“I came to take you home.”

She stood still, looking at him with her beautiful eyes. “How kind,” she said. “But you needn’t have bothered. I was going back on my broomstick.”

He laughed at that and caught her arm and hurried out to where the Bentley was waiting. It was cold and damp. Sophy shivered.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Sophy realized that she was—very. “Famished,” she replied, and started making futile attempts to tidy her regrettable hair.

Max took a comb from a pocket and said, “Here, let me.”

She sat quietly while he tucked and pinned the ends away under her cap. When he had finished, he put a finger under her chin and looked at her, his head on one side. Sophy looked back at Max shyly, hearing her heartbeats pounding in her ears, and making an effort to take regular breaths. The effort wasn’t very successful, and when he bent his head and kissed her gently on the mouth, she stopped breathing altogether, savoring bliss, but only for a moment.

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.

Visiting Consultant
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 TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

SISTER SOPHIA Greenslade wrinkled her straight little nose under her muslin mask and thought longingly of her tea. The theatre list should have been finished an hour ago, but an emergency splenectomy had had to be fitted in during the afternoon. Now the last case, a simple appendicectomy, was on the table. The RSO, Tom Carruthers, put out a gloved hand to take the purse string she had ready. She fitted a curved, threaded needle into its holder, and glanced at the clock. Five minutes, she calculated, and she’d be free. Staff had been back on duty for more than half an hour; she could hand over to her. She passed the stitch scissors at exactly the right moment; nodded to the junior nurse to check swabs, and started to put the soiled instruments into the bowl of saline nearby, pausing only to put a threaded skin needle into the mute demanding hand of the RSO. Raising a pair of nicely-shaped eyebrows at a watching nurse, who had been long enough in theatre to know what the gesture signified—to whisk the bowl away—Sister Greenslade got down from the small square stool behind her white-draped trolleys and stationed herself by the houseman opposite Tom Carruthers, ready to clap on the small piece of strapping over the neatly stitched wound. This done to her satisfaction, she said ‘Porters, please’ in her nice, unhurried voice, and followed the RSO over to the sink, stooping to pick up his gown and cap which he had shed as he went. Inured to the ways of surgeons, she said nothing, but put them wordlessly into the bin and stood quietly while a nurse untied the tapes of her own gown, then took off her theatre cap and mask, revealing a pleasant face, redeemed from plainness by a pair of magnificent eyes with very dark lashes. Her nose was nondescript, and her mouth too large; her complexion was good, and her hair, drawn severely back into a coil on top of her head, was a delicate shade of mouse. She was barely middle height, but her figure, which was charming, more than compensated for her lack of inches.

She joined the two men at the sinks in the scrubbing room, and they stood in a row, relaxed and friendly, all of them anxious to be gone.

‘What’s the time?’ asked Tom.

Sophia went on scrubbing. ‘Almost six,’ she said. ‘If you hurry and your wife’s waiting and ready, you’ll just about get there as the curtain goes up.’

She smiled up at him, and he thought for the hundredth time that her smile transformed her whole face. He was a happily married man himself, he couldn’t understand why Sister Greenslade hadn’t been snapped up before now. He started to dry his hands.

‘What about you? Got a date tonight?’

She turned off the taps and said with a twinkle, ‘They’re falling over themselves to get at me—it’s my fatal beauty.’ She chuckled at her own remark, and went away to hand over.

Ten minutes later, she was on her way home. The early October evening was already chilly, but after the warmth of the theatre she welcomed its freshness. The hospital was in a pleasant part of London; the houses around it were for the most part elderly and terraced and well cared-for. There were lighted windows in most of them as she hurried towards her own home. She had been a very small girl when her father, a consultant at the hospital, had bought it. When he and her mother had been killed in a road accident, she had been just twenty-one, newly registered, and staffing in theatre. Her parents’ death had been a sorrow she had been forced to bury deep under the responsibilities she had shouldered. The three younger children had still been at school then, and somehow she had been able to keep the home together, dividing her busy life between the exacting roles of mother, housekeeper and nurse with a success which had been earned at the expense of a much curtailed social life. In this she had been greatly helped by Grandmother Greenslade, who lived with them, and Sinclair, who had been her father’s batman in the army during the war, and had somehow attached himself to his household when they had been demobbed. Indeed, he was the staunch friend of the whole family, and stood high in their affections.

She turned the last corner into the street where she lived. The house was half way down; she could see it quite clearly, even in the dusk. She could also see a small boy standing on the pavement—her younger brother, Benjamin. She frowned, and walked faster. Ben had a habit of getting into scrapes, which was probably why the tall gentleman with him was holding him so firmly by one shoulder. As she reached them, her mouth was open to utter some soothing phrase. She was forestalled, however.

‘Ah, Sister Sophy, I fancy.’ The voice sounded impatient and faintly mocking. She took a look at the speaker; he was not only tall, but big, with an air of self-confidence, almost arrogance, which made his good-looking face seem older than it probably was. He returned her look with the coldest blue eyes she had seen for a very long time.

Sophy listened to the sudden thump of her heart. She was, she told herself, very angry.

‘Yes, my name is Sophy,’ she said coolly. ‘Though I can’t imagine why you should be so ill-mannered and—and familiar.’

He put his handsome head a little on one side—the street lamp’s thin light turned his grey hair to silver—and said silkily, to madden her,

‘My dear good madam, why should I wish to be familiar with you? I used your name merely as a means of identification.’

Sophy choked, drew a long calming breath, and turned to her brother.

‘What have you done, Ben?’ she asked resignedly. Then, as she saw his white face, ‘Are you hurt? What happened?’

Ben looked at her with relief mingled with a twelve-year-old boy’s revulsion of making a scene.

‘I bumped into this gentleman’s car…’

The gentleman interrupted crisply,

‘You should teach your brother that it’s unwise to run across a street before looking to see if it’s empty.’

It was at this moment that Sophy became aware of the gleaming Bentley drawn up at the kerb. She thought it unlikely that it had been damaged, it appeared to be perfection itself.

‘I expect you were driving too fast,’ she said outrageously.

He laughed with real amusement.

‘I think not,’ he said, the laugh echoing in his voice. ‘I’m not in the habit of driving recklessly; and may I remind you that it’s I who have the right to be annoyed, not you? I dislike being forced to avoid small boys and large dogs—’

Sophy stared at him, and repeated ‘Large dogs?’ in a rather thin voice, and then—’ The Blot!’ in a tone of consternation. She whipped off a glove, put two fingers into her mouth and whistled piercingly, causing her two companions to wince, then turned to her brother.

‘Ben, I told you not to let the Blot cross the road without his lead!’

‘I didn’t, truly, Sophy. But Titus went with us and sat down in the park and wouldn’t come back; so of course the moment I took the Blot’s lead off, he went back for him.’ He paused. ‘I had to go after him, didn’t I?’

Sophy considered the point gravely, her eyes on the stranger’s well-cut tweed jacket. ‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘I suppose you did.’

She stopped talking to watch a large black dog, who from his appearance had been richly endowed by a large variety of unknown ancestors. The dog crossed the road with all the care of a child who has recently learned his kerb drill; his liquid black eye fixed on the man, as if to challenge him to think otherwise. The dog was closely followed by a nondescript cat, whose obvious low breeding was offset by a tremendous dignity.

Sophy heaved a sigh of relief. ‘There they are,’ she cried unnecessarily. ‘They’re devoted to each other,’ she added, as an afterthought and in a tone of finality, as though that fact could explain away the whole episode. She heaved a sigh of relief which turned to a gasp. ‘They didn’t damage your car, did they?’

She looked up at the silent man beside her, and tried not to see how very handsome he was. The Blot had reared himself on to his hind legs, intent on making friends. The man patted him absent-mindedly, and looked down with resignation at Titus, who had wreathed himself around one elegant trousered leg. He shifted his gaze to Sophy, and said, ‘Bentleys don’t—er—dent very easily.’

‘I say, is she really yours, sir?’ Ben’s enthusiasm had overcome his fright.

The black eyebrows rose. ‘Most certainly.’

The boy looked at the graceful sweep of the car’s bonnet.

‘Well, I’d rather be run down by a Bentley than anything else,’ he stated. ‘Excepting a Rolls-Royce, of course.’

‘If I only I’d known,’ murmured the tall man, ‘I would have done my best to oblige you.’

Sophy, deprived of her tea, and anxious to be gone from this strangely disturbing man, said sharply, ‘What a great pity it is that you aren’t driving your Rolls today.’ And then stood abashed at his grave agreement and casual explanation that he seldom brought it to England. ‘The Bentley is usually sufficient for my needs,’ he concluded gently.

Sophy felt the colour surge into her face, and was thankful for the gathering darkness. She said in a stiff voice, ‘I beg your pardon. If you’re sure that Ben has done no harm, we’ll go… Ben, will you apologise for upsetting this gentleman?’

‘Do I look upset?’ He was smiling openly at her, and her cheeks caught fire anew. He listened to Ben’s apology and then put out a hand and tweaked the boy’s ear gently. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and turned away to his car, then, his hand on the door, looked over his shoulder.

‘Blot,’ he said. ‘Escutcheon or Landscape?’

‘Landscape,’ said Sophy. ‘We haven’t got an escutcheon.’

‘And Titus? One feels that it should have some Latin significance…but I’m at a loss.’

‘He likes porridge.’

His shoulders shook. ‘How slow-witted I’ve become; or perhaps my knowledge of your history is becoming a little rusty.’ He got into the car. Above the restrained purr of the engine they heard his voice wishing them a goodnight.

Sophy closed the door behind her small party, took off her coat in the hall, warned Ben to wash his hands, and went straight to the kitchen. Sinclair glanced up as she went in, and then went on pouring water into a comfortably sized tea pot.

‘You’re very late, Miss Sophy. Thought I heard you talking outside in the street,’ he went on innocently. The kitchen was at the back of the house, a point Sophy knew was not worth the mentioning.

‘Ben ran in front of a car—we stopped to apologise to the driver.’

‘Annoyed, was he? Ought to know better, these fast drivers; running innocent children down…’

Sophy perched on the edge of the kitchen table.

‘Oh, Sinclair, it wasn’t like that at all. It was Ben’s fault, and this man was…very nice,’ she ended tamely. Nice wasn’t at all the right word… She thought of a great many adjectives which would describe him. He had annoyed her, and mocked her, and made her feel silly, as though she had been a brash teenager; but she knew, without having to think about it, that if Ben had been knocked down he was the man she would have wished to be first on the scene.

She asked on a sigh, ‘What’s for supper, Sinclair? I missed tea.’

‘Your grandma said a nice cauliflower cheese, miss. You go and have a cuppa, and I’ll get it on the go for you.’

The three occupants of the sitting room all looked up as Sophy entered. And they all spoke simultaneously.

‘Sophy, what is all this about a man and a car?

‘He wasn’t English, was he, Sophy? Even though he did understand about Titus… He said he had a Rolls, didn’t he? Penny says I’m fibbing.’

‘He looked gorgeous!’ This from her sister, Penelope, in the tones of a love-sick tragedy queen.

Sophy put down the tea tray, poured herself a cup, and answered the questions without hurry or visible excitement. She smiled across the room at her grandmother, sitting comfortably by the fire, solving the Telegraph crossword in a leisurely fashion.

‘Ben was almost knocked down by a car—it was his fault. We stopped to apologise to the driver. He was very nice about it.’

Her grandmother looked up, her pretty, absurdly youthful face full of interest. ‘Well, well. A man? Very good-looking, Penny says.’

Sophy replied composedly, ‘Yes, very. And I think Benjamin’s right in supposing him to be a foreigner.’

Penelope sighed gustily. At fifteen, she was full of romantic notions which at times made her very difficult to live with.

‘He was a smasher. I couldn’t see him quite clearly from the window. You might have asked him in, Sophy. Why didn’t you?’

Sophy looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think about it,’ she replied honestly, and then took pity on the pretty downcast face of her young sister. ‘He wasn’t very young,’ she ventured.

‘I’m old for my years,’ Penny insisted. ‘Age doesn’t matter where true love exists.’

This profound remark drew forth general laughter in which Penny quite cheerfully joined, and then she said, ‘Well, perhaps he was a bit old for me, but he would have done nicely for you, Sophy. You always said that you wished a tall handsome man would load you with jewels and furs and carry you off to his castle.’

Sophy looked astonished. ‘Did I really say that?’ Half-for-gotten dreams, smothered by the prosaic daily round of her busy life, made her heart stir. She shook her head and said briskly. ‘That must have been years ago.’

She was almost asleep in a sleeping house, when she remembered that he had said goodnight and not goodbye. She told herself sleepily that it meant nothing at all; but it was comforting all the same.

The tide of early morning chores washed away all but the most commonplace of her thoughts. Even on her short walk to the hospital her thoughts were taken up with her elder brother, Luke, who was in his last year of medical school at Edinburgh Royal. He was twenty-two, almost four years younger than she; and clever. What money there was she used ungrudgingly to get him through his studies. Another year, and he would qualify, and the money could be used for Penny, and later, for Benjamin. The darkling thought that by then she would be in her forties dimmed her plans momentarily, but she wasn’t a girl to give way to self-pity, and she was cheerful enough as she went along to the scrubbing room, and then into the theatre. Staff Nurse had already laid up—the theatre was ready.

Sophy began to thread her needles. She could hear the murmur of men’s voices in the scrubbing room. The first case was to be a tricky one—a duodenopancreatectomy—and Mr Giles Radcliffe, the senior consultant surgeon, would be doing it. Probably the RSO would assist, for Mr Radcliffe’s houseman was fresh from his training school, and though painfully anxious to please, still leaned heavily on Sophy’s unobtrusive help, given wordlessly by means of frowns and nods and seeing that the correct instrument was always ready to his hand. She looked up as they came in, and her ‘Good morning’ froze on her lips. There were three men, not two. The third one was the man with the Bentley. Even gowned and masked, it was impossible not to recognise those pale blue eyes. They were staring at her now, with an expression which she was unable to read.

CHAPTER TWO

THE THREE SURGEONS strolled across the theatre with an air of not having much to do. Mr Radcliffe glanced at the patient before he spoke.

‘Sophy, this is Professor Jonkheer Maximillan van Oosterwelde—he will be operating this morning.’

He turned to the tall man with him. ‘Max, this is Miss Sophia Greenslade, Sister in charge of Main Theatre.’

They looked at each other over their masks—Sophy’s lovely hazel eyes, wide with surprise, encountered his cool blue ones. She said something—she had no idea what—in a murmur. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde said ‘How do you do?’ in a voice which really didn’t want to know, and turned to his patient.

Sophy had no time to wonder why her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning. Training and discipline clamped down on her muddled thoughts; she passed Bill Evans the sponges for the final prep, and handed Mr Radcliffe a large sterile sheet, which the surgeons arranged with all the meticulous care of housewives draping the best tablecloth. It shrouded the quiet figure between them in decent obscurity; leaving a surprisingly small area of skin exposed. She followed it with a variety of small towels and towel clips, and waited composedly until the anaesthetist said ‘Ready when you are.’ And when a quiet voice said, ‘Right, Sister,’ she was ready with the knife, and then in quick succession, the tissue and artery forceps and swabs. Mr Radcliffe put out a hand for gut, and she handed the retractors to Bill, then looked quickly round the theatre. She had a good team of nurses; they were all doing their allotted tasks. She nodded at each in turn and raised her eyebrows at Staff, who slid up behind her, whispered ‘Sucker?’ and switched it on. Sophy passed its sterile nozzle to Bill, who was looking worried because he hadn’t got anything to do. He took it gratefully, feeling he was in the picture again. She checked the clamps and the intestinal needles, rinsed the discarded forceps and put them ready to hand again, and watched Jonkheer van Oosterwelde. He was looking ahead of him, probing with gentle fingers; intent on his delicate task. At length he focused his gaze on Mr Radcliffe.

‘It’s worth trying, I think—what would you say?’

Sophy watched while Mr Radcliffe did exactly the same thing in his turn, then nodded. She caught a nurse’s eye and looked silently at the bowls. The nurse changed the saline in them and went away for a fresh supply; the operation would be a long one. The vacoliter would need changing fairly soon; she lifted a gloved finger and the junior nurse slid away to fetch a fresh supply. The men were talking quietly, working in unison. The Dutchman was dissecting with slow delicacy; Sophy put up a warning finger again, and a nurse edged up to the table with a receiver, to receive the result of his painstaking work. He stretched his long back, and bent to his work again, and Mr Radcliffe said,

‘You’re too tall, Max, by at least six inches—a pity you can’t give some of them to Sophy. She has to stand on a box—when you see her on the ground, you’ll see what I mean.’

‘I know perfectly what you mean; I have already seen her on the ground.’ He took an atraumatic needle from Sophy without looking at her.

‘You’ve met already? Where?’

‘In the street, yesterday evening, but we—ah—didn’t introduce ourselves.’

Sophy thought he was laughing behind his mask. She said tartly, ‘Which number gut will you use, sir?’

He had started the long-drawn out business of implanting, and didn’t look up from his work, but answered her in quite a different voice in which she could not detect the smallest thread of a laugh; and though the two men, and even Bill, talked among themselves during the remainder of the operation she was not included in their conversation. It wasn’t until the patient had been borne carefully away and Mr Radcliffe had rather tiredly suggested that they have coffee before the next case, that the other man spoke.

‘Thank you for your help, Sister—you are, if I may say so, very good at your job.’

Mr Radcliffe looked over his shoulder as he went through the door.

‘Yes, of course she is. Sophy, come and have your coffee with us—I want to talk to you.’

There was nothing for it but to do as she was asked. The theatre was already cleared and with whispered instructions to Staff to scrub and lay up as soon as she had had her coffee, Sophy followed the three men into her office. They stood politely while she took the chair behind her desk and then settled themselves: Mr Radcliffe on to the only other chair the room contained, Bill Evans on the edge of the desk, the Dutchman on the low window ledge. They were still wearing their caps and rubber boots and thick, enveloping aprons; the rubber smelled pungently in the small room. Tieless shirts and rolled-up sleeves did nothing to add to the general aspect of their appearance, but Sophy was used to it and indeed hardly noticed it as she poured coffee into the gaily painted mugs the nurses had given her for Christmas. She ladled in generous spoonfuls of sugar, and handed round the heartening beverage, and offered digestive biscuits with an unselfconscious, almost motherly air. The talk was pure shop, and she joined in easily; accepted as someone who knew what was being talked about and could be depended upon to listen with intelligence and give the right answers. Mr Radcliffe barely gave Bill time to drink his coffee before sending him off to the ward on an errand. As the door closed he passed his mug for a second cup and said,

‘I’m going on holiday, Sophy—for about six weeks.’

Sophy blinked her amazingly long eyelashes and said nothing.

‘I’ve been advised to rest for a bit, Max has kindly agreed to take over while I’m away, for the first few weeks at least. His own theatre in Utrecht is being rebuilt—it couldn’t be more fortuitous.’

Sophy filled the Dutch surgeon’s mug, and said quietly, ‘You’re ill, Uncle Giles, aren’t you?’

She handed Professor Jonkheer van Oosterwelde his coffee, ignoring his raised eyebrows. He had hardly spoken a dozen words to her, and for all she cared, she thought defiantly, he need not bother to address her again. She turned back to the older man.

Mr Radcliffe was no fool. He had seen the raised brows and the heightened colour in Sophy’s cheeks. He didn’t answer her question, but said smoothly, ‘Your fathers were my two greatest friends, although they never met. I stood godfather to each of you in turn, you know.’ He coughed, ‘Strange that you should meet like this.’

Max van Oosterwelde got up, apparently unaware of Sophy’s interested stare. ‘Very strange,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I imagine there was a decade or so between your good offices, however.’

‘But that doesn’t matter,’ cried Sophy, ‘It makes us into readymade…’ She paused. She had been about to say friends, but they weren’t friends, and the look she had just encountered held very little warmth in it, merely a faint, derisive amusement. She blushed, then frowned heavily, and was thankful when Uncle Giles got up too and remarked that it was time they got on with the job again.

They worked steadily for the next couple of hours. The nurses went in turn to their dinners, and when Sophy eventually went to her own, it was past two o’clock. She ate it, as she had so often done, in the complete silence of the empty dining room, thinking about the morning. She had exchanged barely a dozen words with the new surgeon after the coffee break. He was pleasant—and easy—to work for, she admitted to herself, but he obviously had no intention of being friendly. It was at this point that she realised that she knew nothing about him—perhaps he was married? or engaged? She felt unaccountably depressed at the thought; the not very appetising meal became uneatable, and she went back to the theatre.

The men came back from their own lunch in excellent spirits, and Jonkheer van Oosterwelde removed a gall bladder, repaired two tricky hernias, and whisked out a couple of appendices with a neatness and dispatch which could only earn Sophy’s admiration; maintaining an easy flow of conversation while he did so, while rather markedly excluding her from it. Not that he was anything but polite and correct towards her; indeed, when she inadvertently dropped the stitch scissors she was made very aware of his patient tolerance towards her clumsiness.

The last case was wheeled out of the theatre just before five o’clock, and the three men, shedding gowns and caps as they went, followed it. Sophy and her nurses plunged into the business of clearing the theatre, and made such good work of it that after ten minutes Sophy felt justified in leaving Staff Nurse to do the knives and needles, and go off duty. She went down the passage to her office and went in. The little room was wreathed in tobacco smoke; she swallowed a sigh, as Uncle Giles caught her eye and asked, ‘Tea, Sophy?’

She said quietly, ‘Of course, it won’t take a minute.’

She went back into the tiny kitchen where a kettle was kept perpetually on the boil and a tray stood ready, made the tea and carried it back and poured it out before turning to go. In this she was frustrated, however. The Dutchman was standing by the window, his broad shoulders blocking what light there was, his great height dwarfing everything else around him.

‘You will have a cup, too, Sister?’ There was no warmth in his voice. Sophy said baldly, ‘No,’ and then, because it had sounded rude, ‘Thank you. I’m going off duty.’

He didn’t answer, but bent forward and poured another cup of tea and handed it to her, so that she was forced to take it and sit in the chair he pulled out from behind her desk. He said gently, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘It will only take a minute; it would be a pity to miss your tea.’

She looked at her cup, angry with herself for going red, and Mr Radcliffe, noticing her hot cheeks, put down his own cup and asked,

‘How did you two meet?’

Sophy remained stubbornly silent, and after a minute Jonkheer van Oosterwelde gave him a brief account of their encounter. She sat listening to his deep voice making light of the whole affair and cheerfully taking the blame upon himself. She felt faintly ashamed of herself, then remembered how he had addressed her as his dear madam. Her cheeks grew fiery again at the recollection, their redness fanned by the amused stare she encountered when she ventured to glance at him.

Her godfather thought it was all rather amusing, and said so before launching into an anecdote of his own. Under cover of this, Bill bent forward.

‘Sister Greenslade, you haven’t forgotten I’m coming to supper on Saturday evening?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I mean, if it’s still all right…’

Sophy smiled warmly at him. ‘Of course it’s all right. Come early, then we can play Monopoly or Canasta after supper.’

She got up to go, and Mr Radcliffe paused in his low-voiced talk.

‘Your aunt expects you all on Sunday, Sophy—she told me to remind you.’

She stood in the doorway, very neat in her blue dress. She had put her cap on when she had gone to make the tea; it perched, like an ultra-clean butterfly, on top of her tidy head. All three men were watching her, but she was looking at her godfather.

‘Thank you, Uncle Giles. We love coming; you know that. We shall miss it while you’re away.’ She smiled, murmured a pleasant ‘Goodnight’ and shut the door quietly behind her.

The theatre was clear; she sent the nurses off duty, had a word with Staff, and went to the changing room, from whence she emerged ten minutes later, still looking neat, in a nicely cut tweed suit; its rich greens and browns suited her—the man following her quietly away from the theatre block and down the staircase thought so too. Sophy hadn’t heard him until his voice asked just behind her,

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘No, thank you.’ The words were spoken before she could regret them. It would be nice to ride in a Bentley. ‘I live quite close.’ And added crossly, ‘You know that,’ she paused, ‘sir.’

‘I’m afraid I made you late, suggesting that you should have tea just now. Allow me to make amends.’

He crossed the entrance hall with her, obviously sure of getting his own way. They said goodnight to Pratt, the head porter, and she went through the heavy door which he held open for her. She only had to say that she preferred to walk, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. She found herself sitting beside him. The temptation to sink back into the rich cosiness of the leather was great; instead, she sat upright, looking ahead of her, as though she had never seen the streets before. He turned to look at her as they slid along the familiar route.

‘You don’t have to be on your guard all the time, do you?’

Sophy felt the soft hammer of her heart. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, too quickly.

‘Yes, you do, some time we’ll discuss it, but to begin with you might try sitting back comfortably, even if it is only for a few minutes. I must say I’m surprised. I thought you were a sensible sort of young woman.’

Sophy felt rage wash over her—why did he contrive to make her feel foolish? ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she answered coldly. ‘I’m exactly like thousands of other women.’

They had drawn up in front of the house; he leant across her to open the door, but didn’t open it. ‘No, you’re wrong; you’re not like any other woman.’ He opened the door at last, and said, ‘By the way, isn’t Bill Evans rather young for you?’

Sophy had been on the point of getting out, but she turned sharply in her seat, which was a mistake, for he was so near that her cheek brushed his. The touch made her catch her breath, but she managed to say in a tolerably calm voice, ‘I’ve known Bill, for several months; I met you yesterday, Jonkheer van Oosterwelde. I can’t think why it should be any business of yours nor why you should want to know anything about me… Goodnight.’

His voice came quietly through the gloom of the evening. ‘Ah, yes, that is something else we must discuss, isn’t it? Goodnight.’

She stood on the pavement, watching the big car disappear into the gathering twilight, her mouth slightly open. Presently she closed it with something of a snap, and went into the house. She had two days off; she was glad. It would be Saturday when she went back on duty, there were no lists on that day, only emergencies, and the RSO was on duty for the weekend. She wouldn’t see the Dutchman until Monday.

Penny was waiting for her in the hall sitting on the stairs, school books scattered around her. She jumped up as Sophy shut the door.

‘I heard a car—Sophy, did he bring you home? Was he waiting for you? How did he know where you were?’ She paused for a much-needed breath, and sank back on to the bottom stair. ‘Where does he come from?’

Sophy unbuttoned her jacket and sat down beside her sister, kicking off her shoes for greater comfort. She said in an unemotional voice. ‘He’s the surgeon who is relieving Uncle Giles while he goes on holiday.’

Penny leaned forward and hugged her sister. ‘Sophy, how perfectly marvellous for you! Does he like you? Yes, of course he does—everyone likes you.’ She interrupted herself. ‘Uncle Giles on holiday again? But he’s only just been a month or so ago. He and Aunt Vera came back in September, didn’t they?’ Sophy chose to answer the second question first. ‘Uncle Giles is ill—I expect we shall hear about it when we go there on Sunday. He and Aunt will be away for six weeks.’

Penny absorbed this information for a moment, then went doggedly back to her first question. ‘You’ve not told me about the stranger—I still want to know. What’s he like, and what is his name, and has he fallen for you?’

Sophy laughed. ‘Oh, darling, no! He hardly spoke to me in theatre and he only brought me home because we happened to leave the hospital at the same time. He’s a very good surgeon, I imagine, and his name is Professor Jonkheer Maximillan van Oosterwelde.’ She laughed again at the expression on her sister’s face.

‘A professor,’ said Penny, ‘and with a name like that. He must be quite old; has he got grey hair?’

‘Yes,’ said Sophy. ‘It’s brushed very smoothly back without a parting and he’s got a very high forehead, but his eyebrows are as black as thunder clouds. His eyes are pale blue…’

She stopped, aware of her sister’s interested gaze, and got to her feet briskly. ‘Bill’s coming to supper on Saturday, so mind and have your homework done—you can’t expect him to help you with your maths each time he comes, you know.’

Penny giggled. ‘No, I know; but he’s a dear, isn’t he? He likes me too.’ She stated the fact without conceit and added thoughtfully, ‘I’m almost sixteen.’

Sophy said soberly, ‘Yes, dear, and he’s twenty-two and a very clever boy. In three years’ time he’ll know where he’s going—and so will you.’

They smiled at each other, and Sophy thought, ‘How strange, she’s almost eleven years younger than I am and she knows who and what she wants already. I only hope Bill is sure enough to wait until she grows up.’ She gave Penny a hug and said, ‘Let’s get supper. I’m off until Saturday; I think I shall go up to Harrods tomorrow and look around. You need a new coat for the winter—it’s your turn, anyway. If I see anything you might like at our price, we’ll go together next week and get it.’

They went off to the kitchen, happily engrossed in the rival merits of Irish tweed as opposed to a good hardwearing Harris.

Bill Evans arrived punctually for his supper, and was at once pounced upon and borne away to the shabby comfort of the small study at the end of the hall, where he good-naturedly corrected Penny’s maths. They sat side by side at the desk, while he tried to make her understand the relations of the sides and angles of triangles. Sophy, coming to fetch them, thought how exactly right they were for each other; her pretty, sweet-natured young sister and this awkward, shy boy, who was yet man enough to hide his feelings behind a gentle teasing friendliness. It was strange, but he was never shy and awkward with Penny. Even Grandmother Greenslade, whose opinion of modern youth verged on the vituperative, approved of him; amending her opinion with the rider that Penny was still a schoolgirl and was to be treated as such.

Supper was a cheerful, rather noisy meal, with a great deal of talk. Even Sinclair, prowling in and out with second helpings, joined in from time to time, accompanied and hindered by the Blot and Titus, who liked to keep track of the food. The conversation was lively and varied, largely because the Greenslades had learned that without it life would be rather dull. There was no television in the house. Sophy had decided against it, and abetted by her grandmother, who disliked it very much, had managed to persuade the others that it was something they could do without, and an expense they couldn’t afford to incur. There had been a little money when their parents died, but it was astonishing how fast it disappeared. Sophy had a fairly good salary and Grandmother Greenslade contributed her share; but only Sophy and perhaps Sinclair, who did most of the shopping, knew how carefully the money was budgeted.

They spent the evening playing Canasta and Sevens, and then Old Maid. Sophy hoped there was no significance in the fact that she was pronounced Old Maid time and time again.

She was on duty at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. There was no one about as she walked quickly to the hospital. It had been a quiet weekend in theatre so far. She hoped it would remain so, at least until she had had her free time that afternoon. She was off at one o’clock; she should be able to get to Uncle Giles by half past. She had two junior nurses on with her; they busied themselves turning out cupboards while she checked stock until they brought her coffee and went away to get their own. After they had gone the theatre was very quiet; Sophy pushed her books and forms and lists on one side, and sat rather despondently, doing nothing. Tom Carruthers, coming soft-footed into the little room, looked at her thoughtfully and said nothing. He accepted a mug of coffee and settled in the chair opposite hers. It was unlike Sophy to be down in the mouth, but he knew how fiercely independent she was, and he wasn’t one to pry. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a nasty lot in Cas: femurs, tib and fib, fractured base— Orthopaedic will have their hands full. There’s a nasty internal injuries too—not fit for anything yet, though. This evening at the earliest, I should think. You’ll be on?’

Sophy nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve a one to five—if I’m lucky. I’ll be at Uncle Giles’ as usual.’

‘He’s going on holiday; of course you know about it?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘I must say it’s a bit of luck getting that Dutch chap to do his work. Nice fellow too. Tall as Nelson’s column and ten times as broad. Got a St Andrew’s degree, too, as well as half a dozen Dutch ones. Met him yet?’ He saw the pink stealing into Sophy’s cheeks and looked out of the window.

‘Yes, he’s very good—he took the list on Wednesday.’

Tom passed his mug for more coffee. ‘Quiet type, very amusing when he does talk, though—he’s a baron or something of that sort.’

‘A Jonkheer,’ said Sophy before she could stop herself. She had been to the Reference Library on her day off and looked it up. ‘It’s an hereditary title.’

Tom gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t imagine he’s the sort to broadcast it, though. Plenty of money, I hear. Drives a damn great Bentley too.’

Sophy looked suitably interested and was glad when the telephone rang and a voice demanded Mr Carruthers. He listened to the urgent voice on the other end, and said,

‘Oh, lord, Bill, just as I was going to dip into the Sunday papers. I’ll be down.’ He put down the receiver and turned to Sophy. ‘A perf. Twenty minutes suit you? I’ll go and check, but young Bill’s pretty reliable.’

The morning’s tempo changed. The smooth-running machinery of the theatre, never quite still, accelerated under Sophy’s calm direction. The case came up, was dealt with, and was back in the ward by twelve-thirty.

It was almost an hour later when Sophy rang the door-bell of the nice old house where Mr Radcliffe had lived ever since she had known him. Matty, the elderly maid who opened the door, still wore the same kind of cap and apron she had worn when she had entered the surgeon’s service almost three decades earlier. She looked prim, but smiled warmly at Sophy, and said, as she always said each Sunday,

‘Just in time, Miss Sophy; Cook’s dishing up.’

Sophy smiled too and enquired with interested sympathy about Matty’s bad leg while she took off her coat and gave it into her keeping. Left alone, she went over to the old-fashioned mirror hanging on one wall and peered into it. She looked at her face with some dissatisfaction, anchored her hair more securely, and ran a licked finger over the smooth arches of her brows.

‘Gilding the lily?’ enquired a voice; the Dutchman’s voice.

Sophy jumped, and at the same time was deeply thankful that she was wearing a jersey shirtwaister that suited her admirably. She turned to face him as casually as she was able.

‘You shouldn’t take people by surprise like that,’ she said severely. ‘It’s bad for their nerves.’ Her voice was commendably steady, even though her pulse was not.

He made no effort to move, so that she was forced to remain where she was, looking up at him. He looked her over slowly and said, ‘Very nice,’ and then, ‘Did you not expect me here?’ His blue eyes searched hers. ‘No, I see that you didn’t. Your Uncle Giles is my Uncle Giles too, you know.’

Sophy tried to think of something to say; something clever or witty or charming; she was unable to think of anything at all, and, what was worse, she was only too aware that he knew it. She looked up to meet his quizzical gaze.

‘Your aunt sent me to fetch you,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you ready?’

They crossed the hall in silence while Sophy turned over in her mind his remark about gilding the lily. He had been mocking her, of course; she had no illusions about her face.

As he opened the door he said on a laugh, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘I do believe that no one has ever called you a lily before.’

He flung the door wide, and she went in to greet the politely impatient people waiting for their luncheon.

The table around which the company settled themselves was a large mahogany masterpiece, fashioned to accommodate a dozen persons at least. Sophy found herself beside Uncle Giles; Max van Oosterwelde was at the other end of the table next to Aunt Vera, with Penny on his other side. It was apparent that they were already the best of friends. She turned her head away and concentrated on her godfather, who was carving beef with a skill which was to have been expected of him.

Sophy passed the plates, and asked, soft-voiced in the general hum of conversation, where he and her aunt were going for their holiday.

‘Dorset, my dear. Max has a nice little place tucked away down there—uses it when he comes to England. We’ve got the run of it for as long as we like. We shall leave here tomorrow. Later on, we hope to go over and stay with him in Holland, but that depends on how long I take to recoup and how long he can stay over here.’

He saw her anxious look and said quickly, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. It’s nothing desperate—my heart’s overdoing it a bit, that’s all. Nothing a good rest won’t cure.’

Sophy raised her eyes to his. ‘Is that the truth, Uncle Giles, or are you busy pulling wool over my eyes?’

He laughed. ‘The truth, girl. I’ve never lied to you, and don’t intend to start now.’ He finished his carving and sat down and helped himself to the dishes Matty was holding.

‘Can I do anything to help you or Aunt Vera?’

He shook his head. ‘No, my dear. At least, you might keep a motherly eye on Max.’

Sophy choked on a morsel of beef. ‘A motherly eye on him?’ she asked faintly.

‘Yes. Though if you prefer it, I’ll ask him to keep a fatherly eye on you.’ He laughed so richly that everyone looked at him. He beamed at them all. ‘Sophy and I are enjoying a joke together.’ He winked broadly at her and turned to her grandmother, then left her to get on with her lunch.

After lunch Aunt Vera and Grandmother Greenslade wandered off to the drawing room, for what they called their weekly chat, and Uncle Giles bore Max van Oosterwelde away to his study, saying over his shoulder that there were plenty of apples for the picking at the end of the garden. Penny and Benjamin needed no second bidding, and tore away, followed more sedately but Sophy. Ten minutes later, however, sedateness forgotten, she was sitting astride a convenient fork in a tree, with a basket half filled on her arm, and a half eaten apple in her hand. It was pleasant there; the autumn sun still had warmth; the apples smelled good. She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to be free preferably driving about the country in a shining Bentley. It was only a small step from thinking of the Bentley to its owner; that was why his voice, coming from beneath her, sent the ready colour pouring over her face.

‘Are these your shoes?’ he asked.

Sophy curled her toes inside her stockings. ‘Yes. I was afraid I’d spoil them.’

‘Come down and put them on, and I’ll get the rest of the apples for you, shall I?’

Penny and Benjamin had joined him, laden with their own spoils. She whisked down the old tree, intent on getting to the ground unaided. She should have known better. She was plucked from it while she was still some feet from the ground, and set lightly on her feet. Then he was gone, and a moment later, she saw him balanced on a sturdy branch, reaching above his head and throwing the apples down to them. He looked enormous, but somehow not in the least out of place. The apples safely stowed, they went back to the drawing room, where Uncle Giles had switched on the television. He was following the incredible activities of a cowboy, apparently holding off a mob of howling Indians single-handed. He took his eyes from the screen long enough to recommend them to sit down and watch too, and soon there was silence, broken only by the sounds of celluloid battle. The telephone brought a discordant note amongst the war cries. Uncle Giles frowned, and turned the sound down, and Sophy, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. It was Staff Nurse.

‘Sister, I thought you’d want to know that the internal injuries is coming up at five-thirty, but Cas rang through to say they’ve got an abdominal that might have to be done first. They’ve had a road accident in, and Mr Carruthers is there now.’

Sophy looked at her watch; it was almost half past four. ‘Lay up for an abdominal, Cooper, and put in the general set and all we need for nephrectomy and splenectomy, and remember they’ll probably want to do an intravenous pyelogram.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And a few bladder tools, too. Have you got Vincent there?’

Staff’s voice came briskly back. ‘Yes, Sister. She’s been to tea.’

‘Good, tell her to get your tea now, before you dish up. I’ll be with you very shortly. Goodbye.’

Before she could hang up, Pratt’s voice cut in. ‘Sister Greenslade, Mr Carruthers wants a word with you.’

Tom’s quiet voice sounded urgent. ‘Sophy, is Max van Oosterwelde there?’

She looked across the room; the big Dutchman was sprawled in a chair, watching her. She beckoned him, and said, ‘Yes.’ He took the telephone from her and she went to slip away, but he caught her by the hand.

‘No, stay. It probably concerns you too.’

He listened quietly, and said at length, ‘We’d better do her first. We’ll be back in five minutes. No, not at all; I’m glad I can help. You’ve enough to get on with, I imagine.’

He was still holding her hand, she tried not to notice it while he talked. ‘There’s a girl in. Twelve years old—she’s been stabbed. Carruthers says there are six entries in the abdomen for a start. He’s got his hands full with the RTA. We’ll do the girl first; she’ll be a long job, I expect, but they can keep the other case going until we’re ready.’ He had been speaking quietly, so that only she could hear. Now he got up and went over to Mr Radcliffe. By the time Sophy had got her coat, he was saying goodbye in the unhurried manner of a man who had business to do, and knew how he was going to do it. As she made her own hurried goodbyes, she could hear him telling Penny and Ben that he would call for them on the following Wednesday. She longed to know more about it, but there was no time. They went round to the garage at the side of the house, and got into the Bentley and drove rapidly through the quiet streets. He left the car outside the hospital and they went in together, he to Cas, she to hurry upstairs to theatre. A few minutes later, capped and masked, she was scrubbing up while Cooper dished up the last of the instruments. They had five minutes. Vincent, the junior nurse, was nervous but willing; Staff, Sophy knew, would be a tower of strength; she always was. She went over to her trolleys and checked them carefully, and set about threading her needles and getting the blades on to their handles. It suddenly struck her that she didn’t know who would be assisting. Carruthers was tied up in Cas.; the other two consultants had weekends; their houseman would probably be away too, leaving their patients to the care of whoever was on duty. The porters wheeled in the trolley, with Dr Walker, the senior anaesthetist, pushing the Boyles. He said ‘Hullo, Sister’ in a vague voice, and went back to his cylinders and tubes. She liked him very much; he was unflappable and very sure of himself.

The surgeons came in; the second one was Bill, looking excited and a little scared. She smiled at him behind her mask, and nothing of it showed except the little laughter lines round her beautiful eyes. He took the sponge holders she was holding out to him, and used them, and then waited while Max van Oosterwelde examined the small body between them. The wounds were hard to see, and for every one there would be two or three internally. When he’d finished he said,

‘Have they got the fiend who did this?’

‘Yes, sir. Her stepbrother. He says she had thrown away his drugs and he was suffering from mental stress…’

The professor’s eyes blazed and he said something in Dutch. Sophy thought it sounded like a good earthy Dutch oath—which it was. He put out a hand without looking at Sophy, and said, ‘Ready, Sister.’ She handed him the knife and he stood, relaxed, almost casual, with it in his hand.

‘We’ll do a lower right paramedian, shall we, and see how far we get?’

He was looking at Bill; accepting him as a partner. The boy looked back at him, flushing slightly. He’d been scared stiff until that moment; now, suddenly, he knew that he’d be all right.

It took two and a half hours; it wasn’t a job to hurry over. Van Oosterwelde kept up a steady flow of quiet talk, and Sophy watched Bill relaxing under the older man’s skilful guidance, until he was playing his full part.

They were checking swabs, and the two men stood quietly while Sophy counted and agreed the total with Nurse Vincent.

‘How is your end, Walker?’ asked van Oosterwelde; he was already busy with the mattress stitches.

‘Very nice—she must be a tough little thing—she’ll need some more blood, though. How much longer do you want?’

‘Five minutes.’ Bill cut the gut for him, and he threw the needle back on to Sophy’s trolley. He caught her eye as he did so, and said, ‘We didn’t get our tea, did we?’

She handed him the Michel clip holder, but he waved it away towards Bill, and pulled off his gloves. Sophy smiled behind her mask; he had been very kind to Bill. She called Vincent over and asked her to take a tray of tea to her office. Dr Walker and van Oosterwelde were standing together, looking down at the child’s face.

‘I’d like to wring that fellow’s neck,’ Dr Walker sounded vehement.

‘I’ve got one of my own,’ he added, ‘so I feel strongly about it.’

The Dutchman said softly, ‘I also would kill him, but,’ he added, ‘he will be sent to an institution for observation, and in five or ten years’ time, he will do the same thing again.’ He turned around, and cast a casual eye on Bill’s work. ‘Very nice,’ he commented.

The second case took as long as the first, for it involved a splenectomy as well as a nephrectomy. Despite a hastily-snatched cup of tea, Sophy was tired. She had sent Vincent off duty, and Cooper was doing her own work and Vincent’s too. The night staff were far too thinly stretched to borrow any of their number. The Orthopaedic theatre was still going, so was Cas. They would manage; they always did. It was close on eleven as the patient was wheeled back to Intensive Care. The men followed him down; they wanted to look at the girl as well. Sophy and Cooper plunged into the chaos of used instruments and needles and knives, while a night porter swabbed up. It was almost an hour later when the two girls parted company at the end of the theatre corridor. Sophy slipped quiet as a mouse through the dim corridors, and down the stairs, calling a soft goodnight to the porter as she passed his box, and so through the big swing doors. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde was on the top step, leaning against its iron balustrade. He took her arm lightly above her elbow, and they went down the steps together and into the big car. She sat back against its leathered comfort and let out a tired breath.

‘Are they all right?’ she asked, as he moved away from the kerb. ‘Have you been there all this time?’ And blushed at her question.

‘I’m not sure about the girl—the man’s all right for the moment. Do you always have to clear up after a case at night? Don’t the night staff help?’

She explained about the nurses having more than enough to do and added, ‘You weren’t—that is, you didn’t wait for me, did you?’

He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Yes.’

She waited for him to say something else, but he remained silent, as he brought the car to a quiet halt outside her home.

‘Thank you very much, sir. It was very kind of you.’ Honestly compelled her to add, ‘But I always walk home by myself after a late case. I’m not lonely or nervous.’

She put a hand on the door, but his came down to hold it and prevent her.

‘Is there someone at home to give you a hot drink?’

She gave a gurgle of tired laughter; saw his raised eyebrow and said, ‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t being rude—it’s just that I’ve never met a senior consultant surgeon who bothered with things like hot drinks for nurses. Everyone will be in bed, but Sinclair will have left a thermos of cocoa for me…’

‘Sinclair?’

She was really very tired, but she thought she had better answer his question; he was the sort of man, she thought sleepily, who expected to be answered. ‘He was my father’s batman during the war. He came back with him afterwards and has been with us ever since. I’ve known him nearly all my life; he’s a tower of strength and a friend and he’s marvellous at housework too. He gave us the Blot, and he found Titus in a gutter; when my parents died, he made us keep on—it was a bit…difficult at first.’

He got out and came round and opened the door and walked up the little path with her, and took the door key from her hand and opened the door. There was a light in the hall. She went past him, and then turned on the step to look at him.

‘Goodnight, sir.’

‘Goodnight, Miss Greenslade. I made a mistake today. You do not need any gilding.’

She awoke early, after a short night of heavy sleep and ridiculous dreams about lilies. She went on duty determined to be sensible. She wasn’t a silly young girl; she was a woman with responsibilities and not much time for romantic ideas. She was breathtakingly efficient in theatre during the morning, and at coffee time went on a mythical errand which lasted until it was time to scrub again. It was really quite easy to avoid being alone with him. She went to her dinner late, and went straight back to work. The list was an uncomplicated one that afternoon; they could be done by five, if they didn’t stop for tea. There was one case left, when Jonkheer van Oosterwelde called a halt. Even then, she sent the nurse in with the tea tray, and elected to stay in theatre, although there was really nothing for her to do there. He appeared in the doorway five minutes later, smiled charmingly at the nurses and said in a silky voice it would have been hard to disobey:

‘Your tea is getting cold, Sister.’

She had opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t want any tea, but the three nurses had all paused in their work and were watching with a lively interest that needed quelling. As she went ahead of him down the corridor she thought bitterly, that he was the pin-up boy for practically the whole staff already, then hated herself for the thought. He had, after all, been very kind to her, and he had treated Bill decently. All the same, he was too sure of himself, too certain of getting his own way.

She went into the little office, and Dr Walker and Bill got up while she squeezed past them to sit in her chair. She was drawn at once into their conversation and was surprised to find how much she was enjoying it. Perhaps, after all, she need not avoid him—not when there were other people around. She became aware that Bill was speaking to her, and said,

‘I’m sorry, Bill—I didn’t hear you.’

He flushed faintly. ‘I only wondered if you would mind if I took Penny to Hampton Court on Saturday afternoon.’ His flush deepened; the other two men had stopped talking and were listening. ‘I’ll bring her back after tea,’ he finished doggedly.

Sophy gave him a gentle smile. ‘Of course you can, Bill. Stay to supper if you’re off duty; you’re the only one who can do her trig homework, anyway.’

He gave her a grateful look, and got up to take the tea tray back.

Sophy, aware that Jonkheer van Oosterwelde was looking at her intently, studied the off-duty chart on her desk, until she felt compelled to meet his gaze. Something in his expression made her lift her chin, and he chuckled. Kindly Providence, in the shape of Dr Walker, intervened.

‘That boy’ll make Penny a good husband one of these days,’ he said comfortably. ‘Not the sort to change his mind, either.’ He looked at Sophy. ‘About time you got settled, isn’t it, Sophy? How old are you?’ She didn’t resent his questions; she had known him for years; he had always been outspoken. She answered without rancour.

‘I’ve not found anyone who wants to settle with me, Dr Walker, and I’m twenty-six next birthday.’

‘God bless my soul, you don’t look it, Sophy. Luke will be finished in a couple of years, won’t he? He should try for an appointment here and keep an eye on the others while you go off for a cruise…’

‘A cruise, Dr Walker?’ She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, to find a husband. I’ll think about it.’ She got up. ‘In the meantime, I’ll get scrubbed.’ She skipped through the door, avoiding van Oosterwelde’s eye.

The list was finished for the day, and Sophy was sitting in her office, neat and fresh in her dark blue and white uniform, writing up the theatre book. The men had gone some time ago. The theatre was ready again for any emergency; Staff was in charge; she herself was going home as soon as she could get her books done. She heard the steps in the corridor, and when they stopped outside the door, she called, ‘Come in,’ and as the door opened said, ‘Now don’t tell me, there’s an appendix in and you’d like to…’ She looked up. The professor was leaning in the doorway, his head carefully bent to avoid the door frame; the very epitome of a well-dressed gentleman of leisure.

He stayed where he was and said, ‘Are you not off duty, Sister?’

Sophy frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, ‘I am, but I have books and things to fill in. I can’t do them in the theatre,’ she said with heavy sarcasm.

He looked indifferent. She shot a cross look at him, thinking that probably he thought she was inefficient.

‘I’ll not take up your time then. I wished merely to say that I have asked Penny and Benjamin to come out with me on Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t until I heard young Evans asking your permission to take Penny out that I realised that I should do the same.’

Sophy, listening to his cool voice, thought that he made her sound like a fussy aunt. It was her day off on Wednesday, too; she determined then and there to go away for the day—for the whole day, until quite late, so that there was no chance of meeting him. She raised a cheerfully polite face to his.

‘How kind of you,’ she said warmly. ‘They’ll love it.’ She allowed her hand to hover over the telephone, and he saw the gesture as he was meant to, and wished her a rather curt goodnight. She listened to his steps receding, and then got up slowly, said goodnight to Staff, and walked in her turn down the corridor to change, and go home.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS striking ten as Sophy let herself into the house on Wednesday evening. True to the promise she had made herself, she had gone out just before lunch; spent the afternoon with Tom Carruthers’ wife, stretching her visit for as long as good manners allowed, and then walked most of the way home. Even then it had been far too early, and she had been forced to spend a long hour drinking cups of coffee she didn’t want, while she reflected on the waste of a precious day off.

The hall was dim and quiet. It smelled of polish and the tantalising post-prandial aroma of toasted cheese. She felt her appetite sharpen, and went straight to the kitchen. Sinclair always made tea for himself before bedtime; she would have one with him and enquire about the cheese; there might be some left. Sinclair looked up as she went into the cosy, old-fashioned room and jumped to his feet.

‘Thought you might be in, Miss Sophy,’ he said. ‘How about a nice cuppa, and there’s a slice of Quiche Lorraine I’ve kept warm.’ He pushed the elderly arm chair by the Aga invitingly in her direction. ‘Sit down.’

Sophy did as she was bid, tossing her hat and gloves on to the table.

‘You’re tired, Miss Sophy.’ He handed her a plate, and she picked up a fork and started to eat with a healthy appetite.

‘Yes, Sinclair.’ She took a satisfying draught of the black, syrupy tea Sinclair preferred. ‘I wish I wasn’t plain,’ she said, apropos of nothing at all. Sinclair seemed to understand.

‘You’re not plain, Miss Sophy; you only think you are, especially when you’re tired or upset or down in the dumps.’

She smiled at him. ‘You are a dear, Sinclair. Did the children have a nice trip?’ she asked in a carefully casual voice.

He nodded. ‘They went to Canterbury.’

‘Canterbury? But that’s miles away.’

‘Yes, miss, but not in a Bentley, it isn’t. They went all round the Cathedral and had a bang-up tea. They were back by half-past six. This doctor, he stayed to supper; very merry they were too. Helped Master Ben with his Latin too.’ He got up and put the cups in the sink. ‘They went to bed punctual, miss.’

Sophy got up and went slowly to the door. ‘I’m glad they enjoyed themselves,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Goodnight, Sinclair.’

Her grandmother was in the sitting room as she went in. She looked up, pencil poised. ‘Hullo, darling. What’s a fanatical artist making a bid?’

Sophy went and sat near the fire on a little velvet-covered stool and held her nicely-kept hands out to its warmth. ‘Rabid,’ she said. ‘How are you, Granny?’

Her grandmother wrote rapidly. ‘You’re right, darling. How clever of you. Did you have a nice day?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, ‘The children had a lovely afternoon with Max…’

Sophy stirred. ‘Max already,’ she thought, and said out loud, ‘How nice for them. They were back before supper, so Sinclair tells me.’

‘Yes, dear. Max stayed; he looked lonely. We had Quiche Lorraine, and Sinclair made a lovely treacle tart—we saved some for you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Max ate a good supper, but he’s a big man, isn’t he? He helped Ben with his Latin…’

‘It’s like listening to a gramophone record,’ thought Sophy, and at the same time waited eagerly for anything else her grandmother had to say. She wondered what it was about this man that could make Sinclair and her grandmother so interested in him—and me too, she added honestly. ‘I’ve thought about him ever since I first saw him.’

‘I wonder how old he is?’ she mused.

‘Thirty-nine, and not married. He lives close to a small river in Holland—it’s pretty there, he said, and near Utrecht. He’s a Senior Consulting Surgeon at a hospital there, and teaches the students, too. He’s got a spaniel called Meg, and a bulldog called Jack.’

Mrs Greenslade paused to draw a much-needed breath, and Sophy said, ‘Granny, what a lot you know about him.’

Her grandmother looked at her shrewdly. ‘Nothing that he wouldn’t have told you, if you’d asked him, my dear Sophy. I thought it would be nice if he lunched here on Sunday—it’s your day off, isn’t it?—I know you see him most days, but I don’t suppose you get to know much about the people you work with in that theatre—why, I don’t suppose you see the patients as people; just—something, under a lot of sterile sheets. And as for working there, how can you possibly get to know anybody when all you can see of them is their eyes?’ She sounded indignant.

Sophy twisted round on her stool. ‘It’s not like that at all, Grandmother,’ she cried. She was remembering the Dutch surgeon’s face when he had bent over the little girl the previous Sunday. ‘He…we all mind about the patients, and when we’re working it’s like a team.’

Her grandmother looked across at her. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Sophy. I was beginning to think you didn’t like Max.’ She took no notice of her granddaughter’s gasp. ‘We’ll have roast pork, I think, and follow it with a mince tart and cream, and Sinclair shall go to that funny little grocer’s shop where there are all those cheeses. Men always like cheese,’ she added. She took off her glasses, and looked ten years younger. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, I’m quite tired.’ She didn’t look in the least tired. She folded the newspaper carefully, so that the crossword was on top, ready for the morning, and got up. Sophy got up too, unwilling to be left alone with her thoughts. She wished Grandmother Greenslade a good night, and went upstairs to her room. Once there, she didn’t undress but stood in front of the big, old-fashioned mirror, gazing intently at her face. It seemed to her that however she looked at it, it was still a plain one.

The next morning, she offered a surprised and delighted Cooper Sunday off in her place—Staff was so wrapped in her good luck that she lent only half an ear to Sophy’s singularly thin reasons for wishing to make the change; which, thought Sophy, was just as well. Sophy said nothing at home until Saturday evening, and received the sympathetic remarks of her family with a quietness which they put down to her disappointment at missing Sunday luncheon. She was feeling horribly guilty, especially as Jonkheer van Oosterwelde had been so pleasant in theatre.

It was a fine morning as she walked to the hospital on Sunday. There was a blue sky and the sun shone, although there was no warmth in its rays, but Sophy’s spirits did not match the morning; for all she cared, it could have been blowing a force nine gale, with rain to match.

She spent the first part of the morning in theatre, teaching the two junior nurses who were on duty with her. The place was in a state of readiness and uncannily quiet—their voices sounded strange against the emptiness of the big tiled room. After a time, she set the girls to cleaning instruments and went off to Orthopaedic theatre to have coffee with Sister Skinner; a lovely blonde who looked like a film star and fell in and out of love so frequently that Sophy had long ago given up trying to remember who the men were; but she was always prepared to lend a sympathetic ear while Skinner discussed her latest conquest. Inevitably, she wanted to know about the new surgeon.

‘I must meet him,’ she exclaimed. ‘I saw him leaving the other day; he didn’t see me,’ she added, ‘or he might have stopped.’

Sophy chuckled. ‘Of course he’d have stopped…’

Skinner put down her coffee. ‘Sophy, ring me when you have a coffee break on Monday—you’ve got a list, haven’t you? We haven’t. I’ll pop over and borrow something, then you can introduce me.’ She looked at Sophy with a puzzled frown. ‘Is he as nice as he looks?’

Sophy nodded. ‘Oh, yes. He’s very good at his job, and he never loses his needle or throws swabs on the floor…’

‘Silly, I didn’t mean his work. Look, Sophy, he’s good-looking and distinguished and a marvellous surgeon—if I’d been in your shoes I’d have been out to dinner with him by now.’

Sophy laughed. ‘I know you would; but I’m not you, my dear. You’re so pretty men look at you and want to take you out—but if you were a man, would you look twice at me?’ She spoke without rancour as she got up to go. ‘I’ll ring you about eleven on Monday. Tom Carruthers will be assisting; I’ll get him out of the way, and leave you alone to exercise your charms.’

She called in on Casualty on her way back, but although it was full, there was nothing for the theatre. She sent the nurses to their dinner, and went into her office and started on her books, but after a few minutes she got up again, and stood by the window, watching the coming and going in the inner courtyard below. She was just turning away, when she caught sight of Bill Evans and Max van Oosterwelde strolling through the archway from X-Ray. They were deep in discussion, although Bill seemed to be doing most of the talking; he was a tall young man, but the Dutchman dwarfed him. Half way across the yard, they met Tom Carruthers, and stopped. She wondered what they could be talking about; nothing serious, for there was a good deal of laughter. Anyway, Jonkheer van Oosterwelde wasn’t on call; she supposed he’d come in to see someone. He looked up suddenly, and although he was too far away for her to be sure of his expression, she was sure that he frowned when he saw her. She backed away from the window—how awful to be caught peeping. She went into the theatre, and prowled around moving things that didn’t need moving, and after a few minutes went back to her office again, and peeped cautiously from the window. He had gone. She got out the instrument catalogue and started to make a list of replacements, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was contemplating an excellent illustration of Syme’s aneurism needle with little more than tepid interest, when she heard the faint squeak of the swing doors at the end of the corridor. It wouldn’t be the nurses; they had only been gone ten minutes or so; and the third year nurse wasn’t due on until one o’clock. She sat up straight—it was a man’s tread, and she knew whose tread it was. She quelled a strong urge to rearrange her cap and do something to her face, and waited, hands in lap, with her eyes to the door.

He came in without knocking, closed the door behind him, stood with his back to it, and said without preamble, ‘What have I done?’

Sophy’s lovely eyes opened wide, framed by the curling sweep of black lashes; her mouth was open too; she closed it with something of a snap, and blinked. ‘I don’t think I quite understand,’ she faltered.

Max van Oosterwelde left the door and settled himself in the chair opposite hers. He was wearing tweeds—unobtrusive, superbly cut, and she thought, wildly expensive. He stretched out a long arm and took the off-duty rota from the desk.

‘You had a day off today; you changed it, and don’t give me any nonsense about Staff Nurse wanting it—she told me about it on Friday.’

He grinned wickedly, and Sophy, choking on rage, didn’t mince her words.

‘You have no right to…to…’ She caught his eye.

‘To what?’ he enquired silkily.

‘The nurses’ off-duty is no concern of yours.’ She remembered who he was, and added, ‘Sir.’

‘No, it’s not, but we stray from the point, do we not? You took care to be away from home last Wednesday. I had dinner with the Carruthers, you know; you left there soon after five; you weren’t home when I left at nine. I thought maybe you were out with a boyfriend; and then I heard that you had changed your duty today, and it seemed more than coincidence and that you had done it deliberately. Do you dislike me so much, Sophy?’

Sophy dragged her gaze away from the waste paper basket, and gave him a level look. ‘I don’t dislike you.’ Her voice was quiet and faintly surprised.

‘Then I suggest you drop your guard, my girl. I’ve no intention of laying violent hands on you, nor,’ he went on deliberately, ‘am I interested in flirting with you.’ He watched her face flame with a detached air. ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t be friends, do you? After all, we share a godfather—that is surely a sound enough motive for friendship?’

She met his eyes and saw that he was smiling. She ignored her heart bouncing against her ribs, and said in an even little voice, ‘I’m afraid I’ve become a real old maid in the last few years.’ She managed a very credible smile, and put a hand in the one he was holding out. His clasp was firm and comforting. She needed comfort, but he wouldn’t know that, of course.

‘No, never that—old maids don’t climb trees.’

He relinquished her hand, and picked up the telephone and asked for Matron.

Sophy listened to the conversation, and it was at once apparent to her that he was going to get his own way, although she doubted if Matron would realise it. He put down the receiver and got up.

‘Ten past one at the front door? You’ll have to keep your uniform on, I’m afraid, just in case they need you in a great hurry. Don’t be late—I promised Mrs Greenslade we would be there by a quarter past one.’

Sophy looked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘You promised Granny…’ her eyes searched his face. ‘But they’re not expecting me.’

He was halfway through the door. ‘Yes, they are. I forgot to mention that I telephoned your grandmother and told her that you would be home for luncheon.’

She frowned. ‘Well, really!’ she exploded. She stopped; he had already gone.

He sat next to Mrs Greenslade at luncheon, and carved the joint as well if not better than Uncle Giles would have done. Sophy saw that he was on the friendliest terms with Penny and Benjamin, and it was obvious that her grandmother had been completely won over. Even Sinclair, who took his dislikes and likes seriously, approved of him. They had their coffee around the sitting room’s bright fire, surrounded by the Sunday papers and Penny’s discarded knitting and a half-finished jig-saw puzzle Ben had tired of. Mrs Greenslade sat on one side of the fire, her current crossword on her lap, and the enormous dictionary she was never without serving its dual purpose as a foot-stool. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde occupied the chair opposite her, with the Blot pressed hard against one knee, half-shut eyes expressing the bliss of having his ears rubbed. Titus had spread himself across the Dutchman’s well polished shoes, ignoring the offers of a lap from the other occupants of the room.

Sophy, curled up in a corner of the couch said, ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, how they like you? They’re usually so fussy.’

She saw his lips twitch and his dark brows lift, and blushed and said hastily, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry, but you must know what I mean. Perhaps it’s because they sense you’ve got dogs of your own.’

‘Very probably,’ he replied, ‘though I would prefer to think that it was good taste on their part.’

Amid the general laughter, Penny asked, ‘Don’t they miss you while you’re away; your animals, I mean?’

‘Yes, very much, I believe, but they have plenty of friends, and I think that the welcome I receive is largely an act.’

Sophy glanced at her watch, and got up reluctantly. Her grandmother gave her a smooth cheek to kiss and said,

‘Must you go, darling?—such a shame when we’re all so cosy. Anyway, I hope you have a nice afternoon,’ she added vaguely. Max had risen too, and was already at the door. ‘Don’t be long, Max,’ she called as they went out.

They didn’t talk on the short trip to the hospital; there wasn’t time anyway. Sophy thanked him briefly as she got out, and ran up the hospital steps without looking back. Half an hour later, she was scrubbing up beside Tom Carruthers; there was a nasty face injuries in—too serious for Cas to deal with. It was no sooner on the table than the telephone rang; there was an acute obstruction just in and perhaps Mr Carruthers would go and see him as soon as he could. Tom Carruthers growled something under his breath, and Sophy sent the nurse back with a polite message to say that he would be down as soon as he could manage it. It turned out to be one of those afternoons when there could be no pause for tea; the obstruction took a long time, and it was almost six o’clock by the time they had finished and Tom and Dr Walker had followed the porters out of the theatre. Sophy and the two nurses on duty cleared up with the speed of long use, and she sent them to supper while she sat in the quiet theatre, doing the needles, her mind full of the little girl Max van Oosterwelde had operated upon the week before. Tom had told her quietly, as he left the theatre, that the child had died. ‘Van Oosterwelde saw her this morning,’ he had said, ‘but there was nothing he could do. Decent of him to come in, though. After all, it was his day off, and he didn’t get to bed until four am—been out on the town.’ Sophy sorted the last of the needles, and tried not to remember that remark. It could mean so many things. She shook her neat head as though to shake the thought away. It was none of her business, anyway, but she couldn’t stop herself reflecting on the number of very pretty girls on the nursing staff who would doubtless make excellent companions for a man who wished to go out on the town.

She got up and tidied away the bits and pieces, and when the nurses came back from supper, sent them off duty. She would be going home herself very soon. In a little while, she switched off the lights and went along to change.

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