“You don’t like me,”
Dr. Marc van Borsele observed.

“I don’t know you,” Claribel replied. “But thank you for your help. You were very kind.”

“I’m not a particularly kind man.” He closed his case, and she opened the door and held out a nicely kept hand.

“Goodbye, Dr. van Borsele.”

He shook her hand briefly. “Goodbye. You live alone?”

She was surprised. “Yes. Well, there are Enoch and Toots…”

“I trust you don’t open your door to strangers or accept lifts from those you don’t know.”

Her pretty mouth dropped open. “Well! You insisted on bringing me home and here you are telling me…” She strove to keep her voice at a reasonable level. “I never accept lifts and I certainly don’t open my door. Whatever do you take me for?”

“The most beautiful girl I have seen for a long time.” He didn’t smile. “Good night, Claribel.”

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

The Course of True Love
Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

MARCH was doing exactly as it should; it had come in like a lamb, now it was going out like a lion. An icy rain driven by a roaring wind was sweeping the streets clear of all but those unfortunates who had been forced to go out. And these, needless to say, were scuttling along, anxious to get within doors as fast as possible.

There was a long queue half-way down the street, an impatient line of people under umbrellas, jostling for position, ready to rush forward when their bus arrived. The girl at the end of the queue edged away from the drips running down the back of her neck from the umbrella behind her and sighed resignedly. It had been a long day and she was tired and home was still a bus ride away; she could not even tell if she would be lucky enough to get on to the next bus…

It came, sending great splashes of water from the gutter as it slowed to a halt. The queue surged forward. The owner of the umbrella gave her a vicious poke in the back as the slow-moving elderly man in front of her stepped back and planted a foot on her instep. She gave a gasp of pain and came to an involuntary halt, to be instantly swept aside by those behind her. Which meant one foot, the injured one, in the muddy water of the gutter.

The bus went, taking with it almost all the queue, leaving the girl to lift a dripping foot back on to the pavement and hobble to join it once more. But she didn’t reach it; the car which had drawn up behind the bus edged forward and stopped beside her and the driver got out.

He looked even taller than he actually was in the light of the street lamps and she couldn’t see him very clearly. He said with decided impatience, ‘Are you hurt? I saw what happened. Get into the car, I’ll drive you home.’

She looked up from the contemplation of torn tights and a trickle of blood. ‘Thank you; I prefer to go by bus.’ Her voice was a pretty as her face but there was a decided chill to it.

‘Don’t be a fool, young woman, I’ve no intention of kidnapping you. Besides, you look hefty enough to take care of yourself.’ He ignored her outraged gasp. ‘Don’t keep me waiting, I have an appointment.’ The impatience was even more decided.

Still smarting from having her Junoesque and charming person referred to as hefty, the girl took his proffered arm and allowed herself to be settled beside him. ‘Where to?’ he asked, and slid into the stream of traffic.

The girl gave a delicate sniff; the car was a Rolls-Royce and smelled of leather and, faintly, of cologne. She said in her nice voice, still chilly though, ‘You should have asked me before I got into the car, which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t been so impatient. Meadow Road, a turning off Stamford Street. That’s…’

‘I know where it is. Which number?’

‘Fifteen.’ She added, ‘It’s quite a long way. You could drop me off at a bus-stop; I shall be quite all right.’

He didn’t answer, and after a moment she realised that he wasn’t going to. She glanced at her foot; it had left a muddy, watery mark on the car’s splendid carpet and it was bleeding sluggishly. Nothing serious, she decided.

They crossed the river and he turned the car into the busy streets around Waterloo station and then, without being told, into Meadow Road, a dingy street which didn’t live up to its name for there wasn’t a blade of grass throughout its length. Its houses were bay-windowed with steps leading to shabby front doors, and iron railings concealed the semi-basements. Her companion stopped before number fifteen and got out. It surprised her when he opened her door and offered a hand. She stood on the pavement, looking up at him; she was a tall girl but she had to look quite a way.

‘Thank you, you were most kind. I hope you won’t be late for your appointment.’

‘What is your name?’

She answered matter-of-factly, ‘Claribel Brown. What’s yours?’

‘Marc van Borsele. And now that we are introduced, I will come in with you and see to that foot.’

She saw then that he held a case in one hand. ‘You’re a doctor?’

‘Yes.’

There seemed no point in arguing with him. ‘Very well, though I’m perfectly able…’

‘Let us waste no more time in polite chat.’

Claribel opened the gate to the basement with rather more force than necessary and led the way down the worn steps to her front door. In the sombre light of the street lamp its paint shone in a vibrant red and there were tubs on either side, holding the hopeful green shoots of daffodils. She got out her key and had it taken from her and the door opened. He switched on the light, too, and then stood aside for her to enter.

There was a tiny lobby and an inner door leading to the living-room, small and perforce dark but very cosy. The furniture was mostly second-hand but had been chosen with care, and there was an out-of-date gas fire under the narrow mantelshelf. The one easy chair was occupied by two cats, one black and white, one ginger, curled up together. They unrolled themselves as Claribel went in, muttered softly at her, and curled up again.

‘Do come in,’ said Claribel unnecessarily, for he was already right behind her.

They stood for a moment and studied each other. Claribel was a pretty girl, almost beautiful with golden hair drawn back rather too severely into a knot, green eyes and a straight nose above a generous mouth. She was tall and magnificently built and looked a good deal younger than her twenty-eight years.

She stared back at her companion, frowning faintly because he was staring even harder. He was well over six feet, she supposed, and big with huge shoulders. He was also good-looking in a formidable way, with dark hair, sprinkled with grey, an aggressive nose, a firm thin mouth and dark eyes. He might be any age between thirty-five and forty, she guessed, and he had a nice taste in dress: conservative but elegant.

‘Be good enough to take off your tights or whatever and let me see that foot.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I can spare five minutes.’

The arrogance of the man! Someone should take him in hand, Claribel thought as he turned to undo his case. She whipped off her tights, sat down on a small upright chair and held her foot out.

There was more mud and blood; he poked and prodded, remarked that she would have a bruised foot but nothing worse and suggested that she should wash it. ‘That’s if you have a bathroom?’

She bit back what she would liked to have said in reply and went through the door at the back of the room and shut it behind her. The bathroom was a pokey little place reached through her bedroom; she cleaned her foot and whisked back to find him standing before the watercolour hanging over the mantelpiece.

‘Your home?’ he wanted to know.

‘Yes.’

‘The west country?’

‘Yes.’ She had sat down and was holding her foot once more. ‘You said you had five minutes…’

He sat on his heels, used penicillin powder, gauze and strapping and then stood up. ‘You don’t like me,’ he observed.

‘I don’t know you. Thank you for your help. You were kind.’

‘I am not a particularly kind man.’ He closed his case and she opened the door and held out a nicely kept hand.

‘Goodbye, Dr van Borsele.’

He shook it briefly. ‘Goodbye. You live alone?’

She was surprised. ‘Yes. Well, there are Enoch and Toots…’

‘I trust that you don’t open your door to strangers or accept lifts from those you don’t know.’

Her pretty mouth dropped open. ‘Well! You insisted on bringing me home and here you are telling me…’ She strove to keep her voice at a reasonable level. ‘I never accept lifts and I certainly don’t open my door. Whatever do you take me for?’

‘The most beautiful girl I have seen for a long time.’ He didn’t smile. ‘Goodnight, Claribel.’

She bolted the door after him and stood listening to him driving away.

‘What an extraordinary man,’ she observed to her cats, ‘and much too sure of himself.’

She went into the kitchenette and began to get her supper, all the while considering ways and means of deflating his arrogance. ‘I dare say he’s quite nice,’ she mused out loud, ‘once one gets beneath that cold manner. Perhaps he is crossed in love. Or unhappily married. And what’s he doing here in London if he’s Dutch?’

She dished up her omelette and sat down at the table in the living-room to eat it. ‘I wonder what he does? Private practice, or just on a visit, or at one of the hospitals?’

She finished her supper, fed the cats and washed up, turned on the gas fire and got out the sweater she was knitting, but somehow she couldn’t settle to it. Presently she bundled it up and took herself off to bed, where, to her annoyance, she lay awake thinking, much against her will, of the man she had met that evening. ‘A good thing we’ll not meet again,’ she observed to the cats curled up on the end of her bed, ‘for he’s too unsettling.’

It was still raining when she got up the next morning, dressed, breakfasted, fed the cats and tidied up her small flat. The physiotherapy department opened at nine o’clock and Miss Flute, who was in charge, had put her down to do a ward round with Mr Shutter, the orthopaedic consultant, at half past that hour. She needed to go through the notes before then.

The bus was jammed with damp passengers, irritable at that hour of the morning. Claribel wedged herself between a staid city gent and a young girl with purple hair arranged in spikes, and reviewed the day before her.

A busy one. Mr Shutter had the energy of two men and expected everyone to feel the same way; she had no doubt that by the end of his round she would have added more patients to the already overfull list Miss Flute brooded over each morning. Besides that, she had several patients of her own to deal with before lunch, and in the afternoon Mr Shutter had his out-patients clinic. It crossed her mind that she had more than her fair share of that gentleman; there were, after all, four other full-time physiotherapists as well as several who came in part-time. There were other consultants, too, milder, slower men that Mr Shutter, but somehow she always had him. Not that she minded; he was a youngish man, an out-of-doors type whose energy was very much in contrast to his broken-limbed patients, but he was kind to them and she had never minded his heartiness. Some of the girls she worked with found him intimidating, but it had never bothered her; she had a peppery man of the law for a father.

Jerome’s Hospital was old; it had been patched up from time to time and there were plans afoot to move it, lock, stock and barrel, to the outskirts of London, but the plans had been mooted so often, and just as often tidied away again, that it seemed likely to stay where it was, surrounded by its dingy streets, its walls grimed from the traffic which never ceased around it, its interior a maze of passages, splendid public rooms and inconvenient wards. Claribel, who had trained there and stayed on afterwards, surveyed its grim exterior as she got off the bus with a mixture of intense dislike and affection. She loved her work, she liked the patients and the people she worked with, but she deplored the endless corridors, the dimness of the various departments and the many annexes where it was so easy to get lost. Her kind heart went out to patients who, for the first time, arrived for treatment and wandered in bewilderment all over the place, despite the little signposts none of them ever saw, until someone took pity on them and showed them the way, to arrive, hot and flustered, late for their appointment.

Claribel wished the porter on duty a good morning and went down the short staircase at the back of the entrance hall. It led to a narrow passage used by the electricians, porters and those going to the theatre serving casualty; it was also a short cut to the physio department. She opened the door and went in with five minutes to spare.

Miss Flute was already there, a middle-aged, grey-haired lady with a sharp tongue and a soft heart who led her team with unflagging energy and didn’t suffer fools gladly. She smiled at Claribel as she wished her a brisk good morning. ‘A busy day,’ she observed. ‘There’s a huge out-patients.’

Claribel paused on her way to the cloakroom they all shared. ‘Are we all here?’ she asked.

‘No. Mrs Green phoned to say that she had a bad cold—we’ll have to share out her patients.’

Claribel got into her white overall, gave her reflection a perfunctory glance and went into the office to con the notes. It was indeed going to be a busy day.

The orthopaedic wing was right at the other end of the hospital and Mr Shutter was doing his rounds in both the men’s and women’s wards. Claribel poked her pretty head round Sister’s office door, announced her arrival and joined the social worker, a nurse burdened with charts and, at the last minute, Sister herself. Just in time, the ward doors swung open and Mr Shutter strode in, bringing with him a great rush of energy and fresh air. Also with him was the man who had given Claribel a lift on the previous evening.

Although she had thought about him a great deal, she hadn’t expected to see him again, but if she had she would have expected him to at least give some sign of recognition. As it was, his dark eyes looked right through her. She was conscious of annoyance. Of course, it wouldn’t have done at all to have spoken to her, but he could have smiled…

She took her place in the group surrounding Mr Shutter and the round started. There were sixteen patients in the ward but not all of them were having physio. It wasn’t until they reached the fourth bed that Mr Shutter said, ‘Claribel, how’s this leg shaping? Is it going to need much more massage? It looks pretty good to me.’ He glanced at the man beside him.

‘What do you think, Marc?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This is one of our physiotherapists, Claribel Brown. Claribel, Mr van Borsele has joined us for a period—he’ll be taking over for a week or two while I’m away. Well, what do you think, Marc?’ Mr van Borsele had barely glanced at her; only by the slight nod of his handsome head had he acknowledged that she was there. He studied the limb at some length, smiled nicely at the young man lying in the bed and said, ‘Might Miss Brown put this lad through his paces? There’s considerable muscle wastage.’

He and Mr Shutter studied the X-rays and they watched Claribel as she exercised the boy’s fractured leg; it had been taken out of the plaster, the pin taken from the knee and the extension removed only days before, but thanks to her daily visits there was quite a lot of movement. Of course there was muscle wastage, she reflected silently. If Mr van Borsele should ever break one of his legs and she had the task of exercising it… She looked up to catch his dark eyes upon her and a knowing light smile curled his lip. So he read people’s thoughts, too, did he?

By a great effort of will she managed not to blush.

The round wound to a close and presently she was able to leave the ward, armed with a great many instructions, and make her way back to the physio department. The waiting-room was full but it always was: people waiting patiently for their turn, holding crutches or walking aids, nursing arms in slings. She uttered a general good morning and went through to the office where Miss Flute was on the phone—admonishing someone severely by the sound of it. She put the receiver down and remarked, ‘I have very little patience with some people. Well, I suppose you’ve collected another bunch of patients. Your Mrs Snow is waiting.’ She studied Claribel’s face. ‘Have a cup of coffee first. Heaven knows when you’ll get another chance.’

Claribel sipped thankfully. ‘Five more—two discharges to come here three times a week and three on the ward—all extensions. There’s a new man taking over from Mr Shutter—did you know?’

‘Met him yesterday. Dutch—well thought of, I believe. A bit terse, I thought.’

Claribel put down her empty mug. ‘I’ll say. Mr Shutter introduced us; he looked right through me.’

Miss Flute said drily, ‘How could that be possible?’

Claribel frowned. She was a sensible girl, aware that she had more than her share of good looks, and she was accustomed to people remarking on that, but she had no vanity and was quite uncaring of the admiring glances she drew. All the same, for some reason Mr van Borsele’s lack of interest in her had irked her. ‘Perhaps he hates blondes…or he’s a misogynist.’

Miss Flute gave a hoot of laughter. ‘My dear girl, the grapevine has it that he is out and about at all the best restaurants with various lovelies.’

‘Good luck to him,’ said Claribel and went off in search of Mrs Snow. Mrs Snow was elderly, stout and chatty; Claribel rather liked her. She had tripped in her own kitchen and broken an arm and, having passed through Casualty, X-ray and Mr Shutter’s Out-patients, was now in the hands of the physio department. She was a chatty soul and at each session related an instalment of her home life while Claribel massaged her and egged her on to do the exercises she was so loath to do.

‘I seen a nice young man as I come in,’ she observed as Claribel began on the arm. ‘Getting out of ’is car, ’e was—one of them Rolls, ever so posh. ’E went into Outpatients.’

She fixed Claribel with a beady eye; having set a sprat to catch a mackerel, she was hopeful of a good catch.

‘He’s taking over from Mr Shutter for a week or two. You’re due to see him next week, aren’t you? Mr Shutter is having a holiday.’

‘’E deserves it. ’E must be sick ter death of other people’s bones.’ Mrs Snow cringed away from Claribel’s gentle fingers. ‘Ow, that ’urts. Is ’e nice, the new man?’

‘I’m sure he will be very good at his job,’ said Claribel sedately. ‘Now, Mrs Snow, let me see you lift that arm.’

The day wore on with its unending stream of patients. By five o’clock Claribel was bone-weary. Not that she minded; she liked her work and it was satisfying to see arms and legs returned to normal. Of course there was a hard core of elderlies with arthritis who were more or less permanently on the books, but they still benefited, even if they made little progress.

There was a general rush to go home once the last patient had gone, and a good deal of cheerful chatter since it was Friday and the department closed down until Monday morning. They left in a cheerful bunch, pausing to say goodbye to Miss Flute as she got into her Mini and then streaming across the hospital forecourt, intent on getting their various buses. Claribel, intent on getting home for the weekend, raced away to the nearest bus-stop, her mind already dwelling happily on the peace and quiet of her parents’ home in Wiltshire, so that she failed to see Mr van Borsele’s Rolls at the entrance, waiting to join the rush of traffic in the street. She had in fact forgotten all about him.

She went home once a month, an undertaking which called for a strict routine the moment she got into her flat. Shower and change, feed the cats, stow them in their travelling basket, snatch up her already packed weekend bag and get a taxi, not always easy, especially in her unfashionable corner of London. Waterloo station wasn’t all that distance away, but too far to walk with the cats and her bag, and this evening she was later than usual.

She reached the end of Meadow Road and not a taxi in sight, although there was more chance of one in Stamford Street. She paused on the corner by the few rather tatty shops and looked hopefully in either direction. Traffic streamed past but every taxi was occupied; she would have to try for a bus if one came along, although the nearest stop to the station was several minutes away from the station itself.

She didn’t see the Rolls, going the other way, slow, do a U-turn and slide to a halt beside her.

‘Get in quickly,’ begged Mr van Borsele, ‘I’m breaking any number of regulations.’ He had nipped out smartly, taken the basket from her and put it on the back seat, and hurried her round the car into the seat beside his. ‘Where to?’

Claribel caught her breath. ‘Waterloo Station. My goodness, you do pop up in unexpected places, don’t you?’ She added quickly, like a small girl who had forgotten her manners, ‘Thank you very much. I haven’t much time to catch my train.’

Mr van Borsele grunted and joined the steady stream of traffic, weaving in and out of slower vehicles in a rather unnerving fashion.

‘You’re going very fast,’ Claribel pointed out severely.

He said irritably, ‘I was under the impression that you wished to catch a train, or was that just an excuse to get a lift?’

Claribel drew such a deep breath she almost exploded.

‘Well, of all the nerve…’ She remembered suddenly to whom she was speaking; one showed a proper respect towards consultant surgeons. ‘You stopped the car and told me to get in.’

‘Indeed I did. I don’t remember inviting you to criticise my driving.’

She gave his unfriendly profile an almost motherly look. He was touchy; had a tiff with his girlfriend, perhaps. With a brother only a few years younger than herself she was familiar with the sudden snappish reply.

She said reasonably, ‘I’m not criticising you at all, Mr van Borsele—I’m very grateful to you.’

He grunted again. Hardly a sparkling conversationalist, she reflected, and prepared to get out as he pulled in at the station’s main entrance. She still had almost ten minutes but there would be a queue for tickets. She had a hand on the door handle when he said, ‘Wait,’ and got out and opened the door, retrieving the cats and her bag from the back of the car and strode into the station. Outside the vast ticket office he asked, ‘Where to?’

‘Oh, Tisbury.’ She put out a hand for the basket and her bag and found she was holding them both and watching his vast back disappearing into the queue. Her protesting, ‘Mr van Borsele,’ fell on deaf ears.

He was back within five minutes, which left three minutes to get on to the train. He took the cats and her bag from her, bustled her past the platform gate, found her an empty seat opposite two respectable matrons, put the cats on the floor beside her with her bag on the rack, wished her a coldly polite goodbye and had gone while she was on the point of thanking him yet again. She remembered then that he had paid for her ticket and she had forgotten to repay him. What must he think of her? She went pink at the thought and the matrons eyed her with interest, no doubt scenting romance.

She would have to pay him when she got back on Monday; better still, she could put the money in the consultant’s letter rack with a polite note. Not that he deserved any politeness. Not a man to do things by halves, she mused as the train gathered speed between the rows of smoke-grimed houses; she had been handled as efficiently as an express parcel. And with about as much interest.

She occupied the train journey composing cool observations to Mr van Borsele when next they met, calculated to take him down a peg.

Less than two hours later she was on the platform at Tisbury station being hugged by her father and then hurried to the family car, an elderly estate car in constant use, for he was a solicitor of no mean repute and much in demand around the outlying farms and small estates. Enoch and Toots were settled in the back with Rover, the family labrador, and Mr Brown, without loss of time, drove home.

His family had lived in the same house for some considerable time. It was a typical dwelling of the district: mellowed red brick, an ancient slate roof and plenty of ground round it. A roomy place, with a stable converted to a garage and a couple of rather tumbledown sheds to one side, it stood a mile outside the little town, its garden well tended. It had never had a name but was known locally as Brown’s place.

Its owner shot up the short drive and Claribel jumped out to fling open the door and hurry inside, leaving her father to bring in the animals. Mrs Brown came out of the kitchen as she went in; a smaller version of Claribel, her fair hair thickly silvered but with a still pretty face.

Mother and daughter embraced happily and Claribel said: ‘Oh, it’s marvellous to be home again. What’s for supper?’

‘My potato soup, shepherd’s pie and upside-down pineapple pudding.’ She eyed her daughter. ‘Been working hard, darling? We’ll have a glass of sherry, shall we? Here’s your father.’

Enoch and Toots were used to their weekend trips; they ate the food put ready for them and sat themselves down before the Aga while Rover settled close by and Claribel and her parents sat at the kitchen table drinking their sherry and catching up on the news.

‘Sebastian has a new girlfriend,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘She’s a nurse, not finished her training yet. He brought her down for the weekend—we like her, but of course he’s young yet…’

‘He’s been qualified for a year, Mother.’

‘Yes, dear, I know, but he seems so much younger than you.’

‘Well, he is—three years, almost.’

There was a small silence. Claribel had had her share of young men but she had never been serious with any one of them; her mother, without saying a word, nevertheless allowed her anxiety to show. Her beautiful daughter was twenty-eight years old and it was inconceivable that she wouldn’t marry. Each time Claribel went home, her mother contrived to bring the talk round to the young men she had met and always Claribel disappointed her.

To change the trend of her parent’s obvious thoughts, Claribel said cheerfully, ‘I almost missed the train. Luckily the orthopaedic man who is standing in for Mr Shutter happened to drive past and gave me a lift.’

‘Nice?’ asked her mother hopefully.

‘No. Very terse and rude. He’s Dutch.’

‘What does he… Is he nice-looking?’ asked Mrs Brown.

‘Very. In an arrogant sort of way.’

‘I don’t see that his looks matter as long as he got Claribel to the station. Very civil of him,’ observed her father.

He hadn’t been civil, but Claribel let that pass. She finished her sherry and they went across the stone-flagged hallway to the dining-room, handsomely furnished in a shabby way with massive pieces inherited from her mother’s family. The talk was all of local events while they ate and when they had washed up and had coffee, Claribel took herself off to bed; it had been a long day, rather more tiring than usual.

‘I wonder what that Dutchman’s like?’ mused her mother over her knitting.

Mr Brown had a good book. ‘I don’t see that it matters; Claribel doesn’t like him.’

Mrs Brown did a row in silence. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘She hadn’t a good word to say for him—a good sign.’

Her husband sighed. ‘Mr dear, how you do run on. Besides, he’s a consultant. Presumably hardly likely to take up with a physiotherapist.’

‘Claribel is beautiful,’ said her mother simply, as though that put an end to the argument.

The weekend went too fast; it always did. Claribel biked into Tisbury in the morning on various errands for her mother and to waste a good deal of time chatting with various friends she met there. In the afternoon she and her father took Rover for a walk along the bridle paths, which were short cuts leading to the villages around the little town. The weather had improved but it was wet underfoot. Claribel, in wellies, an old tweed skirt and an even older quilted jacket, had tied a scarf round her golden hair and borrowed her mother’s woolly gloves. They got back for tea glowing with fresh air.

Sunday morning was taken up with church and leisurely chats after the service. Claribel had a lot of friends, most of them married now, and several with weddings in the offing. She was to be a bridesmaid at two of them and wandered off into the churchyard with the brides-to-be, to sit on a handy tombstone and discuss clothes.

The day wasn’t too long enough. She collected Enoch and Toots, packed her bag and in the early evening was driven to Tisbury once more, very much inclined to agree with her mother’s remark that it was a pity that she couldn’t stay at home. But there was no hospital nearer than Salisbury and no vacancies there. Besides, she had to stand on her own two feet and make her own life. She might not marry; she had had chances enough but none of them had been right for her. She wasn’t sure what kind of man she wanted for a husband but she supposed that she would know when she met him.

Meadow Road looked more dingy than ever as the taxi drove down it, and her little semi-basement seemed unbearably small and dark even with all the lights on. She made tea, fed the cats and turned on the gas fire. She always felt like this when she came back after a weekend at home; in a day or two she would settle down.

She got out paper and envelopes, and wrote a stiff little note to Mr van Borsele, enclosing a cheque for her railway fare. In the morning she would take it to the lodge and ask a porter to put it in the pigeonholes reserved for the consultants and that would be the end of that.

She went to bed presently and fell asleep at once, to wake in the night and wish that it wouldn’t be the end; he was such a thoroughly unpleasant man that it would be a pleasure to reform him. She thought of several ways of doing this before she slept again.

CHAPTER TWO

CLARIBEL was disappointed that she wouldn’t be doing a ward round during the week; Mrs Green was back and there was a backlog of patients to deal with. The first few days of the week flew by and not once did she cast eyes on Mr van Borsele. She had handed in her note and the cheque and if she had expected an acknowledgement she was doomed to disappointment. Not that she had any wish to see him again, or so she told herself.

Not only was it a busy week, but the hospital was to hold its bi-annual bazaar at the weekend. It seemed a most unsuitable time for this, but since for very many years it had taken place on that particular Saturday, no one had considered changing it. Everyone was expected to help in some way. Minor royalty would be opening it, and the lecture hall would be turned into an indoor fair, the more expensive goods well to the forefront, the jumble and secondhand books at the back. Claribel was helping at the jumble stall; only the young and active were asked to do so for the local inhabitants relied upon it for a large proportion of their wardrobes and there was keen and sometimes ill-natured competition for clothes contributed by the patrons of the hospital.

The bazaar opened at two o’clock sharp and Miss Flute, marshalling her staff, reminded them to be there at one o’clock and not a minute later. Which meant that Saturday morning was rather a rush, what with having to shop for the weekend, clean the flat and do the washing. Claribel got into a needlecord skirt and a knitted jumper—the jumble stall caught all the icy draughts—tied her hair in a scarf, put on a quilted jacket and went to catch her bus. It was a dreadful waste of a Saturday afternoon; she would have preferred to stay home with the cats, reading and making scones for tea.

The lecture hall was a hive of activity; she went straight to her stall and began to sort clothes into suitable piles. They wouldn’t last long like that but the first bargain hunters would be able to snap up their choice without too much tossing of garments to and fro. There were two other girls on the stall, both good friends of hers, and, ready with ten minutes to spare, they had a pleasant gossip until a sudden subdued roar told them that the doors had been opened.

No one could buy anything until the bazaar had been officially opened. Minor royalty arrived exactly on time, made a brief speech, received the bouquet the hospital director’s small daughter had been clutching, and declared the affair open, the signal for a concerted rush to the various stalls. Trade was brisk; the more élite toured the hall in the wake of royalty, buying beribboned coat hangers, lace pincushions and homemade jams, while the rest surged towards the jumble and secondhand books.

Claribel did a brisk trade; the mounds of clothing, hats and shoes disappeared rapidly. She knew a good many of her customers and wasn’t surprised to see Mrs Snow edging her way along the stall, her arms already full of garments and a couple of hats.

‘There you are, ducks,’ said that lady cheerfully. ‘Got a nice haul ’ere. ’Ere, I say, that nice young feller I told you about—’e’s over there with the nobs.’ She waved a cluttered hand towards the centre of the hall and Claribel perforce followed its direction. Sure enough, there was Mr van Borsele, head and shoulders above everyone else, talking to one of the hospital committee. He looked at her across the crowded hall and, although he gave no sign of having seen her, she turned her head at once. She took great care not to look around her again and indeed she had little time; by four o’clock she longed for a cup of tea but trade was too brisk for any of them to leave the stall. When the last customer had gone, an hour later, there was almost nothing to pack up and they made short work of it, grumbling among themselves in a good-natured way because their precious Saturday had been infringed upon. But as Miss Flute had told them, it had been well worth it; they had made a good deal of money and the hospital would be the richer by another kidney machine. They trooped off to wash their hands and do their faces and dispersed in a chorus of goodbyes. Miss Flute was standing by the door talking to Mr van Borsele as Claribel and several of the other girls reached it. She stretched out a hand as Claribel went by so that she had to stop.

‘Claribel, Mr van Borsele has kindly offered to give me a lift home; he will have to go past Meadow Road and says it’s no trouble to drop you off.’

Claribel said quickly, ‘Oh, please don’t bother—there will be plenty of buses.’

‘No bother,’ said Mr van Borsele smoothly. ‘Shall we go? I’m sure you must both want your tea.’

She found herself sitting behind him, watching Miss Flute chatting away with surprising animation. They were on the best of terms, she reflected peevishly, and only occasionally did Miss Flute address some remark to her over a shoulder.

Miss Flute lived alone in a tiny mews flat behind Charing Cross station and Mr van Borsele got out and opened the door for her and saw her safely inside before coming back to his car.

He opened the door and studied Claribel. ‘Come in front?’ he enquired so pleasantly that she had no choice but to get out and get in again beside him. He shut the door on her with the air of a man who had got his way, got in beside her and drove back along the Embarkment, over Waterloo Bridge and into Stamford Street. It had turned into a dull afternoon and Meadow Road, when they reached it, looked drab. He stopped outside her flat and turned to look at her.

‘Are you going to invite me in for tea?’

It was the last thing she had expected. ‘Well, I hadn’t intended to but if you’d like to come in, do.’ That sounded rude; she amended it hastily, ‘What I mean is, I didn’t imagine you would want to come to tea.’

He said gravely. ‘You shouldn’t let your imagination run away with you, Claribel—and I should like to come to tea. That was an infernal afternoon.’

She laughed then, quite forgetting that she didn’t like him. ‘Yes, it always is, but it’s only twice a year. Such a pity it has to be on a Saturday, though.’

They got out of the car and he opened the door and stood aside for her to go in. The cats rushed to meet them and he bent to tickle their heads and then stood up; his size made the room even smaller. She said, ‘Do take off your coat—there’s a hook in the lobby. I’ll put the kettle on.’

She threw her coat on the bed and changed her shoes, decided her face and hair would have to do and went into the tiny kitchen. There was a cake she had baked that morning and one of her mother’s homemade loaves. She sliced and buttered, cut the cake, added a cup and saucer to the tray and made the tea.

Mr van Borsele was sitting in the largest of the chairs with a cat on either side of him. He got up as she opened the door, took the tray from her and set it on the small table on one side of the fireplace and went to fetch the cake. The cats followed him in what she considered to be a slavish fashion and when he sat down again, resumed their places on either side of him.

‘You like cats?’ Hardly a conversational gambit, but they would have to talk about something.

‘Yes. My grandmother has two—Burmese.’ He accepted his tea and sat back comfortably and she found herself wondering what his grandmother was like—somehow he was such a self-contained man, obviously used to getting his own way, that it was hard to imagine her—a small, doting mouse of a woman, perhaps? And his wife? If he was married.

He was watching her, his dark eyes amused. ‘I have two of my own,’ he told her. ‘Common or garden cats with no pedigrees, and two equally well-bred dogs who keep them in order.’

She passed him the bread and butter. ‘And your wife? She likes animals?’

The amusement deepened but he answered gravely, ‘I am not yet married.’ He took a bite. ‘Homemade bread. Are you a cook, Claribel?’

‘Well, I can, you know, but my mother is quite super.’

She watched him consume several slices and made polite conversation. She didn’t like him, she reminded herself, but there was something rather pathetic about a very large man eating his tea with such enjoyment. As she offered him the cake, she wondered briefly where he was living while he was in London.

‘Do you go home frequently?’ He sounded casually polite and she found herself talking about Tisbury and her friends there and how she loved her weekends. He led her on gently so that she told him a good deal more than she realised; she was telling him about Sebastian and how clever he was when the phone rang.

She was going out that evening—one of the girls she worked with was getting engaged and there was to be a party; she wanted to make sure that Claribel would be there.

‘Yes, of course. I haven’t forgotten. Eight o’clock. I’ll be ready at half past seven.’

‘I’m so happy,’ burbled the voice at the other end.

‘Well, of course you are.’ Claribel smiled at the phone as she put down the receiver.

Mr van Borsele was watching her with an expressionless face.

As she sat down again he said easily, ‘A date this evening? I’ll be on my way. A pleasant hour, Claribel, between this afternoon’s tedium and the evening’s pleasure.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘Surprising, really, for you still aren’t sure if you like me, are you?’

He stood up and she got to her feet, facing him. She gave him a clear look from her beautiful eyes. ‘No, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? There must be any number of women who—who admire you!’

‘Probably.’ He spoke without conceit. ‘But I’m really only concerned with one girl, not untold numbers.’

‘Oh, well in that case it doesn’t matter what I think about you, does it, Mr van Borsele?’

He shrugged into his coat, offered a gentle hand to Enoch and Toots and went to the door. He didn’t answer her, only wished her the politest of goodnights as he left.

Several times during the evening she found herself wishing that Mr van Borsele had been there, which, considering she didn’t like him, seemed strange.

Back in her flat, lying in bed with the cats curled up at her feet, she decided it was because he was so much older than the young men who had been at the party, mostly newly qualified housemen or final-year students. ‘After all, I am getting a bit long in the tooth,’ muttered Claribel to her unresponsive companions.

Of course she knew other older men. There was one in particular, Frederick Frost, the junior registrar on the orthopaedic wards, a serious man who had given her to understand that he had singled her out for his attention. She had gone out with him on several occasions now, and liked him well enough although she found him singularly lacking in romantic feeling. He would be a splendid husband; he would also be very dull.

Sometimes she lay in bed and wondered if she had been wise to refuse the offers of several young men who had wished to marry her. She hadn’t loved any of them; liked them well enough, even been fond of them, but that was all. Somewhere in the world, she was convinced, was the man she could love for always; she had no idea what he would look like but she supposed that when she met him she would know that he was the one. Only here she was, the wrong end of the twenties, and it looked as though she would never meet him.

Frederick had asked her to spend Sunday afternoon with him; she came back from church in the morning, ate her solitary lunch and took a bus to Hyde Park where they were to meet. Frederick believed in good fresh air and exercise; he walked her briskly from the Marble Arch entrance to Green Park and thence to St James’s Park, talking rather prosily all the way. Claribel, brought up in the country and fond of walking, nonetheless was relieved when they finally reached the Mall and Trafalgar Square and entered a modest café for tea and toasted teacakes.

Frederick was on duty at the hospital at six o’clock. He saw her on to a bus, assuring her that she looked all the better for the exercise they had taken that afternoon, and invited her to repeat it on the following Sunday.

Claribel’s feet ached and her head buzzed with the various diagnoses he had been entertaining with her; she said hastily that she would be going home, thanked him prettily for her tea and sank thankfully on to a seat in the bus.

The cats were pleased to see her and her little room looked cosy as she went indoors. She kicked off her shoes, took off her outdoor things and turned on the gas fire. She would sit and read for an hour before getting her supper.

It was barely ten minutes before the knocker on her front door was given a sound thump. She got up reluctantly, dislodging the cats, and went to open the door.

Mr van Borsele loomed over her. ‘I thought I told you never to answer the door without making sure that you knew the caller,’ he said testily. ‘Well, won’t you ask me in?’

‘Why should I?’ she snapped. ‘Banging on my door… Next time I shan’t open it.’

‘What makes you think there will be a next time?’ he asked smoothly.

Only by a great effort did she stop herself from grinding her teeth. ‘There won’t be if I can help it,’ she assured him coldly.

‘Having cleared up that knotty point, may I come in? There’s something I wish to discuss with you.’

‘Could it not wait until Monday?’ She added crossly, ‘It’s Sunday, you know.’

‘Monday will be too late.’ He suddenly smiled at her with great charm. ‘If I might come in?’

She stood back reluctantly and remembered that she wasn’t wearing her shoes. At the same time Mr van Borsele observed, ‘Been walking? Don’t bother to put your shoes on for me.’ He studied her stockinged feet. ‘You have nice ankles.’

He was impossible! She said stonily, ‘You wished to say something urgently, Mr van Borsele?’

‘Ah, yes. There is an orthopaedic clinic in White-chapel; it seems there is a flu bug there which has laid low the visiting consultant and three of the physiotherapists. They have asked us for help, and Miss Flute suggested you might accompany me—she can get a part-time girl in to do your work at our clinic for the morning, and I happen to be free until the afternoon. The clinic starts at eight o’clock and lasts until about noon.’

‘Why me?’ asked Claribel.

‘You seem to be a sensible young woman, able to cope.’

‘Am I given any choice?’

‘Not really. It’s a busy clinic; takes fringe cases from several hospitals; I believe the patients come quite long distances.’

Claribel eyed him carefully; he didn’t appear to be anything else but serious but one couldn’t tell. She said slowly, ‘Very well, Mr van Borsele.’

‘Splendid. One does appreciate a willing volunteer.’ His voice was all silk so that she darted a suspicious look at him. He met her eye with a look of bland innocence and she was sure that he was finding something very amusing behind it.

‘I am not a willing volunteer,’ she protested. ‘You yourself have just said…’

He interrupted her in a soothing voice, ‘No, no, of course you’re not; merely doing your duty, however irksome. I will call for you at seven o’clock precisely; that will give us time to find our way around.’

He had been standing all this time and so had she. ‘You have had a pleasant afternoon? A few hours in the country, perhaps?’

She thought of her aching feet. ‘Hyde Park and Green Park and St James’s Park.’

‘Delightful in pleasant company.’

She thought of Frederick. ‘I dare say,’ she sighed.

‘Never alone, Claribel?’

‘No,’ she added, forgetting to whom she was talking. ‘I would have liked to be at home.’ She looked up at him with her lovely eyes and was startled at the look on his face, gone so quickly that she supposed that she had imagined it.

He said casually, ‘One can be lonely even with companions. Do you suppose we might dine together this evening? I had to cancel a date so that I could get arrangements made for the morning and I’m sure we could remain polite towards each other for a couple of hours; we don’t need to talk unless you want to.’

While he spoke he contrived to look lonely and hungry and in need of companionship; Claribel was aware that he was doing it deliberately, but all the same it would be heartless to refuse. Besides, there was only cold ham in the fridge… She said quickly before she thought better of it, ‘Very well, Mr van Borsele, I’ll dine with you, but I have to see to Enoch and Toots first.’ She remembered her manners. ‘Do sit down, I’ll only be ten minutes.’ At the door she paused. ‘Nowhere posh—I’m not dressed to go out.’

He cast an eye over her person. ‘You will do very well as you are. Only put your shoes on.’

He took her to Chelsea, to a restaurant just off the Kings Road: English Garden, quite small but pleasantly surrounded by a conservatory full of greenery and flowers. They ate traditional English food, beautifully cooked and served, and rather to Claribel’s surprise she found herself enjoying not only the food but her companion’s conversation. Not that she discovered anything much about him from his talk; he talked about Holland, touched lightly on his work, went on to discuss several West End plays he had been to and then led her on, ever so gently, to talk about herself. It was only later that she realised this, annoyed with herself for telling him so much, especially as she hadn’t found out anything at all about him. She had asked, in a roundabout way, how long he would be in London, but somehow he hadn’t answered her. Lying in her bed, thinking about it, she promised herself that she would have another go in the morning.

Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as she had first thought, she decided sleepily; he had driven her back to her flat, opened her door for her and then bidden her a cheerful goodnight. She had been debating whether to ask him in for a final cup of coffee as they drove, but the very briskness of his manner decided her against it.

She was ready and waiting for him when he arrived the next morning. They exchanged good mornings but, beyond a few civil remarks about the weather, which for early April was chilly and damp, they had nothing to say to each other, and once at the clinic they each went their own way, to meet again presently on a strictly professional basis.

Even if they had felt inclined, there was no opportunity to talk. The clinic bulged with patients of all sorts, a good-natured crowd with its crutches and slings and neck braces, sitting patiently and rather noisily in the waiting-room. There were two physiotherapists there besides Claribel. They shared out the work between them and long after Mr van Borsele had seen his last patient, they were all hard at it. It was after one o’clock when they began to clear up and tidy away the apparatus.

He’ll be gone, reflected Claribel as she got out of her overall. I’ll have to get a bus—it’ll take hours. She dragged a comb through her hair, dabbed powder on to her nose and got into her coat. The other two girls were waiting to leave. She said goodbye and went out through the side door and saw the Rolls parked in front of it. Mr van Borsele was at the wheel, looking impassive. He got out and opened the door, and ushered her in without a word.

‘There was no need to wait,’ protested Claribel, faintly peevish, and was taken aback when he replied,

‘Well, of course there wasn’t, only I chose to do so.’

‘Well, really…’

‘I have found,’ remarked Mr van Borsele blandly as he sent the car smoothly to join the traffic, ‘that the English language is littered with useless phrases.’ And, while she was getting over that, ‘Unfortunately there is not sufficient time to have lunch, but one of the registrars assures me that Nick’s Diner, just round the corner from Jerome’s, can offer a sound beef sandwich and good coffee. We will go there.’

He had no more to say and for the life of her Claribel could think of no conversation suitable for the occasion. She knew very well that if she raised any objections she would be either ignored or talked out of it; she held her tongue.

The streets were comparatively empty; she got out, still wordless, when Mr van Borsele parked tidily in the consultant’s car park and walked beside him as he strode out of the hospital forecourt into the dingy street beyond. Nick’s Diner was down a side street, one side of which was taken up by St Jerome’s looming walls. It was small and rather dark and the plastic tables were crowded close together, but it was clean and the aroma from the coffee machine caused Claribel to wrinkle her pretty nose.

The little place was full but as they went in two medical students got up from a table near the door. ‘Over here, sir,’ they chorused and ushered Claribel into a chair, accepting his thanks with a kind of reverence which made her smile a little, and rushed out. Probably they had skipped a lecture.

The proprietor, a small wizened man who had been there so long no one could remember when he first appeared, joined them at once, gave the table a wipe and bent a differential ear to Mr van Borsele’s request for beef sandwiches and coffee.

‘Couldn’t ’ave chosen better,’ he assured them. ‘Nice bit o’ beef I’ve got—cuts like silk—and good ’olesome bread to go with it, too; none of that white flannel stuff from a factory. Be with you in a couple of shakes, sir.’

Sir sat back and looked around him and then across the little table at Claribel. ‘Hardly a place I would like to bring anyone. You’re not feeling insulted or having injured feelings, I hope?’

‘Me? Heavens, no.’ She added waspishly, ‘I’m not a snob.’

‘I hardly imagined that you were. Nor am I, although I can see that you think that I am. But one would normally choose a rather more fitting background for a girl as pretty as you are, Claribel.’

He watched her blush.

‘Why are you called Claribel?’

‘My mother liked—still likes—historical romances. Just before I was born she was reading a tale where the heroine was called Claribel—so I was christened that. She rather wanted Mariabella, which is another version of it, but Father put his foot down.’

‘And your brother?’ The question was put casually.

‘Sebastian? Oh, Mother was into Shakespeare in a big way.’ She bit into a sandwich. ‘Why were…’ she began, but stopped just in time and took another bite; she must remember that he was a consultant and, from what Miss Flute had let drop, an important one in his own field.

‘My name, as you know, is Marc, spelled with a c, and, since the conversation tends to be rather more personal than usual, I am thirty-six years old. At the moment I am not prepared to divulge more details of my life.’

She chocked on some of the wholesome bread. ‘I am not in the least interested in you, Mr van Borsele.’ She spoke with a cold dignity marred by having a mouthful of sandwich.

He laughed. ‘What a touchy girl you are! How old are you, Claribel?’

She said indignantly, ‘Don’t you know that you never ask any girl how old she is?’

‘Yes, I know, but you aren’t any girl, Claribel. You look about eighteen, but of course, you’re not.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyebrows raised.

He was utterly impossible and getting worse all the time; she couldn’t imagine Frederick saying a thing like that. Come to think of it, she couldn’t imagine Frederick… He had become so vague she could barely remember what he looked like. ‘I’m twenty-eight.’ She added coldly, ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’

‘Oh, a great deal, but unfortunately we are pressed for time.’

She put down her empty coffee cup. ‘I really have to go. Thank you for my lunch, Mr van Borsele.’

He got up with her, paid the bill, and followed her into the street. ‘What’s his name, this young man who walks you through London parks until your feet ache?’

She said quickly, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him.’ She spoke so hurriedly and loudly that he had his answer and smiled to himself. ‘I’m not being nosey, just making polite conversation,’ he assured her blandly. ‘Are you—what is the term?—going steady with him?’

They were crossing the forecourt and in a few moments she would be able to escape his endless questions. ‘No, of course not.’ She was an honest girl, so she added, ‘Well, I suppose I could if I wanted to, only I don’t. It’s just that he wants someone to go for a walk with.’

Mr van Borsele gave a chortle of laughter and she said crossly, ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’

‘No, no, my dear girl, I’m laughing for all the wrong reasons. You have too kind a heart; I suspect you don’t discourage this young man with no name. I suspect also that you get dates enough and can pick and choose.’

She said seriously, ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, but I’m not very, well—modern.’ She stared up at him with a grave face. ‘You won’t know what I mean.’

‘On the contrary, I know very well.’ He smiled suddenly and she discovered that he was a kind man after all. ‘If ever I should invite you out again, Claribel, it will be on the strict understanding that you have no need to be modern. Being well past my first youth, I’m not modern, either.’

They had reached the side door leading to the physiotherapy department. He opened it for them and with a brief nod walked away.

She scuttled down the covered way, already late. Perhaps she liked him after all, she thought confusedly; well, some of the time at any rate.

Miss Flute was surprisingly mild about her lateness; someone had covered for her and Mrs Green had gone to the wards. ‘Mr van Borsele had a round on Women’s Ward,’ she observed. ‘I didn’t dare wait for you for I wasn’t sure how long you would be. Were you very busy?’

Claribel, tearing into her overall, told her.

‘You’ve had no lunch?’ asked Miss Flute worriedly.

Claribel went faintly pink. ‘Well, Mr van Borsele gave me a lift back and I—we had a sandwich in Nick’s Diner.’

‘Very civil of him,’ answered Miss Flute briskly. ‘There’s that nervous old lady with the hip—will you take her on? She’s so scared, she needs someone gentle and unhurried.’

‘Unhurried?’ Claribel cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Miss Flute, I’ll be lucky to get away by six o’clock.’

‘Well, you’ve had a nice morning, haven’t you, dear?’ suggested Miss Flute and went back into her office.

Claribel, pacifying her elderly patient, decided that, yes, she had had a nice morning. It was a pity that she had been too late to go to the ward for Mr van Borsele’s round; perhaps Miss Flute would send her to Men’s Orthopaedic for the next consultant’s round; she had been treating several patients there.

But Miss Flute, it seemed, had other ideas. Claribel spent the next two days in Out-patients with the senior registrar and Frederick and didn’t so much as catch a glimpse of Mr van Borsele. Life was really rather dull, she reflected, getting her supper while Toots and Enoch sat and watched her; it might be a good idea if she were to go home at the weekend. ‘It would be a nice change for all of us,’ she assured the cats as she sat down to her solitary meal.

She bumped into him—literally—as she crossed the courtyard to go home on the following day. He put out a had to steady her and said without preamble, ‘I’m going to Bath for the weekend. I’ll drop you off at Tisbury and pick you up on the way back.’

‘Oh, but I…’ She caught his eye and stopped then began again, ‘I really hadn’t intended…’ Under that dark gaze she faltered again. She said slowly, because she felt compelled to, ‘I should like that very much, Mr van Borsele.’ She added hastily, ‘To go home, I mean.’ She wondered why he grinned suddenly. ‘Shall I meet you here, and at what time?’

‘Haven’t you forgotten your cats? I’ll pick you up—half past six at your flat, and mind you are ready.’

He nodded his goodbye and had gone before she could frame so much as a single word.

She told Enoch and Toots when she got home and, mindful that she might get away late on Friday afternoon, put her overnight things in a bag and decided what she would wear; before she went to work in the morning she would put her clothes ready. Mr van Borsele might have offered her a lift, but he was quite capable of going without her if she kept him waiting for more than a minute or so.

Friday’s clinic was overflowing and, to make matters worse, Mrs Green went home during the morning, feeling, as she put it, not at all the thing. That meant Claribel would have to take on several more patients as well as her own, for two of the other girls were at the ante-natal clinic and the other two were only just qualified and needed an eye kept upon them.

Claribel got home half an hour late. To have sat down, kicked off her shoes and drunk the teapot dry would have been bliss; as it was, she fed the cats, showered, changed into a short jacket and plaid pleated skirt, got her aching feet into her rather smart boots, popped the cats into their basket and opened the door to Mr van Borsele, looking as composed as if she had spent the entire day doing nothing much.

He ran a knowledgeable eye over her person. ‘Tired? You can doze in the car.’

A remark which incensed her after her efforts. But she hadn’t noticed the shadows under her eyes or the lack of colour in her cheeks.

She wished him a good evening, adding that she had no desire to doze. ‘Besides, you might want me to map-read for you.’

He took her bag from her and stowed it in the boot and then put the cat basket on the back seat. ‘Straight down the A303, once I’m on it. You can wake up when we’re nearby and tell me where to go from there.’

She said huffily, ‘Well, if you want me to sleep all the way I’ll do my best. There’s no need for you to talk.’

He shut the door and made sure that it was locked. ‘In you get,’ he urged her. ‘You’re a bit edgy but I dare say you’ve had a hard day with Mrs Green away.’ He got in beside her and turned to look at her. ‘You thought that I wouldn’t wait if you weren’t ready? I am an impatient man, Claribel, but for some things I am prepared to wait—if necessary, for ever.’

She puzzled over this and found no clear answer. ‘Have you had a busy day?’ she asked politely.

‘Very. A quiet weekend will be delightful. You know Bath?’

‘Quite well—we go there to shop sometimes. You—you said you had friends there?’

He was driving west out of London in heavy traffic. ‘Yes, they live at Limpley Stoke—not friends; my young sister and her husband.’

‘Oh, she’s Dutch, too…’ It was a silly remark and she waited for him to say so. But he didn’t.

‘She spent some years over here at boarding school. She’s happy here and of course they go to Holland frequently.’

Claribel tried to imagine his sister. Tall, short; thin, fat?

‘She’s not in the least like me: small, fair and very slim.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Close your eyes, Claribel, you are tired.’

She frowned. Tired so often meant plain. The thought didn’t stop her doing as she was told; she was asleep within minutes.

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