Читать книгу Romantic Encounter - Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is he married?’ asked Mrs Napier artlessly.

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

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

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

‘How very interesting,’ observed her mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Fitzgibbon merely smiled pleasantly and shook her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Good, bring her in and stay.’

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

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

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

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

‘You’re sure you can cure me?’

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

‘I won’t be maimed?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Like what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You prefer the country?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh—it’s in the country?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you married?’ asked Florence.

‘No—why do you ask?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And Mr Fitzgibbon?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, just arrived, sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He’s in the car…’

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

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

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

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

‘I’ve been there with my brothers.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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