The doctors choice by Hilary Wilde
It is never pleasant to be jilted, and when Nurse Clare Butler’s fiance tells her brutally that he has never really loved her,she hides her heartache by taking a new job in the Australian Outback. Looking after a motherless seven-year-old boy is no easy task — and nor is guarding her feelings against the magnetism of young Barry’s uncle, Doctor David Johnson. After all,David is the one who warned her against falling in love on the rebound… and he loves Gillian, Barry’s beautiful stepmother, whose sudden arrival threatens everything that Clare has achieved.
printed in Great Britain
First published in Great Britain 1964 by Mills & Boon Limited, 17-19 Foley Street, London W1A 1DR
© Hilary Wilde 1964
Australian copyright 1979
Philippine copyright 1979
ISBN 0 263 73208 8
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure inventions.
The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the Publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
CHAPTER ONE
CLARE BUTLER, walking along the busy corridors of the large London teaching hospital, was happy. In four days’ time she would be marrying Doctor Peter Wendell, who was working in the hospital, and after their honeymoon in Spain they would be going to Glasgow to live and work.
Clare’s navy-blue cloak hung loosely from her shoulders, her red-gold hair was tucked well under her white starched cap, her green eyes were dancing with amusement as nurses and interns she knew well passed her and teased her. Glancing at her watch, she began to hurry. Peter had phoned her during the night when she was on duty and had asked her to look in at his flat on her way home, and she must not be late!
First, though, she must call in for her usual morning chat with seven-year-old Barry Johnson. He was an Australian boy who had travelled fourteen thousand miles to have a hole-in-the-heart operation which had proved very successful.
The door to his private ward was ajar, so she pushed it open, and then paused, hesitating because she saw that Barry was not alone. His uncle, Doctor David Johnson, was with him.
“Hi, Nurse!” the small boy with dark hair called excitedly from his bed. “Was it a good party yester-day?”
The big man by his side turned to look at Clare. “Do come in, Nurse,” he invited, his voice friendly.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Clare said quietly.
Doctor Johnson was a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a deep, quiet voice.
“Nurse, was it fun?” Barry’s dark blue eyes were alight. “What happened? What did they give you?”
Clare smiled. “A shower.”
“A shower?” the small boy echoed, his voice startled.
“Had you a mac … or a swimsuit? I mean, wasn’t it cold?”
Clare glanced at the silent man and saw his mouth curve into a smile. He was devoted to his small nephew, having accompanied him on this long trip to England, doing refresher courses while he stayed with the small boy. She had also heard that he was a Flying Doctor in Australia, single, heart-whole, and allergic to young women!
“Not that kind of shower, Barry,” Clare explained, smiling at. the boy, whose dark hair was rumpled and whose bed, as usual, was untidy. “This is a party where your friends give you things for the kitchen. Like wooden spoons and tea-cloths.”
Barry looked scornful. “Sounds awful boring.”
Clare laughed and, glancing up, saw the thoughtful glance Doctor Johnson was giving her. She wondered anxiously if she looked very untidy, for she was tired after a busy night.
a busy night.
“It was fun, Barry,” Clare said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to go now.”
“You’ve only just got here,” he complained, his mouth sad.
“I know, darling,” she told him. “You — well, tomorrow I’ll — I’ll have more time, but… .”
“I understand you are leaving the hospital in a few days?” Doctor Johnson said quietly.
“Yes, I’m getting married on Saturday,” she told him with a smile.
She realized that this was the first time she had really looked at Doctor Johnson. He had been merely Barry’s uncle. Now she began to understand why a wave of excitement had swept through the hospital when he arrived, for he was very good-looking, with those broad shoulders, and a skin tanned by the sun. His dark hair was smooth and she liked his stormy grey eyes.
“I wish you weren’t going to get married,” Barry said miserably. “You’re my only friend.”
Clare took the seven-year-old boy’s hand and held it tightly as she smiled. A few red curls escaped from her starched white cap. There were shadows under her slanting green eyes and tenderness in her smile. “‘Course I’m not, darling. We’re all your friends.”
He shrugged shoulders that were too thin. “I don’t think so. Why do you have to go and get married?” he asked, his voice sulky.
Again Doctor Johnson intervened quietly. “I understand you’re giving up nursing. It seems a pity.”
Clare coloured. Many of her friends had bitterly criticized her for making the decision. “Yes, Doctor, but —” She and Peter had argued about this for a long time. Loving him so much, in the end she had agreed.
Peter wanted a wife to be waiting when he came home, the dinner cooked and ready!
“It seems rather a —” Doctor Johnson began.
“Waste?” Clare supplied the word, her cheeks burning. It was the word Eileen, her Irish friend, had used.
The big man frowned. “Nothing you learn is a waste,” he said sternly.
The door opened, and Barry’s nurse was there, a tray in her hands.
“I must go, Barry darling,” Clare said. “See you tomorrow.”
“That’s a promise?” Barry called.
Clare nodded with a smile and slipped out of the room, but a voice halted her.
“Nurse!”
Clare turned and saw Doctor Johnson following her.
She stifled a sigh. “Yes, Doctor?”
He was frowning. “I must apologize for appearing to criticize your decision to give up nursing,“he said stiffly.
“It’s quite all right, Doctor,” Clare said quickly. “It wasn’t an easy decision to make.”
“But you had the right to make it,” the man, tower-ing above her, said firmly. “And no one has the right to criticize you. I want to thank you for your kindness /to Barry.”
“I’m not kind to him,” she said, startled.. “I like him.”
There was the faintest trace of a smile on his grave face.
“He likes you. Life hasn’t been easy for Barry.” He hesitated. “I know you’re in a hurry, but I’d like to explain a few things.”
As they talked, they walked down the corridor towards the lift, standing to one side to allow two orderlies to wheel a trolley by. Later they passed a couple of interns, who glanced at them curiously.
“Barry is a very disturbed boy,” Doctor Johnson continued gravely, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent towards C
lare. “His father died a few years ago and his stepmother walked out on him. They were staying with my brother at the time, and my brother —well, he wants to adopt Barry legally when he can contact the boy’s mother and get her permission.”
“His stepmother walked out on him?” Clare repeated slowly.
Doctor Johnson looked down. “Yes, I knew her quite well,” he said, his voice dry. “She always took the easiest course. She knew Barry wouldn’t starve, that Ian and Val would love him as one of their own children.”
Vaguely, as they walked, Clare was noticing the surprised and amused glances nurses were giving them as they passed them. She thought for a moment of how the grapevine in the hospital would pass on the news.
“But how could his stepmother leave him?” Clare asked.
Doctor Johnson frowned. “I don’t know. She’d had him from a small baby and was practically the same as his real mother – but she was a strange girl and terrified of illness. When she lost her husband and realized she had a delicate child to look after, she took the obvious course and walked out.”
“Obvious!” Clare said scornfully. “Barry needed her.”
She remembered how Barry’s hot little fingers had clung to hers those nights she had been his “special”, shortly after his operation.
“She never wanted to be needed,” Doctor Johnson said quietly.
“But—” Clare began, and drew a long deep breath.
She was wasting her time, she knew, for obviously Doctor Johnson more than liked Barry’s stepmother. “Is Barry happy with your brother?”
“I think so,” the doctor by her side said slowly. “As happy as he can be, at the moment. He finds it difficult to trust anyone.”
“Who can blame him?” Clare asked as they reached the lift, and she saw a small group of nurses waiting who gave them curious glances. “He must obviously have looked on her exactly as his real mother.”
“He did.” Doctor Johnson held out his hand. “Now, I may not have the chance again, Nurse, but I would like to wish you happiness in your new life. We shall miss you.”
She blushed. “Thank you, sir.” She felt the warm strength of his fingers as they closed round her hand.
“You’re taking Barry home soon?”
“Yes, in about ten days, I hope. Goodbye, and good luck.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Clare gave the big man a quick smile before turning to the lift as it stopped and the doors opened.
She found herself standing next to Eileen Mullins, her dark-eyed Irish friend.
“How on earth did you work it, honey?” Eileen teased. “Chatting with the Great Big Icicle as if you were old buddies! What would Peter say?”
“He’d understand. We were discussing Barry,”
Clare said, a little indignantly. Eileen and she had been close friends since the day they met, both raw, rather scared probationers, but Eileen had never liked Peter.
The lift spilled them out on to the ground floor and they left the hospital together, going out into one of London’s overcast mornings.
Eileen smiled. “Only four more days and wedding bells will Ting.” Her smile vanished and she looked worried, her dark hair blowing untidily in the breeze.
“I hope you’ll be happy, Clare,” she said abruptly, and turned away, hurrying towards the nurses’ hostel.
Clare walked in the opposite direction, for when she was on night duty she always slept at home, in the small flat her parents had in Chelsea. They always waited for her before they went to work; her mother helped her father run his small optical instruments factory. But today, Clare knew, they might not be able to wait, for she was going to be very late.
Hurrying along the busy street, she thought affectionately of her parents, who had been married for twelve years before her arrival, which had proved both a surprise and a delight. Generous, unpossessive, deeply loving parents, they had always cherished a dream and saved for it, even if it was but a small sum.
Now, with Clare’s marriage so close, they were selling their business, had let their flat furnished for a year, and were setting off on a journey round the world, finding jobs as they went. A dream come true.
She turned left, down a narrow alley towards the tall dingy building in which Peter lived. She ran up the white steps of the tall narrow house and put her finger on the bell under Peter’s name.
It seemed ages, but at last the door opened and Peter stood there. She lifted her face, her eyes wide with happiness. She could never get over the wonder of it —that, out of all the nurses in Queen Anne’s Hospital, Peter had chosen her. They had danced, gone on the river; then, six months before, Peter had asked her to be his wife. She smiled at the lean, handsome man with blond hair, bright blue eyes and infectious smile. Suddenly she shivered. He was not smiling; he had not kissed her!
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said quickly.
“You’re not late,” he countered curtly.
She led the way through the dark hall, up the steep stairs with their faded carpet, past closed doors, and finally they were in Peter’s tiny flatlet. The windows gave a view of London’s sooty chimneypots, and elongated television aerials which looked like grotesque examples of abstract sculpture. She had often wondered how Peter could live in such a squalid, uncomfortable place. Now he closed the door with a small slam and she swung round, startled.
He stood stiffly, leaning against the door, his face cold.
“Peter darling, what’s happened?” Clare asked, going to him, her hands outstretched. “What is it?”
He held up his hand. “Wait a moment, Clare. I’ve got something to tell you.”
His voice was that of a stranger. She felt as if she had a tight band round her head. She lifted her hand and jerked off her white starched cap.
“Tell me what?” she gasped. She felt cold and afraid.
He went to stand by the window, his back to her.
“Tell you I—”
Suddenly she knew what he was trying to say. She closed her eyes with the shock and pain of it. There was a silence that seemed to drag on endlessly, but at last she found her voice.
“You don’t want to marry me?”
He turned, and she saw the relief on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and moved towards her. “Clare, I—”
She was not listening. Blindly she passed him and went to stare out of the window at the forest of chimneypots, the narrow windows, the low grey clouds in the sky.
“What happened? You stopped loving me?” she said slowly. “When?”
“It’s a girl in Guildford. We met two years ago and then not again until Mother was ill and I went home.
About – about seven months ago,” Peter said.
Clare swung round. “But we weren’t even engaged, then.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I know, but—”
“But! But what?” Clare demanded, her pale face flushing suddenly. “I don’t understand you, Peter.”
Her voice shook. “If you were in love with this girl, then – then why did you ask me to marry you?”
– then why did you ask me to marry you?”
Peter stood very still, his hands deep in the trouser pockets of his dark suit, his bright blue eyes narrowed as he looked at the girl facing him. He frowned. “Well, let’s face it, Clare, you did rather rush me,” he said his voice annoyed.
voice annoyed.
She took a step backward, her hand flying to her mouth. “I – rushed you?”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s what I said. After all, I only kissed you, and you immediately jumped to conclusions and—”
“But, Peter—” she said quickly, and then stopped, staring at him, her eyes wide with dismay. How well she remembered. That particular kiss! The way he had held her close, his mouth demanding, his hands loving.
“It was a – a different sort of kiss,” she finished slowly. He laughed scornfully. “Don’t tell me you’d never . He laughed scornfully. “Don’t tell me you’d never been kissed like t
hat before! It didn’t mean – marriage,” he added as he watched her face.
As she stared at him, a wave of misery swept through her. Could he be right? She tried to remember that evening. The lights low, the soft music, his arms so tightly round her.
Had he asked her to marry him? Had he put it into words? Or was she the one who had said she loved him?
She took the ring off her finger.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said quietly as she gave him the ring.
He took it, looking at her white face. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. Suddenly his eyes were wary. “It’s going to be a bit awkward. I mean, at the hospital—”
She stared at him. And despised and forgave him in the same moment, for it meant so much to Peter — other people’s good opinion of him.
“I’ll tell them we’ve changed our minds,” she said, as she picked up her white starched cap and turned to the door, thinking of all the things that had to be done.
“I’ll put an announcement in the papers and — and return the presents,” she added wearily.
“Thanks a ton,” he said, his voice suddenly cheerful.
At the door she turned, the pain almost more than she could bear as she looked at him.
He smiled. “You always were a good sport,” he said.
She went down the steep stairs quickly, and as she left the drab building the cold wind hit her and seemed to revive her. At last she was on the bus, sitting hunched up, facing the dreary future. Chelsea, and she could walk down Beaufort Street to their block, then she was climbing four flights of cold stone steps and their green front door was before her. She unlocked it quietly, looking down the long corridor and wishing she could escape the next half-hour. What would they say?
In less than a week the flat had to be vacated, but first they must unpack the crate of wedding presents, sort out each present from the list, repack separately with a small note. There would be letters to write, people to phone… .
She closed her eyes for a moment as exhaustion and misery seemed to swamp her.
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