‘I have not!’
‘Well, he’s made a lot more appearances in your conversation than anyone else has.’ Natalie’s voice warmed; she clasped her friend’s hand. ‘He sounds nice.’
‘He is.’
‘So what’s the problem? Not still that jerk Peter, is it?’
Grace sighed. ‘In a way. Partly. It’s quite difficult to trust after something like that. But it’s also Mike. I told you his wife died in a car crash last year. Well…he’s still in love with her.’
Natalie looked at her solemnly. ‘But you have slept with him, right?’
‘Natalie!’
‘Grace, you’re acting sad, but your eyes light up when you mention him.’
‘That doesn’t come into it. I don’t…’ She paused, realising it was true. ‘I don’t want to be second best.’
It seemed a very long journey back. Leaving the bright lights of Manchester, leaving the shops and restaurants and wide streets and bold sculptures and bustling activity. But the moors soothed Grace as always, even ghostly white and deserted in the darkness. And coming into Rivercut’s narrow main road with the Carters’ over-the-top Christmas display visible from the edge of the village, she smiled, wondering how she could have been so daft to consider Robert’s offer even for a moment.
The Carters had competition—the manor was ablaze with lights, several vans parked in the drive. Grace was impressed. Mike had meant it when he’d said he wanted to get started on necessary work as soon as possible. Part of her wanted to pull into the drive, to see what it was he was doing. But part of her preferred to leave well alone, to remember the manor as it had always been, decaying grandeur and all. All the same, curiosity might have won if her car headlights hadn’t suddenly caught the glint of wrought-iron gates. A pattern of graceful loops and whorls she hadn’t seen since childhood.
Grace rolled numbly to a halt, unable to look away. Mike must have found the gates in one of the barns. Not only found them—he’d had gateposts installed and fixed them back in place. She wound down her window to the acrid smell of new paint.
Gates across the drive again. No matter that they were standing open now, the very fact of them being there at all proclaimed the change in ownership. The manor was no longer her home.
Mike was woken up by a heavy weight clambering on top of him. For a split second his sleepy body hoped it might be Grace, but the words ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ made him realise his mistake.
‘Go away,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s Sunday.’
His daughter giggled. ‘I know.’
He growled and caught her in a tickling cuddle. It was only later, washed, dressed and breakfasted, holding Bethany’s hand as she skipped beside him on their way to the manor, that Mike realised his first thought that morning had been for Grace, not Sarah. The revelation came as such a shock that he missed his footing and thumped down hard in a sitting position, half in snow, half in slush. Bethany found it highly amusing.
‘If you’re tired you should have knocked,’ called a voice. ‘You could have rested for a moment before going on to the manor.’
Grace! She was just putting her bag into the Land Rover. Mike scrambled to his feet, brushing snow off his anorak. She looked gorgeous. Wait a moment, though…‘Why are you in uniform?’ he said with a frown. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘One of my patients had a fall overnight and the dressing is oozing.’
‘But you’re off duty. Can’t they ring the out-of-hours service?’
‘Mike, it’ll take me forty minutes maximum. Don’t fuss.’
Don’t fuss? He was a doctor! It was his job to fuss. ‘Grace, I’ve seen too many medical professionals have breakdowns because they do too much. You have to look after yourself. Time off—time spent doing things for yourself—is important.’
She smiled and opened the driver’s door. ‘All I had planned for this morning was wrapping presents. How can that be more important than a patient in pain?’
There was no answer to that. Mike felt all the frustration of arguing with a woman who knew she was in the right. ‘Just you make sure it is only forty minutes, then,’ he said grumpily.
‘It will be.’
‘We’ve got presents,’ said Bethany, fixing on the important bit of the conversation. ‘Under Grandad’s tree.’ She sighed. ‘But I’m not allowed to open them until Christmas.’
‘Fair’s fair,’ said Grace. ‘Baby Jesus had to wait for his presents, didn’t he?’
‘Our baby Jesus is a doll. Will you come and see me be an angel? Daddy’s made me a halo to wear.’
Mike caught his breath, waiting for Grace’s answer. He thought she looked touched and very pleased to be asked.
‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘When is it?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Tuesday afternoon in the church, with a repeat performance on Sunday. You have no idea what strict instructions we’ve been given about when to get there and which carols to practise and to make sure they all know their lines and don’t wear coloured knickers under the angel dresses. This isn’t a nativity—it’s show business!’
Grace laughed. When had that rich tone started making him tingle? ‘It will be lovely,’ she said, getting into the car. ‘My friend Liz is a bit of a perfectionist, that’s all, and the Reverend Christine wants her first Christmas here to really stand out.’
‘Believe me, it will! I’m willing to sing “Once in Royal David’s City” just one more time but then that’s it till next Christmas.’
‘I’d better go, Mike. Try not to fall down any more on your way to the manor.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He shut the door for her, waited for her to wind down the window to say goodbye. ‘Oh, did you see I found the gates? Eventually I’ll have an electric system fitted so you can open them without getting out of the car.’
‘That would have shocked the people who originally built the house.’
‘Cheaper than employing a full-time gatekeeper.’ He studied her face. ‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head as if impatient with herself and started the car. ‘Nothing. The gates are great. I suppose I’m just taking longer than I expected to get used to the change.’
‘But you liked the thought of the secret passage being unblocked. You liked the idea of the kitchen being thrown open and a conservatory added.’
She raised her voice to carry over the sound of the engine. ‘Yes, I did. Don’t worry about it, Mike. I’m being irrational. Bye, Bethany.’
He and Bethany watched her drive off up the village street, then they resumed their walk to the manor. What was wrong with the gates? They were safe, practical, original…She was being irrational. All the same, her words about it taking time to get used to change started an interesting train of thought in his mind.
The cold weather was starting to take its toll. Grace had a lot more calls than normal from patients who wondered whether she could just call in on her way past rather than them travel into Rivercut. She was finishing typing up her notes for the day when there was a tap on her door. Mike on his way to start his evening surgery.
‘Grace, I was wondering about instigating a weekly review of the patients that don’t pass through my or Dad’s hands. Just to keep us aware of any problems that might be brewing.’
Grace looked at him levelly. There was a touch too much innocent helpfulness in his tone. ‘This wouldn’t be about you deciding whether I should or shouldn’t go out on my own time to patients, would it? Because a district nurse is generally held to be autonomous and capable of making up her own mind as to whether she’s needed or not.’
‘Nurse Fellowes, I wouldn’t dream of calling your professional judgement into question!’
Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘But?’
Mike sighed. ‘But I’ve seen your workload. I’m not sure your heart knows the difference between genuinely needy and taking advantage.’
She was torn between irritation at the interference and warmth that he cared about her doing too much
. ‘Away to your patients, Dr Curtis. You’re just going to have to trust me until we’re less busy.’
All the same, because of the extra calls she was late finishing and late leaving, and more tired than normal when she got home. Maybe Mike had a point, she thought as she climbed the stairs wearily and fell into bed.
Next morning she realised with horror that she’d either slept through the alarm or had forgotten to set it. She washed hastily, dressed, grabbed the local paper out of the letterbox and hurried up to the surgery for her regular Tuesday clinic without stopping for breakfast. She got a couple of odd looks from people on the way, but it wasn’t until she slipped into the surgery kitchen for a coffee in a short lull between patients and opened The Moors News that she found out why. There on the third page was the announcement of an engagement and an article—with photographs—about the engagement party at a posh country house hotel.
MATCH OF THE YEAR, it was headed. Prominent landowner Raymond Threlkeld had apparently had great pleasure in announcing the betrothal of his only daughter, Lorna, to local solicitor Peter Cox. He had welcomed many eminent county residents to an opulent dinner-dance in order to celebrate alongside the happy couple.
There followed a list of said guests, a description of the menu and a report on the male half of the happy couple’s speech. ‘I have spent my whole life looking for a woman like Lorna,’ he said, looking deeply into his fiancée’s eyes. ‘And now I have found her.’
Grace felt sick. I have spent my whole life looking for a woman like Lorna. Those were words Peter had used to her as well. Just at this moment she didn’t think she would ever trust a man again.
The door opened and Mike dashed in. ‘Excellent, you’ve got the kettle on. I could kill for a mug of…Grace? What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ She fumbled a second mug out of the cupboard and put a spoonful of coffee into it. She heard the rustle of newspaper, an intake of breath.
‘Oh, Grace.’ Mike’s arms came around her in a comforting hug. Just for a moment it was so nice to be held like that. He moved his lips to her ear. ‘You really should have let me punch him, you know.’
Grace gave a shaky laugh. ‘He’d sue you. Thanks, Mike. I’m all right.’ She splashed milk quickly into her mug and headed back to her room. Any more of that and she’d melt. She wanted to melt. But that would be a disaster. She needed to be Nurse Fellowes again, professional and in control.
‘I still say he was mad,’ Mike called after her.
Several patients’ heads swivelled interestedly. Oh, thank you, Mike, thought Grace.
‘Getting on well with young Dr Curtis, are you?’ wheezed her next patient.
‘He’s a very good doctor,’ said Grace repressively. She slipped the blood-pressure cuff on and set the timer. ‘Relax, please.’
But gossip was life blood to Mrs Smithson. ‘We’ve all been saying how suitable it would be, what with his poor little girl motherless and you not getting any younger. And when we heard how your car was outside the surgery all night last week, well, we were pleased as punch. Nobody’s worried about that sort of thing these days, are they?’
‘I had a meal with both the doctors Curtis and there was wine, which is why I walked home. Your blood pressure’s fine, Mrs Smithson. Now, can you breathe deeply and then blow as hard as possible into this tube for me? See how efficiently your lungs are working.’
Not as efficiently as the local grapevine, that was for sure. Grace went through the rest of the checks resolving to be discreet with a capital D in her future dealings with the Curtis household.
The Nativity play was to be at two o’clock in the church. Grace had a couple of visits to make in the village, but got a phone call while she was at Mrs Johnson’s house to ask if she could pop in to see Mr Harris, whose daughter was concerned that he’d had a dizzy spell. Unfortunately, Mr Harris lived at the other end of Rivercut, which meant by the time Grace had got there, diagnosed the problem and hurried to St Lawrence’s she was late. Not to worry, she’d slip into the back and would still be able to tell Bethany truthfully that she’d watched the whole thing.
First problem—there was standing room only. Evidently the school parents wanted to make a good impression on the new vicar. Also, a good half of them had camcorders. She’d be continually in the way. Second problem—Mike was twisting round from his position in the front pew, looking for her. When he saw her he beckoned that he’d saved her a place. Oh, great. Grace walked the entire length of the aisle feeling as if her face was blazing as brightly as Rudolph’s nose.
‘All okay?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Do I need to see Mr Harris?’
‘Not unless you take a glass with you,’ Grace murmured back. ‘He’d smuggled himself in a bottle of whisky and had started on the Christmas cheer early. I’m not surprised he’d had a dizzy spell.’
Mike chuckled. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said simply.
How could he make her heart ache with just one sentence? ‘Is everything all right backstage?’ she asked. ‘Not too much stage fright?’
‘Couple of nasty moments when the halos slipped on the walk up here from school, but otherwise they seem to be all right.’
The organ started playing. Good, she didn’t have to talk any more.
Christine—Rivercut’s new vicar—welcomed the audience and said how happy she was that the youngest children at the school had chosen a traditional Nativity to perform on this, her first Christmas here. Then there was a scuffle in the screened-off side chapel and Liz was heard exhorting the shepherds to get out into the nave and start watching their flocks. The play had begun.
The moment the angels filed in, Mike grasped Grace’s hand. She couldn’t blame him. Bethany looked enchanting. Perhaps she spoiled it a bit by looking into the audience and smiling widely at Grace and Mike, but most of the children did that. It added to the charm.
Strangely, though, it was when Mary and Joseph came on stage, looking for an inn to stay the night, that Grace broke down. Tears ran down her face. Over twenty years ago she had played the pregnant Mary and she had loved it. And now a child that she…that she loved was taking part in the same play.
Mike saw her tears and squeezed her fingers before passing her a tissue. After she’d dried her eyes he didn’t take her hand again. She told herself this was sensible. There was enough talk as it was.
It was a magical afternoon. Everyone remembered their lines or were gently prompted by Liz. Bethany was a wonderful angel and spoke clearly. The familiar carols sung in children’s voices brought a lump to her throat. The Christmas story ended, the cast lined up, smiling and waving in relief; the applause was tumultuous.
‘I need to collect Bethany,’ said Mike over the noise.
Grace nodded. She’d wait for them outside. It was too busy in here and she wanted to be alone to collect her thoughts for a moment. She threaded her way through the press of parents to the church door, twisted the iron ring and stepped out into a world where the sun was just disappearing behind a bank of lowering snow-laden clouds.
Straight into the path of Peter Cox and Lorna Threlkeld.
‘Well, well,’ said Peter. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
Grace stiffened. ‘If you wanted the Nativity, you’ve just missed it.’
‘Why would we?’ drawled Lorna. ‘I get enough of kids at the stables. We’re here to see the vicar about arranging our wedding.’
‘Come to that, why are you here, Grace? You don’t have any—’ Peter broke off, looking into the church. ‘Oh, I see. Congratulations. You really have found someone to keep you and the manor in the style to which you’d like to be accustomed, haven’t you? Quick work.’
Grace turned to see Mike hoisting Bethany in his arms, about to set off up the aisle.
Peter was still talking, softly poisonous. ‘And a surrogate child too to slake those maternal longings. Clever Grace. You get his gratitude and an instant family in one fell swoop.’
Mike had been detained, talking to the mo
ther of one of Bethany’s friends. Thank goodness for small mercies. ‘You’re wrong,’ said Grace between set teeth. ‘There is nothing between Dr Curtis and myself except work.’
‘Don’t give me that. A widower with the inconvenience of a small child? You’re a gift from the gods, Grace. Over-sexed, pathetically grateful and poor. And right on his doorstep.’
Lorna laughed and linked her arm in Peter’s. ‘A match made in Heaven, in fact. Come on, darling. The vicar must be finished with this lot by now, surely?’
They strolled inside. The parents and children streaming out blocked Grace’s view of the nave. She felt ill. Sick and shaken. Was it true? What Peter had said? Was she all those horrible things? And was Mike taking advantage of her?
Her phone went. One of her more cantankerous patients wanted to know how much longer she was going to be. Grace had never been more pleased in her life to hurry off.
Away from the church.
Away from people.
Away from Mike.
Chapter Eleven
MIKE zipped Bethany into her coat, picked up the bag with her school clothes in and hoisted her into his arms. It was going to be easier getting out of the church if he was carrying her rather than worrying about her tripping everyone up. Bethany was pouring an excited monologue into his ear, but for once he wasn’t giving her his full attention. Where was Grace? He’d assumed she’d be waiting for them. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t by the door. He’d felt so close to her, watching the Nativity. It had almost been like…Almost been as if they were a family. He looked down the street through the thinning crowd of parents—and saw her Land Rover pull away from the side of the road. Of course. He’d forgotten she’d be still working this afternoon. She must be on her way to her next appointment. He set Bethany on her feet—an angel in anorak and Wellington boots—and trudged back home with her, feeling flat with disappointment.
There was no message from Grace on the surgery phone or his mobile. Once evening surgery was over and Bethany in James’s care, Mike walked down to the cottage.
Hot-Shot Doc, Christmas Bride / Christmas At Rivercut Manor Page 28