Sun and Candlelight Read online

  ‘It must seem so, but if you count them up, they’re mostly children and animals.’ Which was true enough, she supposed.

  Mrs Thomas was awake and waiting for them. ‘A pleasant walk, my dears?’ she wanted to know, and beamed at them, looking as near smug as an elderly lady of her sort could.

  It was Sarre who answered her. ‘Very pleasant,’ he agreed. ‘The country around here is delightful. Mrs Thomas, Alethea has agreed to marry me. I hope that you are pleased.’

  ‘I’m delighted.’ She beamed at them both. ‘I’ll wish you very happy. When will you marry?’

  Alethea had to laugh. ‘Granny, we’re only just engaged! But we thought in about six weeks’ time.’

  ‘I never did agree with long engagements. I met your grandfather at a Christmas party and we married on New Year’s Day.’ She sighed. ‘And very happy we were, too. As you will be. Come and give me a kiss, Alethea.’

  Tea was a gay meal, with Mrs Bustle sharing it with them so that she could hear the exciting news while she plied Mr van Diederijk with scones and cake and the little biscuits which were her particular forte, but it was she and Mrs Thomas who did most of the talking. Sarre seemed content to sit back and allow the conversation to flow back and forth, joining in in his pleasant calm voice from time to time, while Alethea was almost totally silent. She had said that she would marry him and burnt her boats behind her, now she was beset with any number of doubts. Supposing Nick wanted to marry her after all? Supposing he asked her not to leave, to make it up and go on as before? Probably it would never be the same again, but all the same…

  She bade her grandmother and Mrs Bustle goodbye with her usual serenity, however, and got into the car beside Sarre with every appearance of feeling completely content with her future, so it was a little disconcerting when he observed: ‘I asked you to turn the page, Alethea, I meant forwards, not back; it will serve no good purpose brooding over what might have been.’

  She coloured faintly. ‘Oh—I didn’t know, that is, it’s hard not to remember—I didn’t know it…that you could see…’

  He answered this incoherent remark with a wry smile. ‘It was so very plain on your face, my dear. Luckily your grandmother and Mrs Bustle were so busily engaged in your wedding clothes and whether to have almond paste on the cake that they didn’t notice.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Are you sure it will be all right? I will try, I promise you, but just to forget, like that…I don’t think I’m very good at it.’

  ‘It gets easier with practice,’ said Sarre dryly. ‘We’ll stop for dinner, shall we? There’s a good place at Backhurst Mill.’

  They dined unhurriedly and Alethea found herself relaxing under her companion’s gentle flow of small talk. The food was good and she found that she had quite an appetite after all, and when Sarre remarked: ‘I shall be operating in the morning, shall I see you?’ she answered readily that she hoped so, aware that she really meant it.

  Sarre made no effort to hurry back. They reached the hospital shortly before midnight and even then they stood talking for a few minutes in its entrance.

  ‘Thank you for my dinner and bringing me back,’ Alethea said politely, and then felt foolish at his:

  ‘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 wanted to know quietly.

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

  He took her hand and then 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 goodnight and gone to her bed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DAY WAS well advanced before Alethea saw Sarre; she had sent a shattered leg to theatre, followed by a complicated fracture of the scapula and having supervised their safe return to their beds, had gone to her office to sort out the notes, fill in charts and catch up on the morning’s work. She was hot and a little untidy, for it was a warm morning and she hadn’t paused since she had gone on duty at eight o’clock. She was also hungry and thirsty, for her dinner time had passed, and she saw no chance of going down to the dining room. Mary would make her a pot of tea and a sandwich presently and she could finish her writing while she took these homely refreshments, before going back on to the ward.

  She was deciphering Sir Walter’s notes, written in a spidery hand, when the door opened and Sarre walked in. He wasted no time in observing that she was busy but plunged at once into instructions about the shattered leg he had restored more or less to its original form that morning; only when he had finished did he ask: ‘You’ve been to your lunch?’ and when she said that no, she hadn’t, added: ‘In that case could your estimable maid bring us a pot of tea? Just while I explain the treatment for that shoulder.’

  The tea came, sandwiches too, and Alethea pouring it, remarked: ‘You’ve missed your lunch too, haven’t you?’ She smiled at him and pushed her cap back a bit so that the curls escaped. ‘Share these, I’ll not have time to eat them all, anyway.’ She took a bite, surprised to find that she felt perfectly at ease with him, glad in fact that he was there. She was pouring second cups when the door opened again and Nick came in. He stopped short when he saw Mr van Diederijk and the scowl on his good-looking face deepened. Before he could say anything Sarre spoke. ‘We’re going over that case—the scapula, I’d like him on antibiotics for a few days, to be on the safe side. I have written it up.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you want to see Sister about one of the patients? Am I in the way?’

  Alethea had gone a little pale, but she finished pouring the tea and handed Sarre’s cup to him. She didn’t want to be left alone with Nick, and a second later she realised that she need not have worried about that. He had no reasonable excuse to speak to her alone; Sarre was very much his senior and besides, he was no stranger to the ward. For the moment he was working with Sir Walter and was as concerned with the patients as Nick.

  All the same she let out a small relieved breath when Nick said sulkily: ‘It wasn’t anything important, sir, only some notes…I’ll come back later.’

  He had barely closed the door behind him when Sarre asked: ‘Are you off duty this evening, Alethea?’

  She nodded. ‘But I’ll be late. Staff’s on, but we’re a bit behind with the work and I’ll have to stay…’

  ‘You went to see about leaving this morning?’

  ‘Yes—that’s settled, I’m to leave in two weeks’ time.’ She raised her lovely eyes to his. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Indeed it is. Would you be too tired to come out this evening? Would eight o’clock be too early?’

  ‘I’d like to, thank you,’ she said rather formally, ‘that should give me plenty of time.’

  He went away soon afterwards and she plunged back into the round of chores waiting to be done in the ward. They were always so short of staff, she thought worriedly as she added another weight to yet another leg extended on its Balkan Beam. The Principal Nursing Officer hadn’t been too pleased with her that morning. ‘When the ward is so busy, Sister,’ she had complained, ‘surely you could wait a few months—after all, you haven’t known Mr van Diederijk very long, have you?’

  It hardly seemed worth while pointing out to Miss Gibbs, fifty if she was a day and a born spinster, that it made very little difference whether you knew someone a long time or not—she and Nick had fallen in love within a few minutes of meeting each other. ‘Mr van Diederijk’s work has to be considered,’ she pointed out with becoming meekness, and Miss Gibbs had to concede the point. But grudgingly. Just as grudgingly she had wished Alethea a happy future, her tone implying that the possibility was an unlikely one.

  The day wore on. A motorbike accident came in followed by an
elderly man who had fallen off a ladder. Alethea counted herself lucky to get away by seven o’clock, and by then she was so tired she wanted nothing but a strong cup of tea and her bed, something which Mr van Diederijk must have guessed at because no sooner had she reached the Home than she was called to the telephone. ‘You’re tired,’ said Sarre’s quiet voice in her ear. ‘Put on a pretty dress as quickly as you can; I know of a little restaurant where you can doze off between the courses if you want to.’ And when she laughed: ‘That’s better. I’ll be outside in half an hour.’

  ‘How did you know I’d just come off duty?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I have my spies. Tot ziens.’

  The evening was one of unexpected pleasure. They went to a small, pleasant restaurant where the service was impeccable, the food out of this world, and where they were able to talk uninterrupted by the too close voices of those at the neighbouring tables. Alethea, who had halfheartedly chosen to wear one of her prettiest outfits was glad that she had, for the place, although small, was undoubtedly expensive and in the front rank of restaurants. They had talked easily enough, and she had found him to be one of those people with whom one could feel at home and although he touched only lightly on his home and life there she felt that she was beginning to know him quite well. And she had talked about herself too, not about Nick, that was still too painful a subject, but about her childhood and the happy years she had spent with her grandmother. Sarre had asked her if there was anyone in particular she wished to invite to their wedding. ‘A register office, I’m afraid,’ he had told her, ‘but I’ll talk to your vicar about a service afterwards—could we see him together?’

  She had agreed and they settled on an evening during the week, because Alethea wouldn’t have days off again until the weekend and Sarre was to return to Holland then. He had thought of everything, she reflected as she got ready for bed, all she would have to do was leave the hospital and be ready to return to Holland with him after his next visit. She would need a passport, of course, and some new clothes…she was dozing off when she came awake again with the thought that she would have to say goodbye to Nick—or perhaps it would be better if she didn’t? If she hadn’t been so sleepy the vexed question might have kept her awake for hours, and the next day there wasn’t the time to give it a thought.

  That she was leaving was already known throughout the hospital. She had been there for eight years and everyone knew her, and when she calmly told her reason for doing so she was faced with a barrage of questions. No one had quite dared to mention Nick to her face, but she was very aware that everyone longed to do so, just as they longed to ask about Mr van Diederijk’s intention to marry her. After all, they had only known each other a few weeks and no one had noticed anything even faintly verging on the romantic when they had been together. And that hadn’t been often. Her closer friends pointed out that neither party was of a sort to wear their heart upon their sleeve and certainly they would never air their feelings in public. And Staff, her loyal assistant and friend, declared loudly that it didn’t matter what people said, love at first sight was something which happened quite often and she for her part hoped that Sister Thomas and Mr van Diederijk would live happily ever after. This view was thoroughly approved of by the majority of young ladies who worked at the hospital; they were all romantic at heart and after all, as they pointed out to each other, Sister Thomas’s sudden decision to get married to someone she had only just met was just about as romantic as anyone could wish for. Alethea, who had been secretly dreading the publicity, found that she was the centre of approving interest.

  It was when they were on their way down to see the vicar that Sarre slowed the car, put a hand in a pocket and handed her a little box. ‘I quite forgot to give you this,’ he remarked in a casual voice.

  Alethea opened it. There was a ring inside, a magnificent Russian sapphire surrounded with diamonds. ‘It’s been in the family for a long time,’ went on Sarre. ‘I hope it fits.’

  He put his foot down and the car shot ahead once more as she took it out and tried it on. It fitted very well and it looked quite beautiful. She thanked him quietly, smothering a pang of unhappiness that he could be so casual about something so important. But of course, it wouldn’t be very important to him; he was only pandering to the conventions. She gazed at the lovely thing and couldn’t help wondering what kind of a ring Nick might have given her—and surely not so casually… She said in her serene way: ‘It fits very well indeed. Isn’t that lucky?’ She glanced at him, but he was looking ahead. ‘Thank you very much, Sarre.’

  He made a small sound which could have been anything and said presently: ‘Does a month from today suit you? I’ll be gone a week from Saturday, but there’s a case I have to see the following weekend—would you like to go back with me to Groningen for a quick visit? It can only be a few days, I’m afraid, because I’m due in Hamburg very shortly. I’ll bring you back, of course, and with any luck I should be able to get back here on the day before we marry.’

  It was all so matter-of-fact and businesslike, although she supposed that she wouldn’t have liked it any other way. She agreed to his suggestions and asked him if any of his family wanted to attend the ceremony.

  ‘My brother. I’ve already told Wienand, of course. No one else. The children…’ he paused, ‘I think it would be best if they weren’t there. You’ll meet them of course when you come to stay.’

  She agreed doubtfully and he began to talk about something else and made no mention of the matter again that evening.

  They went first to her grandmother’s house and then without waste of time to the vicarage. The vicar was an old friend of Alethea, an elderly man with a kind face and a sense of humour which was unexpected. His wife plied them with coffee while he asked questions, discussed the time of the service, suggested that a little organ music might be rather nice to have and then wrote it all down in the large diary on his desk—he was, he assured them, a very forgetful man. They left presently, everything nicely arranged, called briefly at her grandmother’s once more and then drove back to London. It had all been rather a rush, but Mrs Bustle had been waiting with their supper and there had been time enough to admire the ring…

  Sarre saw her to the Nurses’ Home door, and wished her goodnight with the remark that he didn’t expect to see much of her before he went back to Groningen. ‘On the ward, of course,’ he observed, ‘but not to talk. If you’re free on Friday evening we might get a quick meal together.’

  ‘I’m not free,’ said Alethea.

  ‘In that case I’ll wait for you in the entrance just after nine o’clock—we can get a cup of coffee somewhere.’ He bent and kissed her, the light, almost businesslike kiss she was beginning to expect from him. ‘Sleep well.’

  He had been right; save for brief encounters on the ward, they saw nothing of each other for the next couple of days. Alethea took consolation from the admiration lavished on her ring and occupied her mind with her wedding outfit. She had had a bad moment or two when Nick had met her in one of the corridors. There had been no one about and he had stopped in front of her so that she was forced to stop too. ‘Well, well,’ he began, ‘who’d have thought it? You’re a fast worker and no mistake, Alethea, I must congratulate you.’

  She chose to misunderstand him. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she said gravely. ‘I’m very happy…’

  He had laughed at that. ‘Are you, Alethea? Are you? Don’t you ever think about us? You wouldn’t have had a ring to dangle in front of your friends’ envious eyes, but you would have had me, my dear.’

  He had turned on his heel before she could answer him, and since she hadn’t the faintest idea what to reply, that had been a good thing.

  She would have given anything to have had a chance to talk to Sarre, but although he came to examine a patient that afternoon there was no chance to do so. She would have to wait until the next evening, although she thought that perhaps by then the smart of Nick’s words would have lessened and she wouldn�
��t want to talk about it to Sarre or anyone else.

  She was late going off duty when at last the next day’s work was done, and too tired to think much about her own affairs. She hurried to her room, showered and changed into the first dress that came to hand and went down to the entrance. Sarre was there, standing by the door, showing no impatience, only a quick concern because she was so late.

  ‘I didn’t have time to send you a message,’ she explained. ‘This case came in at the very last minute and there was a good deal to do—you know how it is…’

  He smiled. ‘Indeed I do. You’re tired, we won’t go far—there’s a small restaurant close by, we could walk there. I don’t know what the food’s like, but we could have coffee and sandwiches.’

  The restaurant proved to be an agreeable surprise. The menu was a small one, but the pork chops when they came were well cooked and the vegetables weren’t straight from a deep freeze. They drank a carafe of wine with their dinner, all there was to drink except beer, and Alethea declared it to be very nice although Sarre, tasting it, declared that the beer would have been more palatable. They had apple pie and cream for afters and great cups of coffee to round off their meal. The coffee tasted of nothing much, but as Sarre observed, coffee in England so seldom did. ‘Wait until you are in Groningen and you will see what I mean,’ he told her, ‘although I must warn you that the tea in Holland is quite different from the brew here. You’ll get used to it, of course.’ He leaned back in his chair, staring at her. ‘Yesterday when I was on the ward you looked wretched. Why?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing—it wasn’t anything.’

  ‘Young Penrose been annoying you?’

  She looked at him, trying to think of what to say, and after a moment he smiled a little. ‘It was young Penrose, of course. I’m sorry,’ and then: ‘Does he want to make it up?’

  She shook her head again. ‘No.’ She wanted to tell Sarre about it, but the words wouldn’t come. Presently she said defiantly: ‘And if he did, I wouldn’t.’