One thought was uppermost in her mind—one need that was imperative. The need to keep this new-found knowledge that as yet was neither sweetness nor pain to herself. Philip must never guess—and he had an uncanny way of reading thoughts that she did not even know she had.
One thing was certain. She could not bear to go back into the fiance room with the risk of meeting those penetrating eyes of his—even with the crowd of dancers for protection. She was not ready yet. She felt that her every expression, every gesture, would cry aloud that she loved him, and her pride rebelled. Though she had no knowledge of his private life she knew that women had always run after him. She could guess how he would receive their attentions—with the courteous mockery that was characteristic of him. At that moment she could not bear his mockery. Later, when she had schooled herself to this new understanding of her own feelings, she would match him—give him a Roland for his Oliver. But not tonight.
Tonight she must get away and be alone. She looked for Charles, and when she found him was filled with disgust, for he was lounging across the bar counter and it was obvious that he was jocosely drunk.
She turned and left him before he saw her, and got her coat. Outside there was a faint sleety snow beginning to fall, and suddenly she revolted against the idea of walking back to Adam Square. She would take Charles' car ! He could come and find it when he was sober enough to drive !
It was dark where the car was parked, but she found the long black Jaguar, and the key was in the ignition as she had known it would be.
It made her feel better as the powerful car sprang to life under her touch. She nosed it out of its berth gently and expertly. She could drive better than Charles, she knew, so she had no compunction about damaging his car. Soon she was out of the hospital precincts without having encountered a soul, and she let the engine out as she got on to the now deserted road.
She parked the car outside the house. There were not too many hours of darkness left and she hoped the batteries would stand the side and back lights for that long. Suddenly exhaustion overcame her. She felt she could not bother any more about Charles and his car—it was all she could do to crawl into bed, every thought and feeling anaesthetised by weariness.
Loving was much more exhausting than hard work, was her last conscious thought.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT seemed she had been asleep about five minutes when the alarm went off and it was time to get up. In the first moments of waking she lay in a kind of vacuum, with no remembrance of the previous night.
When she did remember she felt more than ever reluctant to get out of bed and face the day. Premonition warned her that being in love was going to make life more difficult. It wasn't, for instance, going to be easy to pretend that there was nothing different in her feelings for Philip Conway—would her appearance of unchanged armed neutrality deceive him?
When she remembered Charles' car standing at the kerb she groaned aloud. It had served him right, of course, but there were going to be a lot of questions to answer. The fact that the house had not been knocked up by the police during the night led her to believe that the batteries had held out. But suppose Charles had reported the loss of the car to the police? Were they going to accept her story of taking the car on an impulse?
She wasted precious minutes of an already tight schedule trying to pluck up courage, and then had to rush her washing and dressing. She had only the briefest moment to look in on her father.
He was awake and a little inclined to be petulant. "Why didn't you look in on me last night?" he demanded.
"It was so late—I thought you'd be asleep, darling."
"Well, I wasn't. And it wasn't all that late, either. You were earlier than I'd expected. Did you have a good time? Were you the belle of the ball?"
"No," she said, and felt a pang as she remembered last night and who it was who had floated radiantly in Philip's arms. "Quite definitely, no."
"Can't understand that," her father sounded disappointed. "Who was, then?"
"My Ward Sister, if you want to know. But now I must fly—I'm late already."
That was true, but the real reason she wanted to escape was a reluctance to face further questions about Charles or the dance. With any luck she reckoned that she could get that car away before anyone but Charles knew about it. Fortunately Philip's car was garaged in a mews at the back of the house with another entrance, so that he probably had not seen the strange car standing outside.
She ran quickly downstairs. On the first floor landing she was brought to an abrupt halt by the sudden flinging open of one of the doors. In the doorway, resplendent in a purple dressing gown and looking even taller than ever, stood His Nibs.
It was the first time Ronnie had ever encountered him at that hour, but it was not only surprise that kept her rooted to the spot; it was the look of blinding, furious anger on his face.
"Please be good enough to return the keys of my car," he said. One strong and shapely hand jerked out of the dressing gown pocket and was held out towards her.
She stared at it. She had to look somewhere, and dared not meet his eyes. The half-uttered denial never reached her lips as she realised with awful clarity what she had done.
She had taken the wrong car ! Both were black
Jaguars, Charles' and Philip Conway's ... they must have been parked next to each other ...
"The keys, if you please, Miss Forbes."
Unable to speak, she fumbled in her bag, her fingers clumsy with nervousness. The cold, inexorable voice continued : "If you should have occasion to borrow my car another time, kindly leave the key in the ignition, and if you cannot garage it perhaps you would advise me where to find the car. It would save the police a great deal of trouble."
Her groping fingers had found the key ring now. As she pulled it out her horrified gaze saw all too clearly the initials `P.N.C.' engraved on the tab.
"I—I'm most terribly sorry—" through stiff lips she managed to get out the banality. "I didn't borr—I mean I didn't know it was your car."
She had a glimpse of level dark brows raised in supercilious disbelief.
"No? Yet I imagine you must be familiar with the appearance of my car—you have seen it here and at the hospital."
"Charles Cunningham's car is the same—" she put in quickly. "I thought it was his."
"Cars have numbers—I hardly think the numbers could have been the same."
Why hadn't she thought to check? She knew the answer to that, but she could not explain to him her agitation—not its reason—last night.
Another thought occurred to her dazed mind. "Charles is always careless about leaving the key in the ignition. I didn't think you did that."
For a second she raised her eyes to his, and was just in time to see a flash of something like amusement, though his voice was still cool.
"I don't usually remove the keys when my car is parked in the private car park reserved for consultants
at St. Boniface's," he told her drily. "But do you make a habit of using your escort's car without permission?"
Ronnie was beginning to get her poise back by now, and temper was coming to her aid. After all, it had been a genuine mistake, and she had apologised.
"No," she said shortly. "But I wanted to come home and Charles was—not in a fit state to drive. I thought it wouldn't do him any harm."
"It didn't," he told her succinctly. "I expect he was tucked up in bed while I tramped half across London in the sleet. Why didn't you ask me if you were anxious to get home?"
In sheer surprise she looked at him fully. "Naturally I shouldn't have dreamed of such a thing !"
"I'd have preferred it to having my car pinched. I shouldn't wonder if you've stripped the gears—"
"I certainly haven't !" Ronnie denied hotly. "It happens that I do know how to drive a car ! And I wouldn't leave the key in the switch !"
There was a moment of silence. Having said it, Ronnie felt that it was a sign of weakness to have used the same jibe tw
ice, but she could not unsay it. Instead she went on stiffly : "Would you like me to take it round to the garage for you?" looking at his dressing gown rather pointedly.
"No, thanks," he said curtly. "Withers can see to that now that we have the key. You'd better get along to the hospital. You'll be late on duty as it is."
There was no gainsaying that. She was late, and got admonished for it too. Altogether it was a bad morning. The night staff going off duty were ill-tempered because they had had to miss the dance, and the day staff coming on were suffering from shortage of sleep
Ronnie, who had neither excuse, was short-tempered for private reasons of her own and was not prepared to
be very patient with Flossie's teasing and curiosity when they met over a cup of coffee in the middle of the morning.
"My feet !" Flossie moaned. "Is it really only ten forty-five? It seems like a day already. Where did you disappear to last night? Alan Pickering was nearly frantic about you, but your boyfriend found comfort at the bar !"
"He'd found that before I left," Ronnie said tersely. "I just got fed up and went home, that's all."
Flossie's eyes widened. "But why on earth? It was a wonderful dance ! What was the matter?"
Suddenly Flossie's face took on a sharply intelligent look as she scrutinised Ronnie carefully. "It wouldn't be anything to do with Young, would it?" Flossie asked in dulcet tones.
"Of course not !" Ronnie snapped, and added quickly : "She may be my Ward Sister, but she didn't try to pull any authority over me at the dance."
Flossie nodded as though she accepted the wilful misconstruction of her words, and went on with apparent irrelevance : "They had a Paul Jones later on. I was lucky—I got two consultants—Dr. Maples and His Nibs !"
"That must have made it your big night," Ronnie murmured sarcastically.
"It did," Flossie nodded good-temperedly. "That was just before all the trouble started—"
"What trouble?" Ronnie demanded.
"Oh, didn't you hear? One of the porters rushed in and collared His Nibs—told him his car had been pinched. The chap was supposed to be on duty in the consultants' car park and had just nipped in for a quick one. When he went out again he saw His Nibs' car driving off. He thought it was a bit fishy as the dance wasn't over and came to see if His Nibs was still there ... why,
what on earth ... Forbsie, are you all right? You've gone as white as a sheet—" Flossie's quick mind leapt several jumps ahead as it often did. "Forbsie! It wasn't—it couldn't have been —you who took it—?"
Ronnie knew there was no good denying it. She nodded miserably. "Yes, it was. But it was a mistake, and for Pete's sake promise not to tell anyone."
"Of course I won't—but how could it be a mistake?"
"Well, Charles has a black- Jaguar too, and he'd parked it in that car park. The man must have been away at the time, I suppose. Then when I saw Charles was drunk I was fed up with him and decided to borrow his car and drive myself home. I thought it would serve him right. Somehow in the dark I must have gone to the wrong car—the key was in the switch just as Charles always leaves it ..."
Flossie started to giggle but checked herself. "Half the Metropolitan Police Force were out looking for it ! Where did you leave it?"
"Outside the house, of course."
"The one place they wouldn't think of looking !" Flossie's giggles got the better of her. "Oh, Forbsie, you are the limit ! Does he know?"
"Yes."
The sheer depth of depression in that monosyllable was enough to check Flossie's laughter. "Poor old Forbsie—I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything. He can be so beastly sarcastic. I shouldn't wonder if he brings it up every time he sees you on the ward. Tell you what—why don't you write him a little note and say you're sorry? I think he'd be easier to tackle that way—he makes you feel such a fool when you're face to face, doesn't he? Except when he's off duty, of course, like last night."
"Umm. It was a genuine mistake. I don't see why I should eat humble pie," Ronnie protested.
"Please yourself," said Flossie as she got up to go. "And don't be too hard on Charles. He's rather a pet, and it wasn't altogether his fault. Some of those St. Boniface boys were doctoring the drinks—they're a pack of lunatics over there."
Ronnie scowled. She was wishing Charles Cunningham at the bottom of the deep blue sea. He was the cause of all this.
During the course of the day, in which the episode of the car was never far from her mind, Flossie's suggestion commended itself to her as eminently sensible. Mistake or not, it had caused Philip Conway a good deal of worry and inconvenience and he was justified in his annoyance. The first thing she did when she got home was to write a formal and polite letter of apology. When that was done and placed on the hall table she set about getting some supper.
Her father chatted to her as she laid the table. "Did you know that Mr. Conway had his car stolen during the dance last night?"
"Yes, everyone at the hospital was talking about it," she said, keeping her head averted. "Who told you?"
"Withers, of course. It seems that the thief had the effrontery to leave it outside this house. I expect it was a practical joke, don't you? Isn't it the sort of thing that young doctors do?"
"It does sound a bit like it, doesn't it?" she agreed, breathing a sigh of relief. That explained why Philip Conway had known without doubt that she had the key. Withers must have known—but he had not told her father, and she could trust him not to spread it any further. Obviously Philip was putting the 'practical joke' theory about, and she was grateful to him for that. The sooner the whole affair was buried and forgotten, the better she would like it.
It was not quite buried, however. The next morning
she found a note on the mat. It was brief—and typewritten.
`Dear Miss Forbes,' it began. 'Thank you for your note of apology, which is accepted. I have an appointment with your father for next Thursday evening. I have ascertained that you will not be on duty at the hospital that evening, and shall be glad if you will be so kind as to keep it free from any other engagements, as I should like the benefit of your advice as well as that of your father on the matter of the provision of a hospital service for Bazualiland.'
It ended 'Yours sincerely,' and then the scrawling signature : 'Philip N. Conway.'
She thought she detected signs of the iron fist in the velvet glove and was sorely tempted to defy him and provide herself with an excuse to be out on Thursday evening, but on more sober reflection she decided that she had better not. But she did not look forward to Thursday. She knew it would be easier to keep a check on her emotions if she and Philip never met except on the ward, where their worlds were divided by the impassable gulf lying between the consultant and the probationer.
Thursday came, however, with its usual inevitability, and the evening went off quite well. Philip's own manner made it easy to be cool and distant and yet friendly at the same time. He made it quite clear that he was not paying a social call but had come for help on a project that was very near his heart.
His interest in Bazualiland stemmed, it seemed, from his father, who had been an Army doctor and stationed for several years in the territory as a young man. He had never forgotten the disease and misery he had seen amongst the native people there, and though he had never been able to do anything about it he had never lost his concern and had passed it on to his son.
"The time seems ripe—in fact it's now or never," Philip Conway told them. "It may be that the Government will see the wisdom of doing something for the people there before it's too late. But the cost is pretty terrific and my contact in the Government tells me that it would possibly help more than a bit to get the backing of influential people and firms who have an interest in the place, either because they employ native labour or have got large staffs of their own out there. If they would promise any financial help at all—say the provision of salary for a doctor or a nurse or set up some sort of scholarship scheme, it would be of tremendous help in g
etting the scheme through. Sheer weight of interest will help, even without the finance, because of course the whole thing is beyond the scope of the private donor and the major cost will have to come from the Government."
"So what you want from us," Toby Forbes put in, "is a list of people we know to be interested—heads of firms, and so forth."
"That's right, sir. You fire away with the names and I'll jot them down."
Between them they drew up a pretty comprehensive list of about forty names which included, as well as the industrial interests, the names of several people who had worked for the welfare of the Protectorate and surrounding country. There were also two doctors on the list, and two or three missionary societies.
"What are you going to do now? Write to them all and tell them what you have in mind?" Ronnie asked, chin in hands, as they sat round the dining table, now littered with files and letters which dated back to their days in Africa.
He shook his head. "No. I want a much more personal approach than that. A letter can be thrown in the wastepaper basket. Do you remember I spoke to you
about entertaining, a few days ago? We're going to invite them all to a cocktail party as a start."
"We? " Ronnie suddenly sat bolt upright.
His eyes were on her and they were amused and mocking. "Yes. You and your father will send out the invitations, of course—"
"And where do you come in?" Ronnie asked almost rudely, for the suggestion had almost taken her breath away.
"Oh, you'll invite them to meet me, of course," he said modestly.
"But we can't—" she began.
But she did not have an opportunity even to voice her objections. Philip Conway got up and sorted his own papers together. "All you have to do is send out the invitations—all the rest will be taken care of. Withers will be in the seventh heaven of delight ! Oh, and of course, remember not to get yourself dated up for that night ... which reminds me, we haven't fixed a date—" he consulted his pocket diary. "How about February the fourteenth—that suit you?"
Nurse Ronnie's Vocation Page 7