my hair properly or see to my face all day. I feel a fright.’ She could hear her voice sounding cross, but he ignored it and agreed cheerfully:
‘You look pretty awful—luckily you’re so gorgeous, it doesn’t matter, though the hair is a trifle wild.’
She giggled and slapped a wet bandage into his outstretched hand.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, there’s no one to see me. I shall eat an enormous supper and fall into bed.’
‘Lucky girl—I’m on until midnight.’
She was instantly sympathetic. ‘Oh, Peter, how awful, but there’s not much of a list for Mr Squires tomorrow afternoon and only a handful of replasters and walking irons—you might be able to get someone to give you a hand.’
He nodded. ‘We’re on call, aren’t we?’
That was true; Clare’s was on call until Thursday. ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ she promised him. ‘And now be off with you, I want to clear up.’
It was very quiet when the nurses had gone. Deborah tugged her cap off her dreadfully untidy hair, kicked off her shoes, and sat down at her desk. Another ten minutes or so and she would be free herself. She dragged her thoughts away from the tantalising prospect of supper and a hot bath and set to on the operation book. She was neatly penning in the last name when the unit doors swung open and her tired mind registered the disturbing fact that it was Mr van Doorninck’s large feet coming down the corridor, and she looking like something the sea had washed up. She was still frantically searching for her shoes when he came in the door. She rose to her stockinged feet, feeling even worse than she looked because he was, by contrast, quite immaculate—no one, looking at him now, would know that he had been bent over the operating table for the entire day. He didn’t look tired either; his handsome face, with its straight nose and firm mouth, looked as good-humoured and relaxed as it usually did.
Deborah spoke her thoughts aloud and quite involuntarily. ‘Oh, dear—I wasn’t expecting anyone and I simply…’ She broke off because he was smiling nicely at her. ‘I must look quite awful,’ she muttered, and when he laughed softly: ‘Is it another case?’ He shook his head. ‘You want to borrow some instruments—half a minute while I find my shoes…’
He laughed again. ‘You won’t need your shoes and I don’t want any instruments.’ He came a little further into the room and stood looking at her. She looked back at him, bewildered, her mind noting that his Dutch accent seemed more pronounced than usual although his English was faultless.
‘How do you feel about marrying me?’ he wanted to know blandly.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE WAS so amazed that she couldn’t speak. Just for one blissful moment she savoured the delightful idea that he had fallen in love with her, and then common sense took over. Men in love, however awkward about the business, weren’t likely to employ such a cool manner as his. He had sounded for all the world as though he wanted her to fit in an extra case on his next list or something equally prosaic. She found her voice at last and was surprised at its steadiness. ‘Why do you ask me?’ she wanted to know.
She watched his nod of approval. The light over the desk showed up the grey hair at his temples and served to highlight the extreme fairness of the rest. His voice was unhurried as he said pleasantly:
‘What a sensible girl you are—most women would have been demanding to know if I were joking. I have noticed your calm manner when we have worked together, and I am delighted to see that it isn’t only in the operating theatre that you are unflurried.’
He was silent for so long that Deborah, desperate for something, anything to do, sat down again and began to stack the various notebooks and papers neatly together. That there was no need to do this, and indeed it would merely give her more work in the morning sorting them all out again, escaped her notice. He might think her sensible and calm; inside, happily concealed by her dark blue uniform, she was bubbling like a cauldron on the boil.
Presently, in the same pleasant voice, he went on: ‘I will explain. I am returning to Holland to live very shortly; my father died recently and it is necessary for me to live there—there are various obligations—’ he dismissed them with a wave of his hand and she wondered what they might be. ‘I shall continue with my work, naturally, but we are a large family and I have a great many friends, so there will be entertaining and social occasions, you understand. I have neither the time nor the inclination to arrange such things, neither do I have the slightest idea how to run a household. I need a wife, someone who will do these things and welcome my friends.’
He paused, but she wasn’t looking at him. There were some retractors on the desk, put there for repair; she had picked them up and was polishing their handles vigorously with the cloth in which they were wrapped. He leaned across the desk and took them from her without a word and went on: ‘I should tell you that I have been married. My wife died eight years ago and I have had no wish to become deeply involved with any woman since; I do not want to become deeply involved with you, but I see very little likelihood of this; we have worked together now for two years and I believe that I understand you very well. I would wish for your companionship and friendship and nothing more. I am aware that women set great store by marrying for love and that they are frequently unhappy as a consequence. Perhaps you do not consider what I am offering enough, and yet it seems to me that we are ideally suited, for you have plenty of common sense, a delightful manner and, I think, similar tastes to my own. I can promise you that your life will be pleasant enough.’ His blue eyes stared down at her from under half-closed lids. ‘You’re twenty-seven,’ he told her, ‘and pretty enough to have had several chances of marrying and settling down with a husband and children, but you have not wanted this—am I right?’
She nodded wordlessly, squashing a fleeting, nonsensical dream of little flaxen-haired van Doornincks as soon as it had been born. Because she simply had to know, she asked: ‘Have you any children?’
‘No,’ his voice was so remote that she wished she hadn’t spoken, ‘I have two brothers and a sister, all married—there are children enough in the family.’
Deborah waited for him to ask her if she liked children, but he didn’t, so after a minute or two’s silence she said in a quiet little voice:
‘May I have some time to think about it? You see, I’ve always imagined that I would marry someone I…’ She stopped because she wasn’t sure of her voice any more.
‘Loved?’ he finished for her in a depressingly matter-of-fact tone. ‘I imagine most girls do, but I think that is not always the best way. A liking for each other, consideration for one’s partner, shared interests—these things make a good marriage.’
She stared at him, her lovely eyes round. She hadn’t supposed him to be a cold man, although he was talking like one now. Either he had been unhappy in his first marriage or he had loved his wife so dearly that the idea of loving any other woman was unthinkable to him. She found either possibility unsatisfactory. With a tremendous effort she made herself be as businesslike as he was. ‘So you don’t want children—or—or a wife?’
He smiled. ‘Shall we discuss that later? Perhaps I haven’t made myself quite plain; I admire and like you, but I’m not in love with you and I believe that we can be happy together. We are sensible, mature people and you are not, I believe, a romantic girl…’
She longed to tell him how wrong he was. Instead: ‘You don’t believe in falling in love, then?’
He smiled so charmingly that her outraged heart cracked a little.
‘And nor, I think, do you, Deborah, otherwise you would have been married long ago—you must be single from choice.’
So that was what he thought; that she cared nothing for marriage and children and a home of her own. She kept her angry eyes on the desk and said nothing at all.
Presently he said, ‘I have offended you. I’m sorry, but I find myself quite unable to be anything