‘Bet you weren’t expecting that, were you, love?’
‘Not at all.’ Millie had been working very hard over the past week, and doing her very best. True to her word, Sister Hyde had been spending as much time as she could demonstrating various techniques, and Millie had tried to take it all in. And her efforts seemed to be paying off; once or twice she had even caught Sister Hyde watching her with something like approval.
Millie grinned at the patient. ‘Thanks for not screaming when I injected you.’
‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ the old lady reassured her.
‘Your first subcutaneous injection – well done!’ Helen congratulated Millie as she sterilised the equipment in the sluice a few minutes later. ‘Sister Hyde seemed pleased with you.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t seem too happy about it?’ her friend said, watching her closely.
‘I am, it’s just—’
‘You’re still thinking about Seb, aren’t you?’
Millie pressed her lips together. It had been a lot easier when no one knew about her and Seb breaking up. But she’d grown tired of trying to put a brave face on everything, and once she’d told William there didn’t seem much point in keeping it from her friends.
But now she had to suffer their endless sympathy instead. She appreciated it, but it didn’t help her to forget her dire predicament.
She nodded. ‘I miss him,’ she said simply.
‘You should talk to him.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t!’
‘Why not? You can’t go on moping for ever, neither engaged nor disengaged. If nothing else, you’ve got to decide how to break the news to your families.’
‘You’re right.’ Millie sighed miserably. ‘We should talk about that, at least.’
But she dreaded the idea of seeing Sebastian again even more than she dreaded the thought of telling her grandmother she’d lost him.
Rumours of their broken engagement were already beginning to drift around London. It wouldn’t be long, she was sure, before they reached the ears of Lady Rettingham in deepest Kent.
‘And you never know,’ Helen suggested brightly. ‘You might see each other and fall madly in love again.’
‘Or we might not,’ Millie said dolefully. That was what she feared most. This strange, half-disengaged state might not be making her very happy, but it was a lot better than the thought of being apart from Seb for ever.
Dora hauled the sack of soiled dressings down the stone steps to the stoke hole. It was her last day on Wren, and Sister was making the most of her chance to give Dora all the worst jobs to do.
Not that she minded. Tomorrow she would be on Female Medical with Sister Everett, the eccentric woman who played hymns on her harmonica and kept a parrot in her room, but who was known to be very fair and kind to students.
Going down to the stoke hole was like descending into hell. The narrow flight of steps led down to a closed off area of the basement that was infernally hot, the darkness lit only by flickering tongues of flame. Acrid smoke belched from the gaping, fiery mouth of the furnace. Hellish as it was, it was popular with the nurses. They would gather around the stoke hole, dodging showers of sparks, frantically smoking cigarettes before their absence was noticed.
There were no nurses down here today. But there was Nick Riley.
He was shovelling coal into the furnace. He’d stripped off the top half of his overalls, and the hard muscles of his chest and arms glistened in the flickering firelight as he worked.
Dora hesitated at the bottom of the steps, not sure what to do. She was still standing there when he stopped to wipe his brow with the back of his hand and saw her.
‘Sorry! I didn’t notice you there.’ He grabbed his overall, shoving his arms into the sleeves.
‘It’s all right.’ She moved past him stiffly and made to lift the sack, but he reached for it.
‘Here, let me.’ Their hands brushed as he took it from her, and they both jumped back from the contact.
Nick threw the sack in one-handed, and they stood awkwardly, watching the flames engulf it. He was so close she could smell the manly scent of his skin. Combined with the heat, it made her feel dizzy. She knew she should walk away, but her feet felt as if they were glued to the stone floor.
‘Is it true about you and Joe Armstrong?’ His voice was so low, she could barely hear it over the crackle of the flames.
Dora looked at his strong profile, illuminated by the firelight. His dark hair curled damply around his face, sticking to his neck.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Are you courting?’
‘What if I am?’
Nick picked up a poker and jabbed at the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘He doesn’t seem like your type,’ he commented at last.
Dora flicked an angry look at him. How dare he! He didn’t want her, not now he had Ruby. How dare he try to interfere in her life?
‘What do you know about it?’ she reacted scornfully. ‘You don’t even know what my type is. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Don’t I?’
He turned to look at her, a scorching look that took her breath away. They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat from his body wrapping around her like a passionate embrace.
He was right, she thought. Without being told, he knew everything about her. And she knew everything about him, too. There was an elemental connection between them that neither of them could fight.
‘I – like Joe,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s kind, and he treats me well—’
‘Is that why you chose him and not me?’ Nick burst out. Reflected firelight burnt in his eyes.
It felt as if they were standing on the edge of a precipice. One word, one more step, and they would both be plunging headlong into the abyss, into something they couldn’t control.
‘Please, Nick,’ she whispered. ‘Why do you have to say this now?’
‘Because I can’t stop myself!’ His voice was broken with emotion. ‘God knows I’ve tried to fight it, to keep myself away from you. But I can’t watch you with him, knowing how I feel about you.’
‘And how do you think I feel?’ Dora shot back. ‘I’ve had to watch you with Ruby!’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t blame this on me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I came to you, remember? That night I tried to kiss you, to tell you how I felt. But you just pushed me away. That night’s haunted me ever since.’
‘It’s haunted me too!’
Their eyes held, locked together in a conversation that needed no words.
Finally, he said softly, ‘If I did it again, what would you do?’
Dora couldn’t answer him. She was so desperate for him to kiss her she had to fight the urge to take hold of him and pull him to her. Just being this close to him was causing a ball of heat to build up deep inside her belly.
‘Answer me.’ His voice was ragged with longing, his gaze fixed on her mouth. ‘If I came to you again, would you push me away?’
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘You know I wouldn’t. But we can’t,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to think about Ruby.’
‘Jesus!’ He stepped away from her, running a hand through his dark, damp curls. ‘What else do you suppose I’m thinking about? It’s the only thing that’s stopping me taking you in my arms and kissing you now.’
He turned back to the fire, attacking the coal with the poker. ‘I have to finish with her,’ he said bluntly.
Dora stared at him, appalled. ‘You can’t! She loves you, it would break her heart—’
‘So what am I supposed to do? Stay with her when I’m in love with someone else? Don’t you think that would hurt her more in the end?’
Dora was too nonplussed to speak for a moment. ‘You . . . love me?’ she said slowly.
Nick glanced at her, the corners of his mouth lifting. ‘Dora Doyle, I’ve always loved you,’ he said gruffly. He dropped the poker with a clatter. ‘So will you wait for me?’ he asked.<
br />
Dora hesitated. Happiness was bursting out of her, but it was tempered with guilt. ‘But poor Ruby—’
Nick took a step towards her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. ‘Dora, I’m going to finish with her whatever happens. I care about Ruby. She’s a good girl, and it’s not fair to mess her about.’ He looked at her, firelight flickering in his eyes under his mop of dark curls. ‘So will you be waiting for me, or not?’
She smiled up at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll be waiting for you.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘WHY ARE WE here, Mummy?’
Oliver stared up, wide-eyed, at the tall gates of Curlew House, his hand tightening in hers.
Relief surged through Violet. She had been so afraid he might remember the house, and the people who lived there.
‘We’ve come to visit someone, darling.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone Mummy used to know, a long time ago.’
She had decided not to tell him who Victor really was. As she had explained to her husband, she didn’t want to confuse the boy. It was one of the conditions she had made before agreeing to this meeting, and Victor had conceded at once. Violet had sensed his desperation and was moved by it despite herself.
They set off up the drive but Oliver hung back, digging his heels into the gravel.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it here.’
Neither do I, Violet thought, gazing up at the dark, ivy-covered walls of the Gothic house. Even in the fresh spring sunshine the place seemed gloomy and forbidding. A chill of apprehension ran over her skin.
It had taken a lot of soul-searching before she’d agreed to return here. Her first reaction was to stay away, but much as she hated the idea of seeing Victor again, she couldn’t find it in her heart to deny him the right to see his son one last time.
‘We have to, sweetheart. The person we have come to see is very sick, and we need to cheer him up.’
‘Is he dying?’ Oliver asked, fascinated.
‘Yes.’
He looked up apprehensively at the tall, narrow windows. ‘Will we have to see his body?’
‘No, we won’t.’ Violet squeezed his hand. ‘It’ll only be a short visit, and then we can catch the train back home.’
She brought herself up sharply, realising what she’d said. It was a long time since she’d said the word ‘home’ and really meant it.
Mrs Sherman must have been watching for them because she had the door open before they were halfway up the drive. She ran down the steps, holding out her arms.
‘Oliver! My darling boy!’ She made to embrace him but Oliver cringed behind Violet, hiding his face in her coat. Mrs Sherman’s face fell. ‘He doesn’t remember me,’ she said flatly.
‘No,’ Violet said. ‘He doesn’t.’ She could spare her husband some compassion, but not Mrs Sherman. If the older woman had had her way, Oliver wouldn’t have remembered his mother either. ‘Oliver, this is Mrs Sherman. Say how do you do?’
‘How do you do?’ Oliver mumbled reluctantly, his face still hidden in her hip.
‘How is Victor?’ Violet asked.
‘His health is failing fast.’ Mrs Sherman kept her gaze locked on Oliver, devouring him with her pale, strange eyes. ‘He should be confined to bed, but he insisted on coming downstairs to receive his—’ She caught the warning flash in Violet’s glance. ‘His guests,’ she amended, through tight lips.
Victor was waiting for them in the drawing room. One glance told Violet that he had deteriorated rapidly since their last meeting. He sat hunched forward in his wing-backed chair, both hands resting heavily on the point of his cane. But he was as immaculately dressed as ever, although his suit hung off his shockingly thin frame. Victor had always set great store by appearances.
His dull, yellowish eyes lit up at the sight of them. ‘You came,’ he said.
‘I said I would.’ Violet put her arm around her son, still clinging to her, and propelled him gently forward. ‘Say hello to Mr Dangerfield, Oliver.’
‘How do you do, Oliver? I’m pleased to meet you, young man.’ Victor held out his hand, stiffly formal. But Violet could see his mouth trembling, as if he was fighting to keep in a great outburst of emotion.
He looked up at her. ‘Will you leave us?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Violet and Oliver spoke together. Behind them in the doorway, Mrs Sherman gave a tut of impatience.
Oliver gazed at Violet with fear-filled eyes. ‘Please don’t go, Mummy,’ he begged.
‘I won’t.’ She stroked her son’s head, smoothing down his dark hair. ‘He can sometimes be wary of strangers,’ she said to Victor.
Not that she would have left him, in any case. Even now, she couldn’t trust her husband not to break his promise and try some trick to take her son away from her.
Victor’s mouth firmed. ‘As you both wish,’ he said. ‘But I hope you will have tea with us this time?’ He sent her a meaningful look. ‘Mrs Sherman has taken a great deal of trouble to prepare it.’
He nodded to the housekeeper who sprang forward avidly. ‘I have baked all your favourites,’ she told Oliver, her pale eyes shining. ‘Fairy cakes, angel cake, banana loaf—’
‘I like chocolate cake best,’ he announced. ‘Sister Parker has chocolate cake for us sometimes, when I visit her and Sister Sutton for tea,’ he added importantly.
Mrs Sherman’s lips quivered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have chocolate cake,’ she faltered.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told her kindly. ‘I’m sure your cakes will be smashing. Won’t they, Mummy?’
Victor’s cruel laugh turned into a hacking cough. ‘The child knows his own mind,’ he said.
Violet ignored him, noticing Mrs Sherman’s stricken expression. Only the hardest and most unfeeling person would not have felt for the other woman’s distress.
Mrs Sherman had prepared a magnificent spread for tea. As they took their places around the table she watched them with longing from the doorway, her gaze still fixed on Oliver. Violet sensed her reluctance to be out of his presence.
‘Won’t you join us, Mrs Sherman?’ she invited her boldly. Mrs Sherman’s gaze flicked from her to Victor, hope flaring in her eyes. ‘I’m sure Mr Dangerfield won’t mind, as this is a special occasion?’ Violet stared at Victor, daring him to disagree.
She noted the look of quiet fury on his face, but all he could say was, ‘Yes, please join us, Mrs Sherman.’
Sitting down to tea together reminded Violet of all the interminable meals she had taken in this house, sitting at the table with her eyes lowered, terrified that Victor would pick her up on some dreadful mistake she had made in her manners. Speaking only when spoken to, not daring to offer an opinion, fearful of a black look from beneath his bushy brows.
But Oliver’s presence had transformed him. He talked to the child animatedly about his likes, dislikes and interests. Which were his best subjects at school? Which sports did he enjoy? Victor devoured the information with a keen interest Violet had never seen in him before, his face lighting up with pride as Oliver boasted about the prize he had won at school for his spelling, and the adventure stories he loved to read. She saw the way Victor looked at his son, and her heart ached for the family they might have been.
Gradually Oliver lost his shyness as he talked about his school, the hospital, and the garden he was planting with Sister Sutton.
‘And I’m teaching Sparky to fetch a stick,’ he told them proudly. ‘Although he’s not very good at it yet.’
‘Would you like to play in our garden?’ Victor suggested.
Oliver gazed longingly out of the window. ‘May I?’
‘I don’t think so, darling . . .’ Violet began to say, but Victor cut her off.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.
‘He’s wearing his best clothes.’
‘You wouldn’t deny the child fresh air and fun for the sake of some mud, would you?’ Victor’s eyes glinted
challengingly. ‘What a spoilsport your mother is, Oliver.’
Violet was silent, staring at him with intense dislike. He couldn’t help himself. He had to dominate her. Even now he was trying to twist her son against her.
‘Mrs Sherman will help you with your coat.’ Ignoring Violet’s wishes Victor nodded to the housekeeper, who rose eagerly from the table and held out her hand to the boy.
Oliver hesitated. ‘May I go, Mummy?’ he asked.
Violet gave him a tight smile. ‘Of course, darling. But stay where I can see you, won’t you?’
‘And don’t go off with the bad people!’ Oliver finished for her, singing out the words merrily.
‘Is that what I am to him? One of the bad people?’ Victor asked in a low voice, as they watched him play from the window. She couldn’t drag her eyes away, fearful that if she took her eyes off her son for even a second he would be spirited away.
‘For a long time, yes.’
‘And am I still one of the bad people?’
‘You tell me.’
They stood in silence, watching their son running on the grass, his arms outstretched like an aeroplane in flight. The old grandfather clock measured the passing minutes with a steady, echoing tick.
‘He’s a fine boy,’ Victor said at last, not looking at her. ‘A credit to you.’
She steeled herself, waiting for the barb. It didn’t come.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He leant heavily against the stone sill, supporting himself with a thin, claw-like hand. ‘I wish things had been different.’
‘So do I.’
‘It’s not too late.’ He turned his gaze on her. ‘You could come back and live here?’
‘So you can try and turn him against me?’
‘So I can spend some time with my son before I die.’
She steeled herself. ‘I’ve already told you, Victor, that’s out of the question.’
‘Why? The boy is a Dangerfield. I need him here.’
She looked at him, understanding. ‘This is nothing to do with loving your son, is it? You’re just a scared, sick man who doesn’t want to die alone.’
‘The child belongs with his family,’ he bit out.
The Nightingale Sisters Page 35
