'A colleague, Miss Stephens. She is a midwife.'
'Excellent! A male and a female speaker. As ever, Marc, you have done what was asked of you. That will please us all. Now, Miss Stephens, I'll get one of our girls to take you somewhere where you can freshen up. Then perhaps we can begin.'
'Good,' said Lucy.
Why had she offered to give a talk? she wondered as she dabbed water onto her face. It wasn't something she'd done often before. Certainly not at a place like this. But then she realised what the answer was. She had to fight back, to prove herself to Marc. Even though the very idea terrified her.
She had never heard Marc speak in public before but she'd guessed he'd be good, and he was. They had a mixed audience of about a hundred and twenty, and the students looked alert. Many of them were ready to take notes.
Marc started with a couple of reminiscences about his time at the school and then moved easily into why he had wanted to train to be a doctor. He talked about how to apply and what qualities medicine heeded. More importantly, he told them what to expect, how being a doctor was the very opposite of being glamorous. It was more often hard, wearying, boring. But the rewards, when they came, were great.
Then—which pleased Lucy—he pointed out that there were a number of other medical careers which were just as valuable, which could be just as rewarding.
He got a great round of applause. Then he answered questions and got even more applause.
'And now I'd like to introduce Miss Stephens. Miss Stephens is a midwife; she'll tell you a little about her work and then answer questions.'
It was now her turn. Lucy felt like panicking. How could she follow a talk like Marc's? She had said she'd give a talk because she wanted to fight her corner. It wasn't her way to sit quietly and be the humble little assistant. But now she was realising that this might be harder than she had thought.
She stood and looked at the array of interested faces in front of her. This couldn't be harder than the first time she had delivered a baby. She took two deep breaths and smiled. She'd decided to add to her prepared speech.
'We're in a room in the delivery suite,' she said. 'I'm the midwife and I'm in charge, though I have an assistant. If I need a doctor then I send for one. I've got a mother sweating and moaning on the bed. By her head is her husband, he's holding her hand and occasionally wiping her face. It's their first child and he's more worried than his wife.
'She's been in labour for eight hours now and is well into the second stage. She's been pushing desperately for over an hour, she's in pain and she's more tired than she has ever been in her life before. But that is fine. Everything is going according to plan. It's going to be a nice straightforward birth, like the other three I've supervised this week. Just another working day.'
Lucy paused, sipped from her glass of water. 'But you must never forget, for the mother it isn't just another working day. For her, this is one of the most important, most memorable days of her life.
'The mother is sitting up, propped up by pillows. Her legs are drawn up, knees spread wide apart. I examine her and see a little dark brown hair covered with white grease. It's the baby's head. I tell her to push. She does. Each time she pushes the head comes out a little and then slips back. But it's being born.
'Eventually the head doesn't recede. I tell the mother not to push at the next contraction, but to pant. I put my hand on the baby's head; it mustn't be born in too much of a rush.
'The head comes out and the mother cries out... screams, in fact. But it's a scream of effort. This is hard work. Quickly, I clean the baby's face, aspirate mucus from its nose and mouth.
'It's not out yet but we don't hurry at this stage. At the next contraction the mother is told to push again. One shoulder emerges. And the baby slowly turns, as they all do as they are being born, and the second shoulder emerges. Then the baby slips into the hands of the assistant whose job it is to take the newborn child.
'And there's the first tiny cry.'
Lucy glanced at her audience. They were rapt. One or two of them even had their mouths open. She went on, 'I tell the mother and father that it's a little girl. And there's a lightning check to make sure there are no obvious problems. There aren't in the great majority of births. Then the baby is wrapped in a warm blanket and put on the breast of the mother. She puts her arm around her new child and looks down at her. This is hers, her child, created by her and her husband. They've made an entire new person. And that is a magic moment. I have to admit, I've supervised a lot of births but I still find it a magic moment and I often cry myself a bit.'
She stopped, took a deep breath. 'Of course, there's lots of other things to do. There's the cord to be cut, the placenta to be delivered, the baby to be assessed. But the major part of the job is done. And I am happy. And that is why I chose to be a midwife.'
She stopped and she thought she could feel her audience breathing out. She had held them. It was a good feeling.
'Now... the qualifications you need...' From now on it was all easy going. Straightforward stuff about training, the various kinds of midwifery, prospects for the future.
She finished. Another great burst of applause. A tiny thought of which she was instantly ashamed—she was clapped even more vigorously than Marc.
'Have you ever thought of being a teacher?' Dr Atkins asked Lucy as they walked back to his study. 'You'd be good at it.'
She was going to have tea with the headmaster alone. Marc had been invited by a few senior boys to come and see where he used to study. Lucy had been invited too but she had declined. This ought to be Marc's visit.
'I'm very happy to be a midwife,' she said. 'But when I get more experience, I expect I'll be training junior midwives. I'll enjoy that.'
'I'm sure you will. How long have you known the Comte de Montreval?'
'Who?' Lucy was bewildered.
Dr Atkins stopped, looked at her thoughtfully. 'He hasn't told you, I see. Marc is the Comte de Montreval.'
Lucy felt that she needed time to stop and think about this. Marc? An aristocrat? What else had he kept from her? She'd told him everything about herself and her family.
'I didn't realise. But then, I haven't known him long.'
'I'm sure he will mention it in time. He finds it both an honour and a burden. Particularly since his brother Auguste died...' Dr Atkins's voice trailed away. 'But I must say he seemed far more relaxed, happier than the last time I saw him. Things must be going right for him in some respect.'
'I hope so,' Lucy replied, before adding, 'The man is an enigma.'
They set off in early evening; it would be a long drive back.
'What did you think of my old school?' Marc asked when they were well on the motorway.
'Nothing would make me send my children away to school. But if I had to—then I'd send them to a place like that. Has Dr Atkins always been a teacher?'
'No. He got to quite a high rank in the army. In fact he wrote two or three very well thought-of books on strategy and tactics.'
'Really?' said Lucy. She wondered if quite a lot of Dr Atkins had rubbed off on Marc.
He drove on a little further and then said, 'When we get nearer home, would you like to turn off the motorway and find a restaurant somewhere for dinner?'
She considered this. 'Yes, but... do you like Indian food?'
'Very much so. Why?'
'There's a very good Indian take-away near the hospital. I'm tired, you must be too. Why not let's go back to your flat, order a take-away and eat there?'
He seemed puzzled. 'If that's what you want,' he said.
She leaned over to stroke his hand on the wheel. 'I'm tired,' she said. 'You might be used to public speaking, I'm not. So I'm going to put on some mood music and doze.'
'Pull that lever and recline the seat,' he said. 'There's a set of discs there.'
She turned the music low, reclined her seat and tried to relax. At first her thoughts went round and round— what had she learned about Marc, did she feel any
different about him? She didn't know, she just couldn't make it all out. And so, quite quickly, she went to sleep.
When she woke up they weren't too far from the hospital. She had slept deeply—and found that she was refreshed and that her mind was made up.
'If you drop me off at my place, I'll change,' she said, 'then walk over to your flat.'
'I'll fetch you.'
'Not that distance you won't. I can walk three hundred yards.'
She had a quick shower, changed into trousers and a shirt. Clothes for idling in. She went into her bathroom, hesitated a minute. Then she took a few things out of the cupboard and put them into her handbag. A decision.
He must have been looking out for her as he opened the door before she could knock. That was nice. He'd changed into jeans and T-shirt. No socks, his feet in old leather moccasins.
'Come in! I hope you're hungry. I've phoned and ordered the banquet for two. It'll come in another half-hour, give us time for a drink first.'
He led her into the living room. She looked around with some pride at her decorating. It had certainly made a difference to the room, the primrose walls made it so much more welcoming.
The small table was set out with glasses and cutlery.
'The plates are warming. I see no reason why we have to eat out of foil containers.'
'True.'
He poured her a glass of dark red wine. As he handed it to her he said, 'Indian food is very spicy. I picked this Rioja—it's oaky, strong enough not to be overwhelmed by the spices.'
She sipped. 'Very nice,' she said.
'And afterwards I will make you some of my own coffee.'
She had to smile. 'Marc, this is just a take-away— even though a very good one. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.'
He shook his head, looked serious. 'No. No matter how simple a meal might be, if it is served properly it doubles the pleasure. And this is a banquet—we will treat it as such.'
'I suppose so,' she said. 'And I do like this red wine.'
Shortly afterwards the meal arrived. Marc said he was the host and wouldn't let her into his kitchen. So she had to wait until he brought out the warmed plates, a set of bowls on a chafing dish and a central plate of neatly arranged sambals. Only then could they sit down, shake out the napkins and start to eat.
After a while she asked, 'Is there any French food that you can't get here? Anything that you really miss?'
He thought a moment. 'In the mountains where I come from, there are some regional dishes that I very much miss. There are wild boar hams which are coated in herbs and then dried. There are a number of thick soups or stews, which started as food for the poor, using only what was cheap and local. Often they were cooked for hours. Yes, I miss them.' He grinned. 'And you have already tasted the mountain liqueur, we'll have another later. Now, more wine?'
Because they were sitting at the table, chatting as they ate, the meal took longer than she would have thought. And it was more enjoyable. She realised that this was a man who could change her in some ways. He could make even as simple a thing as eating a meal into something, well, magic.
'You know,' she said, 'never again am I going to eat a meal standing by the kitchen table because I just don't have time to sit down.'
He laughed. 'That's just a dream. You're a midwife, I'm a doctor. Sometimes lack of time means that you have to eat standing up.'
'That's not eating. That's refuelling.'
When they finally finished, she insisted on at least helping him to carry the dishes into the kitchen. But he refused to let her wash up this time. He said that it could wait and to sit down and he would bring her coffee.
They sat side by side on the couch, drank his excellent coffee. And he offered her a small glass filled with the green liquid he had given her before.
They drank coffee and tasted the liqueur. She felt happy sitting there, could have been content just to be there with him, waiting to see what might happen.
But she had made up her mind. In so many ways he was still an enigma to her, there were things he had to tell her. She needed to know him better, felt that their relationship could never progress until things were clearer.
'You've met a lot of my family,' she said. 'You know that we're close. If you're a friend of mine then you're a friend of them all. Now, I want to know more about your family. And I want to know about you and your brother Auguste and why you never told me that you are the Comte de Montreval.'
She could feel the relaxed figure by her side suddenly become taut. His voice tried to remain calm but she could detect a thread of anger in it.
'How did you know about me being a comte? And Auguste? Did Dr Atkins tell you?'
'He let a little slip. I learned more from him than I have from you.'
Marc took a deep breath; she could feel his chest swelling by her side. Then he let out the breath in a long sigh.
'I try to keep the two halves of my life apart,' he said.
She stretched over to take one of his hands. 'Will you tell me, please?' she said. 'I need to know you and I feel I don't know you yet.'
He took her hand in both of his and she felt his fingers trailing over her palm, caressing gently. Then he lifted the hand and kissed her fingertips.
'First, perhaps there are things I should show you,' he said.
He put her hand down—regretfully, she thought. Then he fetched a folder from his study, put it on the table in front of them. First there was a photograph.
'The castle and village of Montreval,' he said. 'They have belonged to my family for five hundred years or more.'
She looked, fascinated. 'It's like something out of a fairy tale,' she said.
'Remember that fairy tales are often quite frightening. Cruel stories. Montreval is both a beautiful and a hard place.'
She looked further. The castle and village were in a narrow valley. The castle was perched on the hillside, a structure of towers and parapets and battlements. Behind the village were steep mountains. There was a scattering of houses, the occasional cultivated field.
'It looks lonely,' she said doubtfully. 'Beautiful but lonely.'
'It is but I love it. Lucy, when the wild flowers come out in spring...' He shook his head. 'You must come and see.'
Then he showed her a map. 'This little wriggling line is the only road into the village. The nearest town is thirty miles away—here, Brouville. In winter we are always cut off by snow.'
He pushed the map away and frowned. 'Montreval hasn't changed in centuries. There is not enough for the young people to do; they have to leave to work in the towns. In many young families, the man works away, sends money home. But no one wishes to leave. They were born there, it is their home.'
'So are you the only one left in your family? There must be others.'
'My father died some years ago. And my older brother Auguste... was killed. At present the estate is run by my mother. She is good at it, likes it. When I return I shall take over her work. But I intend to return to be a doctor. The village and the surrounding farms desperately need one. And I have plans to build a clinic that will serve the entire area. When I have finished training, I shall go back to Montreval.'
'Are you looking forward to that?'
'Of course. It is my destiny. And who could not love the countryside there?'
Lucy was struggling with this. 'Do you want to spend your life in a tiny place like that?'
'Generations of my family have been happy there. Why should I not be happy?'
'So when do you think you'll go back?'
'I will finish my time in O and G. Then I shall return.'
Lucy just didn't know what to make of that. It was a situation she had never come across before.
'Do you get on well with your mother?' she asked.
'Very well. She was the one who sent me away to boarding school. She wanted the younger member of the family to be able to leave Montreval, to have the chance of a completely different life. But then Auguste was killed and I
knew that I had to go back. At present my life is medicine. But eventually it must be medicine and Montreval.'
'You know what?' Lucy said. 'I've spent too much time today talking about the higher things in life and trying to grasp difficult ideas. I need to get my feet back on the ground. You won't like this, but this is what I want. You finish your coffee. I'm going to wash up.'
'You're what?'
'I'm going to wash up. A simple, ordinary job. Now, don't start on that I'm your guest or anything, it's just that I need to get grounded again. And washing up will do it for me.'
He shook his head. 'I don't deserve anyone like you,' he said.
'Just keep out of the kitchen for a while.'
In fact, there wasn't much to do. But the simple tasks helped her to decide exactly what she needed to do. Her mind was made up.
When she had washed up she went to the bathroom, washed her face and cleaned her teeth then returned to the living room.
'I'd like some music on, please,' she said, 'but you choose this time.'
He walked to a rack of discs, thought for a moment then selected one. Lucy sat on the couch again, listened. There was a curious, old-fashioned sounding orchestra, then a woman started to sing in French. At first she didn't like it, but after a moment or two the plaintive sound seemed quite moving.
'What is it?' she asked.
'C'etait une histoire d'amour . A love story.' He quoted a couple of lines. She loved it when he spoke in French.
He came to sit next to her, she took his hand. Another song, sad again. 'It's called A Young Man Was Singing,' he told her. 'You can probably guess what he is singing about.'
'Who is it? Marc, it's old-fashioned but it's beautiful. Who is it?'
He smiled. 'Wait a minute. There's a bit in English in the next song. And then you'll recognise who it is at once.'
And of course she did. She should have known that throaty voice instantly. 'It's Edith Piaf!' Lucy said. 'A wonderful voice.'
'True. Edith Piaf, the little sparrow. I love listening to her.'
It had been a long day but she was far from tired. He was stroking her hand again, in a way that felt relaxing but gently exciting. He lifted her hand, kissed the fingertips again.
The Noble Doctor Page 7
