Once For All Time

Once For All Time
Betty Neels

Clotilde Collins has worked with Dr. James Thackery at busy St. Alma's Hospital in London for three years, but she's never considered their relationship as anything more than solidly professional.Then tragedy strikes and James steps in to take charge of Clotilde's shattered world, offering her his unhesitating comfort and support.How easy it would be to fall in love with him. Except he's already committed to another woman….

James bent and kissed her—hard.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked her.

Clotilde took a steadying breath and did her best to behave normally, which was difficult in the circumstances. “No,” she managed.

“That’s my farewell salute to Sister Clotilde Collins.” He grinned at her. “You can think about that until I see you again, Tilly.”

He was gone—just like that, leaving the office door open. She wanted to shout a dozen questions at him. Did he know she was leaving?

Or was it, she wondered, an oblique way of telling her he had decided to marry Dr. Mary Evans after all?

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Once for All Time

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author (#u3ad2fcfe-ff76-5f3f-bb93-4afb941f09de)

Title Page (#u676f6aac-89d6-53ac-a496-fbb00a3b8889)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_180ff23d-8e37-5379-953a-e5ea884586c5)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_56efaa30-abdd-59aa-8482-7e5c59f6f38d)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a30fcb69-5417-5d72-8a0e-a243c7526a71)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e1e4be2e-d183-51f9-806c-181a7e46cd4d)

WOMEN’S MEDICAL was quiet, for the Senior Consulting Physician’s round had just begun. Dr Thackery was already at the first bed; a large man and tall, with lint-fair hair thickly sprinkled with grey, and blue heavy-lidded eyes. Oblivious of the admiring gaze of his patients fastened upon his handsome head, he bent over the elderly woman he was examining, his own gaze fixed on the wall behind her bed while he prodded gently.

Presently he said over his shoulder: ‘Sister, I think we’ll have another X-ray.’ He had a deep deliberate voice, and his newly appointed House Physician drew in her breath at the sound of it and closed her eyes in a lovesick fashion. Clotilde handed over the appropriate form and gave her a quick amused glance as she did so. Everyone—that was, everyone female fell for Dr Thackery; such a silly waste of time too, because he was quite oblivious of their adoring looks. She had worked for him for three years now and never once had he cast an eye, even faintly interested, at any one of the nurses, sisters or women doctors working at St Alma’s. He wasn’t married, although he had been seen on numerous occasions with a variety of girls—and good luck to him, mused Clotilde, briskly handing the signed form to Dr Evans, who received it as though it were a gift from heaven, blushing heavily. He was nice, kind and thoughtful and almost annoyingly placid, although she had upon occasion felt acute pity for whoever he was hauling over the coals in that calm courteous voice, chilly with icy displeasure. But never with her; they enjoyed a pleasant relationship, a detached friendliness which was quite impersonal. Away from the ward she knew nothing about him, nor was she curious, and if he was to have called her Clotilde instead of Sister Collins she would have been dumbstruck. That he mostly looked at her as though he didn’t see her properly didn’t vex her in the least; she was a pretty girl with dark thickly fringed eyes, a straight nose and a wide curving mouth and hair as dark as her eyes, inclined to curl and which she screwed into a bun on top of her head, adding another inch or two to her tall and splendid figure. Possessed of these attributes, she had never lacked attention from men, and now that she and Bruce were engaged, she had little interest in anyone else.

Dr Thackery made his leisurely way to the next bed and she went with him, notes ready to hand, her mind now wholly on her work; which was more than could be said for Dr Evans, or, for that matter, his patient.

Miss Knapp was fiftyish, thin, refined and with a tongue as sharp as her equally sharp nose. But during Dr Thackery’s round the sharpness was hidden under a die-away behaviour calculated to attract his sympathy.

Only it didn’t. His manner towards her couldn’t be faulted; Clotilde had to admit that his bedside manner was flawless, he had examined her, asked a few pertinent questions, assured her that she would be going home within a few days, and passed on to the next bed before she could squeeze out a single tear of self-pity.

A different kettle of fish here. Old Mrs Perch lay quietly, seldom speaking, and then only to thank someone for whatever they had done for her. Leukaemia, held at bay by Dr Thackery for hard fought months, was at last catching up with her; she knew it and so did he, but he sat on the edge of the bed, engaging her in cheerful talk between his questions, and was answered with equal cheerfulness. ‘And this dear girl,’ whispered Mrs Perch, nodding at Clotilde, ‘always there when she’s wanted—you have no idea what a treasure she is, Doctor.’

He dropped the lids over his eyes. ‘Oh, but indeed I have, Mrs Perch. Sister Collins is my right hand, although I shall have to find myself another one when she marries.’

Mrs Perch chuckled, it sounded like paper rustling. ‘There’ll be plenty wanting to be that; you’ll be able to take your pick, Doctor.’ She glanced at Clotilde. ‘I doubt you’ll find her equal.’

‘I doubt it too, Mrs Perch. And now I must bother you for a moment while Dr Evans takes some blood.’

He went to the end of the bed, listening to what his registrar, Jeff Saunders, had to say, half turned away from his patient. Which didn’t prevent him seeing how Dr Evans fumbled so clumsily with the syringe that Clotilde took it gently from her, took the required amount of blood without fuss and handed it wordlessly back. He said nothing; it wasn’t the first time Clotilde had given a helping hand. He stood impassively while Dr Evans transferred the blood to a test tube and then went back to his patient to bid her goodbye.

He was not to be hurried; Clotilde knew better than that. It was more than an hour by the time they had completed the round, and even then he paused at the end of the ward to discuss something with his Registrar. Clotilde thought longingly of her coffee and heaved a sigh of relief when he was at last finished and they could go to her office. The little party broke up, the social worker to go to her office, the radiographer to the X-ray room, Staff Nurse Wood to see that the ward was tidied and the patients comfortable and to send the nurses to their coffee, and Dr Thackery, Jeff Saunders and Dr Evans crowded into Clotilde’s office where she dispensed coffee and biscuits, offered bits of information when asked for them and collected the pile of forms Dr Thackery had signed. And all the while she listened carefully to his instructions; he never gave her time to write them down. She said: ‘Yes, sir,’ at intervals and relied on her excellent memory.

Finally he had finished. The small party left her office, crossed the landing and were ushered out into the wide corridor connecting the men’s and women’s medical blocks. Clotilde stood and watched them go, Dr Thackery towering over his companions, his head a little bent, deep in thought. He really needs a wife, thought Clotilde, then wondered why on earth she had thought that.

She spent the next hour with Sally Wood, making notes, seeing that the right forms went to the right departments, making sure that the instructions she had received were passed on, and by the time that was done the patients’ dinners had arrived and they both went into the ward and served the complicated diets suitable for ulcers, heart failures, kidney disease and diabetes, and that done, Clotilde left Sally to dish out the puddings while she went from bed to bed, making sure that the ladies under her care were eating their dinners, listening patiently to complaints, encouraging poor appetites, laughing at the jokes some of the convalescent ladies were making in their cheerful Cockney voices.

She went to her own dinner then, with two of the student nurses, leaving Sally and a second-year nurse to begin the business of settling everyone for their nap. But she didn’t go straight to the dining room. Bruce would be in the entrance hall waiting for her. He was on the surgical side, one of Sir Oswald Jenkins’ team, already marked out as a promising surgeon. She started down the last of the stairs and saw him standing with his back to her, talking to Sir Oswald. He was a little shorter than she was, dark-haired and good-looking, and Clotilde paused to admire him. He was ambitious, but she didn’t hold that against him—indeed, when they married, her father had said he would buy him a practice as a wedding present, and Bruce had accepted without demur. Deep inside her she had been a little unhappy about that; foolishly so, she had told herself, for it was important to him to be successful. Sir Oswald had already hinted that he might be given a senior appointment at the hospital, and that, combined with a partnership in some well established practice, would be a splendid start.

She waited quietly until the two men had finished talking, and when Sir Oswald had been ushered out of the doors to his waiting car, she nipped down the last of the stairs. ‘And what was all that about?’ she wanted to know, and was a little taken aback by Bruce’s quick frown.

‘Nothing much, just general chat.’ The frown had gone and he smiled at her. ‘Had a good morning? Old Thackery’s round, wasn’t it?’

Clotilde nodded. ‘He’s an easy man to work for. He’s got a new house doctor— Mary Evans—she’s Welsh and head over heels already. You’d think he’d notice, but he really doesn’t. I daresay he’s got a girl somewhere or other and that makes him immune…’

Bruce said rather impatiently: ‘Must we waste time talking about him?’ And then: ‘Has he ever made a pass at you, Tilly?’

She gave him a look of utter astonishment. ‘Heavens above, no! What an idea. Whatever made you think of that?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, you’re a pretty girl…’

She dimpled at him. ‘Why, thank you, Bruce.’ She smiled, her lovely eyes on a level with his, and at that moment Dr Thackery sauntered out of a passage and into the entrance. He passed them with a placid greeting and went through the glass double doors, and they both turned their heads to watch him.

‘Lucky devil,’ observed Bruce, ‘driving a Bentley—he must be making a packet.’

Clotilde, watching Dr Thackery driving away with the minimum of fuss, said thoughtfully: ‘Possibly he is, but he works hard and he’s so nice to his patients.’