Knight on the Children's Ward

by Carol Marinelli

  Dr. Ross Wyatt

  He was impossible not to notice.

  Tall with slightly wavy hair worn just a touch too long—he didn’t look like a pediatric consultant…well, whatever pediatric consultants were supposed to look like.

  Some days he would be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, finished off with dark leather cowboy boots, as if he’d just got off a horse. Other days it was a smart suit. But even then it was as if his muscled body wanted out of its tailored confines.

  Ross Wyatt was Annika’s favorite diversion, and he was certainly diverting her now.

  He looked like a Spanish gypsy—just the sort of man her mother would absolutely forbid. He looked wild, untamed, thrilling.

  And that smile had definitely been aimed at her.

  Again.

  Dear Reader,

  A couple of years ago I wrote about two brothers from the Kolovsky family. But you don’t need to have read about them to enjoy their sister Annika’s story. They are a rich, fascinating group of people, with lots of scandal and secrets, and after two years away from them I was looking forward to visiting the Kolovsky family again—especially as I had worked out Annika’s story.

  I forgot that in two years people can change a lot!

  Naively, I had expected to pick up where I’d left off—but while I had been busy getting on with life, so, too, had Annika. She’d grown up and made a lot of changes in the time since we last met, and all the neat plans I had for her soon fell by the wayside!

  It was fun getting to know her all over again, and working out a hero who would suit such a complex woman. I have to say—I like her taste.

  Happy reading!

  Carol x

  KNIGHT ON THE CHILDREN’S WARD

  Carol Marinelli

  KNIGHT ON THE CHILDREN’S WARD

  For Helen Browne,

  thank you for your friendship,

  Carol x

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PROLOGUE

  ‘CAN I ask what happened, Reyes?’

  Ross didn’t answer his mother for a moment—instead he carried on sorting out clothes, stray earrings, books, make-up, and a shoe that didn’t have a partner. He loaded them into a suitcase.

  He’d been putting the job off, and when he’d finally accepted his mother’s offer to sort Imelda’s things, he had accepted also that with her help might come questions.

  Questions that he couldn’t properly answer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Were you arguing?’ Estella asked, and then tried to hold back a sigh when Ross shook his head. ‘I loved Imelda,’ Estella said.

  ‘I know,’ Ross said, and that just made it harder—Imelda had loved his family and they had loved her too. ‘She was funny and kind and I really, really thought I could make it work. I can’t honestly think of one thing that was wrong… It was just…’

  ‘Just what, Reyes?’ His mother was the only person who called him that. When he had arrived in Australia aged seven, somehow his real name had slipped away. The other children, fascinated by the little dark-haired, olive-skinned Spanish boy who spoke no English, had translated Reyes to Ross—and that was who he had become.

  Ross Wyatt.

  Son of Dr George and Mrs Estella Wyatt. Older brother to Maria and Sophia Wyatt.

  Only it was more complicated than that, and all too often far easier not to explain.

  Sometimes he had to explain—after all, when he was growing up people had noticed the differences. George’s hair, when he had had some, had been blond, like his daughters’. George was sensible, stern, perfectly nice and a wonderful father—but it wasn’t his blood that ran in Ross’s veins.

  And he could tell from his mother’s worried eyes that she was worried that was the problem.

  Estella’s brief love affair at sixteen with a forbidden Gitano, or Romany, had resulted in Reyes. The family had rallied around. His grandmother had looked after the dark baby while his mother had worked in a local bar, where, a few years later, she’d met a young Australian man, just out of medical school. George had surprised his rather staid family by falling in love and bringing home from his travels in Europe two unexpected souvenirs.

  George had raised Reyes as his own, loved him as his own, and treated him no differently from his sisters.

  Except Reyes, or rather Ross, was different.

  ‘It wasn’t…’ His voice trailed off. He knew his mother was hoping for a rather more eloquent answer. He knew that she was worried just from the fact she was asking, for his mother never usually interfered. ‘There wasn’t that…’ He couldn’t find the word but he tried. He raked his mind but couldn’t find it in English and so, rarely for Ross, he reverted to his native tongue. ‘Buena onda.’ His mother tensed when he said it, and he knew she understood—for that was the phrase she used when she talked about his father.

  His real father.

  Buena onda—an attraction, a connection, a vibe from another person, from that person.

  ‘Then you’re looking for a fairytale, Reyes! And real-life fairytales don’t have happy endings.’ Estella’s voice was unusually sharp. ‘It’s time you grew up. Look where buena onda left me—sixteen and pregnant.’

  Only then, for the first time in his thirty-two years did Ross glimpse the anger that simmered beneath the surface of his mother.

  ‘Passion flares and then dims. Your father—the father who held you and fed you and put you through school—stands for more than some stupid dream. Some gypsy dream that you—’ She stopped abruptly, remembering perhaps that they were actually discussing him. ‘Imelda was a good woman, a loyal and loving partner. She would have been a wonderful wife and you threw it away—for what?’

  He didn’t know.

  It had been the same argument all his life as his mother and George had tried to rein in his restless energy. He struggled with conformity, though it could hardly be called rebellion.

  Grade-wise he had done well at school. He had a mortgage, was a paediatrician—a consultant, in fact—he loved his family, was a good friend.

  On paper all was fine.

  In his soul all was not.

  The mortgage wasn’t for a bachelor’s city dwelling—though he had a small one of those for nights on call, or when he was particularly concerned about a patient—no, his handsome wage was poured into an acreage, with stables and horses, olive and fruit trees and rows of vines, and not another residence in sight.

  Just as there had been arguments about his attitude at school, even as a consultant he found it was more of the same. Budgets, policies, more budgets—all he wanted to do was his job, and at home all he wanted to do was be.

  There was nothing wrong that he could pin down.

  And there was no one who could pin him down.

  Many had tried.

  ‘Should I take this round to her?’ Ross asked.

  ‘Put it in the cupboard for now,’ Estella said. ‘
If she comes for her things, then at least it is all together. If she doesn’t…’ She gave a little shrug. ‘It’s just some clothes. Maybe she would prefer no contact.’

  He felt like a louse as he closed the zipper. Packed up two years and placed it in the cupboard.

  ‘Imelda wanted to decorate the bedroom.’ Task over, he could be a bit more honest. ‘She’d done the bathroom, the spare room…’ It was almost impossible to explain, but he had felt as if he were being slowly invaded. ‘She said she wanted more of a commitment.’

  ‘She cared a lot about you, Reyes…’

  ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘And I cared a lot about her.’

  ‘It would have hurt her deeply, you ending it.’

  It had. She had cried, sobbed, and then she had hit him and he’d taken it—because he deserved it, because she had almost been the one. He had hoped she was the one and then, when he could deny no longer that she wasn’t… What was wrong with him?

  ‘She loved you, Reyes!’

  ‘So I should have just let it carry on? Married her…?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Estella said. ‘But it’s not just Imelda…’

  It wasn’t.

  Imelda was one of a long line of women who had got too close—and, despite his reputation, Ross hated the pain he caused.

  ‘I don’t like it that my son hurts women.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved with anyone for a while,’ Ross said.

  ‘You say that now…’

  ‘I’ve never said it before,’ Ross said. ‘I mean it; I’ve got to sort myself out. I think I need to go back.’ It took a lot of courage to look at his mum, to watch her dark eyes widen and her lips tighten. He saw the slight flinch as he said the words she had braced herself to hear for many years. ‘To Spain.’

  ‘What about your work in Russia?’ Estella asked. ‘All your annual leave is taken up with that. You said that it’s the most important thing to you.’

  It had been. As a medical student he had taken up the offer to work in a Russian orphanage on his extended summer break, with his fellow student Iosef Kolovsky. It had changed him—and now, all these years on, much of his spare time was devoted to going back. Even though Iosef was married now, and had a new baby, Ross had been determined to return to Russia later in the year. But now things had changed.

  ‘I want to go to Spain, see my abuelos…’ And that was a good reason to go—his grandparents were old now—but it didn’t quite appease his mother. ‘I’m going back next month, just for a few weeks….’

  ‘You want to find him, don’t you?’

  He saw the flash of tears in her eyes and hated the pain he was causing, but his mother, whether she believed it or not, simply didn’t understand.

  ‘I want to find myself.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘THERE is room for improvement, Annika.’ Heather Jameson was finding this assessment particularly difficult. In most areas the student nurse was doing well. In exams, her pass-rates had been initially high, but in her second year of study they were now merely acceptable. In her placements it was always noted how hard she worked, and that she was well turned out, on time, but there were still a couple of issues that needed to be addressed.

  ‘It’s been noted that you’re tired.’ Heather cleared her throat. ‘Now, I know a lot of students have to work to support themselves during their studies, but…’

  Annika closed her eyes, it wouldn’t enter Heather’s head that she was amongst them—no, she was a Kolovsky, why on earth would she have to work?

  Except she did—and that she couldn’t reveal.

  ‘We understand that with all your family’s charity work and functions…well, that you have other balls to juggle. But, Annika, your grades are slipping—you have to find a better balance.’

  ‘I am trying,’ Annika said, but her assessment wasn’t over yet.

  ‘Annika, are you enjoying nursing?’

  No.

  The answer was right there, on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. For the first six months or so she had loved it—had, after so much searching, thought that she had found her vocation, a purpose to her rich and luxurious life. Despite the arguments from her mother, despite her brother Iosef’s stern warning that she had no idea what she was taking on, Annika had dug in her heels and, for six months at least, she had proved everyone wrong.

  The coursework had been interesting, her placements on the geriatric and palliative care wards, though scary at first, had been enjoyable, and Annika had thought she had found her passion. But then gradually, just as Iosef had predicted it would, the joy had waned. Her surgical rotation had been a nightmare. A twenty-one-year-old had died on her shift and, sitting with the parents, Annika had felt as if she were merely playing dress-up.

  It had been downhill since then.

  ‘Have you made any friends?’

  ‘A few,’ Annika said. She tried to be friendly, tried to join in with her fellow students’ chatter, tried to fit in, but the simple truth was that from the day she had started, from the day her peers had found out who she was, the family she came from, there had been an expectation, a pressure, to dazzle on the social scene. When Annika hadn’t fulfilled it, they had treated her differently, and Annika had neither the confidence nor the skills to blend in.

  ‘I know it’s difficult for you, Annika…’ Heather really didn’t know what else to say. There was an aloofness to Annika that was hard to explain. With her thick blonde hair and striking blue eyes, and with her family’s connections, one would expect her to be in constant demand, to be outgoing and social, yet there was a coldness in her that had to be addressed—because it was apparent not just to staff but to the patients. “A large part of nursing is about putting patients at ease—’

  ‘I am always nice to the patients,’ Annika interrupted, because she was. ‘I am always polite; I introduce myself; I…’ Annika’s voice faded. She knew exactly what Heather was trying to say, she knew she was wooden, and she didn’t know how to change it. ‘I am scared of saying the wrong thing,’ Annika admitted. ‘I’m not good at making small talk, and I also feel very uncomfortable when people recognize my name—when they ask questions about my family.’

  ‘Most of the time people are just making small talk, not necessarily because of who you are,’ Heather said, and then, when Annika’s eyes drifted to the newspaper on the table, she gave a sympathetic smile, because, in Annika’s case people would pry!

  The Kolovsky name was famous in Melbourne. Russian fashion designers, they created scandal and mystery and were regularly in the tabloids. Since the founder, Ivan, had died his son Aleksi had taken over the running of the business, and was causing social mayhem. There was a picture of him that very morning on page one, coming out of a casino, clearly the worse for wear, with the requisite blonde on his arm.

  ‘Maybe nursing is not such a good idea.’ Annika could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes but she would not cry. ‘At the start I loved it, but lately…’

  ‘You’re a good nurse, Annika, and you could be a very good nurse. I’m more concerned that you’re not happy. I know you’re only twenty-five, but that does mean you’re older than most of your group, and it’s a bit harder as a mature student to fit in. Look…’ She changed tack. This wasn’t going the way Heather had wanted it—she was trying to bolster Annika, not have her consider quitting. ‘You’re starting on the children’s ward today. Most of them won’t have a clue about the Kolovsky name, and children are wonderful at…’

  ‘Embarrassing you?’ Annika volunteered, and managed a rare smile. ‘I am dreading it.’

  ‘I thought you might be. But children are a great leveller. I think this might be just the ward for you. Try and enjoy it, treat it as a fresh start—walk in and smile, say hello to your colleagues, open up a little, perhaps.’

  ‘I will try.’

  ‘And,’ Heather added in a more serious tone, because she had given Annika several warnings, ‘think about managing
your social engagements more carefully around your roster. Request the weekends off that you need, plan more in advance.’

  ‘I will.’ Annika stood up and, unlike most other students, she shook Heather’s hand.

  It was little things like that, Heather thought as Annika left the room, which made her stand apart. The formal handshake, her slight Russian accent, even though she had been born in Australia. Heather skimmed through Annika’s personal file, reading again that she had been home tutored, which explained a lot but not all.

  There was guardedness to her, a warning that came from those blue eyes that told you to keep out.

  And then occasionally, like she had just now, Annika would smile and her whole face lifted.

  She was right about one thing, though, Heather thought, picking up the paper and reading about the latest antics of Annika’s brother Aleksi. People did want to know more. People were fascinated by the Kolovsky family—even Heather. Feeling just a touch guilty, she read the article and wondered, not for the first time, what someone as rich and indulged as Annika was trying to prove by nursing.

  There was just something about the Kolovskys.

  There was still half an hour till Annika’s late shift started and, rather than walk into an unfamiliar staffroom and kill time, unusually for Annika she decided to go to the canteen. She had made a sandwich at home, but bought a cup of coffee. She glanced at the tables on offer, and for perhaps the thousandth time rued her decision to work at Melbourne Bayside.

  Her brother Iosef was an emergency doctor at Melbourne Central. His wife, Annie, was a nurse there too, but Iosef had been so discouraging, scathing almost, about Annika’s ability that she had applied to study and work here instead. How nice it would be now to have Annie wave and ask to join her. Perhaps too it would have been easier to work in a hospital where there were already two Kolovskys—to feel normal.

  ‘Annika!’

  She felt a wash of relief as one of her fellow students waved at her. Cassie was down for the children’s ward rotation too and, remembering to smile, Annika made her way over.