Doctor Raoul's Romance

CHAPTER ONE

“Well,
goodbye, Nurse Grey. And thank you, once again, for all you’ve done for me and my sister.”

Tiny Miss Heriot reached up to plant a butterfly kiss on Adrien’s cheek. Her sister, the ex-invalid, tall, thin, no longer pale, stood beside her, smiling. They both waved as the taxi drove Nurse Adrien Grey toward the station.

She leaned back, relaxed, and looked out at the pretty Sussex countryside flashing past the window.

“That’s that!” she thought. “Another case over.” She felt the mingled regret and excitement she always experienced on such occasions. Regret at leaving people she had grown fond of, excitement at the thought of new friends and new experiences ahead.

She was due to have a few days’ rest in her small London flat. And then a fresh case. What would it be? Who would be her next patient?

She thought again of the Misses Heriot. They had been rather sweet. But life in the little Sussex village had not been exactly exciting.

Apart from looking after her patient, Adrien had had nothing to do but sew, read, and pay an occasional visit to the movie theater in the town six miles away. Not really a social life.

“Oh well,” she thought, “it’s all part of the job. Probably my next case will be very different.”

The taxi arrived at the peaceful little station, and after Adrien paid the driver, she bought her ticket and surveyed herself in the waiting room mirror.

The mirror reflected a tall, slim girl of twenty-seven in a lupin-blue summer coat and a floppy flowered hat. A girl with violet-colored eyes that sparkled in anticipation of the thrills that life would bring her, yet held always in their depths a hint of the compassion that could darken them so readily. A mouth quick to smile yet holding a firmness at the corners. A face that could control and hide emotions she would always feel, perhaps too strongly for a nurse, but had trained herself not to show.

She put up a hand to push back a curl of black hair that had escaped from under the hat. The train came thundering into the station, breaking the quiet of the spring afternoon. Adrien picked up her case and found herself a corner seat. Soon she was speeding toward London.

“It’s nice to be back,” she thought three hours later, throwing her hat and coat on to the bed, swiftly but tidily, and opening the window to look out over the rooftops of Kensington.

Yes, it was nice to be back in her own two-roomed home. Some people might have thought it lonely to have no one but a rather taciturn landlady welcome you, but Adrien didn’t mind. She was used to fending for herself—had done so, really, ever since her father died when she was twelve.

An only child she couldn’t remember her mother but had been devoted to her father, and after his death she had found it difficult to let anyone else become close to her. She was reserved and introspective; a moody child, with a kind heart, and sudden unexpected flashes of gaiety.

Her guardians, distant relatives with whom she had lived, were very kind, but they found it hard to pierce the shell of reserve she surrounded herself with. Only Nicholas, their son, five years older than she was, had managed to touch her heart...

She started suddenly.

Turning away from the window, she noticed a letter propped up on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Jonas had evidently put it there when she cleaned the flat. Surely the writing on the foreign-looking envelope was familiar, very familiar? Surely, the letter came from ... Nicholas?

She snatched it up with fingers that trembled in spite of her efforts to keep them relaxed. Nicholas’s letters had been few since his marriage.

Her eyes scanned quickly over the lines of flowing, extrovert handwriting.

Dear Adrien,

I am writing to ask a great favor of you, for old times’ sake. Please don’t refuse, Adrien. I am relying on you. Gillian is seriously ill. Her heart is very weak, and she has to stay in bed most of the time. The doctors say there is a chance she may get stronger, but she needs expert nursing. We have a French nurse at the moment, but she cannot stay after April 15. And Gillian longs for someone English. And I ... well, frankly, I long for your strength and steadiness, Adrien. Please come and help us.

Blanche—Gillian’s sister, you remember her?—is here too, looking after our infants. Please excuse this letter, if it’s somewhat incoherent. Gillian does not suffer much pain, I’m glad to say, but I can’t bear to see her so weak and pale. I can’t bear the thought that I may lose her. If you can do anything for her, Adrien, I shall bless you forever.

Ever your friend,

Nicholas.

A
drien sat for a long time in the gathering twilight, her eyes dark with pain—Nicholas’s pain, which she felt almost as if it were her own.

“You poor darling
...
and Gillian too. Of course I’ll come.” But she knew, well enough, that it wouldn’t be easy. That she was asking a lot of herself to go through with this.

Nicholas, she knew, had never guessed how much she loved him; how in those old days she had woven dreams around him. How when he kissed her, a light, brotherly kiss on the cheek, it seemed to penetrate right to her heart, filling her whole body with mingled joy and anguish.

No, Nicholas didn’t guess that. How could he? Even in those days, before she started her training as a nurse, she had been strong and had disciplined herself to keep her secret.

She remembered the day he told her he was going to marry Gillian.

She was at the hospital then. She had been nineteen. She had come home for a long weekend, and Nicholas had been there. They had walked along the clifftop, the sea had murmured mysteriously beneath them, and the moonlight had sparkled on pebbles that shone like jewels. They had stood together, looking down. She had stooped to pick a marigold, and a lump of earth slipped from under her feet and cascaded in fragments down to the beach. Alarmed, Nicholas threw his arms around her waist. “Careful, old thing! I thought you were going over.”

She remembered now how she had laughed, glorying to feel the strength of his hold.

“I’m all right while you’re with me.”

She had received the impression he had not heard her. She had looked up at his face, grave in the moonlight, but with the gravity of intense happiness. Happiness that was awe-inspiring.

“Adrien,” he said, “little kid sister. I’ve got something to tell you.”

And then, walking between her and the cliff edge, holding her arm gently, lest she should stumble again, he told her that Gillian Guentin had promised to be his wife.

Adrien could never remember afterward what she had said in reply. It must have been something suitable, something that gave no indication of the shock she felt. But later she had said—she remembered that distinctly—“I think I’m a little bit jealous, Nicholas. I suppose a spoiled little sister is always a bit jealous when her elder brother falls in love.” And he had laughed, and brushed his lips against her cheek.

“This won’t make any difference. You’ll always be my kid sister, Adrien. Gillian’s kid sister too, now.” And she had made some half-laughing rejoinder, and asked if they had made any plans for the wedding yet.

“Not really. But Gillian wants you to be bridesmaid. You will, won’t you, Adrien?”

How could she refuse?

She did not know Gillian very well. Nicholas had met her in
London, where he worked in a manufacturing firm. Adrien remembered Gillian as a fair, petite girl with a gentle face and wistful blue eyes. A girl who got tired after one set of tennis, and looked up at Nicholas adoringly. She had a little brown Corgi puppy that she took around with her and fussed over. Adrien got the impression that Gillian was accustomed to being spoiled, to having her own way. She didn’t seem to do any work—apparently her father was well off, and gave her a comfortable allowance. Not that that would make any difference to Nicholas for Adrien knew there was nothing mercenary in his nature.

Oh, that wedding! She would never forget it. It haunted her dreams. Often she wondered how she had managed to live through it.

But somehow she had managed to keep her face composed as she stood as bridesmaid in the London church, heard the soft rustle of her pink muslin dress, and stepped forward to take the bride’s rose bouquet. She was able to smile at the radiant face half concealed by the white veil, then step back to stand again by Gillian’s ten-year-old sister, Blanche, who was weeping copiously and ecstatically. She could listen to the exchange of the marriage vows as though it was all in a play that didn’t really concern her. As though it was a stranger who was standing there, straight and tall, and not Nicholas, her beloved.

She could do all that because she had to. For Nicholas’s sake.

At the reception she laughed and flirted a little with the best man, and drank champagne and threw confetti. She helped the bride change into her going-away dress, kissed her goodbye, and accepted Nicholas’s lips, pressed for an instant, carelessly, burningly, on her forehead
...

Only when she was safely in her room that night, had she given way to her loneliness, and despair.

But all that was years ago—eight years ago.

Nicholas now had a job with a French branch of his firm and lived in a Paris suburb. She hadn’t seen him much since his marriage. His father had retired and taken his wife up to Scotland where they had relatives. This had given Adrien the chance to make her life in London.

Nicholas had written occasionally. She had heard of the births of a little girl, then a little boy; that Gillian wasn’t well, and was to see a specialist in Paris. And now this terrible news and summons for help.

“Please help us, Adrien, for old times’ sake!”

How could she refuse? How could she let him down? But could she bear it? To be near him all the time, seeing the old familiar gestures, hearing the beloved voice, and knowing that all his love, and devotion, were Gillian’s.

“Oh, what nonsense!”

Adrien got to her feet, seeing herself in the mirror of her dressing table, a very different girl from the one who had smiled back at her in the station waiting room. This Adrien had dark shadows under her eyes, white cheeks, compressed lips.

Was this a time to think of her own feelings? She was a nurse. Nicholas needed her. She must go to him. Go as she would to a father or a brother. Surely she was cured of that other searing emotion? She was twenty-seven. She had known other men, been admired and courted. What if she had, so far, met no one to take Nicholas’s place in her heart? She was young.

“Perhaps this would be a good thing for me,” she thought, striving for a dispassionate attitude. “I’ve made a hero of Nicholas, comparing every man with him. Perhaps, seeing him every day, seeing how dearly he loves his wife, his children, I shall be able to laugh at myself. Perhaps at last I shall realize I don’t love him any more. That it was just a childish infatuation. Perhaps it will set me free to love another man.”

Then she made herself think of Gillian, the gay young wife and mother reduced to the life of an invalid. Suddenly her face contracted in pity.

She realized she had crushed Nicholas’s letter to a ball in her hand. She smoothed it out carefully on her desk, took pen and paper and began to compose her answer.

Gillian Renton moved restlessly beneath the rose-colored blanket that covered her small, thin body. Her husband, who was clumsily arranging lilies-of-the-valley in a glass vase, swung around at once and bent over her anxiously.

“
C
an I get you anything, darling? A glass of water? Your tablets?”

She smiled at him reassuringly.

“No, thank you, darling. I’m quite all right. It’s just
...
It’s today Nurse Grey—Adrien—is coming, isn’t it?
”

“Yes. She’s arriving at the Gare du Nord at six o’clock.
”

“Yes, of course.” Her lips turned down a little at the corners. “That new medicine makes me so muzzy, darling, I lose count of days.”

“What does it matter, so long as it makes you feel better?”

“I wonder if it does. Heavens, darling, what’s that?”

A terrible din, as though half a dozen cats were indulging in a free-for-all, came up from the garden. Nicholas was across the room in a couple of strides and flung open the window.

“Blanche, for goodness sake, what is all that row? Can’t you keep the children quiet? Your sister’s tryi
ng
to sleep.”

Someone shouted an indistinct reply. The noise died down. Gillian said, a little fretfully, “Must you shout at Blanche like that, Nicky? After all, she does her best.”

“She ought to be more capable.”

“She’s only eighteen.”

“When Adrien was eighteen—” He broke off, as he met his wife’s laughing glance.

“We can’t all be like Adrien, darling. We all know she’s perfection. Sometimes I think I ought to be jealous. Why, when I was eighteen, I was completely useless. Are you going to meet her, Nicky?”

“I was going to, but I think I’ll send Pierre. I’m much too comfortable here with you.”

Their fingers interlaced, then fell apart as rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs, on the landing. A quick knock on the door and, without waiting for a response, a girl with a certain ungainly but athletic ease of movement came noisily into the room and plumped herself on Gillian’s bed. She wore skimpy orange shorts and a cream-colored blouse. Her red hair fell on her shoulders in wild disorder.

“Blanche, please!”

Nicholas put his hand up to his forehead, as though distracted. “How often have I asked you not to do that? It jars your sister.”

“Does it, Gillian? I’m sorry.”'

Gillian laughed.

“Not really. It’s all right, this time. You know Nicky treats me as though I were made of china.”

Blanche bent over and pressed, her cheek against her sister’s, her vivid red lips and healthily tanned skin making a sharp contrast with the invalid’s pallor. Nicholas winced and turned away.

“Darling,” said Blanche, “I’m so sorry the children were so noisy. You know what they’re like when they’re with the young de Neufs. I can’t do anything with them.”

Gillian said softly, “Don’t worry, Blanche. It’s all my fault, not yours. If only I were well, you wouldn’t have to—” She broke off abruptly, seeing Nicholas’s distraught expression.

Blanche said quickly, “I really came up to tell you that Madame de Neuf has asked the children to spend the night at the chateau. Is that all right with you, G
ill
?”

“Oh yes, I think so. They always enjoy themselves there, even if they do come back noisier than ever. Thank Madame de Neuf very much for me, will you, Blanche, please? And tell her I’m so sorry I can’t see her myself.”

“She asked how you were.”

“Tell her I’m a little better.”

The girl’s eyes lit up.

“Is that true, Gill? Are you better?”

“Well—let’s say I am. It’s so boring for people to be told I’m always the same.”

Blanche sighed. “I’ll tell her it’s okay then, shall I?”

“Yes. And Blanche, bring Beauty up to see me, will you? I haven’t seen her today.”

Blanche slid off the bed, and left the room a trifle more gracefully than she had entered it. Gillian lay back on her pillows. “I can hear Beauty barking,” she said.

“That old dog of yours! I believe you love her more than me,” said Nicholas.

“She’s a faithful friend.”

Nicholas sat down again by her bedside, and drew her head with its fine, flowing hair gently on to his shoulder.

“I’m glad the children are going away tonight. At least we shall have the house quiet and peaceful when Adrien arrives. I don’t want her to think she’s come to a zoo.”

“Anyone would think you didn’t love your offspring.”

But Gillian said this with mischief in her eyes. They looked at each other with perfect understanding. They were quiet, holding this moment of love, almost happy, in the face of illness and worry. Anyone seeing them would have realized the depth and strength of their love.

Presently Gillian stirred a little and said, “You’re glad Adrien’s coming, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, very glad. She’ll look after you properly. And she’ll be good for Blanche and the children and stop all this noise and confusion we have to put up with.”

“Oh, not altogether, I hope! It wouldn’t be home if it was too quiet. And I’d hate it, wouldn’t you, if the children were subdued and miserable. It’s hard enough on them as it is, having an invalid mother.”

“Don’t say things like that, darling, please!”

At the stifled misery in his voice she gave him a startled look and tenderly stroked his dark hair against her own fairness.

“I’m sorry, darling. You have great faith in Adrien, haven’t you?”

“She’s a good nurse. A grand person. She’s like a sister to me, you know that. But you don’t really know her, do you, darling? Not well, I mean. You’ll like her, I promise you.”

“I’m sure I shall, Nicky.” She gave him a rather odd look, but with his face buried against her neck, feeling the quick, brittle throbbing of the pulse there, he didn’t notice it.

“Nicky—why did you and Doctor Lerouge have that long conversation this morning?”

She felt him start.

“What long conversation?”

“Darling, you’re trying to gain time. You may as well tell me, straight away, what it was all about. I shall get it out of you in the end as I always do.”

“Darling, you mustn’t get excited,” he warned her.

“I’m not excited,” she assured him, though her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. “But you’re being exasperating. I want to know what the doctor said. I must know. Did he ... did he tell you I’m dying? Nicky, tell me the truth, please, darling.”