Queen's Nurse

by Jane Arbor

  There was a baby who whimpered a little and a small boy with a cough ... And in a corner there was an old lady with a shawl over her head, her work-gnarled hands folded placidly, her wrinkled lids closed over a pair of bright, darting eyes. At the age of seventy-six Martha Tingle still gutted herrings for the fishermen in Cranemouth’s tiny harbor, but as she had confided to Jess, she believed in snatching “a bit of sleep” whenever she could.

  Watching them all, Jess was grateful that she had never left herself case hardened, unable to see patients as so many individual people with worries and sicknesses that were only too real to themselves but which they were sometimes shy of sharing. She supposed it was because she found it easier to like people than to dislike them that her sympathy sprang readily toward them in trouble, and perhaps that was the essence of her love of nursing. As a nurse there was usually something you could do to help!

  As the door opened once more she looked up. She had been expecting someone who had not arrived, and when the newcomer was revealed as Dr. Gilder she felt slightly baffled, resolving that she must mention the case to him at the end of office hours.

  Meanwhile, he was bustling through the waiting room to a chorus of “Good morning, doctor!” beckoning to Jess as he passed.

  She followed him into the consulting room and watched him unload a pile of papers from his briefcase. She smiled to herself. Dr. Gilder was a fine doctor, but he had no ordered purpose about his dealings with official forms. He kept them until they threatened to swamp him and then passed them on to anyone who could cope with them for him. At their first interview he had told Jess with a twinkle, “You’ll have to watch me, nurse, or you’ll find yourself acting as my unpaid secretary before you know where you are!”

  This morning he said, “Well, nurse?” inviting her report on the patients she had seen, tapping thoughtfully with his pencil and asking a shrewd question or two before giving her fresh instructions. Then they were ready for the patients who were waiting. The morning’s work had begun.

  By a quarter to twelve the waiting room was empty, and Dr. Gilder was washing his hands for the last time. “Anything else, nurse?” he queried.

  “Well, there was something, doctor. You know the Castle children—they have been in quarantine for a measles contact?”

  “Castle? Oh, yes, the father works for Mr. Forester, doesn’t he? Why—are they starting measles after all?”

  “No, and they are free of quarantine now. But I am worried about the boy. He was doing some chalking at the kitchen table when I called, and I noticed that in order to see what he was doing his head was nearly on the table—his eyes were no more than an inch or two from his work.”

  “Hmm. Did you call the mother’s attention to it?”

  “Yes. I suggested that his eyes ought to be tested, and I told her there’d be office hours today.”

  “But she didn’t bring him?”

  “No, and I’ve been remembering an odd remark she made. She said, “Well, nurse, I’ll see squire and find out what he thinks.” As if she thought she must ask Mr. Forester’s permission to take her child to a doctor!”

  Dr. Gilder smiled at the sight of Jess’s puzzled, worried face. “What if she did?” he retorted. “It shows a healthy respect for the squire’s power, don’t you think?”

  “But he shouldn’t have such power!” protested Jess indignantly.

  “I don’t know that I agree. I’d say that it isn’t such a bad thing in these days for a community to possess the sort of center, or core, which Quintains appears to be: It gives people a sense of belonging, and that’s always desirable, surely?”

  “Yes, I suppose so—”

  “But you still think the squire’s influence should stop short of advising on spectacles for small boys, eh? All right, nurse—I’ll cope! Have you met Forester yet, by the way?”

  “Yes—when I attended Mrs. Seacombe the other day.”

  “Then you must have realized that he is no ogre of an overlord—only someone whom the village people look up to and trust. And they aren’t the only ones. I daresay Mrs. Seacombe told you something of the story of that poor child who is staying at Quintains?”

  “Mrs. Seacombe didn’t, but I met Miss Hart herself. She is rather a lovely person, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, and responding at last to our efforts to build her up into the sturdy bonniness that she’ll need to withstand our East Anglian winters after Kenya, for I gather that Forester means her to make a permanent home at Quintains. But I mustn’t stay here gossiping. I’ll send out the serum, nurse, and you understand there’s no question of young Carter’s attempting to use that wrist...?” Dr. Gilder gathered his belongings and closed his briefcase. But there were a dozen more such directions before he departed at last leaving Jess as she had expected, to deal with the forms that he declared she understood as well as he did and could take over from him if she would.

  When he had gone, she closed the surgery and settled to them gladly enough. She was encouraged by his confidence in her after so short a time working with her. It offset Muir Forester’s questioning of her ability and all Mrs. Bretton’s waspish insinuations. She knew what Dr. Gilder meant by a sense of belonging. Here in her work she was beginning to have it now.

  She had to make her next visit to Mrs. Seacombe an afternoon call instead of a morning one and telephoned to Quintains to say so, only to be warmly invited by Liane to have tea with her instead of morning coffee. So Jess arranged her other visits first and then went up to Quintains as her last call of the day.

  She found Mrs. Seacombe much encouraged by the progress her ankle had made with the help of the exercises, which she had done faithfully. And tonight, she told Jess, unable to conceal the warm, secret excitement she felt, her son, Peter, was due to arrive.

  “I think he means to spend the whole of his leave here with me, so I hope he won’t be too bored,” she worried.

  “Does he like the country?” asked Jess.

  “He always has done. Before he went into the army he played schoolboy golf, and he swims, of course. But you never know how army life may change a young man’s tastes, do you?” Mrs. Seacombe’s tone was wistful.

  “I shouldn’t worry. He’ll be able to play golf at the club, and there’s the whole of the North Sea to swim in,” comforted Jess. “Does he drive a car?”

  “Yes, and he said he’d like to hire one for the period of his leave. I shall encourage him in that, because otherwise he might be tempted to accept Mr. Forester’s offer of his car when he isn’t using it. It is very kind of Mr. Forester, of course, but I shouldn’t want Peter to presume so far.”

  Jess looked surprised.

  Mrs. Seacombe went on, “I mean, nurse, that for Peter to accept would imply that we don’t appreciate my position here, and I shouldn’t care for that.”

  “But Mr. Forester wouldn’t have made the offer if he didn’t want your son to accept it!”

  “All the same, I’d rather he didn’t, and I hope Peter will understand.” Mrs. Seacombe’s lips were pursed, as if she were reluctant to discuss the matter further.

  So as a change of subject, Jess ventured, “Well, you’ll soon be able to go about with Peter if your ankle goes on as well as this, and meanwhile, I expect Miss Hart will be able to show him around—”

  Instantly she was aware of the older woman’s recoil from the suggestion.

  Mrs. Seacombe said rather distantly, “I shouldn’t regard that as very suitable, either. Miss Hart has her own position here as Mr. Forester’s protégée, and I shouldn’t wish to see Peter taking any of her time that Mr. Forester might wish her to spend otherwise.”

  Oh dear, thought Jess, this then was Mrs. Seacombe’s attitude of “knowing her place,” of which Liane had complained so ruefully! So far, it seemed, it had kept Liane from making one valued, sincere friend, and now it threatened to cut her off from the companionship of someone her own age that Peter Seacombe might bring to her. Jess hesitated, wondering how far any word from her
as to the girl’s real need of friendship could be construed as mere interference in such things that did not concern her. But she resolved to try.

  She said gently, “Do you know, at my first meeting with Miss Hart I got the impression that she would dearly love to have as much of her time occupied as possible, whether it were in other young people’s company or—or even in tasks about the house. Just because she is as pretty as she is doesn’t necessarily mean that she is useless, and even if she doesn’t understand the routine of English households, I think she’d dearly love to learn—and to learn from you, Mrs. Seacombe.”

  Jess stopped, realizing that her boldness could have invited the snub direct. But Mrs. Seacombe seemed less offended than unimpressed by the argument.

  “But of course Miss Hart is free to take any part she wishes in the running of the house. I’ve always presumed that Mr. Forester wouldn’t care for her to do so yet, and, of course, any change in her position or in our relationship would have to stem from him, not from me. In any case, I can’t think that he would want her to take over any menial household tasks, since it is obvious that his ultimate plans for her are quite different—”

  Baffled, Jess gave up and said no more. She could not but respect Mrs. Seacombe’s determination not to overstep certain boundaries of position. But surely her attitude was as outworn as the dodo? She was a lady, she acted as hostess at Muir Forester’s table and clearly he was only too willing to accord her both dignity and friendship on his own level. Jess hoped that Peter Seacombe’s sense of his position was not as warped, or social intercourse at Quintains during the next few weeks promised to be difficult indeed!

  On the terrace where an exquisitely appointed tea table awaited Liane’s presiding, Jess took off her hat and relaxed in a deck chair, closing her eyes against the brilliance of the sunlight and reveling in the light breeze that lifted her curls gently, almost lovingly.

  She found herself remembering Mrs. Seacombe’s last words ... With quiet reserve Mrs. Seacombe had been telling her the same thing as had Mrs. Bretton’s blatant gossip—that when the time was ripe Muir Forester would ask Liane to marry him. If Mrs. Seacombe were less balanced, less honest than she was, her shutting out of Liane could be put down to jealousy of a girl who would ultimately usurp the position she held as Muir’s hostess. But Jess knew it was not that. It was, rather, that Mrs. Seacombe had accepted the inevitable—that one day, Liane, as Muir’s wife, would be mistress of Quintains in her own right, ruling it in her own way, which need not be Mrs. Seacombe’s way, since she would no longer be there.

  Jess’s thoughts broke off as Liane ran out onto the terrace, windblown and flushed from riding, she said, with Muir.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized charmingly. “Muir had further to go over the farms, but I told him I must come back as you’d be waiting. He won’t be in to tea, or if he is, not till later.” She indicated her jodhpurs and clinging silk shirt. “Do you mind if I don’t change? Say you do mind, and you’ll wait for your tea!” she added as a laughing threat.

  “Of course I don’t mind. I had to be in uniform myself.”

  “Yes, of course. You’ve been working all day, poor thing. No, I don’t mean poor thing. I envy you really. Where have you been, and whom did you see? Or isn’t it etiquette to tell me? Don’t if you mustn’t.”

  Jess smiled and related the highlights of her day, though some of the people she mentioned were not known to Liane.

  “But I do know most of them by name,” she explained. “And of course Muir knows them all. They come to him for the oddest things, too. Yesterday, when I was with him in his study, a Mrs. Castle came to say that you had said her little boy needed glasses. She wanted to know whether Muir considered she ought to take him to the doctor!”

  “What did Mr. Forester say?”

  “Well, he was a little sharp with her, I thought. You know—or perhaps you don’t—” Liane caught back a sigh “—how abrupt he can be sometimes. He said that if you had advised her to take the child to Dr. Gilder, that should be enough and that she should not have delayed for even a day. Afterward, of course, he called Dr. Gilder for her and made her have a cup of tea before she went home. Muir is like that.”

  As she stopped speaking, Liane’s eyes traveled beyond Jess to rest, unfocused and thoughtful, upon the sunlit garden. Her hands lay in a relaxed clasp upon her knees, and with a little pang Jess thought, she has gone away into the secret place in her mind that she keeps for Muir Forester. It is the place where, though she admits he is difficult to know and to placate, she understands him and explains him to herself. It is the place where, if it has not done so yet, love for him will dawn...

  Why could she not be more glad for Liane, Jess wondered—glad that her sad story should bring her to the happy ending of becoming Muir’s wife and mistress of this lovely, placid house? Jess only, knew that there was a fog that lay between her and a wholehearted sharing of the other girl’s happiness to come. She could not grope through it, and she was ashamed of it. But it was there.

  Liane emerged from her reverie to challenge, “Well, now, tell me about yourself. What is your Christian name? May I call you by it? And how old are you?”

  “I’m Jess. I only hope you will call me by it, and I’m twenty-four.”

  “That’s what Muir guessed—”

  So they had discussed her, thought Jess, with a stab of curiosity as to what Muir Forester had said of her.

  “I’m twenty—twenty-one next month. Daddy had planned to give me a big party at the club in Nairobi—” Liane broke off, her eyes clouding.

  After an instant of silence Jess said gently, “Talk about Kenya if you want to, Liane.”

  Liane shook her head. “Not today. I don’t want to, though I’m grateful to know that I can talk to you when I must. No, there’s something else today—” She broke off, frowning, then went on hesitantly, “I feel I can ask you, Jess, because you’ll know. You’re engaged, Muir says—”

  “Not engaged,” Jess refuted quickly.

  “Oh—” Liane glanced at Jess’s ringless hands. “Muir said you were, and I supposed you didn’t wear your ring because of your uniform. But if it’s not official, forgive me—”

  “It doesn’t matter—” Jess perceived that the interruption had thrown Liane’s train of thought off balance, as it were, and if the girl really wanted to ask her something this was not the time to intrude her own petty problem, urgent as it seemed to her. There would be other chances, she promised herself, to explain to Liane—if not to Muir Forester—that she was not engaged to Michael and never had been.

  She prompted, “You wanted to ask me something, Liane?”

  “Yes.” Liane was staring at her hands, now clasped into a single, tight fist between her knees. She went on, “Jess, how—how can you tell when you love someone?”

  She was speaking of Muir. That meant that he had already asked her to marry him, but she questioned the response of her own heart! How could Jess not strain every nerve to answer the appeal of the hesitant words, the bewilderment in the eyes now turned toward her?

  But how did one trust the unknown thing, know it for love when it came, sometimes unbidden, even unwanted—the clamoring disturbance of all that had satisfied before—work and play and the easy friendships that demanded so much less? For long moments Liane’s question went unanswered—because it was a question Jess did not want to answer for herself.

  At last she began, “Liane, dear, I think you mightn’t expect to know for certain—at the beginning, that is. How could you, if you’d never experienced it before? Though perhaps you might know it first for a sort of challenge that was frightening in a way—”

  “Well, I am sometimes afraid of him—of Muir I mean,” murmured Liane.

  So it was true! Jess forced her voice to steadiness as she went on. “I think the challenge might frighten you, but you’d feel you wouldn’t forego it for anything. And you’d want to treasure all the things the man you love says to you
or of you, making little importances of them, breathing a warmth into them by the sheer strength of your hope that they mean more than they say.”

  Liane breathed. “You’ve been through that, Jess? Over the man you say you’re not officially engaged to?”

  “Yes, I’ve been through it,” said Jess, knowing at the instant of Liane’s question that she had, was even going through it now. But not for Michael Leyden. Ah, not for Michael...

  Liane asked, “What else would you feel? Sort of sheltered and protected by knowing you were loved?”

  “Yes, all that—”

  “Not—not frightened in a different way? Afraid of not coming up to his standards in everything?”

  “You may be humbled by the wonder of it and surprised at being loved in return. But I don’t think you could afford to pretend to standards in anything that you knew you couldn’t reach. Because I believe that love ought to attain a kind of shining peace for you both—almost making one person of the two of you. And you couldn’t achieve that by striving to be something you are not. After all, Liane, Mr. Forester must love you for yourself—just as you are, for all the difference in your ages and perhaps in the way you look at things.”

  “Yes. Yes—I suppose he does,” agreed Liane slowly, adding ingenuously, “It’s just that I—I wasn’t sure about my feelings, and I thought you’d know. You see, I wanted to be quite sure before—”