âDo you intend to leave at the end of the month?â he asked idly.
âLeave? Here? Noâ¦â She took a sharp breath. âDo you want me to? I dare say I annoy you. Not everyone can get on with everyone else,â she explained in a reasonable voice. âYou know, a kind of mutual antipathyâ¦â
He remained grave, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. âI have no wish for you to leave, Miss Napier. You suit me very wellâyou are quick and sensible and the patients appear to like you and, any grumbling you may do about awkward hours, you keep to yourself. We must contrive to rub along together, must we not?â
CHAPTER ONE
FLORENCE, CLEANING THE upstairs windows of the vicarage, heard the car coming up the lane and, when it slowed, poked her head over the top sash to see whom it might be. The elegant dark grey Rolls-Royce, sliding to a halt before her fatherâs front door, was unexpected enough to cause her to lean her splendid person even further out of the window so that she might see who was in it. The passenger got out and she recognised him at once. Mr Wilkins, the consultant surgeon she had worked for before she had left the hospital in order to look after her mother and run the house until she was well againâa lengthy business of almost a year. Perhaps he had come to see if she was ready to return to her ward; unlikely, though, for it had been made clear to her that her post would be filled and she would have to take her chance at getting whatever was offered if she wanted to go to work at Colbertâs again; besides, a senior consultant wouldnât come traipsing after a ward sisterâ¦
The driver of the car was getting out, a very tall, large man with pepper and salt hair. He stood for a moment, looking around him, waiting for Mr Wilkins to join him, and then looked up at her. His air of amused surprise sent her back inside again, banging her head as she went, but she was forced to lean out again when Mr Wilkins caught sight of her and called up to her to come down and let them in.
There was no time to do more than wrench the clean duster off her fiery hair. She went down to the hall and opened the door.
Mr Wilkins greeted her jovially. âHow are you after all these months?â he enquired; he eyed the apron bunched over an elderly skirt and jumper. âI do hope we havenât called at an inconvenient time?â
Florenceâs smile was frosty. âNot at all, sir, we are spring-cleaning.â
Mr Wilkins, who lived in a house with so many gadgets that it never needed spring-cleaning, looked interested. âAre you really? But youâll spare us a moment to talk, I hope? May I introduce Mr Fitzgibbon?â He turned to his companion. âThis is Florence Napier.â
She offered a rather soapy hand and had it engulfed in his large one. His, âHow do you do?â was spoken gravely, but she felt that he was amused again, and no wonderâshe must look a fright.
Which, of course, she did, but a beautiful fright; nothing could dim the glory of her copper hair, tied back carelessly with a boot-lace, and nothing could detract from her lovely face and big blue eyes with their golden lashes. She gave him a cool look and saw that his eyes were grey and intent, so she looked away quickly and addressed herself to Mr Wilkins.
âDo come into the drawing-room. Motherâs in the garden with the boys, and Fatherâs writing his sermon. Would you like to have some coffee?â
She ushered them into the big, rather shabby room, its windows open on to the mild April morning. âDo sit down,â she begged them. âIâll let Mother know that youâre here and fetch in the coffee.â
âIt is you we have come to see, Florence,â said Mr Wilkins.
âMe? Oh, wellâall the same, Iâm sure Mother will want to meet you.â
She opened the old-fashioned window wide and jumped neatly over the sill with the unselfconsciousness of a child, and Mr Fitzgibbonâs firm mouth twitched at the corners. âSheâs very professional on the ward,â observed Mr Wilkins, âand very neat. Of course, if sheâs cleaning the house I suppose she gets a little untidy.â