Nurse Ann Wood (4 page)

When, a few moments later, Sister and the S.M.O. came into the room, she gave them a smile of such brilliance that they both thought: What a remarkable recovery! And what a lovely girl!

“How are you feeling today, Miss Woods?” the doctor enquired.

“A complete fraud,” she replied promptly. “I’m quite well, Doctor Lievers.”

“Except...”

“Except that I can’t remember a thing about my past life. I can’t remember anything before that dreadful crash.”

“And you’re not to try to remember,” he urged her. “Sir James Dullanty who came to see you on Monday believes that in a relaxed atmosphere, among your own people, your memory will return, either quite suddenly or gradually. He is not prepared to say which, but he favors your leaving hospital immediately and going to your own family. But there
is
an alternative.”

He stared searchingly at the girl, noting that her eyes would no longer meet his and that her hands were trembling.

Ann thought dully: That woman ... but she isn’t my mother. I can’t go to her home.

“An alternative?” she murmured.

“You can continue to have hospital treatment,” the doctor explained. “If you choose that, I think you should go back to London, to Queen Frida’s Hospital, where, as one of their staff, you will be admitted immediately.”

He saw the bewilderment in her wide lavender eyes. “Whichever decision you make, remember, it needn’t be final. If you go to Fountains and are not happy there, then we can arrange for you to go to London, or the other way round.”

He and Sister left her eventually, and Ann sat staring down at her hands.

Had she dreamed that Mrs. Woods had stood by her bedside, shaking her shoulders roughly and demanding to know why she was impersonating her daughter?

No, that incident
had
happened, she was sure, and what she couldn’t understand was why Mrs. Woods had allowed the mistake in her identity to continue. In every fibre of her being, she rejected the suggestion that she and that woman were related in any way. Moreover, her name wasn’t Woods, it was Wood, she decided positively.

So really there wasn’t any alternative. The only thing for her to do was to go back to London, and at Queen Frida’s Hospital, on what must be familiar ground, she might soon recover her memory.

That was the sensible thing, and yet immediately there came into her mind a strange reluctance. The fact of the matter was that she didn’t want to go back to Queen Frida’s ever again. She didn’t know why, but there was something which she felt she could not face.

And then all at once it seemed clear. If she left Sunbury, she might never see Iain Sherrarde again. Only when he had come to her bedside and roused her from that twilight dream which had threatened to merge into eternal darkness had she begun to get better. She had wanted to live, for his sake, because he had taken the trouble to come to her. He
had
come, so it couldn’t be only on her side — that feeling of belonging. He must feel as she did, that something vital had sparked between them.

Increasing vitality was bringing with it increasing curiosity. She had thought about him often, but had not spoken of him to any of the nurses who came to talk to her, bring her meals, or make her bed.

She had assumed from the beginning that he was a doctor. After all, he had brought her into hospital personally. And now something else occurred to her, something that till now it had never entered her head to wonder about. She was here, in a room in the private wing of a hospital — and private rooms had to be paid for. Who
was
paying?

Ann sat down, feeling all at once very frightened. Suppose ... suppose Mrs. Woods was footing the bill! But was that remotely likely when she had accused Ann of impersonating her daughter?

Ann’s thought went back to Iain Sherrarde. What had made her think he was a doctor? Stupid of her just to assume it, stupid of her, too, not to have found out every single thing about him.

And so, when Nurse Elliott came in with her tea-tray, she began to ply her with questions.

“Nurse Elliott, who did you say brought me into hospital?” she enquired tentatively.

The Welsh girl’s eyes widened. “Can’t you remember?” she queried, in a disappointed manner — as if her own particular charge was letting her down.

Ann remembered very well indeed, but she was after information now, and yet at the same time sensitive lest Nurse Elliott should guess anything of her feelings for Iain Sherrarde.

So she shook her head and looked vague.

“I thought I’d told you,” Nurse Elliott said flatly. “It was Mr. Sherrarde. He was dining out, and had taken a short cut down a country lane. He said that he almost ran you down. You were wandering along the right in the middle of the lane. He didn’t know about the railway accident then.”

Ann wasn’t interested in the railway accident. “
Mr.
Sherrarde,” she repeated. “But you said — or did I assume? — that he was a doctor.”

“He’s a surgeon, with goodness knows how many letters after his name,” the little dark nurse told her soberly. “In a way, he’s our local celebrity. Head of the Sherrarde Institute, with a reputation which extends to London and even to the United States.”

“The Sherrarde Institute,” repeated Ann blankly. Something was nagging slightly inside her mind, as if that was a name she had heard before, in some other connection.

“It’s a great laboratory ... a series of laboratories really, on the Sherrarde estate, given up to research on the rheumatoid diseases,” Nurse Elliott explained, as she went over to the window to straighten the curtains. “Patients come from all over the country. Mr. Sherrarde — our Iain — is in charge.”

After she had gone, Ann suddenly realized why the Sherrarde Institute had sounded a familiar note in her mind. She had heard of it at some time during her training. She was sure of that. It had been — perhaps still was — a private foundation, with a great banking fortune behind it. The founder’s wife had been crippled by arthritis, and on his death her husband had left his home as a centre for research. She remembered somebody talking about it.

Ann went rather soberly over to the dressing-table, sat down, and examined her face with sombre eyes. It was such an ordinary face, in spite of all that Elliott had said about her being pretty.

What hope had she that Iain Sherrarde would ever have the slightest interest in her? A man with all his advantages, when he eventually married, would choose someone of equal distinction in birth and upbringing, someone who had poise and beauty.

When he eventually married ... Once again, Ann’s foot seemed to have come very near to an abyss. He wasn’t a boy ... not even a very young man. Yet she had assumed from the very first moment of returning consciousness of the will to live, when he had called to her strongly across that twilight sea, commanding her to come back, she had assumed that he had no ties other than those he had forged with her.

But now common sense told her that he might well be married already, perhaps with a family. Or if not married, then engaged.

She went back to the little table on which Nurse Elliott had placed her tray, poured out a cup of tea and drank it thirstily. She couldn’t bear to think of that.

Fortunately for her peace of mind she had the answers to her questions before she went to sleep, though they came to her in a roundabout and quite unexpected way.

She was turning over the pages of a magazine some time later, when the door opened, after a perfunctory knock. Ann turned round eagerly. It wasn’t time for dinner, but Megan Elliott might have found she had a few moments to spare and come in for a chat.

Ann’s face changed from glowing welcome to a quiet withdrawal when she saw who the visitor was.

Mrs. Woods was panting slightly. “I came up the emergency stairs,” she said. “I didn’t really want anyone to know I was here. Doctor Lievers asked me not to come till you had made up your mind whether you’re going to come home, or go back to London for further treatment.”

Ann stared at her, her beautiful eyes very wide. And then she said softly and with great earnestness, “Mrs. Woods, you and I
aren’t
related, are we?”

Mrs. Woods sat down abruptly. “So you know that,” she ejaculated, with quick, suspicious glance. “What else do you know? About yourself, I mean, and about my family?”

Ann shook her head. “Nothing at all. I haven’t the faintest idea who I am and why I was on that train, or why I had in my handbag a letter from you addressed to Nurse Anne Woods. I think my name is Ann Wood — no ‘e’ and no ‘s.’ When they call me Miss Woods here, I always have the impulse to say ‘No “s” at the end,’ just as if I’ve said it often before. I know I’ve trained for nursing and I believe I was at Queen Frida’s Hospital in London, but...” And there, she stopped, not knowing what to say next.

Mrs. Woods stared at her shrewdly. “You could have told the doctors and nurses here that story and then they would have made enquiries at Queen Frida’s. But they’ve done nothing, because everyone believes you are Anne Woods ... the real Anne Woods ... my daughter.
And you have never denied it
.”

She leaned forward, her small dark eyes fixed on the girl’s pale face. “You haven’t asked for any enquiries to be made, Miss Wood. And I can only presume it’s because you don’t want them made. You prefer to wait, to allow your memory to return.
If you have lost it
!”

Ann stared at her with wide eyes that had darkened to violet with fear and shock. She
had
lost her memory, but there was some element of truth in Mrs. Woods’ challenge. She hadn’t tried to convince anybody of a fact that she had. known right from the beginning — that whoever she was, she was not Anne Woods. There was a great dark barrier in her mind between the present and that past which lay behind the time of the railway crash.
And it was a barrier which she was afraid to have broken down.

When she did not speak, the other woman went on quickly, “Why don’t you come to Fountains as my daughter? No one here has the slightest inkling that you are not Anne Woods.”

Ann’s eyes grew darker than ever. “But why do you want me, a stranger, to come to your home?”

“Because we are desperately in need of someone like you —someone with nursing qualifications.” Mrs. Woods paused. “Perhaps I’d better explain from the beginning.

“Besides my daughter Anne, who is a nurse, there is Beverley, who married Raymond Derhart — of the Derhart and Sherrarde banking families.”

She looked at Ann expectantly, and when she saw the girl’s eyelashes flicker, her thin lips twitched. She has no more lost her memory than I have, she thought grimly. She is running away from somebody or something. Well, that suits me. I only wish I could find out what it is, so that I could get a hold over her.

She went on with her explanations of the accident in which Ray Derhart had been killed, and his wife injured, of the two children, and their large fortune under the control of a trustee.

“That trustee is Mr. Sherrarde, their father’s cousin. He was the man who found you wandering about and brought you here. You remember
him
, I suppose?”

She scanned her listener’s face mercilessly, but Ann did not flinch. Mrs. Woods could read nothing from her downcast eyes and her softly curving lips.

“Yes, I remember him.”

“I promised Mr. Sherrade that I would persuade my daughter Anne to come down here and take charge,” Mrs. Woods continued gloomily. “He believes, like everybody else, that you are Anne.”

She stopped again and then continued jerkily, “I appealed to her and she has failed me. Now I am appealing to you. Please come to Fountains and help us until your memory comes back. When it does, you can, if you wish, go back to the life you lived before the accident.” Once again something in Ann’s mind seemed to rise up like a solid wall. The life you lived before the accident! No, not that. She could never go back.

There was a long silence, and then Ann said, “If I were to accept a post in your house, wouldn’t it be better to admit the truth — that I’m not your daughter?”

“They wouldn’t discharge you from hospital unless they believed you were going to relatives,” Mrs. Woods returned quickly. “They’d start making enquiries immediately, finding out things about you...”

It was a shot at venture, but it hit its mark, for Ann started and then went very pale.

The girl at whom she was staring had gripped the arms of her chair. There was something in her memory that she didn’t want to face. If she went back to Queen Frida’s Hospital, somebody would probe into her mind until the whole story came out. And she didn’t want that to happen ... she didn’t ... she didn’t ...

She clenched her hands and beat restlessly on the arms of her chair, then stopped abruptly when she saw that Mrs. Woods’ cynical eyes were upon her.

Her earlier antipathy towards this woman welled up. She didn’t like her and she didn’t want to go and live in her house, but she was afraid, terribly afraid of the alternative, terribly afraid of what someone might discover about her. And behind all that was the heartbreaking knowledge that if she went away now, severing all connections with Mrs. Woods and her family, she might never see Iain Sherrarde again.

She got to her feet, her mind suddenly made up. “All right, Mrs. Woods. I will come to Fountains as soon as Doctor Lievers says I can leave hospital.”

Mrs. Woods rose also, nodding her head in a very satisfied manner. “That will be tomorrow. And may I congratulate you on your good sense.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

“NANA says we’re to call you Auntie Anne. It seems funny calling our nurse Auntie Anne. We’re too big for a nurse, anyway. Miss Pollard says...

The little boy was sitting at the table waving his spoon about and scattering a good deal of the fruit and custard that was on his plate in the process. His last sentence was interrupted by a pink-faced Miss Pollard, who said quickly, “Guy, please get on with your pudding.”

“Fruit and custard isn’t pudding,” put in the little girl on the opposite side of the table. Four large blue eyes were fixed on Ann as she stood in the doorway of the nursery.

Mrs. Woods had already prepared her for the fact that this meeting would prove the most powerful challenge to her identity. Until a little less than a year ago, the children had lived in London, and their Aunt Anne had seen them at infrequent intervals, though she was not fond of them and had made little fuss of them.