Sold to the Surgeon

by Ann Jennings

  “But I…” began Abigail in amazement, about to blurt out that it wasn’t a question of being worried, but that she hadn’t even known about it.

  “As I told Mr. Lincoln, we always close half the ward during August, and take emergency admissions only. So many of the staff take holidays at that time as it’s the children’s school holidays, and most patients are reluctant to come into hospital unless it’s a dire emergency, for the same reason.”

  “Yes, thank you,” murmured Abigail, wondering what on earth Greg had said.

  “I do hope you and your fiancé have a lovely time with Mr. Lincoln and his family. Of course, I shan’t say a word of this to anyone else. I shall keep Mr. Lincoln’s confidence.”

  “Thank you,” repeated Abigail, thinking the whole situation was getting more bizarre by the moment. Why should it be a confidence? Unless of course the mighty American consultant didn’t want it to be known that a humble staff nurse was going along on his family holiday. Abigail wrinkled her nose at the thought. Surely Greg Lincoln wasn’t a snob? But perhaps he was.

  “Oh, Staff,” Sister’s voice intruded in upon her confused thoughts, “before you go off duty, could you change the sheets again for the patient in the end bed of room eighteen. It’s Mr. Sampson, I’m afraid he’s had a little accident again. I did ask Nurse Orchard to do it, but she seems to have forgotten.”

  I bet, thought Abigail cynically. Forgotten my foot! She just made sure she didn’t get around to doing it. “Has Nurse Orchard gone off duty already then?” she enquired.

  “Yes,” replied Sister Collins, looking up absently from the notes she was writing. “I said she could leave five minutes early. Sir Jason is taking his family out to the theatre in London tonight.” She gave a pleased little laugh. “He rang me himself, and as he said, I couldn’t possibly keep the great man waiting!”

  But never mind about the rest of us, thought Abigail wryly, as she hurried towards the linen room. It was the third time that day she’d had the task of changing Mr. Sampson’s bed. The poor man was always terribly apologetic. Sister Collins had wanted to catheterise him, which would have saved a wet bed, but Greg Lincoln refused to let her. He felt it would be detrimental in the long term. In the meantime, it’s definitely detrimental to me, thought Abigail grimly.

  She had nearly reached the linen cupboard, when she literally bumped straight into Greg. “You’re in a hurry,” he remarked, as she made to move past him.

  “Yes, I’ve got to change Mr. Sampson’s bed again,” said Abigail shortly, and not waiting for a reply, she opened the door of the linen cupboard and went in.

  Greg followed her, watching her snatch the clean sheets and pillowcases from the shelves. “Perhaps I’ll have to catheterise him after all,” he said slowly. “But the poor old chap’s in such a state from just being in hospital that I don’t want to make things worse.”

  “He hasn’t had major surgery,” said Abigail, turning back towards him, “why is he in such a state?”

  “Because he’s worried sick that an interfering social worker won’t let him go back to living alone at home,” said Greg. “They want to put him in a home, but he wants to stay in his own house and look after his garden and his old dog.”

  “I see,” said Abigail slowly. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t had time to talk to him. I’m usually at the other end of the ward, and I’ve always been in such a rush when I’ve changed his bedding.”

  “That’s why I don’t want him catheterised, because I know the social worker will take that as an indication that he’s incontinent.”

  “And isn’t he?” asked Abigail.

  “No, he isn’t,” replied Greg sharply. “He’s just worried sick, out of his routine and confused. I’m determined to try to get him home as soon as possible. Back to his dog, the one living creature in the world he has to love.”

  Abigail paused, the pile of linen in her arms. “You really care, don’t you?” she said quietly. She was seeing the American surgeon in a completely new light, as a truly caring and compassionate man.

  “Of course I care,” answered Greg, vehemently. “Don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know his history,” answered Abigail truthfully, suddenly feeling ashamed that she’d always been in a hurry. So much of a hurry that she’d done whatever had been necessary for the old man, but done it automatically. “I’ve been thinking of myself too much lately,” she confessed. The words were out before she could stop them, and immediately she regretted her indiscretion.

  “Why?” asked Greg, homing in on to her words. “Is something bothering you?” He came towards her, his huge frame seeming to completely fill the small space inside the linen cupboard.

  “No,” muttered Abigail hastily, “of course there isn’t.” She tried to push past him. “Excuse me, I must go to Mr. Sampson.”

  “Mr. Sampson won’t mind waiting a few more moments,” said Greg, and without further ado he roughly took the pile of clean linen from her and plonked it on a nearby shelf. Abigail wished he wasn’t so close, the distinctive smell of his aftershave was making her senses reel. “There is something wrong,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t prevaricate.”

  “I’m not…there isn’t,” Abigail protested feebly, putting her slender hands up against his chest as if to ward him off as he came towards her. But it was only a token gesture. She made no real attempt to escape from his embrace. Instead, before she had realised it, she found she was automatically raising her face, her tender lips parted to receive his kiss.

  As his firm mouth descended upon hers, she gave herself up to the pleasure of his kiss. It seemed he only had to touch her, to hold her, and she responded in a way she could for no other man. After a brief moment he raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes deep pools, reflecting she knew not what.

  Suddenly, an image of Rupert swam muzzily before her eyes, and a red-hot feeling of guilt flooded through her. Urgently she pushed Greg aside, twisting her head away so that he couldn’t see the confused anguish in her eyes.

  Greg sighed, and releasing her immediately turned away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kiss you. I don’t know what came over me. You’re a bad influence on me, Abigail.”

  “I’m a bad influence on you?” exploded Abigail, ridiculously near to tears. “That’s ludicrous! It wasn’t my fault. Why don’t you just stay away from me?” She grabbed the pile of sheets and pillowcases from the shelf. “Get out of my way,” she said woodenly.

  Without another word, Greg stood aside and opened the linen cupboard door. Abigail noticed he did have the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again as she came level with him at the doorway. “A momentary lapse on my part—it won’t happen again.”

  She swept past him, then from the relative safety of the corridor she paused and said, “I intend to speak to Rupert tonight and tell him I’m not going to Italy. Not for all the tea in China!” With that parting shot, she turned swiftly on her heels, and walked quickly down the corridor towards Mr. Sampson’s bed.

  It was true, she did intend to speak to Rupert, but of course she wouldn’t be able to tell him the real reason. Just what shall I tell him? she wondered. Anyway, she reasoned sensibly, surely Greg must be having second thoughts about it now as well, because in spite of his remarks about their engagement, she knew the two men got on well together, and had a mutual respect for each other. She also knew Greg wouldn’t purposely hurt Rupert.

  It was just that they were so different. One rugged, dark and unpredictable, the other the perfect English gentleman. She sighed miserably, wishing Mr. Wilberforce had never gone to the States, then Greg Lincoln would never have come to England on the exchange; and she would still have had her peace of mind.

  Stopping by Mr. Sampson’s bed, she looked at the puckered worried face of the old man. All her natural compassion rose to the surface as she reme
mbered Greg’s words, and forgetting her own problems, she spent a long time with him trying to reassure him, and generally talking, trying to draw him out of himself.

  He had had a small benign tumour removed from the back of his throat, and was recovering well, but Abigail could see he was a bag of nerves.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said for the umpteenth time. “Look, I’ll tell you what.” Tucking him in comfortably, she sat on the side of the bed and took the frail, blue-veined hand in hers. “There’s no need for anyone to know you’ve had a few little accidents, it can be our secret.”

  Mr. Sampson grasped her hand tightly between his gnarled fingers. “I want to go home,” he said urgently. “Dolly will be missing me. She’s very old, you see, and nearly blind.”

  “Is Dolly your dog?” asked Abigail, remembering Greg’s words about him missing his dog.

  “Yes,” Mr. Sampson’s face creased into a smile at the thought, “Dolly is my dog. She used to be a racer, you know, best little dog on the track. Dolly Bluebird, she was called then. Of course, she’s been retired for years now, and it’s been just the two of us for a long time. She’ll be missing me,” he repeated again sadly.

  Abigail smiled gently. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sampson. I know Mr. Lincoln wants to get you home just as soon as possible.” She had a sudden thought, and looked in his bedside locker. There should have been a bottle in there, within easy reach for him, but it was empty.

  She felt a sudden surge of anger. Trust Penelope not to bother! It was her end of the ward area, and part of her duties was to look after things like that. It suddenly became quite obvious to Abigail that, without a bottle to use, Mr. Sampson had needed to press his buzzer for a nurse to come, and then hadn’t been able to wait.

  “I’ll pop a couple of bottles into the bedside cabinet,” she said, “then you needn’t worry about calling a nurse, and you won’t have any more accidents.”

  “Oh, thank you, nurse!” Mr. Sampson’s voice was tremulous with gratitude. “I did ask the other nurse, but she was too busy and forgot. She works very hard, you know,” he added loyally, not wanting to blame Penelope.

  Abigail patted his hand, at the same time thinking, “that’s a matter of opinion!” Then she sped off down the corridor once more, loaded down with the dirty linen, collecting a couple of urine bottles on the way back and popping them in his bedside cabinet.

  “There you are, nothing to worry about now,” she smiled, reassuringly at him. “You’ll be home in no time at all. You wait and see.”

  Mr. Sampson raised his knobbly hand in a grateful salute as Abigail left the ward and made her way back towards the changing room. Penelope is really rotten sometimes, she thought, and wondered, not for the first time, why the girl had ever bothered to go into nursing at all.

  As she drove up the narrow lane, she saw Rupert’s car already outside her cottage gate. Glancing at her watch, she realised she was over an hour late; he must have been waiting for ages. I’ll tell him later in the evening that I’m not going to Italy, she resolved. There was no point in starting off by having an argument!

  Rupert came down the path to meet her, looking concerned. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been worried.” Kissing her gently on the lips, he linked his arm through hers.

  “A minor problem on the ward,” said Abigail, “but it had to be sorted out, so I stayed.” She was tempted to say the problem had been caused by Penelope not doing her job properly, but bit her tongue, thinking that would sound too bitchy. Especially as she knew Rupert thought Penelope was a lovely girl! And who was she to disillusion him? she thought wryly.

  “As long as you’re safe,” said Rupert, smiling. “I was thinking that perhaps you’d had second thoughts about me, and had skipped the country!”

  Abigail looked at him sharply. That was a strange thing to say, putting into words the vague worries she had only just begun to be aware of herself. “Don’t be silly,” she said, her voice sharper than she had intended, as she unlocked the front door to let them both in.

  “Only joking,” said Rupert easily.

  He insisted that she sat down, and that he prepared supper for both of them, and Abigail felt too tired to protest. She was content to sit in the old, shabby armchair that had been her father’s, looking out of the big bay window into the garden. But tired as she was, she couldn’t still the turbulent racing of her brain.

  At last she could bear it no longer. Rupert hadn’t mentioned it, so she had to. “Greg has told me you’ve arranged for us to go to Italy, with his family and the Orchards.”

  “Yes,” answered Rupert from the kitchen, sounding very enthusiastic. “It’s a great idea, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Abigail.

  “What do you mean?” He came to the doorway, a bowl of lettuce in his hands. “Don’t you want to go? I thought it was the perfect way of combining business with pleasure.”

  “I don’t really want to go with Greg Lincoln, and his family and the Orchards,” said Abigail. “I’m not over-keen on the Orchards, and anyway, I don’t think I can possibly afford it.” This last remark had come as a sudden flash of inspiration. If she said she couldn’t afford it, that would be that.

  “Rubbish, it’s not going to cost you a penny,” said Rupert, dismissing her flimsy excuse in one breath. “I’m getting paid, I’m taking you, and as far as not liking the Orchards, you’re being ridiculous. You got on very well with them the other night. You and Penelope can go sightseeing together, when Greg, Sir Jason and I are engaged on business; it seems an ideal arrangement to me.”

  Abigail sat silently mutinous in her chair, racking her brains to think of a way out, but it seemed she was to have no say in the matter at all. The very last thing she wanted was to go sightseeing with Penelope! Greg hadn’t even mentioned Penelope, he had just said the Orchards. But of course, she ought to have realised, she was a fool not to have thought of it. Penelope was part of the Orchards. A whole fortnight with Penelope, that really was the last straw.

  Rupert popped his head back in from the kitchen. “Is it because you can’t bear to be separated from me while I’m working?” he asked, raising his eyebrows teasingly.

  Abigail tried to match his smile, not very successfully. What could she say without looking stupid and unreasonable? After all, there was no logical reason why she shouldn’t want to go, she couldn’t possibly tell him about Greg, and the strange effect he had on her.

  “No, it’s…oh, I don’t know,” she ended up muttering lamely. Then she added, “I suppose I’m annoyed because you arranged it all without thinking to ask me.”

  Rupert laughed, and came back in from the kitchen and knelt beside the chair, putting an arm round her shoulders. “Darling, I do understand, and I’m sorry. But you can blame Greg for that. He’s an absolute whirlwind of activity once he makes up his mind!” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “When Greg Lincoln decides on something, he goes after it with no holds barred.”

  Yes, I had noticed, reflected Abigail thoughtfully, in work and play! Her thoughts were interrupted by Rupert.

  “I want to work on this project. It will do me a lot of good professionally. Sir Jason’s is a particularly thorny problem, I’m looking forward to the challenge.” He looked at her. “Please say you’ll come. I know you’ll enjoy it. We both will.”

  Abigail smiled uncertainly “All right,” she answered reluctantly. She didn’t know why, but her heart was heavy. Intuitively she felt that by saying yes, she was stepping into deep water, that they both were.

  “Good girl,” said Rupert breezily. “Come on, let’s have supper, then I’ll leave you in peace, as I’ve got some paperwork to do at home.”

  As he had promised, he left almost immediately after supper, with a brief goodnight kiss. As his cool lips touched hers, Abigail momentarily wondered how it could be that the same physical act of kissing
could be so different with two different men. Then guiltily she banished the errant thought from her mind, and kissed him back affectionately.

  Long after Rupert had left, she sat quietly in the deep armchair by the open window. A barn owl hooted from the depths of the woodland surrounding the garden, its cry echoing eerily through the tall trees. Abigail peered out, trying to pierce the darkness, to catch a glimpse of the owl as it went about its business, the night’s hunting. But it remained elusively invisible.

  Her thoughts returned to Greg Lincoln. What was it Rupert had said? “When Greg Lincoln decides on something, he goes after it with no holds barred.”—yes, that was it. The main problem was, did she know for certain what it was that Greg had decided?

  The barn owl hooted again, the sound floating into the house from the still blackness of the night. Suddenly Abigail was filled with the image of the field mice, hiding out there in the long grass, frightened to move because of the sound of the owl. How awful it must be to be hunted, not to know which way to turn for safety. Suddenly Greg’s face flashed before her mind’s eye. “No holds barred,” Rupert had said, ruthless like the barn owl!

  With a sudden irritable movement she stood up, closed the window, and swished the curtains across, shutting out the night. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself firmly, you’re no mouse, and Greg Lincoln isn’t a bird of prey! Although the somewhat sinister simile remained disturbingly with her, as she made her way upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Eight

  The three weeks before the Italian trip disappeared quickly; Rupert flying out earlier with Sir Jason and Lady Orchard, and of course Penelope. Although how Penelope had managed to wangle the extra time off, a whole month in the middle of the busiest period, Abigail didn’t know. She supposed Sir Jason and Greg had put pressure on the Senior Nursing Officer. What it is to have friends and relations in high places! she reflected drily.