Heartbreak Surgeon (1960s Medical Romance Book 2)

by Sheila Burns

  ‘Oh no, I am not a relation. I have come down to nurse Mrs. Liskeard.’

  ‘And you could go to nobody better and that includes the Queen of England. She has poor health, and is delicate, and she the sweetest person, too,’ and the old man smiled, then he said, ‘That’ll be Mr. Roger coming through the barrier now, and worried to death that he is late ‒ if I know him. There he is.’

  Lorna turned and saw the man approaching.

  He wore putty-coloured drill trousers and a matching shirt, with no tie, whilst his jacket was slung over his shoulders like a cape. She knew instantly that there was something attractive about him. He wore clothes as if he loved them, and the clothes themselves indicated that he had travelled much, Italy perhaps, France and Spain. His thick straight hair was cropped close against a sunburnt skin, and the dark eyes looked at her with an amused apology.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m late, and I am so sorry. My aunt made a mistake in the time of arrival, you must blame her, not me.’

  She looked at him, attracted and yet not sure. For half a moment she thought that the eyes had white rings round the iris, a framework which she had seen before, the night she had given a stranger a lift. Instantly she dismissed the idea, indignant with herself for ever thinking anything so gruesome. The horrid impression which that evening had left on her mind had been too great, she imagined things. This sunburnt face could never have been lardy or gleaming; and if this face was fat and filled out, it was not the same. Most certainly it was not the same, and she checked herself from taking fright.

  ‘I’m Lorna Vane. I have only just got here.’

  ‘Welcome to the place, to Wiseways and to my family. The man’s got the luggage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was well trained in good manners, and would make no mistake in that direction. He came of some good public school, and the University, without a doubt. She wondered how he earned his living. What did he do?

  ‘It was kind of you to meet me,’ she said.

  ‘I brought the Rolls. I’m not very good at driving it, I prefer a sports car, but my aunt adores the Rolls, thinking they are dead safe. I always tell her they are better for hearses and funeral cars, but she won’t agree to that.’

  They had come through the barrier and into the station yard which lay beyond it. The place had something of the fairy tale romance about it, with the profuse flowers, children skipping in a corner, and beyond it the village street wriggling its way to the sea.

  The car was big and marvellously upholstered, she would have thought there would be a chauffeur, but Roger Liskeard drove it. As she sat down beside him, again she had that horrid vague feeling that this was not the first time they had met even though she knew that he could not have been connected with the horror of that dark lay-by, a wood beyond it, and shadows. Probably the trouble was that the shock had been too great and was still far too near to her. She realised that. The hope lay in the change to Cornwall and the entirely different background of luxury, of wealth, and all those things she had never known in the quiet family life at home. A background remote from the hospital. Studying psychiatry at hospital she had learnt of the tremendous advantage change of scene could produce.

  If she could only bring into play the human reasoning that she had learnt at hospital, Lorna would understand that it was natural that she might associate any stranger she met, who had the faintest similarity to the experience of that ghastly night.

  She glanced again at Roger Liskeard sitting beside her. He chatted amiably, and he drove with precision; he was pleasant and had all the traits the man of that shocking adventure had not had. Suddenly she was curiously alive to all these details, and appreciated the fact that she was far more on edge than she had ever imagined.

  He drew her attention to a small village through which they were passing, and a ruined tin mine, the ivy straggling over it. ‘This is typical of Cornwall. Now the small harbours are different, and there are no harbours like them in our country, I am sure; they will enchant you.’

  ‘The grey houses seem depressing.’

  ‘I thought that the first time that I visited my aunt; one gets used to them after a while, in fact nowadays I almost like them.’

  ‘I shall get used to them, too.’

  They dropped down the hill into the village itself with the sea coming right up the central street, a cobbled quay on the one side and a wooded hillside the other. The sharply cut hills almost overshadowed the tiny harbour with its deep greenish-blue waters, with its big rings in the quayside and the small whitewashed houses of the fishermen. Thatched roofs sloped almost down to the lower windows, and there was the profusion of clematis and rambler rose.

  ‘How very pretty it is!’

  ‘I thought you would like it, and I’m glad. I fell in love with it the very first time that I saw it, and I wanted you to love it, too.’

  No, of course this was not the stranger who had thumbed a lift, the man who had said ‘yep’, and ‘see?’ and had jerked his words. This was a scholar, to whom a good accent and good English came naturally. She pulled herself together with a relieved jerk.

  The village ended abruptly with a small Methodist chapel, and they began to climb the hill to the moorland country above it.

  ‘Has your aunt lived in Cornwall long?’

  ‘About fifteen years. My uncle was a shipping magnate, and when he became ill they bought the house which until that time they had only rented. Poor Uncle Henry developed sclerosis, the disseminated kind, and he died through a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake? You mean the sclerosis didn’t kill him?’

  ‘No. There was a muddle over some sleeping pills. I was staying here at the time, in fact I was the last person who saw him alive. That was five years ago, and one of the nastiest experiences of my life.’

  She did not admit that Lionel Strong had already told her about it. ‘It must have been dreadful for your aunt.’

  ‘Yes. It left her a very rich woman, of course, but a very lonely one. That is why I come down here as often as I can. I am their only relative.’

  She turned her face to him. ‘You must be a very lucky person, for in the end all this will be yours.’ She did not know why a rather bitter accent had come into her voice, something that she could not hold back, yet she failed to explain why she acted in this way. Was it that she still associated this man with the stranger?

  ‘I’ve never wanted to step into a dead man’s shoes. I don’t believe in it.’

  There was no answer to that. She waited a moment, then as they came to the crest of the hill with the valley below them, he showed her where the house was; she murmured something about the scenery.

  ‘Yes, it is beautiful. My aunt loves the place. Poor lamb! She ought to be where she is happy. She gets bad migraine which comes on more frequently almost every day.’

  ‘From the shock?’

  ‘Possibly, and there was nothing one could do to save her from that shock. Today she was so very anxious to show you how truly welcome you were, and she just couldn’t do it. So I came alone.’ He smiled at her.

  The smile dismissed any further doubt.

  If Roger had been the other man by now he would have recognised some small trait about her, the voice, or a movement, something which would have put him on his guard. This man had shown no sign of being on his guard. He was friendly and amiable, he was quite delightful. When Lorna mentioned Lionel Strong, Roger told her that in all probability he would be dining with them tonight, for his aunt had asked him.

  ‘He was terribly nice to me.’

  For one second Roger delayed, then as he drove on, slowing down slightly, he said, ‘He met you under rather odd circumstances, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, he did indeed. I had trouble with a stranger to whom I had given a lift, and Mr. Strong came to my rescue. He was very very kind to me and I owe him a big debt.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘I ‒ I didn’t really see him. I doubt if I would know him again, and fo
rgive me being stupid, but I’d rather not talk about it, because it upsets me still.’

  ‘We’ll never mention it again.’ The car had come to the crest of the hill, and in the kindest manner Roger Liskeard pointed down into the valley before them. ‘There is the house; it is the first view you get of it and I hope you will think it looks pleasant.’

  Lorna looked down into the valley. The park was green and undulating, the rustic fencing round it contrasting so that it stood out in the light of evening. The house was of only two storeys, somehow she had thought that it would be taller, a Queen Anne mansion, with gracious windows, and leisurely lines. The car dropped down to the park gates, standing open for them. The verdant chestnut trees forming an amazing avenue transformed it into a leafy cloister, and travelling down it the car came to the low bridge across the lake, then turned to the great house itself.

  Perhaps it was then that Lorna got that welcoming view of rosy bricks and sparkling windows. The car came to a standstill before the open main door and an old manservant by it.

  ‘How lovely it looks!’ Lorna said.

  ‘You’ll find it even lovelier inside,’ said Roger, ‘my aunt has a genius for décor, and she has made Wiseways utterly lovely. Do come in.’

  He put out a hand and took hers. Then perhaps realising that Lorna might find this over-familiar, he drew back for a second. She looked beyond him into the hall which ran crossways along the front of the house. Lorna got an impression of walnut furniture, and comfortable easy chairs, of soft colourings and huge bowls of roses everywhere, so for a second there came the flashing intuition that this was a good omen.

  The drive with Roger Liskeard seemed to have changed her so much that she had almost forgotten the shock of the notice in the newspaper this morning. ‘The marriage between Mr. Michael Bland and Miss Frances Ford will not take place.’ In one way she hoped that this journey into a world that was so emotionally new to her had deliberately set her further apart from Michael. She had come here to escape everything. It almost looked as if this was going to happen.

  She and Roger went into the hall together, the sunlight pouring in through the west windows. Behind them the sunset. It was an aristocratic house, a very welcoming one, and Lorna knew that no ghost of an irresolute past haunted it. If there had been a suicide here it did not feel like it. Wiseways was escape.

  The door into the yellow drawing-room stood open and she caught a glimpse of brocaded walls, of light amber furniture, and a softly grey carpet delicately patterned.

  ‘How beautiful that room looks!’ she said.

  Roger laughed. ‘It’s the one room I never like, but then I don’t like yellow. I was five years old when I was page to my aunt, and wore a yellow satin suit at her wedding. The others laughed at me, and that put me off. I’m one of those impressionable men who are very easily put off.’

  ‘The psychiatrists say that is the way our lives are built.’

  ‘Maybe they are right. Here is Henderson coming to see you. She is my aunt’s personal maid, and she really runs the whole house for us.’

  Henderson appeared out of the shadows beyond the marble stairway which led out of the hall to the only other floor. She would be in the later middle years, Lorna decided, a gaunt woman in her plain black dress with the tiny white collar; her hair drawn back from the brow after the manner of Italians, was lightly flecked with grey, and the parting was rimmed with it. The eyes were kindly.

  ‘Please show Miss Vane her room,’ said Roger. Then he turned away as if his job were done. He took a cigarette from a cigarette box standing on the nearby table, and lit it. ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he told her.

  ‘Mrs. Liskeard will be coming down,’ said Henderson slowly.

  He nodded, then he spoke one word. It was ‘Yep.’

  Lorna must have winced, even though she had half expected it. He said it casually. He said it calmly. Not in the least like the way the stranger had said it when she had asked for a match for Lionel Strong, he had half mumbled it. But it still was ‘yep’! She went up the stairs with Henderson leading the way, and on to the landing above. She felt that strange weakness at her knees again. The woman opened a door on the right for her, and then stood back for Lorna to enter.

  ‘This is the suite Mrs. Liskeard wanted you to have. She hoped that you would be very comfortable here.’

  Seeing the suite, Lorna forgot the ‘yep’. Here was a sitting-room in soft grey with cerise curtains, and the most exquisite watercolours on the walls. It led into a bedroom beyond, with the view of the green park, of the grazing deer, and the cool trees. In the distance there was the silver flash of a river threading its way like some snake. The bathroom lay beyond.

  ‘Your luggage is here, miss, and if you give me your keys I will unpack for you.’ Henderson held out her hand.

  ‘Please, don’t worry. Not for the world would I burden you like that. I’m well used to unpacking for myself. When does Mrs. Liskeard want to see me?’

  ‘She is recovering from an attack, miss. She has the very strong headache pills and they help her, so that she hopes to meet you at dinner. It ‒ it is very trying for her.’

  ‘She suffers from migraine a great deal?’

  ‘Yes, miss. She had it as a young girl, and with the years it has increased. She ‒ she has had a lot of trouble, miss, and that is bound to tell with a lady. Certainly she has been very much worse since poor Mr. Liskeard went. He ‒ he was a very great gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Roger Liskeard told me about him.’ Henderson averted her eyes. Her face did not change, there was nothing about her that Lorna could actually associate with her own interpretation of the moment, but she felt that she did not like Roger.

  ‘Mrs. Liskeard has never really got over that, miss,’ she said.

  ‘I am sure she hasn’t.’

  Henderson went to the door. ‘Then if that will be all, miss, I’ll be going. The bell is here; ring it twice and that will bring me to you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll change. It ‒ it isn’t a party?’

  ‘Oh no, miss, we don’t have parties here. We live very quietly indeed, miss, and even more quietly when Mr. Roger comes down. A Mr. Lionel Strong is coming, but he is very kind and pleasant, and an old friend.’

  ‘I have met him already. He is very nice.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Everyone likes Mr. Strong. He really is a very nice gentleman. You will ring if you want me, won’t you, miss? Two pips.’

  The door had shut on her.

  There had been a great sense of change about the evening, Lorna’s own sense of doubt, of apprehension, then of reassurance, then that single word which had been so disturbing but which after all was a word which thousands used and which really meant nothing. She must dismiss such ideas, for now she was preparing to meet her new employer, and had got to make a good impression.

  She put on a new silk frock which she had bought with the idea of this very evening. It was a thick white silk, patterned with bunches of violets which went well with the light auburn hair, and her soft eyes. She had always had the idea that violets were lucky to her, and they were her favourite flowers with their inconspicuous beauty. She was well pleased with the effect of the frock, as she finally knotted the violet and soft parma sash round her waist. It emphasised her extreme slenderness (she would have hated to be fat), and as she tied the sash she remembered some of those little tubs of student nurses fastening stiff petersham belts, and knew that she was lucky.

  She went to the door and opened it.

  The sound of voices below in the hall guided her, and she went to the head of the stairs. She could now see the people below her. Lionel had arrived, and he and Roger were helping themselves to drinks. In a carved oak chair the woman who she imagined was Helen Liskeard was sitting. It was quite obvious by the extreme pallor of her face and the dark caverns into which her eyes seemed to have retreated that she had suffered from an extremely bad attack of migraine. She was still weak from it, still limp, even though she sat t
here trying to let the others believe that she was all right. She was far too slim, rather a tall woman, Lorna would have thought, and she watched her for a moment trying to sum her up. Once that porcelain face had been very beautiful, an exquisite fragile face, with fair hair which was now ash-blonde, which framed the perfect bonework of those cheeks. The eyes would be light, Lorna knew, the mouth slightly tremulous but always lovely. About her was a certain remoteness, an aloofness as though in her heart she held some secret that she did not want the world to know.

  ‘You mustn’t let Roger tease you, Lionel,’ she was saying, and then must have sensed that Lorna was closer than she thought, for she turned and looked at the stairs. ‘So here she is,’ she said.

  All three of them were looking at a girl in the slender white silk dress with violets on it. She stepped off the lowest stair on to the huge white polar-bear rug.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said.

  Mrs. Liskeard had risen. She came closer, giving the impression of gentleness and of love. A woman of aristocratic birth for ever gentle, a woman with a strong personality, someone whom Lorna was going to love.

  ‘You had a nice journey, my dear?’

  ‘To me a very exciting journey because I was coming here.’

  ‘You put things very nicely. I hope you are going to like the place, it is a kindly house, and I trust that we are kindly people.’

  The parting with Michael, his engagement now broken, all the details of her life during the last few weeks which had been so distressing, so hair-raising and in a way so violent, disappeared. ‘I am sure you are.’

  ‘You know Mr. Strong, of course?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  Lionel came towards her holding out a hand. ‘So you’ve got here? And Cornwall is wonderful, isn’t it? The piskies to bless you and all manner of adventures ahead.’

  ‘Not only adventures. I ‒ I came to be of use,’ and Lorna smiled. ‘I hope so much that I shall be useful.’