by Betty Neels
She felt the blood leave her cheeks. ‘I don’t believe you—he loves me.’
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Mary Jane. He was no good, my dear girl—you are such an innocent.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, he was your cousin all right, always borrowing money from your grandfather, like his father before him, an undischarged bankrupt with not a penny to his name, who came to hear of your grandfather’s death and saw a chance of easy money. And how much easier could it have been?’ His voice took on a mocking, angry note. ‘You, a little bored already, with a house of your own and money—quite a lot of money…’
She interrupted him, almost stammering. ‘He had no idea—I never told him.’
‘No? But he tricked old Mr North into telling him how much the estate was worth. I suppose you told him where North lived?’ And when she nodded miserably: ‘I thought so. And Prince—how could you have been so feather-witted, Mary Jane? Did you not wonder why he never showed you the papers connected with the sale, or the receipt? Why, I smelled a rat the moment you said—or were you so infatuated with him that you couldn’t be sensible any more? Do you know what he paid for Prince? Exactly half the amount he told you. He had the rest; he hired a car in your name too—I paid the bill just now, and the hotel—he owed several weeks’ bills and told them that you would pay.’ He thrust an impatient hand into a pocket and tossed some papers at her. ‘There, see for yourself.’
She left them to drift to the floor. ‘How—how did you find out all this?’ She tried to speak in a normal voice, but it came out in a miserable whisper.
‘I asked around—it wasn’t difficult—and then I flew to Winnipeg and made some enquiries.’
‘You went to all that trouble?’ She had her voice nicely under control now, but the effort to hold back the tears was getting beyond her. She said in a sudden burst: ‘Did it matter? He’s the only man who has ever asked me to marry him, do you know that? He said he loved me and now you’ve spoiled it all—I believe you want me to go on living here for ever and ever—I hate you, I hate you, I wish I’d never set eyes on you!’ She hiccoughed and choked, then took a breath, for she had by no means finished. Her heart, she most truly believed at that moment, was broken, and nothing mattered any more. All she wanted to do was to hurt the man standing so silently before her; his very quiet made her feelings all the hotter. But the words tumbling off her tongue were stilled by the entrance of Mrs Body with a loaded tray, who after one sharp glance at Mary Jane addressed herself to Fabian.
‘I saw the car, Doctor dear, and I said to myself, “He’ll be cold and hungry, I’ll be bound,” so here’s coffee and sandwiches, and a Happy New Year to you.’ She poured the coffee. ‘And where did you spend Christmas, if I might ask?’
‘Oh, in Keswick, Mrs Body. I had business there.’
‘But why didn’t you stay here? If Miss Mary Jane had known…’
‘That had been my hope.’ He smiled at her with great charm, and Mrs Body, quite overcome, exclaimed, ‘You mean to say you came for Christmas and we never even gave you a good Christmas dinner?’
‘It didn’t matter. As it turned out I had a good deal to do. Thank you for the coffee.’
‘Well, you look as though you need it, and no mistake, Doctor dear—worn out, you are. Have you come from Holland?’
He shook his head. ‘Canada.’
Mrs Body was no fool. She said, ‘Lor’ bless my soul! I always knew…’ She shot another look at Mary Jane, standing like a statue, taking no part in the conversation, and went out of the room, shutting the door very gently.
Fabian had made no attempt to drink his coffee, and when Mary Jane turned her back upon him he watched her for a few moments and then said softly: ‘Mary Jane,’ and when she didn’t answer: ‘I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I couldn’t see you throw yourself away on a wastrel and ruin your whole life.’ He paused. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
She didn’t turn round, only shook her head. She heard him cross the room and then the hall, and presently the front door was opened and shut again, and the Rolls murmured its way down the drive. By straining her ears Mary Jane could hear it going down the road, back to Keswick and, she guessed miserably, Holland. He wouldn’t come again. There was no need to hold the tears back any longer; she flopped into the nearest chair and cried her eyes out, and when Mrs Body came back, sobbed out the whole sorry story to her, to be comforted and scolded a little and comforted again. ‘And that poor man,’ said Mrs Body, ‘gone again without a bite to eat inside him, and him such a great man.’
‘He can starve!’ said Mary Jane savagely into Mrs Body’s ample bosom.
‘Now, now, dearie, that’s no way to talk. I never said so, but I didn’t fancy you marrying that Mr Pettigrew—far too glib, I found him. I know your heart’s broken, but it’ll mend, my dear, and you’ll think differently later on, and when Mr Right pops the question you’ll have forgotten all this.’
‘But there isn’t a Mr Right!’ wailed Mary Jane.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Mrs Body bracingly, and smiled to herself over the tousled brown head on her shoulder.
But despite Mrs Body’s comforting words, Mary Jane found the days which followed hard to live through; she walked herself into a state of exhaustion, going over and over in her mind all that had happened, forcing herself to face the truth—that Mervyn hadn’t loved her at all, only her money and her home, seeing her as an easy way to live in comfort for the rest of his life. Just as Fabian had said. She told herself that she would get over it, just as Mrs Body had told her, but in the meantime she was utterly miserable, not least of all because Mervyn hadn’t written. He could have at least wished her goodbye—but then she hadn’t said goodbye to Fabian either, had she? She had let him walk out of the house, cold and tired and hungry; even if she hated him—and of course she did—she had been pretty mean herself.
By the end of the week she wasn’t eating much, nor was she sleeping; her mood was ripe for the letter from Pope’s which arrived after a particularly bad night. It was from Miss Shepherd, telling her that there was a severe ‘flu epidemic in London, the hospital was halfstaffed and overflowing with patients, and how did Mary Jane feel like helping out on a temporary basis for a week or so?
Mary Jane went straight to the telephone, packed a bag, hugged Mrs Body and Lily goodbye and got into the Mini. She would only be gone for a week or so, but the prospect of having some hard work before her was just what she needed. She drove down the motorway, still unhappy, it was true, but finding life bearable once more.
It was amazing to her that she could slip back into life at Pope’s with such ease, and still more amazing that it should be Women’s Surgical to which she was sent, because the regular staff nurse was herself down with ‘flu. Mary Jane went on duty a few hours after her arrival to find Sister Thompson sitting in her office, drumming impatient fingers on the desk while she harangued a part-time staff nurse whom she obviously didn’t like; she didn’t like Mary Jane either, but at least they knew each other, a fact she pointed out somewhat acidly before giving her a dozen and one things to do. Mary Jane, impervious to her bad temper, and relieved to have so much on her hands that she had no time to think, went into the ward, to be greeted happily by several nurses she had known. The ward was heavy and full with beds down the centre and cases going to theatre, to return requiring expert care and nursing. Sister Thompson sailed up and down between the beds, giving orders to anyone who was within earshot, complaining bitterly that there were no good nurses any more, and what was the world coming to—a purely rhetorical question which none of her harassed staff had neither the time nor the inclination to answer, at least not out loud.
Mary Jane, worn out after her hard day, slept as she hadn’t slept for nights, and what was more, ate her breakfast the next morning. Despite her hard work, a faint colour had crept into her white face and the hollows under her eyes, while still there, weren’t quite so noticeable. She was off duty in the afternoon, the day was cold and grey and th
e staff nurses’ sitting room in the Home looked bleak—there were several of her friends off duty too, so she rounded them up and they went in a cheerful bunch to Fortnum and Mason’s where they had tea before embarking on a quick inspection of the January sales. She went back to the ward refreshed, and because Sister Thompson was off duty that evening, the work went better than it usually did. She went off duty that evening with the pleasant feeling that at least she had done a good day’s work and slept soundly in consequence.
The days slid by, each one packed with work and the small petty annoyances which went with it. Mary Jane found little time to think of anything but drips, pre-meds, closed drainage and the preparation of emergency cases for theatre, and at night she fell into bed and was asleep before she had time to shed one single tear over her broken romance with Mervyn. Just once or twice, when she was in theatre with a patient, she was reminded of Fabian, because the operating theatre was his world; it surprised her that in place of the rage which had possessed her against him, there was now only a dull feeling, almost a numbness. Beneath the mass of bewildered thoughts and memories she had expected him to write to her despite the manner of his going, but nothing came, only letters from Mrs Body, detailing carefully the day-to-day life at home. She had hoped for a letter from Mervyn too, against all her better judgement, but as the days went by and she realised that he wasn’t going to write, she knew that that was the best thing. He had never loved her, and she had been a fool to have imagined he did. He would never have left in that craven fashion if he had had even a spark of feeling for her, and certainly nothing Fabian could have said would have deterred him from at least explaining to her. She sighed; it was a pity she didn’t like Fabian, for quite obviously he had done his best for her, though in an arrogant fashion and with a total disregard of her feelings for which she would never forgive him.
With each day she found that she was recovering slowly. It was no good moaning over the past, and she had much to be thankful for; a home, enough money, kind Mrs Body and the willing Lily. She would go back to them soon and pick up the threads of her life where Fabian had so ruthlessly broken them off. She would have to find something to do, of course; Red Cross, part-time nursing, something of that sort. And she could sail and ride—only she hadn’t a horse, and unless Fabian came to see her again, she was unlikely to have one. Perhaps she would have to wait until she was thirty and free to do as she wished. Her thoughts were interrupted by Sister Thompson’s sour voice, enquiring of her if she intended to be all day making up that operation bed and how about Mrs Daw’s pre-med? And Mary Jane, who had already given it, said ‘Yes, Sister,’ in a mechanical way and went to see how the last case back from theatre was doing.
Op days were always extra busy. Sister Thompson went off duty after lunch and the atmosphere of the ward brightened perceptively even though an emergency appendix was admitted, followed by a severely lacerated hand. Mary Jane slogged up and down the ward, a little untidy now but still cheerful though a thought tired. She was going out that evening with some of her friends; there was a film which was supposed to be marvellous, but the way she felt by teatime, she didn’t really care if she saw it or not, though probably once she was there she would enjoy it, and anything was better than sitting and thinking.
She was almost through giving the report to Sister Thompson before she went off duty when she was interrupted by the telephone. Sister Thompson lifted a pompous hand for silence and addressed the instrument with her usual severity, although this softened slightly when she discovered that the speaker was Miss Shepherd. She put down the receiver with a strong air of disapproval, observed: ‘Matron’—she still called Miss Shepherd Matron because she didn’t agree with all the new-fangled titles everyone had been given by the Salmon Scheme—’Matron,’ she repeated, ‘wishes to see you in her office as soon as possible. First, however, you will finish the report.’
Mary Jane, luckily at the tail end of her recital, made short work of the rest of it, wished her superior good night, waved to such of the patients who were in a fit state to notice, and started off down the corridors and staircases which separated her from Miss Shepherd’s office. The hospital was fairly quiet except for the distant clatter of dishes denoting the advent of patients’ suppers. She met no one and paused only long enough to fling open the door of Men’s Medical where one of her friends worked, acquaint that young lady with the tidings that she might be late and they had better go on without her, and then tear on once more. The office was at the end of a short passage. Mary Jane knocked on the door, watched the red light above it turn to green, and went in.
Miss Shepherd was sitting at her desk and Fabian was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, contemplating a very bad portrait of the first governor of Pope’s. He took his eyes from it, however, as Mary Jane entered and met her startled gaze. She went red and then white, opened her mouth to speak, clamped it shut and turned for the door, quite forgetful of Miss Shepherd. It was that lady’s calm voice which recalled her to her senses.
‘Ah, there you are, Staff Nurse. Your guardian is most anxious to speak to you,’ she smiled across the room at him as she spoke. ‘I’m sure you will want to hear what he has to say.’
‘No,’ said Mary Jane baldly, ‘I wouldn’t.’ She looked at Fabian. ‘Why should you want to see me? I can’t imagine any good reason…’ She stopped because he was looking at her so oddly, and Miss Shepherd said smoothly:
‘All the same, I think you might like a little talk.’ She got up and went to the door and Fabian opened it for her with a smile. ‘I have a short round to make, ten minutes or so. I daresay that will be long enough.’
She had gone. Fabian leaned against the door, watching Mary Jane, who, very conscious of his gaze, stared in her turn at the portrait on the wall.
‘I had no intention of seeing you for some time,’ Fabian began coolly, ‘this is purely to oblige Cousin Emma. I did a thyroidectomy on her a week ago—she is doing very well, but now she insists that she won’t return home unless you are there to look after her. I telephoned you, of course, but Mrs Body, although she knew you were here, had no idea how long you would be staying. Miss Shepherd tells me that she can let you go immediately.’
‘There are plenty of nurses in Holland,’ said Mary Jane flatly, while she thought with sudden longing of the old house in Midwoude and even more longingly of Fabian’s great house by the canal. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she added for good measure.
He chose to ignore this. ’emma likes you—more, she has an affection for you, she feels that she will never make a complete recovery unless you are there to help her. And it is important that she recovers completely, for Trouw has asked her to marry him and although she longs to do so, she says that she will refuse him unless she is quite well again. And I think that you are the one to convince her.’
Womanlike, Mary Jane had fastened on the piece of news which aroused her interest most. ‘Married? How marvellous! Oh, I am glad, and of course she must marry Doctor Trouw. I always thought…she must be very happy.’
Her voice died away because she herself should have been feeling very happy too, married by now, surely—instead of which, she was standing here in Miss Shepherd’s office listening to Fabian’s calm demands on her time and energy. She said in a husky little voice, à propos of nothing at all:
‘I haven’t a horse—what happened to Prince?’
Fabian made a sudden movement and then was still again. ‘I know. Prince is now owned by the vet. I believe he’s very content and they suit each other very well.’ He began to walk towards her. ‘Mary Jane, I told you that I had no intention of coming to see you, for I am only too well aware of your feelings towards me—you made them abundantly clear—but I am fond of Cousin Emma and I want her to be happy; she has spent a great deal of her life looking after Uncle Georgius—very inadequately, I must admit, but she did her best. And now happiness is within her reach and unless we help her, her stubbornness is likely to ruin
everything.’ His voice roughened. ‘And you need entertain no fears that I shall be under your feet. When I come to see Cousin Emma it will be as her surgeon, not as your guardian. In future any meetings we may have shall be strictly on a business footing, I promise you that.’
For some unaccountable reason her heart sank at his words, for despite his indifference towards her, she had come reluctantly to regard him as someone to whom she could turn. She knew now, standing so close to him in the austere little room, that she had always been aware of him somewhere in the background, ready to help her if she needed help, and despite their dislike of each other he never had and never would let her down.
She was horrified to find her eyes filling with tears. They spilled down her cheeks and she wiped them away quickly, miserably aware that she looked quite hideous when she wept. But she was too proud to turn her face away. ‘I’ll come because Cousin Emma wants me,’ she told him, ‘not because you asked me.’
‘I hardly expected that.’ His voice was remote, as was his expression. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds and Mary Jane, watching his calm face felt a keen urge to talk to him, to tell him how she felt. She blew her nose and wiped away the last tear and would have embarked on heaven knew what kind of speech, only she was interrupted by the return of Miss Shepherd, who sat down at her desk and asked pleasantly, ‘Well, all settled, I hope?’
‘Indeed yes, Miss Shepherd. You did say that my ward could leave immediately?’
‘Of course. We are very grateful to the girls who came back to help us, but we wouldn’t dream of keeping them a moment longer than necessary—Staff Nurse Pettigrew would have been going in a day or two, in any case.’
‘Splendid!’ He turned to Mary Jane. ‘I’ll send your tickets to the front lodge, shall I? Could you be ready to leave tomorrow evening?’
