Sold to the Surgeon (7 page)

“Where's Greg,” asked Lynne, stifling a yawn.

“I don't know,” lied Abigail quickly, “I haven't seen him for simply ages. He must be talking somewhere.” She waved a hand vaguely at the crowd around them, now beginning to disperse in dribs and drabs after the evening's festivities.

“You look tired,” said Rupert with concern to Lynne. “Shall I help you pack up? It's just gone midnight.”

Lynne yawned again. “Yes, I supposed we'd better make a start,” she said reluctantly, adding, “The only trouble with organising is that everyone buzzes off at the end, and they never think of offering to help.”

“I'm offering,” Rupert reminded her.

Abigail linked her arm through Rupert's and smiled up at him. “Yes, you can always be relied upon,” she said gently.

He pulled a wry face, “That usually means someone is dull,” he said sombrely.

“Oh Rupert, I didn't mean that,” she protested, her grey eyes serious at the thought that she might have hurt his feelings. “You
are
reliable, and I mean it in the nicest possibly way.” Impulsively she leaned forward and kissed him warmly. It was true, she felt so safe with Rupert, a warm and comfortable affection. No frightening quivers up and down her spine, no strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, the way she'd felt when Greg had kissed her.

Putting her arm around his waist, she smiled up at him again. “Come on, let's start loading Lynne's car.”

It was more or less as Lynne had predicted. When the evening broke up, most people went off, but a few stayed on to help, including the two musicians Bruce and Dougie. They helped Rupert dismantle the lights, the technician who was supposed to have done that having disappeared.

Abigail noticed out of the corner of her eye that Penelope had disappeared with Greg Lincoln through the darkness in the direction of the parked cars, long before everyone else had left. Have a good time with our local good-time girl, she couldn't help thinking uncharitably! But try as she might to keep them at bay, disturbing thoughts of the strength of Greg's arms insisted on creeping into her mind, coupled with an image of Penelope encircled by those same arms.

It's none of your business, she told herself firmly. You have Rupert so why even waste a single thought on a man like the new surgeon? A man who likes fast women, as he more or less told you! She pulled a rueful face as she dumped a box of rubbish into Lynne's car. No, she was definitely not in the
femme fatale
class!

Almost as if to confirm her thoughts, Lynne remarked casually, “You know, I think Greg Lincoln is a bit of a womaniser.” Then she chuckled as she climbed into her car and slammed the door. “But he'll have met his match in our Penelope!”

“Drive safely,” was all Abigail said, as Lynne backed her battered car round in a semicircle, with complete disregard for the uneven tussocks of grass, before zooming off, accompanied by the clatter of a disintegrating exhaust, into the night.

“Do you know, that's the first thing you've said for the last half hour,” remarked Rupert. “I was beginning to think you'd fallen asleep!”

Abigail sighed. “I'm tired, Rupert.” It was a good excuse for her silence. She could hardly tell him that her thoughts had been occupied almost exclusively by Greg Lincoln!

As they drove back to the cottage, she let her head rest comfortably against Rupert's shoulder, and resolutely refused to let any stray thoughts of Greg Lincoln so much as creep into her mind.

When they reached the cottage, Rupert drew her gently into his arms and kissed her. Then he drew back. “Is something wrong, Abigail?” he asked.

Abigail shook her head mutely. His kiss was warm, gentle, and undemanding. How could she say that after only one kiss from the new American surgeon she couldn't get him out of her mind? It was too ridiculous.

“I'm tired,” she said again, “it's been a long day.”

Rupert brushed her cheek with his lips. “You work too hard,” he said with genuine concern in his voice.

His gentleness was suddenly too much for Abigail; inexplicable tears welled up in her eyes, and she flung herself into his arms. He was such a comfort!

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” she blurted tearfully.

Rupert's arms tightened around her. “You don't have to do with without me,” he said. “We can get married soon.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink into Abigail's tired and confused brain, and when they did she drew back her head to look at him. “Soon?” she questioned.

“Is that such a strange idea?” he asked. “You know I love you, we're engaged, so why wait any longer?”

Abigail remained silent. She hadn't meant to precipitate the subject of marriage. She hesitated, not knowing what to say, suddenly very unsure of herself. She did love Rupert, she knew she did, she was sure she did. But marriage—that was another thing; so definite, so final. Somehow, it had always seemed such a long way off, it was something she had not bothered to think about very seriously.

“Marriage is a big step.” she said at last, very slowly, measuring out her words carefully. “I'm not sure that I'm ready for it yet.”

“I don't mean tomorrow, or next week, silly,” said Rupert with laugh. “I mean, let's set a firm date, something we can look forward to.”

“A firm date,” stammered Abigail, suddenly feeling vaguely panic-stricken. “Oh I don't think…”

“In three months,” he interrupted her swiftly. “You can leave work then, leave the hospital. We'll go to the Caribbean for a month's honeymoon—you've always said you wanted to go there.”

Abigail looked at him uncertainly, then sense and good reason took over. It
was
a good idea, they couldn't go on putting off marriage for ever, and Rupert was so considerate. How could she be anything but happy with him? Solid, dependable Rupert.

“Yes,” she whispered tremulously, “in three months.”

“Good girl,” said Rupert. “I'll start making the arrangements.” He ruffled her hair. “You are a funny girl, Abigail—you don't sound very excited. I thought girls were always ecstatic about getting married!”

“Oh I am,” she hastened to assure him, “It's just that three months is not far away, and I'm not certain whether I can get everything done. They'll have to replace me on the ward, and…” She'd been about to say what about the cottage, shall we live here? But her words were lost as Rupert kissed her, taking her lips with a passion that surprised her. She let herself relax in his arms, wanting to respond, to please him, but her unruly thoughts dragged up the memory of Greg Lincoln's persuasive kiss; although she tried, she couldn't relax. Perhaps Rupert sensed her reticence, because he gently released her and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Just think, in three months' time, you'll have got rid of this old cottage,” he nodded his head in the direction of the house. Abigail opened her mouth to protest. That was the last thing she wanted to do, but before she could speak Rupert carried on happily, “We'll be sunning ourselves in the Caribbean without a care in the world.” Then he added, “You
will
wear your ring now, won't you? Now that we've fixed the date.”

“Yes,” murmured Abigail, feeling irrationally that events were rapidly becoming totally out of control. She knew Rupert; when he said he'd make all the arrangements, he would. Nothing would be left to chance. He would fix the church, the reception, everything. He was a great organiser.

It was difficult not to, but she decided not to mention the cottage. Not for the moment anyway. They always argued about it. She'd have to choose her moment, and hope to persuade Rupert that it would be a good investment to stay there.

Later that night, however, as she lay in bed thinking of Rupert and her forthcoming marriage, she felt happier. She couldn't wish for a more considerate man. He wouldn't be likely to try to seduce another man's fiancée—not like the unscrupulous Mr. Lincoln!

Next day, Penelope sauntered on to the ward, late as usual, looking extremely smug and pleased with herself. Like the cat who's stolen the proverbial cream, thought Abigail in exasperation, trying not to wonder what had happened between her and Greg Lincoln the night before. The image of his dark head against Penelope's elegantly coiffured blonde hair flashed before her mind, only to be suppressed just as quickly, as she determinedly concentrated on her work.

Mrs. Jewell, the emergency admission of the previous day, was needing all Abigail's concentration; the old lady was going down to theatre later in the morning to have the piece of bone removed under general anaesthetic. Abigail was getting her ready for theatre, helping her to change into the loose theatre gown, tied with strings at the back.

“I'm terribly worried, dear,” quavered the old lady apologetically.

“Worried?” asked Abigail in a reassuring tone of voice. “There's nothing to worry about. You'll be in very good hands, Mr. Lincoln is the best surgeon here, and he'll have that little piece of bone out in a jiffy. I expect you'll go home tomorrow.”

“It's not the bone I'm worried about,” confessed Mrs. Jewell, “it's my bowels.” She looked embarrassed.

Abigail smiled. It was the usual worry of elderly patients, no matter how serious their other ailments might be. “You've been starved since yesterday,” she said gently. “As soon as you wake up and feel able to, you can have something to eat, and then everything will sort itself out. You'll see.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Jewell didn't sound convinced.

“Quite sure,” said Abigail firmly. “Now promise me you'll stop worrying.”

“I promise,” replied Mrs. Jewell uncertainly. But Abigail knew she almost inevitably would go on worrying about it, in spite of being reassured.

The theatre porters came, and Sister Collins asked Abigail to accompany Mrs. Jewell down to the theatre suite. As she was handing over the notes to the theatre nurse, she caught a glimpse of the tall figure of Greg Lincoln. He was in his theatre greens, and walking through to scrub up for the next case. In spite of herself, she felt her heart lurch treacherously at the sight of him.

She knew it had been a long and busy morning's operating, and the sight of his tired face drew a reluctant pang of pity from her. He might be a womaniser, but he certainly worked hard. For his part, he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and didn't notice Abigail as he strode by.

Giving Mrs. Jewell's hand one last reassuring squeeze, Abigail left the confines of the theatre suite and went back to the ward and Sister Collins.

“Can I have a twelve-till-one lunch hour today?” she asked “I have to meet a friend.” She had promised Rupert she would try to meet him for lunch. He would wait for her outside the hospital. Abigail hadn't particularly wanted to go, but Rupert had insisted that they have a celebratory lunch.

“To set the final seal,” he had said.

Sister was in an unusually sunny mood and agreed at once. “Are you planning to do anything special?” she asked.

“No, nothing special,” answered Abigail. It was true, she didn't feel it
was
anything special. A guilty little voice nagging at the back of her mind told her she ought to feel wildly elated; but it was with a strangely heavy heart that she left the ward just before twelve to meet Rupert.

The huge sliding doors at the front entrance parted silently for her to pass through, and as she walked towards the waiting Rupert, she saw to her consternation that he was not alone. He was talking to Greg Lincoln. For a moment she hung back, disconcerted. He was the last person she had expected to see; he had finished operating too soon as far as she was concerned. Irritably she glowered at the two men in her line of vision. I'm not in the mood to talk to the hospital Lothario! she thought crossly!

However, she had to be polite—he was, after all, one of the consultants to whom she was responsible. “Hello,” she said on reaching them, “is this a welcoming party?”

Greg answered first. “I supposed you could say that.” His dark eyes searched her face. “I hear I'm to congratulate you on finally deciding on the great day.”

Abigail's hackles rose. The tone of his voice expressed boredom. Fine, she thought, I don't want you to be interested, so you needn't pretend! “Yes, that's right,” she replied frostily, then slipping her arm through Rupert's, “Excuse us, won't you. I only have an hour for lunch.”

“You're lucky, that's a lot more that I'm going to get,” Greg observed wryly as he turned and walked back into the hospital. “Mind you're not late back on the ward,” he threw the remark over his shoulder, as the glass doors parted and the interior of the hospital swallowed the shadow of his figure.

Abigail gasped furiously. The cheek of the man—she was never late! Rupert, however, didn't notice the subtle insult. He just smiled easily as he remarked, “you didn't mind me telling him, did you, darling?”

“No, of course I don't mind,” muttered Abigail, “but I don't know why you bothered. He isn't interested. All he cares about is the hospital, and that it should be run efficiently.”

But Rupert's mind had already moved on to other matters. He was looking at her left hand. “Where's your ring?” he asked.” “I thought you were going to wear it.”

“I am,” said Abigail, pulling out a gold necklet from inside her uniform. “I've threaded it on this.”

“Can't you wear it on your finger?”

“Well…” Abigail hesitated, “yes, I can, there isn't a rule about rings on the ward.” Rupert waited expectantly, so she slipped the ring from the necklet and let him place it on the third finger of her left hand.

“It should have been there three months ago,” he remarked as he slipped it on.

Abigail looked at the big ring sparkling on her finger. It was foolish of her, she knew, there was no reason to hide the fact that she was engaged, but somehow it made her feel uncomfortable. It's because it looks rather ostentatious with my uniform, she told herself.