A Secret Infatuation. Betty Neels

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      ‘I can certainly boil an egg, make toast and fry bacon. I make a good cup of tea, too.’

      ‘Oh, who taught you?’ She was being rude and not caring about it.

      ‘My mother. She has always suffered from the illusion that I might marry someone who had none of the culinary arts.’

      She might as well go on being rude, she reflected. ‘Your fiancée—can she cook?’

      ‘I think it is most unlikely, but since I employ an excellent housekeeper that is hardly a matter which need cause unease.’

      ‘You’re rich,’ stated Eugenie, aware that she was behaving unforgivably. He would never offer her a lift again …

      ‘Er—you are refreshingly forthright, Eugenie. I’ll set your mind at rest by saying that I make a living.’

      ‘You work hard for it, though. I expect you’re worth every penny …’

      He said placidly, ‘I aim to give value for money.’

      She fell silent then, and presently he asked, ‘And you, Eugenie—from what I have seen of your work, you give value for money too. What do you intend to do when you leave?’

      ‘I’m not sure. You see, I don’t want to be tied because of Father. I expect I’ll have to go to an agency so that if I need to go home I’ll be able to do so. I don’t think I shall like it very much, but hospitals want contracts.’

      He said mildly, ‘You could marry the Reverend Mr Watts—he would, I feel sure, be very satisfied and you would be on hand should your father need you.’

      She said forcefully, ‘Have you any idea what Joshua is like? Father has had the parish for years, ever since I can remember; it would break his heart if there were any changes. I do not wish to marry the Reverend Mr Watts …’

      That is his loss. You are just right for a parson’s wife, bossy and outspoken and managing and capable.’

      Her bosom swelled with rage and regret and sorrow that that was how he thought of her. She said quietly, ‘This is a pointless conversation, isn’t it? Let’s talk about the weather.’

      He laughed then but remained silent except for the odd remark from time to time—the kind of remark he might have made to a chance passenger he didn’t know or someone to whom he was giving a lift as a favour.

      At the hospital he got out of the car and helped her out, got her bag and walked with her to the entrance. Here she stopped.

      ‘Thank you for the lift. It was most kind of you.’

      He smiled down at her. ‘I shall see you again,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight.’

      Of course he would see her again. She was on duty in the morning, wasn’t she? And there was a bypass scheduled. ‘In the morning,’ she reminded him. ‘Goodnight.’

      She didn’t sleep well, her mind too active with thoughts of Mr Rijnma ter Salis, so that she was glad to get up and go to her breakfast and then to Theatre. Sister Cross greeted her in her usual snappy manner, but Eugenie, happy at the prospect of seeing him within the next hour, wished her a cheerful good morning and went to make sure that everything was ready for the morning’s work.

      She was about to scrub when the senior registrar strolled into the theatre. ‘Look out for old Pepper,’ he warned her kindly, ‘he’s a bit snappy this morning …’

      ‘Mr Pepper? Is he doing the bypass?’

      ‘Yes. Rijnma has gone to Edinburgh—a heart transplant—there’s an unexpected donor. He’ll be there for a couple of days, I should imagine.’

      ‘But he was in the hospital last night …’

      He gave her a quick glance. A discreet man who liked her, he had seen the pair of them when they had returned but he wasn’t going to say so.

      ‘He drove up overnight. There was no time to be lost—it was suggested that a plane should be chartered but he preferred to drive himself. With a car like his, it wouldn’t take any longer than flying up by the time he had got to the airport and been collected at the other end!’

      ‘I hope the op will be successful …’

      ‘It won’t be any fault of his if it isn’t. He’s a good chap.’

      He went away and she started to scrub, and presently bore with Mr Pepper’s ill humour. She quite liked him but this morning he was living up to his name.

      Without Mr Rijnma ter Salis’s vast person to distract her thoughts, Eugenie put her mind to her future. She took herself off to a number of agencies and put her name down on their lists for private nurses. There was quite a demand for them but most of them were in London or the Home Counties. Perhaps she would do better to try an agency nearer home—Exeter or Bristol or Plymouth. Mr Symes, doing his best to be helpful, suggested that she tried a private hospital, but they, when she enquired, wanted contracts too. It seemed that opportunities for experienced surgical ward sisters and theatre sisters were few and far between—private nursing, she was told, was more a matter of staying in the patient’s own home and performing any nursing duties the doctor might order.

      Mr Rijnma ter Salis came back four days later, performed a complicated open heart operation which took hours, thanked her briefly and disappeared again. She had days off again the next day and spent them going round the agencies; time was running out.

      Back on duty she met him on her way to dinner. She would have passed him with a polite, ‘Good morning, sir’, but he put out an arm and stopped her.

      ‘Not so fast. Where have you been?’

      ‘Days off.’

      ‘You leave soon?’

      ‘In about ten days’ time.’

      ‘You have another job?’

      ‘Not yet.’ She inched away from him. ‘I’m rather late for my dinner, sir.’

      He took no notice. ‘I shall be going back to Holland in two weeks’ time. My theatre sister there is leaving to have a baby. I should like you to take over while she is away.’

      She goggled at him. ‘Me? Holland?’

      ‘Not the end of the earth, Eugenie. A temporary post only but it will give you time to decide what you want to do.’

      She opened her mouth to refuse, but he said testily, ‘No, I don’t want your answer now. Go and eat your dinner and think about it. Let me know in a couple of days’ time.’

      He had gone, leaving her standing in the middle of the corridor wondering if she had dreamt the whole conversation. Over her shepherd’s pie and carrots she decided that it hadn’t been a dream; he wasn’t a man to waste his time on elaborate jokes or light-hearted suggestions.

      ‘You look very strange, Eugenie,’ observed one of her friends at the table. ‘Miles away.’

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