“Your personal life is of no interest to me.”

Renowned consultant Alexander Fitzgibbon had made it clear from the start that their relationship was to remain strictly professional. Yet Florence couldn’t help but wonder what lay behind his cool, efficient exterior. If only she could break down the barrier and reach the man behind it.…

“Do you intend to leave at the end of the month?” he asked idly.

“Leave? Here? No…” She took a sharp breath. “Do you want me to? I dare say I annoy you. Not everyone can get on with everyone else,” she explained in a reasonable voice. “You know, a kind of mutual antipathy…”

He remained grave, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. “I have no wish for you to leave, Miss Napier. You suit me very well—you are quick and sensible and the patients appear to like you and, any grumbling you may do about awkward hours, you keep to yourself. We must contrive to rub along together, must we not?”

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 live on in all her stories.

Romantic Encounter

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

FLORENCE, CLEANING THE upstairs windows of the vicarage, heard the car coming up the lane and, when it slowed, poked her head over the top sash to see whom it might be. The elegant dark grey Rolls-Royce, sliding to a halt before her father’s front door, was unexpected enough to cause her to lean her splendid person even further out of the window so that she might see who was in it. The passenger got out and she recognised him at once. Mr Wilkins, the consultant surgeon she had worked for before she had left the hospital in order to look after her mother and run the house until she was well again—a lengthy business of almost a year. Perhaps he had come to see if she was ready to return to her ward; unlikely, though, for it had been made clear to her that her post would be filled and she would have to take her chance at getting whatever was offered if she wanted to go to work at Colbert’s again; besides, a senior consultant wouldn’t come traipsing after a ward sister…

The driver of the car was getting out, a very tall, large man with pepper and salt hair. He stood for a moment, looking around him, waiting for Mr Wilkins to join him, and then looked up at her. His air of amused surprise sent her back inside again, banging her head as she went, but she was forced to lean out again when Mr Wilkins caught sight of her and called up to her to come down and let them in.

There was no time to do more than wrench the clean duster off her fiery hair. She went down to the hall and opened the door.

Mr Wilkins greeted her jovially. ‘How are you after all these months?’ he enquired; he eyed the apron bunched over an elderly skirt and jumper. ‘I do hope we haven’t called at an inconvenient time?’

Florence’s smile was frosty. ‘Not at all, sir, we are spring-cleaning.’

Mr Wilkins, who lived in a house with so many gadgets that it never needed spring-cleaning, looked interested. ‘Are you really? But you’ll spare us a moment to talk, I hope? May I introduce Mr Fitzgibbon?’ He turned to his companion. ‘This is Florence Napier.’

She offered a rather soapy hand and had it engulfed in his large one. His, ‘How do you do?’ was spoken gravely, but she felt that he was amused again, and no wonder—she must look a fright.

Which, of course, she did, but a beautiful fright; nothing could dim the glory of her copper hair, tied back carelessly with a boot-lace, and nothing could detract from her lovely face and big blue eyes with their golden lashes. She gave him a cool look and saw that his eyes were grey and intent, so she looked away quickly and addressed herself to Mr Wilkins.

‘Do come into the drawing-room. Mother’s in the garden with the boys, and Father’s writing his sermon. Would you like to have some coffee?’

She ushered them into the big, rather shabby room, its windows open on to the mild April morning. ‘Do sit down,’ she begged them. ‘I’ll let Mother know that you’re here and fetch in the coffee.’

‘It is you we have come to see, Florence,’ said Mr Wilkins.

‘Me? Oh, well—all the same, I’m sure Mother will want to meet you.’

She opened the old-fashioned window wide and jumped neatly over the sill with the unselfconsciousness of a child, and Mr Fitzgibbon’s firm mouth twitched at the corners. ‘She’s very professional on the ward,’ observed Mr Wilkins, ‘and very neat. Of course, if she’s cleaning the house I suppose she gets a little untidy.’

Mr Fitzgibbon agreed blandly and then stood up as Florence returned, this time with her mother and using the door. Mrs Napier was small and slim and pretty, and still a little frail after her long illness. Florence made the introductions, settled her mother in a chair and went away to make the coffee.

‘Oo’s that, then?’ asked Mrs Buckett, who came up twice a week from the village to do the rough, and after years of faithful service considered herself one of the family.

‘The surgeon I worked for at Colbert’s—and he’s brought a friend with him.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve no idea. Be a dear and put the kettle on while I lay a tray. I’ll let you know as soon as I can find out.’

While the kettle boiled she took off her apron, tugged the jumper into shape and poked at her hair. ‘Not that it matters,’ she told Mrs Buckett. ‘I looked an absolute frump when they arrived.’

‘Go on with yer, love—you couldn’t look a frump if you tried. Only yer could wash yer ’ands.’

Florence had almost decided that she didn’t like Mr Fitzgibbon, but she had to admit that his manners were nice. He got up and took the tray from her and didn’t sit down again until she was sitting herself. His bedside manner would be impeccable…

They drank their coffee and made small talk, but not for long. Her mother put her cup down and got to her feet. ‘Mr Wilkins tells me that he wants to talk to you, Florence, and I would like to go back to the garden and see what the boys are doing with the cold frame.’

She shook hands and went out of the room, and they all sat down again.

‘Your mother is well enough for you to return to work, Florence?’

‘Yes. Dr Collins saw her a few days ago. I must find someone to come in for an hour or two each day, but I must find a job first.’ She saw that Mr Wilkins couldn’t see the sense of that, but Mr Fitzgibbon had understood at once, although he didn’t speak.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mr Wilkins briskly. ‘Well, I’ve nothing for you, I’m afraid, but Mr Fitzgibbon has.’

‘I shall need a nurse at my consulting-rooms in two weeks’ time. I mentioned it to Mr Wilkins, and he remembered you and assures me that you would suit me very well.’

What about you suiting me? reflected Florence, and went a little pink because he was staring at her in that amused fashion again, reading her thoughts. ‘I don’t know anything about that sort of nursing,’ she said, ‘I’ve always worked in hospital; I’m not sure—’

‘Do not imagine that the job is a sinecure. I have a large practice and I operate in a number of hospitals, specialising in chest surgery. My present nurse accompanies me and scrubs for the cases, but perhaps you don’t feel up to that?’

‘I’ve done a good deal of Theatre work, Mr Fitzgibbon,’ said Florence, nettled.

‘In that case, I think that you might find the job interesting. You would be free at the weekends, although I should warn you that I am occasionally called away at such times and you would need to hold yourself in readiness to accompany me. My rooms are in Wimpole Street, and Sister Brice has lodgings close by. I suppose you might take them over if they suited you. As to salary…’

He mentioned a sum which caused her pretty mouth to drop open.

‘That’s a great deal more—’

‘Of course it is; you would be doing a great deal more work and your hours will have to fit in with mine.’

‘This nurse who is leaving,’ began Florence.

‘To get married.’ His voice was silky. ‘She has been with me for five years.’ He gave her a considered look. ‘Think it over and let me know. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow—shall we say around three o’clock?’

She had the strong feeling that if she demurred at that he would still telephone then, and expect her to answer, too. ‘Very well, Mr Fitzgibbon,’ she said in a non-committal voice, at the same time doing rapid and rather inaccurate sums in her head; the money would be a godsend—there would be enough to pay for extra help at the vicarage, they needed a new set of saucepans, and the washing-machine had broken down again…

She bade the two gentlemen goodbye, smiling nicely at Mr Wilkins, whom she liked, and giving Mr Fitzgibbon a candid look as she shook hands. He was very good-looking, with a high-bridged nose and a determined chin and an air of self-possession. He didn’t smile as he said goodbye.

Not an easy man to get to know, she decided, watching the Rolls sweep through the vicarage gate.

When she went back indoors her mother had come in from the garden.

‘He looked rather nice,’ she observed, obviously following a train of thought. ‘Why did he come, Florence?’

‘He wants a nurse for his practice—a private one, I gather. Mr Wilkins recommended me.’

‘How kind, darling. Just at the right moment, too. It will save you hunting around the hospitals and places…’

‘I haven’t said I’d take it, Mother.’

‘Why not, love? I’m very well able to take over the household again—is the pay very bad?’

‘It’s very generous. I’d have to live in London, but I’d be free every weekend unless I was wanted—Mr Fitzgibbon seems to get around everywhere rather a lot; he specialises in chest surgery.’

‘Did Mr Wilkins offer you your old job back, darling?’

‘No. There’s nothing for me at Colbert’s…’

‘Then, Florence, you must take this job. It will make a nice change and you’ll probably meet nice people.’ It was one of Mrs Napier’s small worries that her beautiful daughter seldom met men—young men, looking for a wife—after all, she was five and twenty and, although the housemen at the hospital took her out, none of them, as far as she could make out, was of the marrying kind—too young and no money. Now, a nice older man, well established and able to give Florence all the things she had had to do without… Mrs Napier enjoyed a brief daydream.

‘Is he married?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea, Mother. I should think he might be—I mean, he’s not a young man, is he?’ Florence, collecting coffee-cups, wasn’t very interested. ‘I’ll talk to Father. It might be a good idea if I took the job for a time until there’s a vacancy at Colbert’s or one of the top teaching hospitals. I don’t want to get out of date.’

‘Go and talk to your father now, dear.’ Mrs Napier glanced at the clock. ‘Either by now he’s finished his sermon, or he’s got stuck. He’ll be glad of the interruption.’

Mr Napier, when appealed to, giving the matter grave thought, decided that Florence would be wise to take the job. ‘I do not know this Mr Fitzgibbon,’ he observed, ‘but if he is known to Mr Wilkins he must be a dependable sort of chap! The salary is a generous one too…not that you should take that into consideration, Florence, if you dislike the idea.’

She didn’t point out that the salary was indeed a consideration. With the boys at school and then university, the vicar’s modest stipend had been whittled down to its minimum so that there would be money enough for their future. The vicar, a kind, good man, ready to give the coat off his back to anyone in need, was nevertheless blind to broken-down washing-machines, worn-out sauce-pans and the fact that his wife hadn’t had a new hat for more than a year.

‘I like the idea, Father,’ said Florence robustly, ‘and I can come home at the weekend too. I’ll go and see Miss Payne in the village and arrange for her to come in for an hour or so each day to give Mother a hand. Mrs Buckett can’t do everything. I’ll pay—it is really a very generous salary.’

‘Will you be able to keep yourself in comfort, Florence?’

She assured him that she could perfectly well do that. ‘And the lodgings his present nurse has will be vacant if I’d like to take them.’

‘It sounds most suitable,’ said her father, ‘but you must, of course, do what you wish, my dear.’

She wasn’t at all sure what she did wish but she had plenty of common sense; she needed to get a job and start earning money again, and she had, by some lucky chance, been offered one without any effort on her part.

When Mr Fitzgibbon telephoned the following day, precisely at three o’clock, and asked her in his cool voice if she had considered his offer, she accepted in a voice as cool as his own.

He didn’t say that he was pleased. ‘Then perhaps you will come up to town very shortly and talk to Sister Brice. Would next Monday be convenient—in the early afternoon?’

‘There is a train from Sherborne just after ten o’clock—I could be at your rooms about one o’clock.’

‘That will suit Sister Brice very well. You have the address and the telephone number.’

‘Yes, thanks.’

His, ‘Very well, goodbye, Miss Napier,’ was abrupt, even if uttered politely.

* * *

THE REVEREND NAPIER, his sermon written and nothing but choir practice to occupy him, drove Florence into Sherborne to catch the morning train. Gussage Tollard was a mere four miles to that town as the crow flew, but, taking into account the elderly Austin and the winding lanes, turning and twisting every hundred yards or so, the distance by car was considerably more.

‘Be sure and have a good lunch,’ advised her father. ‘One can always get a good meal at Lyons.’

Florence said that she would; her father went to London so rarely that he lived comfortably in the past as regarded cafés, bus queues and the like, and she had no intention of disillusioning him.

She bade him goodbye at the station, assured him that she would be on the afternoon train from Waterloo, and was borne away to London.

She had a cup of coffee and a sandwich at Waterloo Station and queued for a bus, got off at Oxford Circus, and, since she had a little time to spare, looked at a few shops along Oxford Street before turning off towards Wimpole Street. The houses were dignified Regency, gleaming with pristine paintwork and shining brass plates. Number eighty-seven would be halfway down, she decided, and wondered where the lodgings were that she might take over. It was comparatively quiet here and the sun was shining; after the bustle and the noise of Oxford Street it was peaceful—as peaceful as one could be in London, she amended, thinking of Gussage Tollard, which hadn’t caught up with the modern world yet, and a good thing too.

Mr Fitzgibbon, standing at the window of his consulting-room, his hands in his pockets, watched her coming along the pavement below. With a view to the sobriety of the occasion, she had shrouded a good deal of her brilliant hair under a velvet cap which matched the subdued tones of her French navy jacket and skirt. She was wearing her good shoes too; they pinched a little, but that was in a good cause…

She glanced up as she reached the address she had been given, to see Mr Fitzgibbon staring down at her, unsmiling. He looked out of temper, and she stared back before mounting the few steps to the front door and ringing the bell. The salary he had offered was good, she reflected, but she had a nasty feeling that he would be a hard master.

The door was opened by an elderly porter, who told her civilly that Mr Fitzgibbon’s consulting-rooms were on the first floor and would she go up? Once on the landing above there was another door with its highly polished bell, this time opened by a cosily plump middle-aged lady who said in a friendly voice, ‘Ah, here you are. I’m Mr Fitzgibbon’s receptionist—Mrs Keane. You’re to go straight in…’

‘I was to see Sister Brice,’ began Florence.

‘Yes, dear, and so you shall. But Mr Fitzgibbon wants to see you now.’ She added in an almost reverent voice, ‘He should be going to his lunch, but he decided to see you first.’

Florence thought of several answers to this but uttered none of them; she needed the job too badly.

Mr Fitzgibbon had left the window and was sitting behind his desk. He got up as Mrs Keane showed her in and wished her a cool, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Napier,’ and begged her to take a seat. Once she was sitting he was in no haste to speak.

Finally he said, ‘Sister Brice is at lunch; she will show you exactly what your duties will be. I suggest that you come on a month’s trial, and after that period I would ask you to give three months’ notice should you wish to leave. I dislike changing my staff.’

‘You may not wish me to stay after a month,’ Florence pointed out in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘There is that possibility. That can be discussed at the end of the month. You are agreeable to your working conditions? I must warn you that this is not a nine-to-five job; your personal life is of no interest to me, but on no account must it infringe upon your work here. I depend upon the loyalty of my staff.’

She was tempted to observe that at the salary she was being offered she was unlikely to be disloyal. She said forthrightly, ‘I’m free to do what I like and work where I wish; I like to go to my home whenever I can, but otherwise I have no other interests.’

‘No prospects of marriage?’

She opened her beautiful eyes wide. ‘Since you ask, no.’

‘I’m surprised. I should like you to start—let me see; Sister Brice leaves at the end of next week, a Saturday. Perhaps you will get settled in on the Sunday and start work here on the Monday morning.’

‘That will suit me very well.’ She did hide a smile at his surprised look; he was probably used to having things his own way. ‘Will it be possible for me to see the rooms I am to have?’

He said impatiently, ‘Yes, yes, why not? Sister Brice can take you there. Are you spending the night in town?’

‘No, I intend to go back on the five o’clock train from Waterloo.’

There was a knock on the door and he called ‘come in’, and Sister Brice put her head round the door and said cheerfully, ‘Shall I take over, sir?’ She came into the room and shook Florence’s hand.

The phone rang and Mr Fitzgibbon lifted the receiver. ‘Yes, please. There’s no one until three o’clock, is there? I shall want you here then.’

He glanced at Florence. ‘Goodbye, Miss Napier; I expect to see you a week on Monday morning.’

Sister Brice closed the door gently behind them. ‘He’s marvellous to work for; you mustn’t take any notice of his abruptness.’

‘I shan’t,’ said Florence. ‘Where do we start?’

The consulting-rooms took up the whole of the first floor. Besides Mr Fitzgibbon’s room and the waiting-room, there was a very small, well-equipped dressing-room, an examination-room leading from the consulting-room, a cloakroom and a tiny kitchen. ‘He likes his coffee around ten o’clock, but if he has a lot of patients he’ll not stop. We get ours when we can. I get here about eight o’clock—the first patient doesn’t get here before half-past nine, but everything has to be quite ready. Mr Fitzgibbon quite often goes to the hospital first and takes a look at new patients there; he goes back there around noon or one o’clock and we have our lunch and tidy up and so on, he comes back here about four o’clock unless he’s operating, and he sees patients until half-past five. You do Theatre, don’t you? He always has the same theatre sister at Colbert’s, but if he’s operating at another hospital, doesn’t matter where, he’ll take you with him to scrub.’

‘Another hospital in London?’

‘Could be; more often than not it’s Birmingham or Edinburgh or Bristol—I’ve been to Brussels several times, the Middle East, and a couple of times to Berlin.’

‘I can’t speak German…’

Sister Brice laughed. ‘You don’t need to—he does all the talking; you just carry on as though you were at Colbert’s. He did mention that occasionally you have to miss a weekend? It’s made up to you, though.’ She opened a cupboard with a key from her pocket. ‘I’ve been very happy here and I shall miss the work, but it’s a full-time job and there’s not much time over from it, certainly not if one is married.’ She was pulling out drawers. ‘There’s everything he needs for operating—he likes his own instruments and it’s your job to see that they’re all there and ready. They get put in this bag.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘There’s time to go over to my room; you can meet Mrs Twist and see if it’ll suit you. She gets your breakfast and cooks high tea about half-past six. There’s a washing-machine and a telephone you may use. She doesn’t encourage what she calls gentlemen friends…’

‘I haven’t got any…’

‘You’re pretty enough to have half a dozen, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Thank you. I think I must be hard to please.’

Mrs Twist lived in one of the narrow streets behind Wimpole Street, not five minutes’ walk away. The house was small, one of a row, but it was very clean and neat, rather like Mrs Twist—small, too, and bony with pepper and salt hair and a printed cotton pinny. She eyed Florence shrewdly with small blue eyes and led her upstairs to a room overlooking the street, nicely furnished. ‘Miss Brice ’as her breakfast downstairs, quarter to eight sharp,’ she observed, ‘the bathroom’s across the landing, there’s a machine for yer smalls and yer can ’ang them out in the back garden. I’ll cook a meal at half-past six of an evening, something ’ot; if I’m out it’ll be in the oven. Me and Miss Brice ’as never ’ad a cross word and I ’opes we’ll get on as nicely.’

‘Well, I hope so too, Mrs Twist. This is a very nice room and I’m sure I shall appreciate a meal each evening. You must let me know if there’s anything—’

‘Be sure I will, Miss Napier; I’m one for speaking out, but Mr Fitzgibbon told me you was a sensible, quiet-spoken young lady, and what ’e says I’ll believe.’

Sister Brice was waiting downstairs in the prim front room. ‘There’s time to go back for half an hour,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m ready for the first patient; Mr Fitzgibbon won’t be back until just before three o’clock, and Mrs Keane will already have got the notes out.’

They bade Mrs Twist goodbye and walked back to Wimpole Street, where Mrs Keane was putting on the kettle. Over cups of tea she and Sister Brice covered the bare bones of Mr Fitzgibbon’s information with a wealth of their own, so that by the time Florence left she had a sound idea of what she might expect. Nothing like having a ward in the hospital, she reflected on her way to the station. She would have to make her own routine and keep to it as much as possible, allowing for Mr Fitzgibbon’s demands upon her time. All the same, she thought that she would like it; she was answerable to no one but herself and him, of course—her bedsitter was a good deal better than she had expected it to be, and there was the added bonus of going home each weekend. She spent the return journey doing sums on the back of an envelope, and alighted at Sherborne knowing that the saucepans and washing-machine need no longer be pipe-dreams. At the end of the month they would be installed in the vicarage kitchen. What was more, she would be able to refurbish her spring wardrobe.

‘Mr Fitzgibbon seems to be an employer of the highest order,’ observed her father when she recounted the day’s doings to him.

She agreed, but what sort of a man was he? she wondered; she still wasn’t sure if she liked him or not.

She spent the next two weeks in a burst of activity; the spring-cleaning had to be finished, a lengthy job in the rambling vicarage, and someone had to be found who would come each day for an hour or so. Mrs Buckett was a splendid worker but, although Mrs Napier was very nearly herself once more, there were tiresome tasks—the ironing, the shopping and the cooking—to be dealt with. Miss Payne, in the village, who had recently lost her very old mother, was only too glad to fill the post for a modest sum.

Florence packed the clothes she decided she would need, added one or two of her more precious books and a batch of family photos to grace the little mantelpiece in her bedsitter, and, after a good deal of thought, a long skirt and top suitable for an evening out. It was unlikely that she would need them, but one never knew. When she had been at the hospital she had never lacked invitations from various members of the medical staff—usually a cinema and coffee and sandwiches on the way home, occasionally a dinner in some popular restaurant—but she had been at home now for nearly a year and she had lost touch. She hadn’t minded; she was country born and bred and she hadn’t lost her heart to anyone. Occasionally she remembered that she was twenty-five and there was no sign of the man Mrs Buckett coyly described as Mr Right. Florence had the strong suspicion that Mrs Buckett’s Mr Right and her own idea of him were two quite different people.

She left home on the Sunday evening and, when it came to the actual moment of departure, with reluctance. The boys had gone back to school and she wouldn’t see them again until half-term, but there was the Sunday school class she had always taken for her father, choir practice, the various small duties her mother had had to give up while she had been ill, and there was Charlie Brown, the family cat, and Higgins, the elderly Labrador dog; she had become fond of them during her stay at home.

‘I’ll be home next weekend,’ she told her mother bracingly, ‘and I’ll phone you this evening.’ All the same, the sight of her father’s elderly greying figure waving from the platform as the train left made her feel childishly forlorn.

Mrs Twist’s home dispelled some of her feelings of strangeness. There was a tray of tea waiting for her in her room and the offer of help if she should need it. ‘And there is a bite of supper at eight o’clock, it being Sunday,’ said Mrs Twist, ‘and just this once you can use the phone downstairs. There’s a phone box just across the road that Miss Brice used.’

Florence unpacked, arranged the photos and her bits and pieces, phoned her mother to assure her in a cheerful voice that she had settled in nicely and everything was fine, and then went down to her supper.

‘Miss Brice was away for most weekends,’ said the landlady, ‘but sometimes she ’ad ter work, so we had a bite together.’

So Florence ate her supper in the kitchen with Mrs Twist and listened to that lady’s comments upon her neighbours, the cost of everything and her bad back. ‘Miss Brice told Mr Fitzgibbon about it,’ she confided, ‘and he was ever so kind—sent me to the ’ospital with a special note to a friend of ’is. ’E’s ever so nice; you’ll like working for him.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I will,’ said Florence, secretly not at all sure about it.

She arrived at the consulting-rooms well before time in the morning. A taciturn elderly man opened the door to her, nodded when she told him who she was, and went to unlock Mr Fitzgibbon’s own door. The place had been hoovered and dusted and there were fresh flowers in the vase on the coffee-table. Presumably Mr Fitzgibbon had a fairy godmother who waved her wand and summoned cleaning ladies at unearthly hours. She went through to the cloakroom and found her white uniform laid out for her; there was a frilled muslin cap too. He didn’t agree with the modern version of a nurse’s uniform, and she registered approval as she changed. She clasped her navy belt with its silver buckle round her neat waist and began a cautious survey of the premises, peering in cupboards and drawers, making sure where everything was; Mr Fitzgibbon wasn’t a man to suffer fools gladly, she was sure, and she had no intention of being caught out.

Mrs Keane arrived next, begged Florence to put on the kettle and sorted out the notes of the patients who were expected. ‘Time for a cup of tea,’ she explained. ‘We’ll be lucky if we get time for coffee this morning—there’s old Lady Trump coming, and even if we allow her twice as long as anyone else she always holds everything up. There’s the phone, dear; answer it, will you?’

Mr Fitzgibbon’s voice, unflurried, sounded in her ear. ‘I shall be about fifteen minutes late. Is Sister Napier there yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Florence, slightly tartly, ‘she is; she came at eight o’clock sharp.’

‘The time we agreed upon?’ he asked silkily. ‘I should warn you that I frown upon unpunctuality.’

‘In that case, Mr Fitzgibbon,’ said Florence sweetly, ‘why don’t you have one of those clocking-in machines installed?’

‘I frown on impertinence too,’ said Mr Fitzgibbon, and hung up.

Mrs Keane had been listening; she didn’t say anything but went and made the tea and sat down opposite Florence in the tiny kitchen. ‘I’ll tell you about the patients coming this morning. One new case—a Mr Willoughby. He’s a CA, left lobe, sent to us by his doctor. Lives somewhere in the Midlands—retired. The other three are back for check-ups—Lady Trump first; allow half an hour for her, and she needs a lot of help getting undressed and dressed and so on. Then there is little Miss Powell, who had a lobectomy two months ago, and the last one is a child, Susie Castle—seven years old—a fibrocystic. It’s not for me to say, but I think it’s a losing battle. Such a dear child, too.’

She glanced at the clock. ‘He’ll be here in about two minutes…’

She was right; Mr Fitzgibbon came in quietly, wished them good morning and went to his consulting-room.

‘Take Mr Willoughby in,’ hissed Mrs Keane, ‘and stand on the right side of the door. Mr Fitzgibbon will nod when he wants you to show the patient into the examination-room. If it’s a man you go back into the consulting-room unless he asks you to stay.’

Florence adjusted her cap just so and took herself off to the waiting-room in time to receive Mr Willoughby, a small, meek man, who gave the impression that he had resigned himself to his fate. An opinion not shared by Mr Fitzgibbon, however. Florence, watching from her corner, had to allow that his quiet assured air convinced his patient that it was by no means hopeless.

‘This is a fairly common operation,’ he said soothingly, ‘and there is no reason why you shouldn’t live a normal life for some years to come. Now, Sister will show you the examination-room, and I’ll take a look. Your own doctor seems to agree with me, and I think that you should give yourself a chance.’

So Florence led away a more hopeful Mr Willoughby, informed Mr Fitzgibbon that his patient was ready for him, and retired discreetly to the consulting-room.

Upon their return Mr Fitzgibbon said, ‘Ah, Sister, will you hand Mr Willoughby over to Mrs Keane, please?’ He shook hands with his patient and Florence led him away, a much happier man than when he had come in.

Lady Trump was quite a different matter. A lady in her eighties, who, at Mr Fitzgibbon’s behest, had undergone successful surgery and had taken on a new lease of life; moreover, she was proud of the fact and took a good deal of pleasure in boring her family and friends with all the details of her recovery…

‘You’re new,’ she observed, eyeing Florence through old-fashioned gold-rimmed pince-nez.

‘Sister Brice is getting married.’

‘Hmm—I’m surprised you aren’t married yourself.’

Ushered into the consulting-room, where she shook hands with Mr Fitzgibbon, she informed him, ‘Well, you won’t keep this gel long, she’s far too pretty.’

His cold eyes gave Florence’s person a cursory glance. His, ‘Indeed,’ was uttered with complete uninterest. ‘Well, Lady Trump, how have you been since I saw you last?’

Mrs Keane had been right: the old lady took twice as long as anyone else. Besides, she had got on all the wrong clothes; she must have known that she would be examined, yet she was wearing a dress with elaborate fastenings, tiny buttons running from her neck to her waist, and under that a series of petticoats and camisoles, all of which had to be removed to an accompaniment of warnings as to how it should be done. When at last Florence ushered her back to Mrs Keane’s soothing care, she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Would you like your coffee, sir?’ she asked, hoping that he would say yes so that she might swallow a mug herself. ‘Miss Powell hasn’t arrived yet.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Fitzgibbon without lifting his handsome head from his notes, ‘and have one yourself.’

Miss Powell was small and thin and mouse-like, and he treated her with a gentle kindness Florence was surprised to see. The little lady went away presently, reassured as to her future, and Florence, at Mr Fitzgibbon’s brisk bidding, ushered in little Susie Castle and her mother.

Susie was small for her age and wore a look of elderly resignation, which Florence found heart-rending, but even if she looked resigned she was full of life just as any healthy child, and it was obvious that she and Mr Fitzgibbon were on the best of terms. He teased her gently and made no effort to stop her when she picked up his pen and began to draw on the big notepad on his desk.

‘How about a few days in hospital, Susie?’ he wanted to know. ‘Then I’ll have time to come and see you every day; we might even find time for a game of draughts or dominoes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s so much easier for me to look after you there. We’ll go to X-ray…’

‘You’ll be there with me? It’s always a bit dark.’

‘I’ll be there. Shall we have a date?’

Susie giggled. ‘All right.’ She put out a small hand, and Florence, who was nearest, took it in hers. The child studied her face for a moment.

‘You’re very pretty. Haven’t you met Prince Charming yet?’

‘Not yet, but I expect I shall one day soon.’ Florence squeezed the small hand. ‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’

‘Yes, of course; who do you want to marry? Mr Fitzgibbon?’

Her mother made a small sound—an apology—but Florence laughed. ‘My goodness, no… Now, supposing we get you dressed again so that you can go home.’

It was later that day, after the afternoon patients had gone and she was clearing up the examination-room and putting everything ready for the next day, that Mr Fitzgibbon, on his way home, paused beside her.

‘You are happy with your work, Miss Napier?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. I like meeting people…’

‘Let us hope that you meet your Prince Charming soon,’ he observed blandly, and shut the door quietly behind him.

Leaving her wondering if he was already looking forward to the day when she would want to leave.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DAYS PASSED quickly; Mr Fitzgibbon allowed few idle moments in his day, and Florence quickly discovered that he didn’t expect her to have any either. By the end of the week she had fallen into a routine of sorts, but a very flexible one, for on two evenings she had returned to the consulting-rooms to attend those patients who were unable or who didn’t wish to come during the day, and on one afternoon she had been whisked at a moment’s notice to a large nursing home to scrub for the biopsy he wished to perform on one of his patients there. The theatre there had been adequate, but only just, and she had acquitted herself well enough. On the way back to his rooms she had asked if he performed major surgery there.

‘Good lord, no; biopsies, anything minor, but otherwise they come into Colbert’s or one of the big private hospitals.’

They had already established a satisfactory working relationship by the end of the week, but she was no nearer to knowing anything about him than on the first occasion of their meeting. He came and went, leaving telephone numbers for her in case he should be needed, but never mentioning where he was going. His home, for all she knew, might be the moon. As for him, he made no attempt to get to know her either. He had enquired if she was comfortable at Mrs Twist’s house, and if she found the work within her scope—a question which ruffled her calm considerably—and told her at the end of the week that she was free to go home for the weekend if she wished. But not, she discovered, on the Friday evening. The last patient didn’t leave until six o’clock; she had missed her train and the next one too, and the one after that would get her to Sherborne too late, and she had no intention of keeping her father out of his bed in order to meet the train.

She bade Mr Fitzgibbon goodnight, and when he asked, ‘You’re going home, Miss Napier?’ she answered rather tartly that yes, but in the morning by an early train. To which he answered nothing, only gave her a thoughtful look. She had reached the door when he said, ‘You will be back on Sunday evening all right? We shall need to be ready on Monday morning soon after nine o’clock.’ With which she had to be content.

It was lovely to be home again. In the kitchen, drinking coffee while her mother sat at the kitchen table, scraping carrots, and Mrs Buckett hovered, anxious not to miss a word, Florence gave a faithful account of her week.

‘Do you like working for Mr Fitzgibbon?’ asked her mother.

‘Oh, yes, he has a very large practice and beds at Colbert’s, and he seems to be much in demand for consultations…’

‘Is he married?’ asked Mrs Napier artlessly.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea, Mother; in fact, I don’t know a thing about him, and he’s not the kind of person you would ask.’

‘Of course, darling—I just wondered if his receptionist or someone who works for him had mentioned something…’

‘The people who work for him never mention him unless it’s something to do with work. Probably they’re not told or are sworn to secrecy…’

‘How very interesting,’ observed her mother.

The weekend went too swiftly; Florence dug the garden, walked Higgins and sang in the choir on Sunday, made a batch of cakes for the Mothers’ Union tea party to be held during the following week, and visited as many of her friends as she had time for. Sunday evening came much too soon, and she got into the train with reluctance. Once she was back in Mrs Twist’s house, eating the supper that good lady had ready for her, she found herself looking forward to the week ahead. Her work was by no means dull, and she enjoyed the challenge of not knowing what each day might offer.

Monday offered nothing special. She was disconcerted to find Mr Fitzgibbon at his desk when she arrived in the morning. He wished her good morning civilly enough and picked up his pen again with a dismissive nod.

‘You’ve been up half the night,’ said Florence matter-of-factly, taking in his tired unshaven face, elderly trousers and high-necked sweater. ‘I’ll make you some coffee.’

She swept out of the room, closing the door gently as she went, put on the kettle and ladled instant coffee into a mug, milked and sugared it lavishly and, with a tin of Rich Tea biscuits, which she and Mrs Keane kept for their elevenses, bore the tray back to the consulting-room.

‘There,’ she said hearteningly, ‘drink that up. The first patient isn’t due until half-past nine; you go home and get tidied up. It’s a check-up, isn’t it? I dare say she’ll be late—a name like Witherington-Pugh…’

Mr Fitzgibbon gave a crack of laughter. ‘I don’t quite see the connection, but yes, she is always unpunctual.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Florence comfortably. ‘Now drink up and go home. You might even have time for a quick nap.’

Mr Fitzgibbon drank his coffee meekly, trying to remember when last anyone had ordered him to drink his coffee and get off home. His childhood probably, he thought sleepily with suddenly vivid memories of Nanny standing over him while he swallowed hot milk.

Rather to his own surprise, he did as he was told, and when Florence went back to the consulting-room with the first batch of notes he had gone. He was back at half-past nine, elegant in a dark grey suit and richly sombre tie, betraying no hint of an almost sleepless night. Indeed, he looked ten years younger, and Florence, eyeing him covertly, wondered how old he was.

Mrs Witherington-Pugh, who had had open chest surgery for an irretractable hernia some years previously, had come for her annual check-up and was as tiresome as Florence had felt in her bones she would be. She was slender to the point of scragginess and swathed in vague, floating garments that took a long time to remove and even longer to put back on. She kept up what Florence privately thought of as a ‘poor little me’ conversation, and fluttered her artificial eyelashes at Mr Fitzgibbon, who remained unmoved. He pronounced her well, advised her to take more exercise, eat plenty and take up some interest.

‘But I dare not eat more than a few mouthfuls,’ declared the lady. ‘I’m not one of your strapping young women who needs three meals a day.’ Her eyes strayed to Florence’s Junoesque person. ‘If one is well built, of course…’

Florence composed her beautiful features into a calm she didn’t feel and avoided Mr Fitzgibbon’s eye. ‘None the less,’ he observed blandly, ‘you should eat sensibly; the slenderness of youth gives way to the thinness of middle age, you know.’

Mrs Witherington-Pugh simpered. ‘Well, I don’t need to worry too much about that for some years yet,’ she told him.

Mr Fitzgibbon merely smiled pleasantly and shook her hand.

Florence tidied up and he sat and watched her. ‘Bring in Sir Percival Watts,’ he said finally. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re running late. I shan’t need you for ten minutes—go and have your coffee. I’ll have mine before the next patient—’ he glanced at the pile of notes before him ‘—Mr Simpson. His tests are back; he’ll need surgery.’ He didn’t look up as she went out of the room.

Sir Percival was on the point of going when she returned, and she ushered in Mr Simpson; at a nod from Mr Fitzgibbon she busied herself in the examination-room while he talked to his patient. She could hear the murmur of their voices and then silence, and she turned to find Mr Fitzgibbon leaning against the door-frame, watching her.

‘I’ll be at Colbert’s if I’m wanted; I’ll be back here about two o’clock. You should be able to leave on time this evening. I expect you go out in the evenings when you’re free?’

‘Me? No, I’ve nowhere to go—not on my own, that is. Most of my friends at Colbert’s have left or got married; besides, by the time I’ve had supper there’s not much of the evening left.’

‘I told you the hours were erratic. Take the afternoon off tomorrow, will you? I shall be operating at Colbert’s, and Sister will scrub for me. I shall want you here at six o’clock in the evening—there’s a new patient coming to see me.’

He wandered away, and Florence muttered, ‘And not one single “please”…’

Save for necessary talk concerning patients that afternoon, he had nothing to say to her, and his goodnight was curt. He must be tired, Florence reflected, watching from the window as he crossed the pavement to his car. She hoped that his wife would be waiting for him with a well-cooked dinner. She glanced at her watch: it was early for dinner, so perhaps he would have high tea; he was such a very large man that he would need plenty of good, nourishing food. She began to arrange a menu in her mind—soup, a roast with plenty of baked potatoes and fresh vegetables, and a fruit pie for afters. Rhubarb, she mused; they had had rhubarb pie at home at the weekend with plenty of cream. Probably his wife didn’t do the cooking—he must have a sizeable income from his practice as well as the work he did at the hospital, so there would be a cook and someone to do the housework. Her nimble fingers arranged everything ready for the morning while she added an au pair or a nanny for his children. Two boys and a girl… Mrs Keane’s voice aroused her from her musings.

‘Are you ready to leave, Florence? It’s been a nice easy day, hasn’t it? There’s someone booked for tomorrow evening…’

Florence went to change out of her uniform. ‘Yes, Mr Fitzgibbon’s given me the afternoon off, but I have to come back at six o’clock.’

‘Ah, yes—did he tell you who it was? No? Forgot, I expect. A very well-known person in the theatre world. Using her married name, of course.’ Mrs Keane was going around, checking shut windows and doors. ‘Very highly strung,’ she commented, for still, despite her years of working for Mr Fitzgibbon, she adhered to the picturesque and sometimes inaccurate medical terms of her youth.

Florence, racing out of her uniform and into a skirt and sweater, envisaged a beautiful not-so-young actress who smoked too much and had developed a nasty cough…

The next day brought its quota of patients in the morning and, since the last of them went around noon, she cleared up and then was free to go. ‘Mind you’re here at six o’clock,’ were Mr Fitzgibbon’s parting words.

She agreed to that happily; she was free for almost six hours and she knew exactly what she was going to go and do. She couldn’t expect lunch at Mrs Twist’s; she would go and change and have lunch out, take a look at the shops along the Brompton Road and peek into Harrods, take a brisk walk in the park, have tea and get back in good time.

All of which she did, and, much refreshed, presented herself at the consulting-rooms with ten minutes to spare. All the same, he was there before her.

He bade her good evening with his usual cool courtesy and added, ‘You will remain with the patient at all times, Miss Napier,’ before returning to his writing.

Mrs Keane wasn’t there; Florence waited in the reception-room until the bell rang, and opened the door. She wasn’t a theatre-goer herself and she had little time for TV; all the same, she recognised the woman who came in. No longer young, but still striking-looking and expertly made-up, exquisitely dressed, delicately perfumed. She pushed past Florence with a nod.

‘I hope I’m not to be kept waiting,’ she said sharply. ‘You’d better let Mr Fitzgibbon know that I’m here.’

Florence looked down her delicate nose. ‘I believe that Mr Fitzgibbon is ready for you. If you will sit down for a moment I will let him know that you’re here.’

She tapped on the consulting-room door and went in, closing it behind her. ‘Your patient is here, sir.’

‘Good, bring her in and stay.’

The next half-hour was a difficult one. No one liked to be told that they probably had cancer of a lung, but, with few exceptions, they accepted the news with at least a show of courage. Mr Fitzgibbon, after a lengthy examination, offered his news in the kindest possible way and was answered by a storm of abuse, floods of tears and melodramatic threats of suicide.

Florence kept busy with cups of tea, tissues and soothing words, and cringed at the whining voice going on and on about the patient’s public, her ruined health and career, her spoilt looks.

When she at length paused for breath Mr Fitzgibbon said suavely, ‘My dear lady, your public need know nothing unless you choose to tell them, and I imagine that you are sufficiently well known for a couple of months away from the stage to do no harm. There is no need to tamper with your looks; your continuing—er—appearance is entirely up to you. Fretting and worrying will do more harm than a dozen operations.’

He waited while Florence soothed a fresh outburst of tears and near-hysterics. ‘I suggest that you choose which hospital you prefer as soon as possible and I will operate—within the next three weeks. No later than that.’

‘You’re sure you can cure me?’

‘If it is within my powers to do so, yes.’

‘I won’t be maimed?’

He looked coldly astonished. ‘I do not maim my patients; this is an operation which is undertaken very frequently and gives excellent results.’

‘I shall need the greatest care and nursing—I am a very sensitive person…’

‘Any of the private hospitals in London will guarantee that. Please let me know when you have made your decision and I will make the necessary arrangements.’

Mr Fitzgibbon got to his feet and bade his patient a polite goodbye, and Florence showed her out.

When she got back he was still sitting at his desk. He took a look at her face and observed, ‘I did tell you that it was hard work. At Colbert’s I see as many as a dozen a week with the same condition and not one of them utters so much as a whimper.’

‘Well,’ said Florence, trying to be fair, ‘she is famous…’

‘Mothers of families are famous too in their own homes, and they face a hazardous future, and what about the middle-aged ladies supporting aged parents, or the women bringing up children on their own?’

Florence so far forgot herself as to sit down on the other side of his desk. ‘Well, I didn’t know that you were like that…’

‘Like what?’

‘Minding about people. Oh, doctors and surgeons must mind, I know that, but you…’ She paused, at a loss for getting the right words, getting slowly red in the face at the amused mockery on his.

‘How fortunate it is, Miss Napier,’ he observed gently, ‘that my life’s happiness does not depend on your good opinion of me.’

She got off the chair. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I had to say that.’ She added ingenuously, ‘I often say things without thinking first—Father is always telling me…’

He said carelessly, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t let it worry you, I don’t suppose you ever say anything profound enough to shatter your hearer’s finer feelings.’

Florence opened her mouth to answer that back, thought better of it at the last minute, and asked in a wooden voice, ‘Do you expect any more patients, sir, or may I tidy up?’

She might not have spoken. ‘Do you intend to leave at the end of the month?’ he asked idly.

‘Leave? Here? No…’ She took a sharp breath. ‘Do you want me to? I dare say I annoy you. Not everyone can get on with everyone else,’ she explained in a reasonable voice, ‘you know, a kind of mutual antipathy…’

He remained grave, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I have no wish for you to leave, Miss Napier; you suit me very well: you are quick and sensible and the patients appear to like you, and any grumbling you may do about awkward hours you keep to yourself. We must contrive to rub along together, must we not?’ He stood up. ‘Now do whatever it is you have to do and we will go somewhere and have a meal.’

Florence eyed him in astonishment. ‘You and I? But Mrs Twist will have something keeping warm in the oven for me…’

He reached for the telephone. ‘In that case I will ask her to take it out before it becomes inedible.’ He waved a large hand at her. ‘Fifteen minutes—I’ve some notes to write up. Come back here when you’re ready.’

There seemed no point in arguing with him; Florence sped away to the examination-room and began to put it to rights. Fifteen minutes wasn’t long enough, of course; she would have to see to most of the instruments he had used in the morning—she could come early and do that. She worked fast and efficiently so that under her capable hands the room was pristine once more. The waiting-room needed little done in it; true, on her way out the patient had given vent to her feelings by tossing a few cushions around, but Florence shook them up smartly and repaired to the cloakroom, where she did her face and hair with the speed of light, got out of the uniform and into the jersey dress and matching jacket, thrust her feet into low-heeled pumps, caught up her handbag and went back to the consulting-room.

Mr Fitzgibbon was standing at the window, looking out into the street below, his hands in his pockets. He looked over his shoulder as she went in. ‘Do you like living in London?’ he wanted to know.

‘Well, I don’t really live here, do I? I work here, but when I’m free I go home, so I don’t really know what living here is like. At Colbert’s I went out a good deal when I was off duty, but I never felt as though I belonged.’

‘You prefer the country?’

‘Oh, yes. Although I should think that if I lived here in surroundings such as these—’ she waved an arm towards the street outside ‘—London might be quite pleasant.’

He opened the door for her and locked it behind him. ‘Do you live in London?’ she asked.

‘Er—for a good deal of the time, yes.’ There was a frosty edge to his voice which warned her not to ask questions. She followed him out to the car and was ushered in in silence.

She hadn’t travelled in a Rolls-Royce before and she was impressed by its size; it and Mr Fitzgibbon, she reflected, shared the same vast, dignified appearance. She uttered the thought out loud. ‘Of course, this is exactly the right car for you, isn’t it?’

He was driving smoothly through quiet streets. ‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing the size is right, isn’t it?’ She paused to think. ‘And, of course, it has great dignity.’

Mr Fitzgibbon smiled very slightly. ‘I am reassured to think that your opinion of me is improving.’

She couldn’t think of the right answer to that; instead she asked, ‘Where are we going?’

‘Wooburn Common, about half an hour from here. You know the Chequers Inn? I’ve booked a table.’

‘Oh—it’s in the country?’

‘Yes. I felt that it was the least I could do in the face of your preference for rural parts.’

‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you to take so much trouble. I mean, there are dozens of little cafés around Wimpole Street—well, not actually very near, but down some of the side-streets.’

‘I must bear that in mind. Which reminds me, Mrs Twist asks that you should make sure that the cat doesn’t get out as you go in.’

‘Oh, Buster. She’s devoted to him—he’s a splendid tabby; not as fine as our Charlie Brown, though. Do you like cats?’

‘Yes, we have one; she keeps my own dog company.’

‘We have a Labrador—Higgins. He’s elderly.’ She fell silent, mulling over the way he had said ‘we have one’, and Mr Fitzgibbon waited patiently for the next question, knowing what it was going to be.

‘Are you married?’ asked Florence.

‘No—why do you ask?’

‘Well, if you were I don’t think we should be going out like this without your wife… I expect you think I’m silly.’

‘No, but do I strike you as the kind of man who would take a girl out while his wife actually sat at home waiting for him?’

Florence looked sideways at his calm profile. ‘No.’

‘That, from someone who is still not sure if she likes me or not, is praise indeed.’

They drove on in silence for a few minutes until she said in a small resolute voice, ‘I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr Fitzgibbon.’

‘Contrary to your rather severe opinion of me, I don’t annoy easily. Ah—here we are. I hope you’re hungry?’

The Chequers Inn was charming. Florence, ushered from the car and gently propelled towards it, stopped a minute to take a deep breath of rural air. It wasn’t as good as Dorset, but it compared very favourably with Wimpole Street. The restaurant was just as charming, with a table in a window and a friendly waiter who addressed Mr Fitzgibbon by name and suggested in a quiet voice that the duck, served with a port wine and pink peppercorn sauce, was excellent and might please him and the young lady.

Florence, when consulted, agreed that it sounded delicious, and agreed again when Mr Fitzgibbon suggested that a lobster mousse with cucumber might be pleasant to start their meal.

She knew very little about wine, so she took his word for it that the one poured for her was a pleasant drink, as indeed it was, compared with the occasional bottle of table wine which graced the vicarage table. She remarked upon this in the unselfconscious manner that Mr Fitzgibbon was beginning to enjoy, adding, ‘But I dare say there are a great many wines—if one had the interest in them—to choose from.’

He agreed gravely, merely remarking that the vintage wine he offered her was thought to be very agreeable.

The mousse and duck having been eaten with relish, Florence settled upon glazed fruit tart and cream, and presently poured coffee for them both, making conversation with the well-tried experience of a vicar’s daughter, and Mr Fitzgibbon, unexpectedly enjoying himself hugely, encouraged her. It was Florence, glancing at the clock, who exclaimed, ‘My goodness, look at the time!’ She added guiltily, ‘I hope you didn’t have any plans for your evening—it’s almost ten o’clock.’ She went on apologetically, ‘It was nice to have someone to talk to.’

‘One should, whenever possible, relax after a day’s work,’ observed Mr Fitzgibbon smoothly.

The nearby church clocks were striking eleven o’clock when he stopped before Mrs Twist’s little house. Florence, unfastening her seatbelt, began her thank-you speech, which he ignored while he helped her out, took the key from her, unlocked the door and then stood looming over her.

‘I find it quite unnecessary to address you as Miss Napier,’ he remarked in the mildest of voices. ‘I should like to call you Florence.’

‘Well, of course you can.’ She smiled widely at him, so carried away by his friendly voice that she was about to ask him what his name was. She caught his steely eye just in time, coughed instead, thanked him once again and took back her key.

He opened the door for her. ‘Mind Buster,’ he reminded her, and shut the door smartly behind her. She stood leaning against it, listening to the silky purr of the car as he drove away. Buster, thwarted in his attempt to spend the night out, waited until she had started up the narrow stairs and then sidled up behind her, to curl up presently on her bed. Strictly forbidden, but Florence never gave him away.

If she had expected a change in Mr Fitzgibbon’s remote manner towards her, Florence was to be disappointed. Despite the fact that he addressed her as Florence, it might just as well have been Miss Napier. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she felt a vague disappointment, which she dismissed as nonsense in her normal matter-of-fact manner, and made a point of addressing him as ‘sir’ at every opportunity. Something which Mr Fitzgibbon noted with hidden amusement.

It was very nearly the weekend again, and there were no unexpected hold-ups to prevent her catching the evening train. It was almost the middle of May, and the vicarage, as her father brought the car to a halt before its half-open door, looked welcoming in the twilight. Florence nipped inside and down the wide hall to the kitchen, where her mother was taking something from the Aga.

‘Macaroni cheese,’ cried Florence happily, twitching her beautiful nose. ‘Hello, Mother.’ She embraced her parent and then stood her back to look at her. ‘You’re not doing too much? Is Miss Payne being a help?’

‘Yes, dear, she’s splendid, and I’ve never felt better. But how are you?’

‘Nicely settled in—the work’s quite interesting too, and Mrs Twist is very kind.’

‘And Mr Fitzgibbon?’

‘Oh, he’s a very busy man, Mother. He has a large practice besides the various hospitals he goes to…’

‘Do you like him, dear?’ Mrs Napier sounded offhand.

‘He’s a very considerate employer,’ said Florence airily. ‘Shall I fetch Father? He went round to the garage.’

‘Please, love.’ Mrs Napier watched Florence as she went, wondering why she hadn’t answered her question.

Sunday evening came round again far too soon, but as Florence got into the train at Sherborne she found, rather to her surprise, that she was quite looking forward to the week ahead. Hanging out of the window, saying a last goodbye to her father, she told him this, adding, ‘It’s so interesting, Father—I see so many people.’

A remark which in due course he relayed to his wife.

‘Now, isn’t that nice?’ observed Mrs Napier. Perhaps by next weekend Florence might have more to say about Mr Fitzgibbon. Her motherly nose had smelt a rat concerning that gentleman, and Florence had barely mentioned him…

Florence, rather unwillingly, had found herself thinking about him. Probably because she still wasn’t sure if she liked him, even though he had given her a splendid dinner. She walked round to the consulting-rooms in the sunshine of a glorious May morning, and even London—that part of London, at least—looked delightful. Mrs Keane hadn’t arrived yet; Florence got the examination-room ready, opened the windows, put everything out for coffee, filled the kettle for the cup of tea she and Mrs Keane had when there was time, and went to look at the appointment book.

The first patient was to come at nine o’clock—a new patient, she noted, so the appointment would be a long one. The two following were short: old patients for check-ups; she could read up their notes presently. She frowned over the next entry, written in Mrs Keane’s hand, for it was merely an address—that of a famous stately home open to the public—and when that lady arrived she asked about it.

Mrs Keane came to peer over her shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, dear. A patient Mr Fitzgibbon visits—not able to come here. He’ll go straight to Colbert’s from there. Let’s see, he’ll be there all the afternoon, I should think—often goes back there in the evening on a Monday, to check on the operation cases, you know. So there’s only Lady Hempdon in the afternoon, and she’s not until half-past four.’ She hung up her jacket and smoothed her neat old-fashioned hairstyle. ‘We’ve time for tea.’

The first patient arrived punctually, which was unfortunate because there was no sign of Mr Fitzgibbon. Mrs Keane was exchanging good-mornings and remarks about the weather, when the phone rang. Florence went into the consulting-room to answer it.

‘Mrs Peake there?’ It was to be one of those days; no time lost on small courtesies.

‘Yes, just arrived, sir.’

‘I shall be ten minutes. Do the usual, will you? And take your time.’ Mr Fitzgibbon hung up while she was uttering the ‘Yes, sir’.

Mrs Peake was thin and flustered and, under her nice manner, scared. Florence led her to the examination-room, explaining that before Mr Fitzgibbon saw new patients he liked them to be weighed, have their blood-pressure taken and so on. She went on talking in her pleasant voice, pausing to make remarks about this and that as she noted down particulars. More than ten minutes had gone by by the time she had finished, and she was relieved to see the small red light over the door leading to the consulting-room flicker. ‘If you will come this way, Mrs Peake—I think I have all the details Mr Fitzgibbon needs from me.’

Mr Fitzgibbon rose from his chair as they went in, giving a distinct impression that he had been sitting there for half an hour or more. His, ‘Good morning, Mrs Peake,’ was uttered in just the right kind of voice—cheerfully confident—and he received Florence’s notes with a courteous, ‘Thank you, Sister; be good enough to wait.’

As Florence led Mrs Peake away later she had to admit that Mr Fitzgibbon had a number of sides to him which she had been absolutely unaware of; he had treated his patient with the same cheerfulness, nicely tempered by sympathetic patience, while he wormed, word by word, her symptoms from her. Finally when he had finished he told her very simply what was to be done.

‘It’s quite simple,’ he had reassured her. ‘I have studied the X-rays which your doctor sent to me; I can remove a small piece of your lung and you will be quite yourself in a very short time—indeed, you will feel a new woman.’ He had gone on to talk about hospitals and convenient dates and escorted her to the door, smiling very kindly at her as he had shaken hands.

Mrs Peake had left, actually smiling. At the door she had pressed Florence’s hand. ‘What a dear man, my dear, and I trust him utterly.’

There was time to take in his coffee before the next patient arrived. Florence, feeling very well disposed towards him, saw at once that it would be a waste of time. He didn’t look up. ‘Thank you. Show Mr Cranwell in when he comes; I shan’t need you, Sister.’

She wasn’t needed for the third patient either, and since after a cautious peep she found the examination-room empty, she set it silently to rights. If Mr Fitzgibbon was in one of his lofty moods then it was a good thing he was leaving after his patient had gone.

She ushered the elderly man out and skipped back smartly to the consulting-room in answer to Mr Fitzgibbon’s raised voice.

‘I shall want you with me. Five minutes to tidy yourself. I’ll be outside in the car.’

She flew to the cloakroom, wondering what she had done, and, while she did her face, set her cap at a more becoming angle and made sure her uniform was spotless, she worried. Had she annoyed a patient or forgotten something? Perhaps he had been crossed in love, unable to take his girlfriend out that evening. They might have quarrelled… She would have added to these speculations, only Mrs Keane poked her head round the door.

‘He’s in the car…’

Mr Fitzgibbon leaned across and opened the door as she reached the car, and she got in without speaking, settled herself without looking at him and stared ahead as he drove away.

He negotiated a tangle of traffic in an unflurried manner before he spoke. ‘I can hear your thoughts, Florence.’

So she was Florence now, was she? ‘In that case,’ she said crisply, ‘there is no need for me to ask where we are going, sir.’

Mr Fitzgibbon allowed his lip to twitch very slightly. ‘No—of course, you will have read about it for yourself. You know the place?’

‘I’ve been there with my brothers.’

‘The curator has apartments there; his wife is a patient of mine, recently out of hospital. She is a lady of seventy-two and was unfortunate enough to swallow a sliver of glass during a meal, which perforated her oesophagus. I found it necessary to perform a thoracotomy, from which she is recovering. This should be my final visit, although she will come to the consulting-room later on for regular check-ups.’

‘Thank you,’ said Florence in a businesslike manner. ‘Is there anything else that I need to know?’

‘No, other than that she is a nervous little lady, which is why I have to take you with me.’

Florence bit back a remark that she had hardly supposed that it was for the pleasure of her company, and neither of them spoke again until they reached their destination.

This, thought Florence, following Mr Fitzgibbon through a relatively small side-door and up an elegant staircase to the private apartments, was something to tell the boys when she wrote to them. The elderly stooping man who had admitted them stood aside for them to go in, and she stopped looking around her and concentrated on the patient.

A dear little lady, sitting in a chair with her husband beside her. Florence led her to a small bedroom presently, and Mr Fitzgibbon examined her without haste before pronouncing her fit and well, and when Florence led her patient back to the sitting-room he was standing at one of the big windows with the curator, discussing the view.

‘You will take some refreshment?’ suggested the curator, and Florence hoped that Mr Fitzgibbon would say yes; the curator looked a nice, dignified old man who would tell her more about the house…

Mr Fitzgibbon declined with grave courtesy. ‘I must get back to Colbert’s,’ he explained, ‘and Sister must return to the consulting-rooms as soon as possible.’

They made their farewells and went back to the car, and as Mr Fitzgibbon opened the door for her he said, ‘I’m already late. I’ll take you straight back and drop you off at the door. Lady Hempdon has an appointment for half-past four, has she not?’

She got in, and he got in beside her and drove off. ‘Perhaps you would like to drop me off so that I can catch a bus?’ asked Florence sweetly.

‘How thoughtful of you, Florence, but I think not. We should be back without any delay!’

Mr Fitzgibbon, so often right, was for once wrong.

CHAPTER THREE

MR FITZGIBBON IGNORED the main road back to the heart of the city. Florence, who wasn’t familiar with that part of the metropolis, became quite bewildered by the narrow streets lined with warehouses, most of them derelict, shabby, small brick houses and shops, and here and there newly built blocks of high-rise flats. There was, however, little traffic, and his short cuts would bring him very close to Tower Bridge where, presumably, he intended to cross the river.

She stared out at the derelict wharfs and warehouses they were passing with windows boarded up and walls held upright by wooden props; they looked unsafe and it was a good thing that the terrace of houses on the other side of the street was in a like state. There was nothing on the street save a heavily laden truck ahead of them, loaded with what appeared to be scrap iron. Mr Fitzgibbon had slowed, since it wasn’t possible to pass, so that he was able to stop instantly when the truck suddenly veered across the street and hit the wall of a half-ruined warehouse, bringing it down in a shower of bricks.

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