It stretched longer than an arm, however, by the time they had finished. The second case held them up; the patient’s unexpected cardiac arrest was a surprise which, while to be coped with, flung a decided spanner in the works. Not that Mr van Doorninck allowed it to impede his activities—he continued unhurriedly about his urgent business and Deborah, after despatching Staff to the other end of the table to help the anaesthetist in any way he wished, concentrated upon supplying her future husband’s wants. The patient rallied, she heard Mr van Doorninck’s satisfied grunt and relaxed herself; for a patient to die on the table was something to be avoided at all costs. The operation was concluded and the patient, still unconscious and happily unaware of his frustrated attempts to die, was borne away and it was decided that a break for coffee would do everyone some good. Deborah, crowding into her office with the three men and sharing the contents of the coffee pot with them, was less lucky with the biscuit tin, for it was emptied with a rapidity she wouldn’t have prevented even if she could have done so; the sight of grown men munching Rich Tea biscuits as though they had eaten nothing for days touched her heart. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and made a mental note to wheedle the stores into letting her have an extra supply.
The rest of the morning went well, although they finished more than an hour late. Mr van Doorninck was meticulously drawing the muscle sheath together, oblivious of time. He lifted an eyebrow at Peter to remove the clamps and swab the wound ready for him to stitch and put out an outsize gloved hand for the needleholder which Deborah was holding ready. He took it without a glance and paused to straighten his back. ‘Anything for this afternoon, Sister?’ he enquired conversationally.
‘Not until three o’clock, sir.’ She glanced at Peter, who would be taking the cases. ‘A baby for a gallows frame and a couple of Colles.’
‘So you will be free for our evening together?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hadn’t she already said so? she asked herself vexedly, and threaded another needle, aware of the pricked ears and held breaths around her and Peter’s swift, astonished look.
Mr van Doorninck held out his needleholder for her to insert the newly threaded needle. He said deliberately so that everyone could hear, ‘Sister Culpeper and I are engaged to be married, so we are—er—celebrating this evening.’
He put out a hand again and Deborah slapped the stitch scissors into it with a certain amount of force, her fine bosom swelling with annoyance—giving out the news like that without so much as a word to her beforehand! Just wait until we’re alone, she cautioned him silently, her smouldering look quite lost upon his downbent, intent head. And even if she had wanted to speak her mind, it would have been impossible in the little chorus of good wishes and congratulations. She made suitable murmurs in reply and scowled behind her mask.
But if she had hoped to have had a few words with him she was unlucky; the patient was no sooner stitched than he threw down his instruments, ripped off his gloves and made off with the long, leisurely stride which could only have been matched on her part by a frank run. She watched him go, fuming, and turned away to fob off the nurses’ excited questions.
Her temper had improved very little by the time she went off duty. The news had spread, as such news always did; she was telephoned, stopped in the corridors and besieged by the other Sisters when she went down to tea. That they were envious was obvious, but they were pleased too, for she was well liked at Clare’s, and each one of them marvelled at the way she had kept the exciting news such a close secret.
‘He’ll be a honey,’ sighed Women’s Surgical Sister. ‘Just imagine living with him!’ She stared at Deborah. ‘Is he very rich, Deb?’
‘I—I don’t really know.’ Deborah was by now quite peevish and struggling not to show it. It was a relief, on the pretext of dressing up for the evening, when she could escape. All the same, despite her ill-humour, she dressed with care in a pinafore dress of green ribbed silk, worn over a white lawn blouse with ballooning sleeves and a fetching choirboy frill under her chin, and she did her hair carefully too, its smooth wings on her cheeks and the complicated chignon at the back of her neck setting off the dress to its greatest advantage. Luckily it was late August and warm, for she had no suitable coat to cover this finery; she rummaged around in her cupboard and found a gossamer wool scarf which she flung over her arm—and if he didn’t like it, she told her reflection crossly, he could lump it.
Still buoyed up by indignation, she swept down the Home stairs, looking queenly and still slightly peevish, but she stopped in full sail in the hall because Mr van Doorninck was there, standing by the door, watching her. He crossed the polished floor and when he reached her said the wrong thing. ‘I had no idea,’ he commented, ‘that you were such a handsome young woman.’
His words conjured up an outsize, tightly corseted Titanic, when her heart’s wish was to be frail and small and clinging. She lifted pansy eyes to his and said tartly, ‘My theatre gowns are a good disguise…’ and stopped because she could see that he was laughing silently.
‘I beg your pardon, Deborah—you see how necessary it is for me to take a wife? I have become so inept at paying compliments. I like you exactly as you are and I hope that you will believe that. But tell me, why were you looking so put out as you came downstairs?’
She felt mollified and a little ashamed too. ‘I was annoyed because you told everyone in theatre that we were engaged—I didn’t know you were going to.’
He chose to misunderstand her. ‘I had no idea that you wished it to remain a secret.’ He smiled so nicely at her that her heart hurried its beat.
‘Well—of course I didn’t.’
‘Then why were you annoyed?’
An impossible question to answer. She smiled reluctantly and said:
‘Oh, I don’t know—perhaps I haven’t quite got used to the idea.’
His blue eyes searched hers calmly. ‘You have had second thoughts, perhaps?’
‘No—oh, no.’
He smiled again. ‘Good. Shall we go?’
They went through the Home door together, and she was very conscious of the unseen eyes peering at them from the net-covered windows, but she forgot all about them when she saw the car drawn up waiting for them. She had wondered from time to time what sort of car he drove, and here it was—a BMW 3 OCSL, a sleek, powerful coupé which looked as though it could do an enormous speed if it were allowed to. She paused by its door and asked: ‘Yours?’
‘Yes. I could use a larger car really, but once I’m in it it’s OK, and she goes like a bird. We’ll change her, though, if you prefer something roomier.’
Deborah had settled herself in her seat. ‘She’s super, you mustn’t dream of changing her.’ She turned to look at him as he got in beside her. ‘I always imagined that you would drive something stately.’
He laughed. ‘I’m flattered that you spared even such thoughts as those upon me. I’ve a Citroën at home, an SM, plenty of room but not so fast as this one. I take it that you drive?’
He had eased the car into the evening traffic and was travelling westward. ‘Well,’ said Deborah, ‘I drive, but I’m not what you would call a good driver, though I haven’t had much opportunity…’
‘Then we must find opportunity for you—you will need a car of your own.’
In Piccadilly, where the traffic was faster and thinner, he turned off into Berkeley Street and stopped outside the Empress Restaurant. A truly imposing place, she discovered, peeping discreetly about her as they went in—grandly Victorian with its red plush and its candelabra. When they were seated she said with disarming frankness: ‘It rather takes my breath away.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Worthy of the occasion, I hope.’ He opened his eyes wide and she was surprised, as