The Nightingale Christmas Show

by Donna Douglas

  Although if the woman’s effusive description was to be believed, such things would not be necessary. All Miriam would have to do was look for a man who bore a striking resemblance to Clark Gable.

  Or probably more like Peter Lorre, she thought.

  She had arranged to meet Frank outside the hotel. She didn’t want to waste money on an expensive afternoon tea if Frank stood her up and she had to sit and eat it all by herself with everyone watching her.

  It looked as if she was right to be cautious when ten minutes went by and there was no sign of him.

  Typical, Miriam thought. Another afternoon wasted. She was just about to leave when a deep voice behind her said, ‘Miss Trott?’

  She turned around, and found herself staring up into the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. She had never visited the Mediterranean, but she felt sure that the sun sparkling off the blue-green sea must be the same colour.

  ‘I’m Frank Tillery,’ he said. ‘I think you’re expecting me?’

  He was wrong, Miriam thought. She had certainly not been expecting anything like the tall, well-dressed man who stood before her. It was as if he had stepped straight from the pages of an Agatha Pendlebury novel, with his darkly handsome looks and winning smile. She would have said there must have been a mistake but for the bright red carnation in the lapel of his jacket.

  Miriam was so shocked she could scarcely speak.

  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. Even his voice was thrilling, deep with a hint of upper class about it. ‘The traffic was terrible, I had to get out of the taxi and walk from Holborn. Am I terribly late?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Miriam instantly forgot her irritation. ‘I was early.’

  ‘Had I known such a charming lady was waiting for me, I would have run all the way down Kingsway.’ He smiled disarmingly at her, and offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go in? That is, assuming you aren’t so horrified by my tardiness that you wish to have nothing more to do with me?’

  Miriam opened and closed her mouth, but all that emerged was a weak smile.

  Frank’s manners were as charming as his looks. But as she stared across the table at him, Miriam felt uneasy. Surely there must be something wrong with him? No man could be so handsome and so charming, and not have been claimed already.

  She was never that lucky. This sort of thing simply did not happen to her. He would be boorish, she decided. Conceited, full of himself. He would spend the whole time talking about himself, telling her how wonderful he was …

  But he didn’t. Instead, he was delightful company. He was funny, intelligent and talked more about Miriam than he did about himself. He was wealthy, too, judging by the expensive cut of his suit.

  But still she couldn’t stop looking for a fault. Perhaps it was the way he ate? Perhaps he would have no table manners, or slurp his tea? But everything about him was utterly perfect. It was as if she had conjured the ideal man from her imagination and made him real.

  Even Miriam, with her uncanny ability to find fault, was utterly mesmerised.

  So then, of course, she became convinced that if there was nothing wrong with him, there must be something wrong with her.

  She would never be good enough for him, she decided. Although to her surprise, Frank seemed to be quite enjoying her company. He listened avidly to what she had to say, and even paid her a few compliments.

  Halfway through the date, she excused herself and hurried off to the powder room, where she quickly teased her brown curls and put on some lipstick. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was quite surprised that she liked what she saw. Even her old brown suit couldn’t dim the sparkle in her eyes, or the rosy flush in her cheeks.

  ‘And do you work, Miss Trott?’ Frank asked when she returned to the table.

  ‘No. I have – independent means.’

  She didn’t know what possessed her to say it. All she knew was that she desperately wanted to appear interesting, and not as she was, a dull little middle-aged spinster.

  ‘I see. So you’re an heiress?’

  Miriam gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘That would be telling,’ she replied evasively.

  ‘A woman of mystery, eh? How intriguing.’ He leaned across the table, his interest kindling. ‘Do tell me more, Miss Trott.’

  Miriam thought desperately for a moment. ‘Actually, my father made a fortune in the colonies,’ she said. ‘Before he died, that is. He contracted malaria while he was overseeing our new tea plantation in India.’

  In fact, her father was an accountant and had never been further than Frinton-on-Sea. But Portia, the raven-haired heroine of Sins of the Father, had been left in such a precarious position. It wasn’t an Agatha Pendlebury, but it was still one of her favourites.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ Frank said.

  ‘Indeed. My uncle tried to cheat me out of my fortune, but thankfully I was able to prevail.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He frowned, and for a moment Miriam wondered if she had embellished her story a little too much. ‘And where do you live now?’ he asked.

  ‘Kensington. I live all alone, except for a couple of faithful family retainers.’

  ‘I see.’ Frank looked thoughtful. ‘You have quite a story to tell, Miss Trott.’

  Miriam smiled back at him. Unfortunately this part wasn’t her story, but that of naïve ingénue Julianna in Agatha Pendlebury’s Innocent Passion, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be seeing Frank again for him to find out the truth.

  Because for all her intriguing stories, she knew their first date would also be their last.

  As they left the Waldorf and the doorman hailed them a taxi, Miriam was already steeling herself for the usual polite goodbye. Frank would tell her how much he enjoyed meeting her, hint at some vague rendezvous in the future – and then he would go off in his cab and she would never see him again.

  By the time the taxi arrived, she was ready, her brittle smile in place.

  ‘Well, it’s been delightful—’ she started to say. Frank frowned.

  ‘Aren’t you getting in?’ he asked.

  It was only then that she noticed he was holding the taxi door open for her. ‘But—’

  She was about to say she would catch the bus, then remembered she was supposed to be a wealthy heiress.

  ‘I’ll take another cab,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no need, I have to pass Kensington on my way home. I can drop you off. Unless you really can’t bear another moment of my company?’ Frank looked rueful.

  Miriam smiled. ‘Put like that, how can I refuse?’

  This was not the way it usually happened, she thought as they drove off. Most of the time men couldn’t wait to get away from her. Yet here was Frank, wanting to hold on to her company for longer. It was a strange and unnerving feeling.

  She watched the streets going past, taking her further and further away from Bethnal Green. If they went much further, she would be quite lost.

  Finally, she recognised the Albert Memorial and asked Frank to let her out.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t mind taking you to your door, if you tell me your address—’

  ‘No, it’s quite all right,’ Miriam assured him hastily. ‘It’s such a nice evening for a walk.’

  Frank glanced out at the sky, threatening snow. ‘Well, if you’re certain …’ He signalled to the driver to stop, then turned back to her. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘May I see you again, Miss Trott?’

  The question took her by surprise. ‘Why?’ she blurted out.

  He smiled. ‘Why not?’

  She could think of many reasons. But all that came out of her mouth was, ‘Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.’

  It had started to snow. Miriam shivered in her thin jacket as the first flakes began to fall. It was a long way back to Bethnal Green, and she didn’t have the money for another taxi. All she had was her bus fare, but she did not have the faintest idea where to catch the bus back to the East End.

  But she w
as so happy she could have burst into song.

  It was late when she arrived back at the Nightingale, cold, weary and bedraggled. Sister Hyde was on her way to bed when Miriam let herself in to the sisters’ house.

  ‘Why, Miss Trott, where have you been until this hour? You look like a drowned rat.’

  So would you, if you’d just walked halfway from Kensington, Miriam wanted to snap back at her but her teeth were chattering too much to speak.

  Sister Hyde took charge. ‘Come in and get warmed up, before you catch your death of cold. Take those wet things off and get into bed while I fetch the maid to make you a warm drink and a hot-water bottle.’

  Safe in her room, Miriam looked at herself in her full-length mirror. No wonder Sister Hyde had been so dismayed. Her hat was a sodden mess dripping down her neck, and there was an alarming blue tinge around her lips.

  Her gaze fell to the bright red carnation in her buttonhole. Miriam plucked it off and held it to her face, feeling the softness of its damp petals against her wet cheek.

  She would press it, she decided, inside the pages of her favourite novel. She still couldn’t quite believe she would see ever Frank Tillery again, but at least she would be left with a lovely memory.

  But she did see Frank again. And again. Over the next two weeks, they met frequently for tea, or trips to the cinema, and on Sunday they walked together in the park, holding hands like proper sweethearts. Miriam was wary at first, convinced it was too good to be true. But gradually Frank managed to charm his way past her defences. In spite of everything, he seemed genuinely interested in her.

  Miriam floated through life on a blissful cloud of happiness. She felt like a different person. She chatted to the patients and admired their babies, even though most of them were ugly, grizzling little scraps. And when she caught Nurse Baker flirting with Dr Armstrong she simply smiled and thought how wonderful it was to be young and in love.

  She was even able to tolerate Miss Davis at the next show rehearsal, and didn’t comment once on the utter shambles the Assistant Matron was making of the whole thing.

  Even so, every time Miriam saw Frank she was convinced it would be the last. Sooner or later she knew he would grow tired of her, or he would see her for the dull spinster she really was.

  But if anything, he seemed even more fascinated by her every time they met. Miriam had stopped telling him stories about her life as a wealthy heiress or her childhood on the tea plantation in India, but she was careful not to allude to her real life at the Nightingale, either. From time to time she wondered if she should come clean, but then she decided against it. She couldn’t let herself believe that their romance was going to continue anyway, so why not simply enjoy it while it lasted?

  She was so absorbed in her real-life romance, she barely had time to keep up with the fictional kind. Agatha Pendlebury lay forgotten in her bag, until one day when she and Frank were at the Ritz for tea and her handbag fell off the table, spilling its contents over the floor.

  As he knelt to retrieve them, Frank picked up the novel. He looked at the cover, his dark brows rising. ‘Desert Heat, eh? Sounds rather racy.’

  ‘It’s not mine.’ Miriam snatched it from him. ‘Someone lent it to me. I only took it to be polite.’

  ‘So you haven’t read it?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! As if I’d read that nonsense.’

  He laughed. ‘I thought all women liked a bit of romance?’

  ‘There’s romance and there’s rubbish,’ Miriam said firmly, stuffing the book back into her bag.

  ‘Rubbish, is it? You mean to tell me you’re not looking for a handsome sheikh to sweep you off your feet?’

  ‘Of course not! What an absurd notion. That sort of thing never happens in real life.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  She looked down at him, on one knee at her feet. His eyes met hers so intently, for a fleeting moment she thought he was going to propose to her.

  Then he was back on his feet again, and the moment had passed. But Miriam’s heart still fluttered against her ribs.

  ‘I’ll believe it the day I see a camel lolloping down Piccadilly,’ she said.

  ‘Not all ardent lovers ride camels, you know.’

  No, she was going to say. The duke in Passion’s Surrender rode an enormous black stallion called Lucifer. But she stopped herself just in time.

  ‘You seem very well informed?’ she said, her brows rising. ‘Don’t tell me you read this rubbish?’

  He smiled knowingly. ‘You’ve discovered my dreadful secret!’

  ‘I do hope not!’

  ‘Then perhaps I’m just a born romantic?’

  ‘Are you really?’ She smiled at him.

  His gaze held hers. ‘I’m not sure I was,’ he said. ‘Until I met you.’

  Miriam felt herself blushing. This could not be real, she told herself; it was far too wonderful. Frank even talked like a hero from an Agatha Pendlebury novel.

  The bill arrived, and Frank reached into his inside pocket for his wallet. A strange, panicked look came over his face and he started frantically patting all his pockets.

  ‘Oh no,’ he murmured.

  ‘What is it, Frank?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘This is frightfully embarrassing, but I appear to have left my wallet at home. Oh, how could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay,’ she said, reaching for her handbag.

  Frank shook his head. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be right to ask a lady to pay—’

  ‘You’re not asking, I’m offering. Besides, it’s the only sensible solution. Unless you suggest we try to leave without paying?’ she smiled.

  Frank looked troubled as she counted notes and coins from her purse. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he kept saying. ‘I can’t tell you how dreadful I feel about this … I’ll pay you back, I promise.’

  ‘It’s quite all right.’ Miriam covered his hand with hers across the table.

  He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes holding hers across the table. ‘You’re a wonderful woman, Miriam Trott,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Frank.’ Miriam looked away. If only her mother and sisters could see her now, she thought, having tea at the Ritz with her very own Prince Charming.

  Except Frank Tillery was not an imaginary hero from one of her novels. He was a real-life, flesh-and blood man, and he liked her. He really liked her. Perhaps even more than liked …

  For the first time, Miriam began to allow herself to trust what her heart was telling her. This time, she thought, nothing could go wrong.

  And then it did.

  It happened on a wet Thursday morning. Matron had just finished her rounds, and Miriam had stopped for her usual chat with Mrs Goodwood, who was reading The Times.

  ‘Have you seen this, Sister?’ She pointed to a story in the newspaper. ‘They’ve arrested a man for conning a wealthy widow out of her fortune. Isn’t that scandalous?’

  ‘Awful,’ Miriam agreed, straightening her bedclothes. ‘Would you like me to plump up your pillows for you, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Mrs Goodwood eased herself forward, still reading the newspaper. ‘Apparently he’s done it before to another woman. It says here both women were wealthy heiresses, and both nearly fifty. And I’m willing to bet neither of them is any Lana Turner, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Age and looks are no barrier to love, Mrs Goodwood,’ Miriam replied testily.

  ‘Well, no. But you’d think at their age they’d have more sense, wouldn’t you? I mean, if a handsome man starts paying court, they can be sure he’s only after their money.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Miriam punched the pillows into shape with great force. ‘Perhaps his feelings were genuine?’

  ‘And he got so carried away by those feelings that he forgot he already had a wife?’ Mrs Goodwood sent her a patronising look over the edge of her newspaper. ‘Oh, Sister, I never had you down as such a hopeless romantic!’ She laughed. ‘But I’m sure
even you would never allow yourself to get carried away by a professional charmer. Good heavens, you’d have to be pretty dense to allow yourself to be taken in by such a con man. I’m sure the likes of you and I would see through this character in a moment!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Miriam had a sudden picture of Frank patting down his pockets, the look of despair on his face when he realised he had forgotten his wallet.

  I can’t tell you how dreadful I feel about this … I’ll pay you back, I promise …

  ‘I can imagine him now, can’t you? All good looks and smooth charm, making this poor lonely woman feel as if she was the most desirable and fascinating creature in the world. I suppose it’s easy enough to fall for someone like that, if you were quite desperate,’ Mrs Goodwood went on, folding up her newspaper. ‘Women like that are to be pitied, aren’t they? They’re so hungry for love they’d fall for anything they were told. I say, you couldn’t fill up my water jug, could you? I do so hate to be a nuisance …’

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Goodwood.’ Miriam snatched the jug from the bedside locker and headed off with it. Halfway up the ward, she found Nurse Baker deep in conversation with Nurse Trent.

  ‘You there!’ she roared at them. ‘Don’t just stand there gossiping. Fill this up for Mrs Goodwood. And if you’ve got nothing better to do, you can scrub out the bathrooms. Well, don’t just stand there!’ she snapped, as they gawped at her. ‘Get on with it, before I give you another job to do.’

  The two nurses scuttled off, looking over their shoulders at her. Miriam knew they must have got used to her being all smiles around them, but the last thing she felt like doing now was smiling.

  She should have known. All her instincts had told her there was something about Frank that was too good to be true, and now she knew she should have listened to them.