy speculations and allowed herself to dwell on the coming delights of the evening.

She wore the prettiest dress she had—peacock blue silk with a wide skirt and great leg o’ mutton sleeves gathered into long narrow cuffs fastened with pearl buttons; its small bodice had little pearl buttons marching down its front too, and its scooped-out neckline was exactly right for the pearl necklace her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. Victoria fastened it with care, got into her slippers, caught up her velvet evening cape and handbag and hurried downstairs. It was exactly seven o’clock. She slowed down in the hall. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so punctual, it made her look so eager, and now she felt shy as well. She put a hand up to her hair to make sure it was securely pinned and went to the door. Alexander was waiting there and she was glad of the dim light in the hall because the sight of him, elegant and very much at ease in a dinner jacket, made her feel almost giddy.

He helped her into the car and got in beside her. ‘I’m glad you’re on time,’ his voice was casually friendly. ‘I thought it would be nice to go through the parks—there won’t be much traffic about.’

‘Yes,’ she was annoyingly breathless, ‘that would be pleasant.’ She watched the large hands on the wheel as he started the car. ‘When did you get back?’ she asked, ‘and was it successful?’

‘This afternoon about half past four, and yes, I believe it was tolerably successful—a pooling of ideas, you understand—it’s amazing what we can learn from each other.’

They were travelling slowly through the muddled East End traffic and when he pulled up to allow a transport wagon to come out of a side street she said: ‘Alexander, I went out with Jeremy Blake last week—to the cinema.’ Even as she said it, it sounded silly in her ears. Why should she tell him she had been out with Jeremy? After all, she was free to go out with whom she pleased.

She caught his quick smile. ‘I went out too—with one of the secretaries, a nice girl.’

‘Was she pretty?’

He inched the car forward. ‘I don’t remember,’ he spoke quietly and she knew that he meant it. ‘I was lonely; I wanted to telephone you, write to you, even get into the car and come back and see you.’

She glowed. ‘Oh, I was lonely too, that’s why I went out with Jeremy. I thought it might pass the time.’

His voice was gentle. ‘Why are you telling me this, Victoria?’

She had no idea, she was appalled when she thought about it; being in love with him had gone to her head and she was behaving like an idiot. She said in a stiff little voice: ‘It—it just came into my head. It’s a change from talking about the weather, isn’t it?’ And heard his chuckle even though he most annoyingly didn’t answer her.

They didn’t speak again until he turned the car into Hyde Park, to draw up presently and switch off the engine. He turned to look at her then and she saw the approval in his eyes and the admiration. ‘Delightful,’ he told her in his pleasant voice, ‘and you smell like a flower garden.’

Victoria smiled a little; she had felt wildly extravagant in Guernsey buying such a large bottle of Roger et Gallet’s Jeu d’Eau, and wished now that she had bought an even larger size. She wondered with pleasurable excitement what he was going to say next and was keenly disappointed when he asked: ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’

‘Please do,’ she achieved the two words with a commendable sweetness and watched him go about the business of filling and lighting his pipe which he did with deliberation. It was only when he had got it going to his satisfaction that he spoke again.

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he remarked, an observation which Victoria found difficult to answer although she longed to tell him that she had been longing to see him too. She was startled when he asked: ‘Have you?’

She opened her little brocade bag and closed it again before she said carefully: ‘Well, I couldn’t look forward to something I didn’t know was going to happen, could I?’

He gave her a long look. ‘You knew that I should come back.’

She opened her bag again, looked at its contents and closed it. ‘Yes, I think I did.’

‘You know you did.’

How persistent the man was! ‘All right, I knew,’ she reiterated, quite put out. Her fingers were on the bag again when his hand came down to cover hers. His voice was gentle. ‘Don’t be scared, dear girl.’

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