# An Unlikely Romance

Betty Neels

Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.“YOU HAVE NO OBJECTION TO BEING MARRIED, DO YOU?” Agreeing to share her life with Professor van der Brink-Shaaksma had seeme a good idea to Beatrice at the time. But while fine in theory, the “no strings attached” deal soon proved to be disastrous.How could it work when every time she saw him, her heart skipped a beat? And what could she now do to make him notice her—not just as his wife but as his partner?

## An Unlikely Romance. Betty Neels


www.millsandboon.co.uk

## CHAPTER ONE

TRIXIE DOVETON, trundling old Mrs Crowe from the bathroom back to her ward, allowed a small, almost soundless sigh to escape her lips. The ward doors had been thrust open and Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma was coming unhurriedly towards her. He had a sheaf of papers under one arm and a book, one finger marking his place, in his other hand. He wasn’t due for another twenty minutes and Sister Snell was already hurrying after him, intent on heading him off with a cup of coffee in her office while her nurses raced around getting the patients into the correct state of readiness. He was always doing it, reflected Trixie, rolling Mrs Crowe’s ample person into her bed; arriving early, not arriving at all, or arriving half an hour late, tendering the politest of apologies when he discovered his mistake, his brilliant mind engrossed in some ticklish problem concerning endocrinology, a science of which he was a leading exponent. Trixie took another look at him while she tucked Mrs Crowe into her blankets; he was such a nice man—the nicest she had ever met, not that she had actually met him, only seen him from time to time on the ward or in one of the corridors, either with his nose buried in some book or other or surrounded by students. She was quite sure that he wasn’t even aware that she existed. He was towering over Sister Snell now, smiling gently down at her rather cross face, a tall, very large man, his pale hair grey at the temples, his eyes heavy-lidded and, she suspected, quite unaware of his good looks. He glanced up and she glanced away quickly, and when she peeped again it was to see his massive back disappearing through the doors.

‘He’s a nice chap, ain’t he?’ observed Mrs Crowe. ‘No side to him neither.’

She beamed at Trixie’s face; she was a friendly girl who would always find time to say a few words, offer sympathy when needed and even, when her seniors weren’t looking, put in a few curlers for such of her patients who needed to be smartened up for visitors. She would have enlarged upon this but Staff Nurse Bennett, racing up and down like a demented sergeant major, had come to a halt by the bed.

‘Nurse Doveton, for heaven’s sake get a move on. Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma’s here, far too soon of course, and the place is like a pigsty and you standing there gossiping. It’s time you learned to be quicker; you’ll never make a good nurse at this rate. All this mooning about…’

She hurried away, saying over her shoulder, ‘Find Nurse Saunders, she’s in one of the treatment-rooms, and tell her to make sure all the path lab reports are on the trolley.’

Trixie patted Mrs Crowe’s plump shoulder and trotted off obediently. She was a small girl, nicely plump with a face which, while not plain, was hardly pretty; her nose was too short and her mouth too large, but it curved up at the corners and her smile was charming. Only her eyes were beautiful, large and hazel with pale brown lashes to match the neat head of hair under her cap. She was twenty-three years old, an orphan and prepared to make the best of it. She had the kindest of hearts, a romantic nature and a good deal of common sense, and she liked her job. In another year she would have completed her training, despite Staff Nurse Bennett’s gloomy prediction. She was aware that she would never be another Florence Nightingale, but at least she would be earning her living.

Nurse Saunders was in a bad mood; she had had words with her boyfriend on the previous evening and had no chance of seeing him for several days to come. She listened to Trixie’s message impatiently, thumped down the tray of instruments she was holding and said, ‘Oh, all right. Just put these away for me and look sharp about it. Why can’t the man come when he’s supposed to?’

She didn’t give Trixie a chance to answer, but went into the ward, slamming the door behind her.

Trixie arranged the instruments tidily in the cupboard, tidied up a tiny bit and opened the door; the professor wouldn’t have finished his coffee yet. She would have time to slip into the sluice-room and find something to do there. The coffee must have been tepid or the professor’s mouth made of cast iron, for he was there, in the ward, only a few yards away, deep in talk with Dr Johnson, while Sister hovered at his other side against a reverent background of medical students, and behind them the furious face of Staff Nurse Bennett. Trixie, intent on a prudent retreat into the treatment-room, took a step backwards, tripped over her own feet and tumbled untidily to the floor. She had barely touched it when the professor paused in the discussion, stooped forward, plucked her back on to the offending feet, dusted her down, patted her on her shoulder without apparently having looked at her and resumed his conversation. It had all happened so quickly that beyond a startled look from Sister and grins from the students the unfortunate incident might never have been. Trixie, edging her way to a discreet distance, doubted if the professor had noticed her; he was notoriously absent-minded, and he would have done the same thing for a child, an old lady or an overturned chair.

In the fastness of the sluice-room she polished and scrubbed everything in sight; it wasn’t her job but she felt that she should make amends for annoying Staff Nurse Bennett, and—once that young lady had had the chance to tell her—Sister.

Sure enough, later that morning she was told to go to Sister’s office where she was reprimanded by that lady. ‘Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma is not to be bothered in such a manner, Nurse Doveton. He has far more important things to do than picking up girls off the floor. How could you be so clumsy?’

‘I was surprised,’ observed Trixie reasonably, ‘and he need not have picked me up—I mean I didn’t ask for help or anything like that.’ She smiled kindly at her senior, who was quite scarlet with ill temper. ‘I’m so sorry if it upset you, Sister. It was most tiresome of me but I don’t think the professor noticed anything.’

Sister Snell said crossly, ‘It is to be hoped not. Go and do Mrs Watts’s ulcer and then take her down to physiotherapy. When are you off duty?’

‘Five o’clock, Sister, and then I have a day off.’

The day with its manifold tasks wore on. Because Mrs Watts had held things up by feeling sick, Trixie was late for her midday dinner. The canteen was almost empty by the time she got there, although several of her friends were still sitting over their cups of tea. She fetched boiled cod—it was Friday—and mashed potatoes and parsnips, and joined them.

‘You’re late,’ observed Mary Fitzjohn accusingly. She was a girl who took pride in plain speaking, correcting people and telling them if they had a ladder in their tights or their caps were on crooked. She had a good opinion of herself and was tolerated in an amused way.

Trixie lavished tomato sauce on the fish. ‘Mrs Watts felt sick.’ She began to gobble her dinner. ‘I must go over to my room and pack a bag. I’ve got a day off.’

‘Going home?’ a fat girl with a pretty face asked.

‘Yes. It’s Margaret’s birthday.’

‘A party?’

‘Well, a cocktail party.’

‘What will you wear?’ chorused several voices.

‘There’s the blue crêpe or that brown velvet. The brown, I think—after all, it is October.’

‘Surely you should have something new and smart for a cocktail party?’ asked Mary, looking down her nose.

‘Me? I shan’t know anyone there—Margaret has masses of friends, you know, and I don’t know any of them. I mean I don’t intend to dazzle them—it’s her party…’

‘I should have thought—’ began Mary, and was silenced by a general chorus of ‘shut up’. Trixie dealt with treacle tart, swallowed her tea and darted off; there was still ten minutes before she needed to be back on duty and in her room she packed an overnight bag with neat efficiency, straightened her cap and made her way from the nurses’ home to the ward once more. She wasn’t really looking forward to the party; she had lived with Aunt Alice and Uncle William ever since her parents had died in an accident when she was ten years old, and although they had educated her, fed her and clothed her and in their way been kind to her, she had never been quite happy, for somehow the knowledge that they were doing their duty and at the same time resenting her being there had been borne in upon her before very long. As she had grown she had realised that their interest was centred on their daughter Margaret, pretty and popular and spoilt, and as soon as she had left school Trixie had suggested that she should train for a nurse, but to her surprise this was frowned upon. Margaret had no intention of doing anything and Aunt Alice had realised that if Trixie were allowed to leave home there might be raised eyebrows over the fact that, while her own daughter stayed at home enjoying herself, their ward had to earn her own living. So Trixie had spent several years making herself useful around the large house at Highgate, meeting very few people, for Aunt Alice had let it be known that she was a shy girl and disliked social occasions, and she might have been there still if one of Margaret’s more eligible men friends hadn’t started to show an interest in Trixie, and, since she hadn’t liked him very much and gave him no encouragement, he’d begun to feel himself quite interested and serious about her. It was time, decided Aunt Alice, to do something about the matter. Trixie had been told that, now that she was older and with no prospect of marriage in sight, if she still wished to do so she might apply for training at one of the London teaching hospitals. Something she’d done very quickly before anyone could change their minds. She wasn’t quite twenty-one when she began her training, which from Aunt Alice’s point of view was very convenient, for there was no opportunity to celebrate the occasion. Trixie was given a gold watch and lunch at the Ritz on her day off and told to go to Highgate whenever she wished. ‘For your room will always be ready for you, Trixie,’ said her aunt. ‘We shall miss you; you have been like a second daughter to us.’

Somehow the remark had sounded final.

She didn’t get off duty very punctually; she wasn’t a clock-watcher and the patients knew that, so that she was always the one to fill last-minute water jugs, find lost spectacles and exchange someone’s magazine with someone else’s. She changed quickly, caught up her overnight bag and hurried to catch a bus to Highgate. The bus queue was long and impatient and by the time she got to Highgate it was almost seven o’clock. Her uncle and aunt dined at eight o’clock and she had been warned that there were to be guests. She arrived hot and tired to be greeted with barely concealed impatience by her aunt.

‘Really, Trixie, you might at least try to be punctual for once. This is Margaret’s birthday celebration, after all. Tomorrow I shall want you to arrange the flowers for the party, you do them so well…’

Trixie went up to the second-floor room, which, as Aunt Alice had pointed out, reasonably enough, would do very well for her now that she came home so seldom, and got into the brown velvet, did her face and her hair and slipped into the drawing-room just as the first guests were arriving.

The dinner party was really for their old friends, Margaret’s godparents and a sprinkling of aunts and uncles, none of whom would have enjoyed her birthday party but who would have been hurt if uninvited.

Trixie, between two elderly gentlemen, brothers of Aunt Alice, ate her dinner and made dinner-table conversation, something she did very nicely, so that they remarked upon her quiet charm to Aunt Alice later that evening.

‘Nice girl,’ said one of them. ‘Can’t think why she hasn’t been snapped up. Make a splendid wife.’

‘Very shy and withdrawn and engrossed in her nursing,’ Aunt Alice observed with a snap. ‘Of course, dear Margaret is quite different…’

Trixie was busy the next day; there were flowers to arrange, the telephone to answer and help to give to her aunt’s cook and housemaid, and later the bits and pieces to unpack and arrange from the caterers.

Margaret wandered in and out, unpacking her presents and leaving a trail of paper behind her, pleased with herself and everyone else. She had thanked Trixie for the silk scarf she had been given, asked in a casually friendly fashion about her work and wandered away again without waiting for a reply. Although they were cousins and brought up together and, for that matter, got on well, Margaret had always adopted a slightly condescending manner towards Trixie—the poor relation, presentable enough and a pleasant companion when there was no one else around, and now quite rightly earning her own living. From time to time Margaret took her out to lunch or to the cinema and went home feeling that she had done her duty and been kind to her cousin.

Dressed in the brown velvet, Trixie took a look at herself in the looking-glass inside the old-fashioned wardrobe. Her reflection didn’t please her. The dress was well made, nicely cut and fitted her person well, but there was nothing about it to attract a second glance. She wished that she had Margaret’s glorious fair hair, cascading around her pretty face in a riot of curls, but her own pale brown hair was fine and straight and long and she had always worn it in a chignon so that its beauty was quite hidden. She put a final dab of powder on her nose and went downstairs.

Margaret had any number of friends. The big drawing-room was soon crowded, and Trixie sipped sherry and went around greeting the people she knew, young men and women she had known since her school days, but the majority of those there were unknown to her, smart and noisy, ignoring the other guests.

Presently she came face to face with Margaret, who caught her by the arm. ‘Hello—isn’t this fun? I say, Mother’s just had a phone call from Colonel Vosper—he was invited to dinner yesterday and had to refuse, now he’s phoned to say he’ll come for half an hour just to wish me many happy returns. He’s bringing a stuffy professor with him—they’re going to some dinner or other! This isn’t quite their scene, is it?’

‘If they’re going to a dinner,’ said Trixie matter-of-factly, ‘they won’t stay long, will they? Aunt Alice has gone to the door. It must be the colonel; shouldn’t you be there too?’

‘I suppose so.’ She paused to look Trixie over. ‘That’s a pretty awful dress you’re wearing—brown doesn’t suit you, you look like a church mouse.’ She added, casually kind, ‘You’d look nice in green or blue—you ought to get yourself some pretty clothes.’

She drifted away, a sight to gladden the eyes in her golden sequinned jacket and layered silk skirt. Trixie watched her progress through the crowded room, but not enviously, for she hadn’t an envious nature, only wondering if a sequinned jacket would do for her own person what brown velvet quite obviously could not.

There was a little bustle at the door as the colonel came in; an elderly man, still upright and handsome. His companion followed him in and paused to talk to Aunt Alice and then Margaret, so that Trixie had ample time to study Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma, immaculately handsome in black tie.

She gave a little gasp of surprise and retired prudently behind a group of people, from where she surveyed his progress through the room with Margaret. Her cousin was exerting her charm, a pretty hand on his arm, looking up into his face in open admiration. He was so completely out of his element, thought Trixie. He had put every other man in the room in the shade, but he was unaware of it; indeed, although he was smiling down at her cousin, listening to her chatter, she had the strong impression that he was probably contemplating some tricky aspect of endocrinology. She had seen that absorbed look on his face often enough to recognise it.

She had moved back even further, intent on keeping out of his line of vision, and it was unfortunate that her aunt should call her by name in her rather loud voice.

‘Trixie,’ cooed Aunt Alice, fortissimo, ‘come here, dear, the colonel wants to see you.’

There was nothing for it but to abandon her dark corner and make her way across the room to where the old gentleman stood, and of course at that same moment Margaret and the professor had paused to speak to someone and had turned round to watch her. She was unable to avoid his glance, but she gave no sign of recognition, and, to her great feeling of relief, nor did he.

Well, why should he? He had never actually looked at her on the ward and she was dressed differently. She retired to a sofa with the colonel for the kind of chat her companion enjoyed; he was holding forth about politics, modern youth and modern warfare to a listening audience. Trixie was a very good listener. He got up to go presently. ‘A nice little talk, my dear; I wish we could have stayed longer but we must attend a function, as you may know.’ He looked around him. ‘Where is Krijn? Ah—with Margaret. Such a very pretty girl, even an absent-minded professor may be forgiven if he falls under her spell.’

He patted Trixie’s shoulder. ‘We must talk again,’ he told her as they said goodbye.

She slipped away to the other end of the room, reluctant to come face to face with the professor, and presently the guests began to leave. A small party of Margaret’s closest friends were taking her out to dinner and Trixie was kept busy finding coats and wraps.

‘Coming with us?’ asked one of the girls.

There was no need for her to reply. Margaret had overheard and said at once, ‘Oh, Trixie hates going to restaurants, and besides, she’s on duty at that hospital of hers at the crack of dawn.’

Neither of which was true, but Trixie said nothing. Margaret didn’t mean to be unkind; she was thoughtless and spoilt and ever since they had been children together she had been accustomed to the idea that Trixie was by way of being a poor relation, to be treated as one of the family but at the same time to make herself useful and obliging.

Trixie had put up with that, for she was grateful for having a home and a family of sorts. All the same, it had been a heaven-sent blessing when the eligible young man had fancied himself in love with her and she had at last embarked on a life of her own. If she had been hurt she had very firmly never allowed anyone to see it. She saw them into their cars and went back into the house to eat her dinner with her aunt and uncle and agree, with sincerity, that Margaret was quite beautiful. ‘If only she would settle down,’ observed Aunt Alice. ‘That was a very distinguished man who came with the colonel—a professor, too. I wonder what he does…’

Trixie, who could have told her, remained silent.

She left the house the next morning without having seen Margaret again. She was on duty at ten o’clock for the rest of the day and only her uncle had been at breakfast with her. ‘I’ll say goodbye to your aunt and Margaret for you,’ he told her. ‘They both need a good rest after all the trouble they went to for the party.’ He sounded faintly reproachful. ‘A pity you couldn’t have had a day or two more free to give a hand.’

Trixie said yes, it was, wasn’t it? and forbore from reminding him that she had been up until one o’clock that morning, helping the maid to get the room straight again. She thanked him for the party, left polite messages for Aunt Alice and Margaret and took herself off, back to the East End where Timothy’s spread its forbidding grey stone, encircled by narrow busy streets and rows of poky houses. The ugly old hospital was her home now and back in her room in the nurses’ home she surveyed it with all the pride of a houseowner. Over the months she had bought cushions, a table-lamp, a pretty bedspread and a picture or two. She admired them now as she got into her uniform and then went along to the tiny kitchen to make a cup of tea. Some of her friends were there and they took their mugs back to her room for the last few minutes before they had to go on duty, full of questions about the party.

‘Was there anyone exciting there?’ asked Mary.

‘They were almost all people I didn’t know.’ Trixie almost mentioned the professor and decided not to; after all he was hardly exciting, although he had looked remarkably handsome… ‘There was a dinner party for godmothers and godfathers and uncles and aunts,’ she explained. ‘The party was for Margaret’s friends.’

‘What were the clothes like?’ someone asked.

They spent the rest of the time discussing fashion before going off to their various wards.

Ten o’clock in the morning wasn’t a favourite time at which to go on duty; housemen were checking up on patients, several of whom were being taken to various departments for treatment or tests, and those who were left in their beds wanted things—hot drinks, cold drinks, pillows turned, sheets changed, bedpans, injections, two-hourly feeds… Trixie went to and fro happily enough; Staff Nurse Bennett had days off and the part-time staff nurse doing her job was married with young children, tolerant of the most troublesome patient and kind but firm with the nurses. Trixie went off duty that evening content with her day and slept the moment her head touched the pillow. With Staff Nurse Bennett still away the following day was just as satisfying. Trixie, off duty at five o’clock, joined several of her friends and went to the cinema and then gathered in the kitchen to eat the fish and chips they had bought on the way home. Life might not be very exciting, but at least it offered friendships, security and held few surprises. She slept the sleep of the hardworking and went on duty the next morning to find Staff Nurse Bennett in a bad temper and Sister off duty for the day.

Everything went wrong, of course; it always did when Staff Nurse Bennett was there: Trixie dropped things, spilt things and, according to her senior, took twice as long as anyone else to do things. Consequently she was late for her dinner and in a thoroughly bad temper as she nipped smartly along the corridors to the canteen, to encounter Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma, ambling along, an untidy pile of papers under one arm, and, as usual, deep in thought. He glanced at her as she passed him, scurrying along with her head down, to come to a sudden halt when he said, ‘Trixie—you are the girl in the brown dress.’

He had turned back to where she was standing. ‘I thought that I had seen you somewhere. You fell over…’ His sleepy eyes surveyed her. ‘You are a friend of Margaret’s, to whose party I was invited? It seems unlikely.’

Before she could close her astonished mouth and say a word, he nodded his handsome head, gave her a kindly smile and went on his way.

‘Well,’ said Trixie. ‘Well…’ All the clever replies she might have made and hadn’t flooded into her head. He had probably uttered his thoughts out loud but that didn’t make any difference; it was only too apparent that he had compared her with Margaret and found the comparison untenable.

She flounced off into the canteen in quite a nasty temper, rejected the boiled beef and carrots on the menu, pushed prunes and custard round her plate, drank two cups of very strong tea and marched back to the ward where Staff Nurse Bennett, intent on hauling her over the coals for leaving a bowl on the wrong shelf in the treatment-room, was quite bowled over by the usually well-mannered Trixie’s begging her to stop nagging. ‘You’ll be a most awful wife,’ said Trixie. ‘In fact I doubt if you’ll ever get married, everlastingly picking holes in people.’

She had swept away to get a bed ready to admit a new patient, leaving Staff Nurse Bennett speechless.

It was two days later that she overheard Sister Snell telling Staff Nurse Bennett that Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma had gone to Holland. ‘Leiden, I believe—to deliver a series of lectures. A pity he is so wrapped up in his work—such a handsome man, too. I did hear that he had an unhappy love-affair some time ago…’

It was disappointing that they moved away and Trixie missed the rest of it. Not that she was in the least interested in the man, she told herself as she made up empty beds. Indeed, she was sorry for him, going around with his head in endocrinal clouds and never without a pile of papers or some weighty tome under one arm. He needed a wife to give him something else to think about. He had, she reflected, been taken with Margaret, and he couldn’t be all that old. Late thirties or forty perhaps, and Margaret had fancied him. He was good-looking, with beautiful manners, and probably comfortably off. She wondered where he lived. She was aware that he was fairly frequently at Timothy’s, but it didn’t take long to go to and fro between Holland and England; he could be living there just as easily as living in London. She had to stop thinking about him then, because the new patient with diabetes was feeling sick, which could be hazardous, for she hadn’t been stabilised yet. Trixie abandoned the beds and nipped smartly down the ward to deal with the situation.

October was creeping to its close, getting colder each day, so that the desire to go out in one’s off duty became very faint; the pleasant fug in the nurses’ sitting-room, with the television turned on and the gas fire up as high as it would go, became the focal point for anyone lucky enough to be off duty.

Trixie, curled up in one of the rather shabby armchairs sleepily watching TV, after a long day’s work, a medical book open on her lap but so far unread, closed her eyes. She and Jill had agreed to ask each other questions about the circulatory system, but Jill was already dozing, her mouth slightly open, her cap, which she hadn’t bothered to take off, a crumpled ruin sliding over one ear. It would be supper in an hour and the prospect of a pot of tea, a gossip and early bed was very appealing. ‘I’m in a comfortable rut,’ muttered Trixie as she dropped off.

To be awakened in seconds by Mary Fitzjohn’s voice. ‘There you are—someone wants you on the phone.’ She sniffed in a derogatory way. ‘Honestly, what a way to spend an evening—the pair of you. No wonder Jill’s getting fat, lolling around.’ She turned an accusing eye on to Trixie. ‘Hadn’t you better answer the phone?’

She went away and Trixie got out of her chair, gave Jill an apologetic smile, and went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

She almost fumbled and dropped it again at the sound of Professor van der Brink-Schaatsma’s unhurried voice. ‘Trixie? I should like to take you out to dinner. I’ll be outside the entrance in half an hour.’

She got her breath back. ‘I think you must be mistaken.’ She spoke in her sensible way, picturing him engrossed in some learned work or other and half remembering that he was supposed to be taking someone out that evening, forgetful of who it was. ‘I’m Trixie.’

‘Of course you are.’ He sounded testy. ‘Is half an hour not long enough?’

‘More than enough, only I’m surprised—you don’t know me…’

‘That is why I am asking you to have dinner with me.’

It was a reasonable answer; besides, supper in the canteen—ham, salad and boiled potatoes since it was Thursday—was hardly a mouth-watering prospect. ‘I’ll be at the entrance in half an hour,’ said Trixie, and the moment she had said it wished that she hadn’t.

While she showered, got into the blue crêpe, did her face and hair, which she wound into a chignon, she cogitated over the professor’s strange invitation. She was almost ready when she hit on what had to be the reason. He wanted to know more about Margaret. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? He had obviously been smitten at the party, probably had been seeing her since then and wanted to talk about her, and who better than a member of the family? She got into her coat—navy-blue wool, by no means new but elegant in a timeless way—thrust her tired feet into her best shoes, crammed things into her clutch-bag and went along to the entrance.

Halfway across the entrance hall she paused, suddenly wishing to turn and run, but it was too late; the professor was standing by the door, leaning against the wall, writing something in a notebook, but he glanced up, put the notebook away and came to meet her.

His smile was delightful and she smiled back. ‘You were not christened Trixie?’ he asked.

It seemed a strange kind of greeting. ‘No, Beatrice. My aunt preferred Trixie.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that I believe.’ He held the door open for her and led her across the courtyard to where a dark-blue Bentley stood, settled her into it and got in beside her.

There wasn’t a great deal of traffic in that part of London at that time of the evening; the rush-hour had passed and there were few taxis or cars for the people who lived around Timothy’s ate their suppers and then settled down in front of the telly, and if they were going to the local pub or cinema they walked.

The Bentley slid smoothly away, going westward, and presently joining the more elegant evening traffic, and then, after ten minutes or so, coming to a halt outside the Connaught Hotel.

The professor appeared to be known; Trixie, conscious that the blue crêpe wasn’t doing justice to the occasion, followed a waiter to a candlelit table, accepted the sherry she was offered and waited for the professor to say something, to explain…

She was disappointed; he began a rambling conversation about nothing much, pausing only long enough to recommend the lobster mousse, the noisette of lamb with its accompanying tarragon sauce, and, since she was hungry and this was an unexpected treat, she forbore from asking any questions. Only when she had polished off the profiteroles and had handed him his coffee-cup did she ask, ‘Why have you asked me to dine with you, Professor? There has to be a reason.’ When he didn’t answer at once, she prompted, ‘I dare say you want to talk about Margaret.’

‘Margaret? Oh, your cousin. Why should I wish to know about her?’

Trixie was a girl of sound common sense, but her tongue had been loosened by two glasses of wine on top of the sherry. ‘Well, I thought… that is, I thought that you were—well, interested in her—that you might want to talk about her.’

‘A charming girl, I have no doubt of that. I wish to talk about you, and may I say that I do not think that Trixie suits you at all; I shall call you Beatrice.’

‘Oh, well—if you like. Mother and Father always called me Beatrice; Aunt Alice has always called me Trixie.’

He didn’t appear to be listening. Any minute now, thought Trixie, he’s going to start making notes—he’s probably forgotten where he is.

She nodded her head in confirmation of this thought when he said, ‘I am writing a book. It absorbs a good deal of my time, indeed I wish that I could devote my days to it, but it seems it is not possible to do so; there are patients to attend, lectures and consultations—there are things which cannot be put on one side. My social life is another matter. I wish to withdraw from it until such time as I have finished the book, but I find it difficult to refuse invitations to dinner, the theatre and so on. It had crossed my mind that if I had a wife she might deal with that side of my life; act, as it were, as a buffer between me and these distractions. I am aware that from time to time it is obligatory for me to attend some function or other and that I must from time to time entertain my friends. A wife could deal with such matters, however, leaving me free to work on my book.’

Trixie poured more coffee for them both. ‘Is it very important to you, this book?’

‘To me, yes. And I hope to the medical profession.’

‘How much have you written?’

‘The first few chapters. There is a good deal of research.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Professor?’

Just for a moment he lifted heavy lids and she saw how blue his eyes were. ‘I haven’t made myself clear? I believe that you would be a most suitable wife, Beatrice.’

She put down her coffee-cup with a hand which shook only slightly.

‘Why?’

‘I still have not made myself clear? You are quiet, you have a pleasant voice, the patients like you, you are, I gather, popular in the hospital. You do not giggle or shriek with laughter, you dress sensibly, and above all you have no family, for I surmised from my brief visit to your aunt’s house that you are very much the poor relation.’

She said drily, ‘You have described me very accurately, Professor, only you haven’t mentioned my lack of good looks—I am not tall and willowy, indeed I am plump and not in the least pretty.’

He looked surprised. ‘I had hardly noticed and I do not think that looks matter.’

‘No?’ She sounded tart. ‘Tell me, Professor, have you no cousin or sister who might act as a buffer between you and your social commitments?’

‘Sister? Oh, I have four, all married and living in Holland and as for cousins—yes, I have any number; I cannot remember the names of half of them. No, no, I feel that a wife would solve my problem.’ He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. ‘A platonic relationship, naturally—all I would ask of you would be to order my household in such a way that I have a maximum of quiet.’

‘Will you still work at Timothy’s?’

‘Of course. Very shortly I shall be returning to Holland, where I have beds in several hospitals, but coming here at regular intervals and for consultations when necessary.’

‘I can’t speak any Dutch,’ observed Trixie, who had a practical mind.

‘You will learn! In any case English is widely spoken.’

She said rather wildly, ‘We’re talking as though I’ve agreed to—your proposal, but I haven’t.’

‘I would hardly expect you to do so at a moment’s notice; you are far too sensible a young woman to do that. I leave it to you to consider the matter at your leisure.’

He was staring at her, looking, for the moment, not in the least absent-minded. ‘Yes, well… but I don’t think… that is, it’s all rather unusual.’ She closed her eyes for a second and opened them again. He was still there; she wasn’t dreaming. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go back to Timothy’s.’

He drove her back, talking in a desultory manner about this and that, and never said another word about his astonishing proposal. She allowed herself to be helped out of the car, feeling bewildered, and stammered her awkward thanks before hurrying away to the nurses’ home. He hadn’t said a word about seeing her again, she thought as she tore off her clothes and jumped into bed. Probably, when they did meet again, he would have forgotten the whole episode. She began to go over the evening and fell asleep halfway through, telling herself that something would happen anyway.

## CHAPTER TWO

NOTHING happened, at least nothing to do with Trixie and the professor. A week went by and a most unsatisfactory week it was: Staff Nurse Bennett’s dislike of her manifested itself in a dozen annoying ways; off duty changed at the last minute when Sister Snell had days off, going late to meals because of some errand which really had to be run, constant criticism of whatever she was doing on the ward. Trixie’s temper, usually good, had become badly frayed. It was fortunate that she had days off even though she was late going off duty that evening. She left the ward and started down the stone staircase to the floor below. She would have supper and go to bed early and decide what she was going to do with her precious two days. The parks, she thought; a good walk would improve her temper. November, it seemed, was to be a sunny crisp month, and she needed the exercise. She loitered along, happily engaged in her plans, when the professor’s voice from behind and above her startled her into missing her footing. He plucked her upright and fell into step beside her.

‘I could have broken a leg,’ said Trixie with asperity. ‘Creeping up behind me like that.’ She eventually remembered to whom she was speaking and then mumbled, ‘Sorry, sir, but you startled me.’

He didn’t appear to hear her. ‘You have days off, Beatrice?’

They had reached the floor below and she turned to look up at him. ‘Yes.’

He eyed her narrowly. ‘You are pale and I think rather cross. Has it been a bad week?’

‘Awful. I shall never be a good nurse, Staff Nurse Bennett says so.’

He smiled faintly. ‘She is quite right,’ and at her indignant gasp, ‘I shall explain…’

He was interrupted by one of the path lab assistants. ‘Sir, they are waiting for you. Dr Gillespie is quite ready…’

The professor waved a large hand. ‘Yes, yes, I am on my way. I will be with you in a moment.’ When the man went back up the stairs, he went on walking beside Trixie, who was bent on getting away from him at the earliest possible moment. Halfway across the vast landing she stopped.

‘You’re going the wrong way, Professor,’ she reminded him gently.

‘Yes, yes, I dare say I am, but I wish to talk to you.’

‘They’re waiting for you,’ she pointed out patiently. ‘I should think it’s urgent.’

He said at once, ‘Ah, yes! A most interesting case; a tumour of the medulla—I believe it to be a phaeochromocytoma. This will cause hypertension…’

Trixie, her eyes popping out of her head and quite out of her depth, put a hand on one large coat sleeve. If she didn’t stop him now he’d ramble on happily about the adrenal glands. ‘Sir—sir, you have to go back upstairs. Oh, do go to the path lab. Dr Gillespie is waiting for you.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘You see, the hypertension will give rise to irregular cardiac rhythm…’ He glanced down at her. ‘Why are you looking like that, Beatrice?’

She neither knew nor cared what she looked like. ‘The path lab,’ she urged him.

‘Ah, yes. I have an appointment there.’ He patted her arm in a kindly fashion and turned to go back up the staircase. ‘Be outside at nine o’clock tomorrow morning; we will have a day in the country.’

Trixie asked faintly, ‘Will we?’ but he had already gone, two steps at a time. She glimpsed his great back disappearing on the landing above.

She started on her way again to be brought to a halt by his voice, loud and clear enough for the whole hospital to hear. He was hanging over the balustrade with the path lab assistant hovering anxiously.

‘Wear something warm, Beatrice. I have a wish to breathe the sea air.’

He disappeared, leaving her to continue across the landing and down another flight of stairs and so to her room. She sat down on the bed to think. A day by the sea would be wonderful and the professor was a charming companion, if somewhat unmindful of his surroundings from time to time. From these reflections her thoughts progressed naturally enough to the important question as to what to wear. Not a winter coat, it wasn’t cold enough, and her old quilted jacket wouldn’t do in case they had a meal somewhere. It would have to be the elderly Jaeger suit, timeless in cut, its tweed of the best quality, but, to a discerning female eye, out of date. The professor probably hadn’t a discerning eye, indeed he had observed that she dressed sensibly, which, considering that he had only seen her in uniform and the brown velvet and blue crêpe, proved her point. It would have to be the tweed. This important decision having been made, she felt free to wonder why he wanted to spend a day with her. She refused to take seriously his remarks about her being a suitable wife. He must have friends here in London even if he was Dutch; he had seemed on very easy terms with Colonel Vosper and surely if he wanted a day out he would have chosen someone like Margaret, guaranteed to be an amusing companion besides having a pretty face and the right clothes.

She got out of her uniform slowly, and, no longer wishing for her supper, got into a dressing-gown and went along to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea and eat the rest of the rich tea biscuits left in the packet. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she put her name down for bread and butter and marmalade for her breakfast, which the nurses’ home maid would bring over and leave in the kitchenette. She was hunting round for milk when several of her friends came off duty after supper.

‘You’re not ill, are you?’ asked Lucy. ‘You never miss meals.’

‘I’m fine, I wasn’t hungry. I’ve got days off anyway.’

She wished she hadn’t said that, for Mary asked in her nosy way, ‘Going home, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Got a date?’

She didn’t need to think of an answer for someone said, gently teasing, ‘Of course she has. The Governor of the Bank of England; lunch off a gold plate at the Ritz and dinner and dancing with minor royalty…’

There was a chorus of laughter and Mary said huffily, ‘You all talk such nonsense.’ She thumped down her mug and went away, and presently the rest of them wandered away to wash their hair, do their nails and argue as to who should have the hairdrier first. Trixie nipped into one of the bathrooms before anyone else had laid claim to it, and soaked in the bath, wishing that she had said a firm ‘no’ to the professor’s invitation—not an invitation, really, more an order which he had taken for granted would be obeyed. She was pondering ways and means of letting him know that she wouldn’t be able to join him in the morning when repeated impatient thumps on the door forced her to get out of the bath.

‘You’ve been in there hours,’ said Mary. ‘You’re the colour of a lobster too. You’ll probably get a chill; a good thing you’ve got days off.’

Trixie took the pins out of her hair and let it fall in a soft brown curtain around her shoulders. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she agreed cheerfully, and went off to drink more tea with such of her friends as hadn’t gone to bed. Later, in her room, curled up in her bed, she found the chapter on endocrinology and read it carefully. The professor would probably discuss the subject nearest his heart and it might help to sustain a sensible conversation if she had some idea of the subject. She had had several lectures on it; indeed, the professor himself had delivered one of them, using so many long words that she had dozed off halfway through and had had to be prodded awake when he had finished.

It took her a little time to go to sleep, her head being full of any number of facts concerning ductless glands all nicely muddled.

In the light of an early November morning, the whole thing seemed absurd. Nevertheless, Trixie ate her toast and drank her tea and got into the tweed, did her hair and face with extra care, and, as nine o’clock struck, went down to the front entrance.

The professor was there, sharing a copy of the Sun with the head porter. He handed his portion back and went to meet her. His good morning was cheerful if brief. ‘The variety of newspapers in this country is wide,’ he told her. ‘I do not as a rule read anything other than The Times or the Telegraph but I must admit that the paper I have just been reading is, to say the least, stimulating, though I must admit that the advertisements in the Dutch daily papers are even more revealing.’

He ushered her into the car and got in beside her but made no attempt to drive away. ‘It is an interesting fact,’ he informed her, ‘that I find myself able to talk to you without inhibitions.’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Do you know the east coast at all? There is a most interesting village there, once a town swallowed by the sea; it is National Trust property so that we can, if we wish, walk for miles.’

Trixie said faintly, ‘It sounds very pleasant. I don’t know that part of the country at all.’

He started the car and after that had very little to say, not that there was much to say about the Mile End Road, Leytonstone, Wanstead Flats and so on to the A12, but when they reached Chelmsford he turned north and took the road through Castle Hedingham and on to Lavenham, and there he stopped at the Swan Hotel, remarking that it was time they had a cup of coffee. The road was a quiet one, the country was wide and the town was old and charming. Trixie had given up serious thoughts; she was enjoying herself, and, although they had had but desultory talk, she felt very much at ease with her companion. She got out of the car and sat in the old inn, drinking her coffee and listening to his informed talk about the town.

‘Do you know this part of England well?’ she asked.

‘I do, yes. You see, it reminds me of my own country.’ He smiled at her and passed his cup for more coffee.

‘Wouldn’t you like to live in Holland?’

‘I do for a great deal of the time. I have, as it were, a foot in both camps. Do you know the Continent at all?’

‘My aunt and uncle took me to France while I was still at school. Paris.’

She remembered that she hadn’t enjoyed it much because she had had to do what Margaret wanted all the time and Margaret had no wish to look at old buildings and churches, only wanted to walk down the Rue de Rivoli and spend hours in the shops. ‘That’s all,’ she added flatly. ‘I expect you’ve travelled a lot?’

‘Well, yes. I go where I’m needed.’

They drove on presently and now he took the car through a network of side roads, missing Stowmarket and not joining the main road again until they had almost reached the coast, and presently they turned into a narrow country road which led eventually to a tree-shaded area where the professor parked the car. ‘This is where we get out and walk,’ he told Trixie, and got out to open her door. She could see the sea now and the village behind a shingle bank and low cliffs. It looked lonely and bleak under the grey sky, but the path they took was sheltered and winding, leading them into the village street. ‘Lunch?’ asked the professor, and took her by the arm and urged her into the Ship Inn.

He had been there before; he was greeted cheerfully by the stout cheerful man behind the bar, asked if he would like his usual and what would the young lady have?

Trixie settled for coffee and a ploughman’s lunch and sat down near the open fireplace. While she ate it, the professor talked of the history of the village, once a Saxon and then a Roman town, long swallowed up by the sea. Between mouthfuls of cheese he assured her that the bells of numerous churches long since drowned by the encroaching seas were still to be heard tolling beneath the waves. ‘There is a monastery along the cliffs; we will walk there presently and on to the Heath.’

They set out in a while with a strong wind blowing into their faces and the North Sea grey below the cliffs. The surge of the waves breaking on the shingle was almost as loud as the wind soughing among the trees. The professor had tucked her hand into his and was marching along at a good pace. It was evident that he envisaged a long walk. She thanked heaven for sensible shoes and saved her breath. They didn’t talk much until they were in sight of the coastguard cottages and beyond the bird reserve and the wide sweep of the coastline; indeed, it was so windy that just breathing normally was a bit of an effort. Trixie came to a thankful halt at last and the professor turned her round and studied her face.

‘That is better. I think that nursing is not a suitable life for you.’

‘Oh, do you? That’s what Staff Nurse Bennett says; that I’ll never make a good nurse.’

‘An unkind young woman.’ He stared down at her face, nicely rosy from the wind and the sea air. ‘It has occurred to me that I have been over-hasty in broaching the subject of our marriage. Nevertheless, I hope that you have given it your consideration. Perhaps you have a boyfriend of your own or you may not wish to marry?’

His voice was quiet and very faintly accented.

‘Me? A boyfriend? Heavens, no. At least,’ she hesitated, ‘before I started my training, there was a man who was one of Margaret’s friends—Aunt Alice would have liked him for a son-in-law, but for some reason he—he liked me instead of Margaret. That’s why I started nursing…’

It was a meagre enough explanation but the professor seemed to understand it. ‘I see—you say “out of sight, out of mind”, do you not?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t like him anyway…’

‘You have no objection to being married, do you?’

‘None at all,’ she told him soberly, and thought what a strange conversation they were having. Not even a glimmer of romance either, but the professor didn’t strike her as a romantic man; his work was his life, and she suspected that his social life was something he regarded as an unwelcome necessity.

‘So you will consider becoming my wife? I have already explained to you that all I ask is peace and quiet so that I may write whenever I have the time. You will not mind being left to your own devices? There will be times when I shall be obliged to attend dinner parties and similar occasions, but I shall rely upon you to deal with any entertaining which I may be obliged to do from time to time; to deal with the tiresome details, answer the telephone calls and return the visits which are so distracting.’

He looked away from her to the grey sea, and Trixie said in her matter-of-fact way, ‘I expect you are very sought after—there must be lots of girls who would like to marry you.’

He didn’t look at her, although he smiled a little. ‘You would not mind acting as my guardian? I find that young women can be very ruthless in getting what they want.’

It would be worth trying, thought Trixie—a handsome man, still quite young, well known in his profession, well off, she supposed, able to give his wife the comforts of life. All he wanted was to work and write his book. He said to surprise her, ‘I should like to fall in love—it is a long time ago since I did that and now my life is so full and perhaps I am too old.’

‘Pooh,’ said Trixie. ‘Age hasn’t anything to do with it. Get that book written and then you’ll have time to look around you.’

He did glance at her then, although she couldn’t read the look in his eyes beneath their dropping lids. ‘But I shall be married to you.’

‘Ah, yes—but not—not… that is, divorce is very easy these days.’

He took her hands in his. ‘You do understand, don’t you? My work is so very important to me and it has been so for years. So will you marry me, Beatrice?’

‘Yes. I think it might be a good idea. I’m not likely to get asked by anyone else. I like you and I feel easy with you, although I don’t know you at all, do I? I will really try to be the sort of wife you want.’

‘I’m a selfish man…’

‘No. You are driven by your urge to do something you feel you must—like Scott going to the Pole or Hilary climbing Everest.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ll guard you like a dragon.’

‘I believe you will.’ He flung a great arm around her shoulders and felt her shiver in the wind. ‘You’re cold—how thoughtless of me. We’ll go back. We can stop for tea at Lawshall; there’s a pleasant hotel there.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I need to be back at Timothy’s by seven o’clock—I’m admitting a woman with exophthalmos, a most interesting case, and I want to make sure that the special treatment is started immediately. I dare say you haven’t come across a case—it is a question of controlling the hyperthyroidism…’

They had begun to walk back and they were going up the path to where the car had been parked before the finer points of the condition had been explained. The professor stopped so suddenly that Trixie almost overbalanced. ‘Oh, my dear Beatrice, I had quite lost myself, do forgive me, I tend to forget…’

It was at that moment, looking up into his concerned face, that Trixie fell in love with him.

The knowledge rendered her speechless but only for a moment, for at the same moment she had realised that this was something which was going to happen time and again and she would have to get used to it. She said calmly, ‘I found it most interesting and you don’t need to apologise, now or ever. The poor woman—I do so hope you’ll be able to cure her.’

They had reached the car and were leaning against its elegant bonnet.

‘I shall do what I can; if the Diotroxin and the radiotherapy fail to halt it, then it will have to be tarsorrhaphy. I will explain about that…’

He was lost again, deep in the subject nearest his heart, and Trixie, getting colder by the minute in the now chilly wind, listened willingly because she liked the sound of his deep voice and he was treating her as someone in whom he could confide. When, at length, he paused, she said warmly, ‘Oh, I do expect you must be anxious to get back to Timothy’s and get started on her.’

He opened the car door and ushered her in, and she at once sank thankfully into the comfort of the soft leather. As he got in beside her she said, ‘We won’t stop for tea if you want to get back.’

He patted her knee in an impersonal manner and sent electric shocks all over her. ‘No, no, there’s time enough. We shall be back well before seven o’clock; that should give you time to tidy yourself while I’m on the ward. I’ll get someone to ring the nurses’ home when I’m ready and we can meet in the hall.’

She turned her head to look at his calm profile. ‘Meet you? In the hall? Why?’

‘I told Mies to have dinner ready for half-past eight…’

‘Who’s Mies?’

‘My housekeeper. I’ve a small house near Harley Street; when I’m over here I have the use of some consulting-rooms there.’ He slowed the car. ‘Here we are at Lawshall.’

The hotel was small, comfortable and welcoming. They ate crumpets swimming in butter and rich fruit cake and drank the contents of the teapot between them, and the professor didn’t mention the endocrine glands once. He talked pleasantly about a great many things, but he didn’t mention their own situation either and Trixie, bursting with unspoken little questions, made all the right kind of remarks and thought about how much she loved him.

They drove on again presently, to reach the hospital with ten minutes to spare. The professor saw her out of the car and walked with her to the entrance. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he told her. ‘I expect to be about an hour.’

He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder and she said, ‘Very well,’ and walked away towards the nurses’ home entrance because she suspected that he was hiding impatience. In her room she got out of the tweed and combed through her wardrobe, intent on finding something suitable to wear. Not the velvet or the crêpe; she kept those for rare parties. There was a perfectly plain jersey dress buried behind her summer dresses. She had had it for years because it was such a useful colour, nutmeg brown. It had a high round neck and long sleeves and a wide, rather long skirt.

She was ready long before the hour was up so she went down to the sitting-room, relieved to find no one there, and read a yesterday’s newspaper someone had left there. She was doggedly working her way through a long political speech when the warden poked her head round the door.

‘Nurse Doveton, Professor van der Brink-Schaaksma will be ready in five minutes.’ She added severely, ‘I must say I am surprised.’ She eyed Trixie’s heightened colour and sniffed. ‘I didn’t know that you knew him.’

Trixie was pulling on her gloves and making last-minute inspections of her face and handbag. The warden was a sour lady of uncertain years, overflowing with unspoken criticisms of the younger nurses and disliked by them all. Happy in her own small heaven, Trixie wanted everyone else to be happy too.

‘I expect you are,’ she said blithely. ‘I’m a bit surprised myself.’

He was there waiting, and he came across the hall to meet her.

‘Is everything all right?’ she wanted to know. ‘Has she settled in?’

‘Yes, and I think that she will be a good patient.’ He opened the door and they went out to the car and got in.

‘Have you finished for the day?’

He drove out of the forecourt and edged into the evening traffic. ‘Yes. There is nothing much I can do till the morning. I shall have to see her doctor—she’s a private patient—and talk things over with my registrar.’

She had the feeling that just for the moment he had forgotten that she was there. She sat quietly as he drove across London until they reached the quieter streets, lined with tall old houses, leading to equally quiet squares, each with its enclosed garden in the centre.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said the professor suddenly.

‘I was thinking how different this is from Timothy’s…’

‘Indeed yes. My house in Holland is different again. In a small village near Leiden—very quiet. You like the country?’

‘Yes, very much.’

He had turned into a narrow street lined with Georgian houses and he stopped halfway down. He turned to look at her. ‘This is where I live, Beatrice.’ Then he got out and opened her door. She stood and looked around her for a moment; the houses were what she supposed an estate agent would describe as bijou and those she could see clearly in the lamplit street were immaculate as to paint and burnished brass-work on their front doors, and the house they approached was immaculate too with a fanlight over the black-painted door which was reached by three shallow steps guarded by a thin rail. There was a glow of light behind the bow window and bright light streaming from its basement.

The professor opened the door and stood aside for her to go in, still silent, and she went past him into the long narrow hall, its walls white and hung with paintings, red carpet underfoot and a small side-table against one wall. Halfway down its length a curved staircase led to the floor above and there were several doors on the opposite side. It was the door at the end of the hall which was opened, allowing a short stout elderly woman to enter.

The professor was taking Trixie’s coat. ‘Mies…’ He spoke to her in Dutch and then said, ‘Mies speaks English but she’s a little shy about it. She understands very well, though.’

Trixie held out a hand and said how do you do, and smiled at the wrinkled round face. Mies could have been any age; her hair was dark and glossy and her small bright eyes beamed above plump cheeks, but the hand she offered was misshapen with arthritis and her voice was that of an old woan. Her smile was warm and so was her greeting. ‘It is a pleasure, miss.’ She took Trixie’s coat from the professor, spoke to him in her own language and trotted off.

‘In here,’ said the professor, and swept Trixie through the nearest door and into a room at the front of the house. Not a large room, but furnished in great good taste with comfortable chairs and a wide sofa, small lamp tables and a display cabinet filled with silver and porcelain against one wall. There was a brisk fire burning in the polished steel fireplace and sitting before it was a large tabby cat accompanied by a dog of no particular parentage. The cat took no notice of them but the dog jumped up, delighted to see them.

Trixie bent to pat the woolly head. ‘He’s yours?’

‘Mies and I share him. I can’t take him to and fro from Holland—sometimes I am away from here for weeks on end, months even—so he lives here with her and I enjoy his company when I’m here. He’s called Caesar.’

‘Why?’ She sat down in the chair he had offered.

‘He came—from nowhere presumably, he saw us and decided to stay and conquered Mies’s kind heart within the first hour or so.’

He sat down opposite her and the cat got up and went to sit on the arm of his chair.

‘And the cat?’

‘Gumbie.’

Trixie laughed, ‘Oh, I know—from TS Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.’ She added in a surprised voice, ‘Have you read it?’

‘Oh, yes. I have a copy in my study. Gumbie belongs to Mies; the pair of them make splendid company when I am away.’

‘Mies doesn’t mind being alone here?’

‘There is a housemaid, Gladys. They get on very well together.’ He got up. ‘May I get you a drink? I think there’s time before dinner.’

They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes then Trixie asked, ‘Do you have to go back to the hospital this evening?’

‘I shall drive you back later and make sure that all is well with my patient. I have an out-patients clinic in the morning, which probably means more admissions, and a ward-round in the afternoon.’

‘You don’t plan to go back to Holland just yet?’

‘Not for some time, but I hope to before Christmas. I’ve some examining to do in December and a seminar in January so I shall be over there for some time. I come over fairly frequently. It is a very short journey by plane and I need only stay for a few hours.’

Mies came to tell them that dinner was on the table then and during the meal the conversation, to Trixie’s disappointment, never once touched on themselves. Had the professor a father and mother living? she wondered, spooning artichoke soup and making polite remarks about the east coast and their day out and going on with the braised duck with wine sauce to a few innocuous remarks about the weather and the delights of autumn, and then with the lemon soufflé, fortified by two glasses of the white Burgundy she had drunk on top of the sherry, and with her tongue nicely loosened, she allowed it to run away with her.

‘I don’t know your name or how old you are or where you live exactly. I should have thought that by now you would have been married. You must have been in love…’

She tossed off the last of the wine and added, ‘Of course you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, only I’d rather like to know, because…’ She stopped just in time, going pale at the thought that she had been on the point of telling him that she had fallen in love with him. She finished lamely, ‘Well, of course you don’t have to tell me. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘Not rude—you have every right to know, in the circumstances. Additionally, one day when we have the leisure you must tell me all about yourself. Now let us go back to the drawing-room and have our coffee and I will answer your questions.’

Once more by the fire with the coffee-tray between them, with Caesar’s head resting on the professor’s beautifully polished shoes and Gumbie curled up on Trixie’s lap, he observed, ‘Now, let me see—what was your first question? My name—Krijn, I’ll spell it.’ He did so. ‘It is a Friese name because my family come from Friesland. I’m thirty-eight—does that seem old to you? I have a mother and father, they live in Friesland and my four sisters are younger than I and married, and yes, I have been in love—a very long time ago; I think that you do not have to worry about that. She is happily married in South America, leading the kind of life I would have been unable to give her. I must confess that since then I have never thought seriously about marriage and I am perfectly content with my way of life—or have been until recently when I realised that a bachelor is very vulnerable, and, having given the matter due thought, marriage seemed the right answer.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do I seem too frank? I do not intend to hurt your feelings, Beatrice, but you are such a sensible girl there is no need to wrap up plain facts in fancy speeches.’

She longed to tell him how wrong he was; the most sensible girl in the world would never object to fancy speeches, but all she said was, ‘Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry you—your love-life was blighted…’ It sounded old-fashioned in her ears and she felt a fool, but his face remained placid although his eyes, half-hidden beneath their lids, held amusement. The amusement was kindly; he liked her, he felt at ease with her and she would act as a buffer between him and the determined efforts of his friends and acquaintances to get him married to any one of the attractive girls he met at their houses. He would have more time for his book… and in return she would have anything she wanted within reason and lead the kind of life she deserved. He remembered the strange pang he had felt when she had fallen down in the ward…

‘As soon as I am free I will call upon your uncle and aunt. There is no reason why we shouldn’t be married within the next few weeks, is there?’

The mere thought of it sent her heart rocking. ‘No, no, none at all.’

‘Good. I’ll let you know when I’m free for a day or two. You should have the privilege of choosing the day, should you not? So I will tell you when I can arrange to be away and give you a choice. Will that do?’

She nodded. ‘I have to give a month’s notice.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll arrange for you to leave whenever you wish. You will wish to go to your aunt’s house?’

‘Well, I’m not sure if it would be convenient. Up to now I’ve only gone when I’m invited…’

‘In that case we will have a quiet wedding and you can stay with some friends of mine for a few days before we marry. In a church?’

‘Please. But will they want me?’

‘They’ll be delighted. Your aunt and uncle and Margaret will wish to be at the wedding?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Would you mind awfully if we just got married—just us and two witnesses, I mean, then I could go straight to the church from the hospital? That’s unless you wanted your family to come to the wedding?’

‘I hadn’t intended asking them. We could go over for a couple of days so that you might meet them and I should very much prefer a quiet ceremony if that is what you want.’

‘Yes, it is. I mean it’s not quite like an ordinary marriage, is it?’ Regret that the wedding of every girl’s dreams wasn’t to be for her sent sudden tears to her eyes, but she had no intention of crying. She was going to marry the man she loved and that was all that mattered. He was pleased, she could see that. She glanced at the clock and suggested in her quiet voice that she should go back to Timothy’s, and tried not to mind when he made no effort to keep her. She suspected that, the question of his wedding having been settled, he could turn with relief to his patient’s problems.

He bade her a friendly goodnight in the hospital, waiting until she had gone through the nurses’ home door before going to the wards, forgetting her the moment he reached them. As for Trixie, she undressed slowly, suddenly tired—which was a good thing, for her thoughts weren’t entirely happy—so that she slept before she began to worry.

## CHAPTER THREE

SOMEHOW with the morning Trixie’s worries had disappeared. She got up and wandered along to the kitchen to make tea, since she had a second day off, and although she hadn’t handed in her name for breakfast the home maid fetched her bread and butter and marmalade. She took the lot back on a tray and got into bed and several of her friends poked their heads round the door on their way to their own breakfast to wish themselves in her place and ask what she was going to do with her day.

Yesterday still loomed large in her thoughts; she hadn’t given a thought to today. ‘Nothing—just potter. Do some window-shopping and be back here for tea, most likely.’

‘How about the flicks this evening?’ asked Lucy. ‘See you then.’

There wasn’t any point in lying in bed once she had gobbled up her bread and butter. She got up again and dressed and presently left Timothy’s and got a bus bound for Regent Street. The rush-hour was over but there were plenty of shoppers strolling from one window to the next. Trixie joined them, her small nose close to the glass, lost in a pleasant dream wherein she was able to buy anything she wanted without having to bear in mind the fact that it would have to last for a year or two. If she married the professor—she repeated the ‘if’ to herself—presumably she would be able to indulge her taste to a certain extent. She supposed that he was fairly well-off and she would have an allowance for clothes. Aunt Alice did; so did Margaret.

She wandered along and turned into Bond Street, peering at the exquisite clothes in the boutiques and wondering if he would see her that evening. He had told her that he would be busy all day, but surely he would be free later in the day? Perhaps he would take her to his home again and they would have dinner together—the duck had been delicious… She suddenly felt hungry and the sight of a small café down a side street sent her hurrying to it. She hadn’t much money—pay-day was still a week away—but she ordered coffee and a bun and then, refreshed, continued her window-shopping until it was time to go to Oxford Street and buy herself lunch in the cafeteria in BHS. There was still the afternoon to fill in. She took a bus to the National Gallery and wandered around the galleries studying the paintings. There weren’t many people there and she went from one vast room to the next, a small lonely figure but quite content. She had always hoped that she would meet a man she would love and want to marry, but she hadn’t had much hope of doing so and certainly had had little hope of any man wanting to marry her; now her dearest dream had come true. Suddenly anxious to get back to Timothy’s in case he was looking for her, she joined a bus queue and went back to Regent Street and then caught another bus to Timothy’s.

It was dusk already and there was a damp mist. The many lights shining from Timothy’s’ windows merely served to show up the shabbiness of the surrounding streets. Trixie hardly noticed that; she bounced through the entrance doors and started across the hall towards the nurses’ home entrance. She was passing the porter’s lodge when Murgatroyd, the head porter, put his head through the little window.

‘Nurse Doveton? There’s a letter for you.’

She recognised the almost illegible writing on the envelope. It was the same scrawl as his signature on the forms she had so often been bidden to take to various departments. She beamed at Murgatroyd, wished him a good evening, and sped to her room, already wondering what to wear.

The note, when she opened the envelope, was brief and a poor example of the kind of letter a man would write to his future bride. It stated in a businesslike manner that the professor would be in Holland for the next few days and signed it with his initials.

Trixie read it for a second time, telling herself that possibly he had been in a great hurry when he had written it. At least he was honest, she reminded herself; he liked her—enough to marry her—but he wasn’t going to pretend to stronger feelings. Something she would have to get used to. ‘After all,’ she said to herself, ‘if I hadn’t fallen in love with him I don’t suppose I would have minded in the least.’