Sun and Candlelight

She had said that she would marry him…now, she was beset with any number of doubts.

“Thank you for dinner and for bringing me back,” Alethea said politely, and then felt foolish at his reply.

“I hardly think that you need to thank me, my dear. Such small services will be my privilege in the future.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She smiled a little shyly at him, and then in a burst of confidence added, “You know, when I got up this morning I’d made up my mind to say no.”

“And what made you change your mind?” he asked quietly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” She smiled a little. “But I won’t change it again.”

He took her hand, bent his head and kissed her—a quick, light kiss, which, although it had meant nothing at all, stayed in her mind long after she had wished him good-night and had gone to bed.

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Sun and Candlelight

Betty Neels

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE RESTAURANT was small, elegant and discreetly lighted by pink-shaded table lamps which cast a becoming glow on to the feminine occupants, most of whom were glad of it, although the girl sitting at a table for two in the centre of the room needed no such artificial aid. She was a young woman, though not in her first youth, but her lovely face was girlish in its freshness and her dark hair, arranged in an elaborate topknot, curled around it. Her eyes were dark too and heavily lashed and her mouth was softly curved under an exquisite nose; it was a face to be looked at twice and then again which made it all the more remarkable that her companion hardly glanced at her but applied himself to his coq-au-vin in a tight-lipped fashion.

‘It isn’t any good you looking like that.’ Alethea Thomas’s voice was as pretty as her face. ‘I said I wouldn’t and I won’t, and if that’s all you think of me then I can see no point in going on as we are, can you?’

She spoke without heat, waited in silence while the waiter took away their plates and proffered the menu, asked for a sorbet and when the man had gone asked: ‘Well?’

The man opposite her glanced at her angrily and then looked away. ‘You’re such a fool, Alethea—everyone goes away for weekends these days, why not you? Think yourself too good?’ His voice held a sneer, his good looks marred by a frown. ‘You couldn’t have imagined that I was going to ask you to marry me? Lord, it’ll be years before I get a consultant’s post—I can’t afford a wife, certainly not one without any money.’ He smiled suddenly and added coaxingly: ‘Come on, be a sport.’

The waiter served them and retreated again. ‘I must be the most unsporting girl for miles around,’ observed Alethea calmly, and then somehow stayed calm as he suddenly got to his feet and without another word, walked away, hurrying between the tables so that people paused in their talk to stare at him. He went out of the restaurant without a backward glance and after a moment Alethea took up her spoon with a hand which shook slightly and started on her sorbet. She would have liked to have got up and left too, but the awful realisation that she had no more than a handful of small change in her purse prevented her. Presently the bill would be handed to her and she wouldn’t be able to pay it, and it hardly seemed likely that Nick would come back. She spooned some more sorbet and swallowed it with difficulty; she mustn’t cry, which was what she wanted to do very badly, and she mustn’t look around her too much—and above all she mustn’t appear anxious. She ate slowly, putting off the moment when the bill would arrive; she could spend at least fifteen minutes over her coffee, too; perhaps by then Nick would come back, although she was almost certain that he wasn’t going to.

She had agreed to dine with him with such high hopes too. They had been going out together for some months now; the whole hospital expected them to get engaged, although she had never even hinted at it and she was sure now that Nick hadn’t either. She had even bought a new dress for the occasion; a fine black voile patterned with a multitude of flowers, its low neckline edged with a narrow frill and its high waist tied by long velvet ribbons. It had cost her more than she could afford, but she had wanted to look rather special for what she had expected to be a special occasion. After all, Nick had told her that he had something important to ask her and she, fool that she was, she thought bitterly now, had expected him to propose. And all he had wanted was a weekend at Brighton.

She put down her spoon; she had spun out the sorbet just as long as she could… She made the coffee last too, aware that those sitting at nearby tables were glancing at her with some curiosity and presently the waiter presented himself discreetly. ‘The gentleman is not returning? Madam will wish to pay the bill?’ He laid the plate with the folded bill on it beside her and withdrew again, and after a minute Alethea plucked up the courage to peep at it. The total shocked her, and how was she going to pay it? Even if they allowed her to go to the hospital by taxi and fetch the money, where was she going to get it from? It was almost the end of the month, neither she nor any of her friends had more than a pound or two between them, and the banks, naturally enough, were closed. She stared stonily ahead of her, picturing the scene which was going to take place within the next few minutes. She would die of shame and she would never, never forgive Nick.

She had been attracted to him on the very first occasion of their meeting several months ago now; he had come to Theobald’s as Orthopaedic Registrar and they had seen a good deal of each other, for she was Sister in charge of the Orthopaedic Unit. She had admired his dark good looks and his obvious intention to make his way in his profession and she had been flattered when he had singled her out for his special attention. Until she had met him she had never wanted to marry any of the men who had taken her out. She had had no very clear idea of what the man she would marry would be like; he was a dim, scarcely thought-of image in the back of her mind and she had known, even when she found herself attracted to Nick, that he bore no resemblance to that image, but that hadn’t mattered; he had been attentive and flatteringly anxious to see as much of her as possible, but it was horribly apparent now that she had been mistaken about him. She shuddered strongly and felt sick and ashamed that despite the way he was treating her she still wished with all her heart that he would come in through the restaurant door at that very moment. And she would be fool enough to forgive him.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them because she could feel that someone was looking at her. It only took her a second or two to see who it was; she hadn’t looked around her until then; she had been happily engrossed in Nick’s company and hadn’t noticed anyone or anything else, otherwise, she had to admit, she couldn’t have failed to see the man staring at her now. He was sitting to one side of her, sharing a table with a pleasant-looking couple and facing her. He was massively built with dark hair already greying at the temples and a strong good-looking face. She couldn’t see what colour his eyes were in the one swift glance she gave him before turning her head away with what she hoped was cool dignity. It was a pity that this move meant that she looked straight at the waiter, who started towards her, obviously under the impression that she was about to pay the bill. She sat up a little straighter; in seconds he would be beside her, and what on earth was she going to say or do?

The man who had been staring must have moved very fast; he was there, standing in front of her, completely at ease, as the waiter came to a halt.

‘Well, well,’ he boomed in a genial voice, ‘how delightful to see you again—I was coming over sooner, but I quite thought that you were dining with someone…’ He looked and sounded so genuinely puzzled that she almost believed him.

His gaze swept the table. ‘You’ve had coffee? What a pity, I intended asking you to join us. You’re waiting for your companion, perhaps?’

Alethea felt her jaw dropping and stopped it just in time. ‘Yes—at least, I think he may not be coming back—I’m not sure… I…’ Her eyes beseeched him to understand; he looked kind and he gave every appearance of being a safe port in a storm. Normally she wouldn’t have allowed him to pick her up, for this was what he seemed to be doing, but every minute’s delay helped; Nick might come back…

He had picked up the bill and put his hand into his pocket. ‘In that case, shall I settle this for you? He can owe it to me until we meet next time.’ He put some notes on to the plate and gave the waiter a cool look and then smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you home,’ he said easily. ‘My friends are leaving anyway,’ he added quite loudly, ‘it is so long since we last saw each other we should find plenty to talk about.’

Alethea managed a feeble yes and wondered why he had raised his voice and then saw that the people at the tables on either side were listening, so she smiled and said: ‘Oh, yes,’ and then heaved a sigh of relief. Once outside she could explain to him and thank him for helping her out of a nasty situation; he must have seen Nick getting angry with her and then leaving; it was a miracle that no one else had. The waiter smiled and bowed as she got up and went to the door, her lovely head high, very conscious of the man towering over her. He waited in the small lobby while she got her coat and then accompanied her outside into the April evening. They had walked a few paces along the pavement before she stopped and looked up at him.

‘That was most kind of you,’ she said in a voice made wooden by embarrassment. ‘If you would let me know your name and address I’ll send you a cheque first thing in the morning.’ And when he didn’t answer her she went on a little desperately: ‘He—he said he had to leave suddenly—so unfortunate. He’s a surgeon—he quite forgot about the bill…’ Her voice tailed off into an unbelieving silence, and suddenly, staring up into the calm face lighted by the street lamp, she couldn’t contain herself any longer. Rage and humiliation and fright boiled up together and combined into a sob. Worse, her eyes filled with tears and she, who almost never cried, was unable to stop them rolling down her cheeks. She wiped them away with an impatient hand and said in a voice made high by her feelings and the hock she had drunk with her dinner: ‘That’s not true—he left because I wouldn’t spend the weekend with him at Brighton.’ She hiccoughed. ‘I thought he was going to ask me to marry him.’ Her voice rose even higher. ‘I bought a new dress!’ she wailed.

Her companion didn’t smile, he looked at her gravely and spoke just as gravely. ‘It is a very pretty dress.’ The way he said it made it sound like a delightful compliment. ‘I’m going to call a taxi and take you back to wherever you want to go. A hospital? You mentioned that your—er—companion was a surgeon.’

Alethea gave a great sniff. ‘Yes—Theobald’s, but there’s no need for you to come with me, I’m quite all right now, and thank you very much…’

‘Nevertheless if you can bear with my company, I shall accompany you, Miss…er…?’

‘Thomas. Alethea Thomas.’ She took the handkerchief he was holding out and dabbed at her face. ‘But what about your friends?’

‘They were about to leave anyway, we were saying our goodbyes…’ He lifted an arm and a taxi slid in to the kerb. ‘I think a cup of coffee on the way might be a good idea.’ He gave some directions to the driver as she got in and then got in beside her. ‘I asked him to pull up at the next coffee stall we pass.’

They sat in silence until the taxi stopped and the driver enquired if that particular stall would do.

‘Very well, and pray join us.’ So that Alethea had a double escort across the pavement, the two men chatting easily about the latest boxing match. Really, she thought, she might just as well not have been there, only to find herself mistaken; she was seated carefully on a stool and the taxi driver mounted guard over her while her rescuer fetched three thick mugs of rich coffee and then engaged her in undemanding conversation in which the taxi driver joined, carefully not looking at her puffy face and both of them standing so that no one else there could get a good look at her. Not all men were beastly, she reflected.

Neither man seemed to be in a hurry, and it was a good twenty minutes later when they climbed back into the taxi, and by then Alethea’s face was almost normal and although she still felt dreadful she was hiding it successfully enough behind a calm which matched her companion’s. They were almost at the hospital when she said: ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Van Diederijk—Sarre van Diederijk.’

‘Oh, Dutch. Your English is perfect…’

‘Thank you.’ The taxi had stopped and he got out, spoke to the driver and started to walk with her to the side entrance across the forecourt. She stopped then to protest. ‘I go in at that door, thank you. I can walk through the hospital to the Nurses’ Home.’ She put out a hand, but he didn’t shake it as he was meant to, but held it firmly and began to walk on again. ‘I’ll see you to the Home,’ he observed, and took no notice of her murmur.

It was late, but not as late as all that; the night staff were still settling patients for the night; Alethea recognised the familiar sounds as they crossed the hall and started down a long corridor running towards the rear of the hospital; the soft hurried tread of the nurses, the squeak of trolley wheels, the telephone, the vague subdued murmur of a great many people as ward doors opened and closed. She turned a corner, Mr van Diederijk hard on her heels, and felt his hand close on her arm at the same moment as she saw Nick coming along the corridor towards them. He was still in his dinner jacket, strolling along, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world until he caught sight of them. He paused then and for one moment Alethea thought that he was going to turn round and go back the way he had come. But he thought better of it, hurrying past them as though he had something urgent to do, glancing angrily at her as he went.

‘Your companion of this evening?’ asked Mr van Diederijk mildly.

Alethea said yes in a miserable little voice. For a split second she had hoped that Nick would stop; she conceded that to apologise before a complete stranger would be a great test of his feelings for her, but it seemed that she wasn’t worth it. Her companion’s voice was very comforting. ‘In that case how fortunate that I happened to be with you.’

She saw at once what he meant. If Nick had seen her creeping back on her own her mortification would have been complete, as it was he had been left to wonder just how she had replaced him so quickly…

At the narrow door set in the wall at the end of the corridor she put out a hand. ‘You’ve been very kind, I can’t thank you enough. And please give me your address so that I can send you a cheque in the morning.’

He went on holding her hand in an absentminded fashion. ‘Ah, yes—I’ll leave it at the porter’s lodge as I go, shall I?’ His smile was very kind. ‘I’m glad that I could be of service—such a small thing, really, you know. And don’t worry; these little differences are bound to crop up; they seem terrible at the time, but probably by the morning he’ll be on his knees to you.’

She gave him an earnest look. ‘Oh, do you really think so? But he did say…’

‘People say the strangest things at times,’ he pointed out in his placid way so that she felt instantly lulled into a more cheerful state of mind. He opened the door then and held it while she went through. Alethea bade him a final, rather shy goodnight and went down the badly lighted covered passage to the Nurses’ Home door, not looking back.

She hadn’t expected to sleep, but she did, although she shed a few tears first, but Mr van Diederijk’s certainty that Nick would come to his senses in the morning had taken a firm hold on her unhappy mind. When Nick had apologised and everything was as it had been, she would tell him about it, and she must write a little note with the cheque, too, because Mr van Diederijk deserved all the thanks he would get. If she saw Nick first, he might want to add a letter of his own as well as his cheque. She nodded her head into the pillow and closed her eyes; everything was going to be fine in the morning.

It was nothing of the sort. She overslept for a start and flew down to her breakfast, neat as a pin in her uniform and little white cap but with no make-up on at all and her hair caught up in a bun from which curly ends were already popping out. But in a way it was a good thing because there was no time for any of her friends to ask questions about her evening out. She gulped down her tea, bit into as much toast as she could manage, and went on duty.

The Orthopaedic wing was on the top floor at the back of the hospital, its windows overlooked a network of dull streets lined with brick villas long since divided into flats or let out as bedsitters. Alethea often wished that the unit could have been at the front of the hospital which overlooked a busy city street beyond its narrow forecourt, for at least the buses gave a spot of vivid colour to the view. She walked briskly into her office, consoling herself with the thought that if she hung out of its window she could just see Big Ben.

The night staff nurse was waiting for her, as was her day staff nurse and such of the nurses who could be spared to listen to the report—rather a lengthy one as it happened, for there had been admissions during the night; two young boys who had collided with each other, the one in a souped-up sports car, the other on a motorbike. Both were badly injured, one already back from theatre and the second due to go for surgery in the next ten minutes or so.

Alethea received this news with her usual serenity, together with the information that old Mr Briggs had taken a turn for the worse, Mr Cord’s left leg, encased in plaster, presented all the signs of restriction to its circulation and would need to be dealt with pretty smartly, and last but not least, the part-time staff nurse who should have been coming on duty that morning had telephoned to say that her small boy had the measles.

‘Things could have been worse,’ remarked Alethea philosophically to Sue Phipps, her staff nurse, and ten minutes later wished the remark unsaid when the telephone rang to say that there was a compound fracture of tib and fib coming up and that the Orthopaedic Registrar would see it right away. Alethea, giving competent instructions as to the patient’s reception, found time to wonder what Nick would say when he saw her. Would he ignore her, treat her as though they hadn’t quarrelled or behave like a man wishing to apologise? She hoped it would be the latter and while she superintended the conveyance of the new boy to theatre, a small part of her mind was deploring the fact that she had had no time to do anything at all to her face. There was no time now, of course; no sooner had he been borne away than the latest patient was wheeled in. He had already been dealt with in the Accident Department, but only his leather jacket and jeans had been removed, together with his boots. Alethea, helped by the most junior of her nurses, was prising off the rest of his garments when Nick arrived. He didn’t wish her good morning, only demanded her services in a curt voice and then wanted to know in an angry way why the patient wasn’t already undressed.

‘Because he’s just this minute arrived,’ Alethea pointed out sensibly, ‘and he’s not in a condition to have his clothes whipped off. His BP’s down and his pulse is rapid—a hundred and twenty. His left pupil isn’t reacting to light.’ She spoke in her usual quiet voice and pleasant manner while her heart raced and thumped and her knees shook; Nick might have treated her abominably, but she was still in love with him. It remained to be seen if he felt the same about her; at the moment it was impossible to tell, he was being terse, almost rude, but perhaps he was worried about his patient.

The examination took a long time and in the end Sir Walter Tring, the orthopaedic consultant, joined them as he was on his way to theatre. The leg, he observed brusquely, was a mess, it would need pinning and plating, provided they could find all the fragments of bone. ‘Wiring, too,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘We’d better have him up after the lad who’s in theatre now.’ He looked across at Alethea. ‘Keep you busy, don’t we, Sister?’

She said ‘Yes, sir,’ cheerfully, and asked at what time the patient was to go for operation. The boy was unconscious still and there was a drip already up and as far as she could see, most of the cleaning up would have to be done in theatre. ‘Put him on quarter hour observations, Sister,’ Sir Walter ordered. ‘I should think in about an hour’s time, but I’ll be down again.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Penrose, check on that first boy we saw to earlier on, will you, and let me know his condition. I shall want you back here in about half an hour.’

He wandered off, not looking at all hurried—indeed, thought Alethea, watching him trundle through the ward doors, he looked like some nice easy-going elderly gentleman on his way to the lending library or a quiet game of bowls. Very deceptive; he could rage like a lion when peeved and wield the tools of his profession with an expertise which could shame a man half his age. He terrified her nurses too, but she herself was made of sterner stuff; she took no notice at all when he bit her head off for something or other which nearly always had nothing to do with her, and accepted his apology afterwards in the spirit in which it was given. They were great friends; completely impersonal, very professional towards each other while sharing a mutual regard.

Nick Penrose was writing up the boy’s notes, not looking at her at all; she might not have been there. A little spark of temper flared in her, refusing to be doused by her love; he was behaving as though she had been at fault, not he. She felt a little sick, knowing that if he were to ask her to marry him she would say yes, despite the fact that tucked away right at the back of her mind there was the certainty that she would never forgive herself if she did.

He went presently, without saying a word and she set about the business of preparing the patient for theatre with the help of a student nurse and then made a hasty round of the ward. There was the boy in theatre, and the boy who had been admitted with him was as well as could be expected, but old Mr Briggs was another cup of tea. She pulled the screens round his bed and sat down, just as though she had all the time in the world, and talked to him; his wife would have to be telephoned straight away because he wasn’t going to last the day. She left him presently, sent one of the nurses to make him comfortable and keep an eye on him, and telephoned Mrs Briggs before going to look at Mr Cord’s leg. And that plaster would have to come off, she decided silently, looking at the purple foot beneath it. She went away to telephone the houseman, told Staff to get the cutters and shears ready and everything needed to replaster the limb, and glanced at the clock. The half an hour was up, had been ten minutes ago; she hurried down the ward once more, still contriving to look unhurried, and cast an eye over the boy. There was no change in his condition, so she sent the nurse to get her coffee so that she would be able to take him to theatre, and checked his pulse. She was charting it when Nick returned, took the chart from her without speaking and bent over the boy. He straightened almost at once.