Sold to the Surgeon (15 page)

She would be settled into a new routine, a life of domesticity as Rupert's wife.

“I shouldn't count on it,” piped up that annoying little voice, unbidden but as devastatingly persistent as ever!

Chapter Ten

It was no use, Abigail reasoned, battling with continually recurring doubts, and when an opportunity presented itself immediately after breakfast the following day, she took it.

“Rupert, let's walk down to the boathouse, we can have a chat,” she said pointedly.

It was not so much a suggestion as a statement, leaving Rupert no option but to agree. Penelope rose to accompany them, but Abigail's expression was one which even she couldn't mistake, and she sat back in her seat wearing a resigned expression.

Once out of earshot of the villa, Abigail came straight to the point. “We're not going to get married, are we, Rupert?” she heard herself saying. “We just don't love each other enough.”

The words were out. It hadn't been at all what she had intended to say, but somehow the words spilled out of their own accord.

“I'm very fond of you, Abigail,” began Rupert.

“Fond, yes,” interrupted Abigail, “but not fond enough to spend much time with me; since I've been here you've spent most of your time with Penelope.”

“You haven't objected too much, since you've spent quite a bit of time with Greg,” observed Rupert, his voice sounding sullen.

A frown creased her forehead. The conversation wasn't going the way she'd planned at all. She hadn't intended to quarrel with Rupert, although she had to admit her opening statement had hardly been conducive to the furtherance of good relations! Rupert fidgeted about, scuffing one foot amongst the loose gravel on the path. He looked very unhappy, and Abigail too felt a sadness overwhelming her. Silently she slipped the ring off her finger and held it out to him.

“I think I'd better return this,” she said quietly.

For a moment he hesitated, then took the ring and pocketed it. “I don't know what to say,” he muttered.

“There isn't much we can say really, is there?” asked Abigail. Suddenly she felt relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“I…suppose I might as well come clean,” said Rupert, flushing a dull red. “I didn't know how to tell you that I wanted to marry Penelope. I told Greg last night—he didn't seem very surprised, though,” he added.

Abigail stood silent. No, she reflected, Greg wouldn't have been at all surprised. Hadn't he said last night that Rupert was more interested in “Sir Jason's daughter, and all the business contacts that went with her?”

“The only thing is…” Rupert hesitated, then said, “I might as well tell you. I had thought that perhaps Greg cared for you, but somehow I think I put my foot in it badly when I mentioned money.” He turned to face her, his mouth moving convulsively, his eyes troubled. “He just sort of froze up, but I didn't mean that you were looking for a man with money, I was trying to tell him that I was concerned about you, how you'd manage, with the expenses of the cottage and everything…” His voice tailed off lamely.

“Don't worry,” said Abigail drily, “I'm well aware that Greg thinks I'm after a man for security!” She tried to laugh lightly, but it was a bitter sound that escaped her lips. “You merely confirmed what he already thought.” She turned, and started to walk back up the path, then paused and looked back. “Anyway, you're very mistaken in thinking Greg Lincoln cares for me. Attracted slightly, yes, but that's not the same thing. And he is definitely
not
my type!”

“You mean to tell me you and Rupert have broken it off?” demanded Penelope later that afternoon, as they lay sunbathing on the lake shore.

Abigail sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, watching the figures of Rupert and Greg on the small sailing dinghy far out in the middle of the lake.

“I should have thought Rupert would have already told you,” she said quietly.

“He will,” said Penelope with a smug confidence, adding as an afterthought, “I'm sorry for you, of course, Abigail.”

“Don't be,” said Abigail quickly. “I feel happier now that it's done.”

“It makes everything so much easier,” mused Penelope.

“What do you mean?”

“Rupert and I are not returning to England with you and Greg on Thursday,” said Penelope. “He hasn't finished the work here for Daddy, another lucrative contract has come up.”

“But aren't you due back on the ward?” asked Abigail.

Penelope looked momentarily uncomfortable, then brazened it out. “I've already telephoned in my resignation,” she said airily, “and a letter is on its way confirming it.”

Abigail spread her hands in a gesture of surprise. It suddenly seemed incredible that she could have been so blind. Although deep in her heart she knew it wasn't so much a case of being blind, rather that she had been purposely wearing blinkers.

“Nursing has never really been my forte,” confessed Penelope, languidly applying suntan oil to her shapely legs.

“I had noticed,” Abigail couldn't help rejoining. “I'm surprised it's taken you this long to find out!”

The next two days couldn't pass quickly enough as far as Abigail was concerned. Although not a word had passed between the four of them it was by silent mutual consent that the broken engagement was not mentioned to the rest of the household. Of course, Greg's parents knew that only Greg and Abigail were returning to England, but if they thought anything was amiss, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

“The trouble with working in a hospital, dear,” said Greg's mother as she kissed her effusively goodbye, “is that duty always comes first.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you for a lovely holiday, I'm only sorry it's over.” But she couldn't help thinking as she spoke that a part of her life was over too. She'd been right about her premonition of doom at the prospect of visiting Italy.

It was a strange, silent trip back to England. Abigail had expected Greg to refer to her broken engagement, even if only to say “I told you so.” But he made no mention of it. Even on the drive back from Heathrow, he remained silent, limiting his remarks to brief invectives when someone foolishly cut across lanes on the motorway.

Several times Abigail stole furtive glances at his profile, but it was always the same; stern and forbidding. She wished she could say something to break the stony silence, but her mind was stubbornly blank. All she knew was that with each mile they got nearer to their destination, she felt more depressed and miserable. A fact not helped by gale force winds and lashing rain, which buffeted the car on its journey.

When they finally reached her cottage, Greg helped her in with the luggage. “I won't stop,” he said, “I'm tired, and I'm sure you must be too.”

“Yes,” admitted Abigail, looking around at the familiar things spread out in the lounge. It was then that she noticed the damp patch by the chimney breast. Involuntarily she went across and felt the spot; it was damp to her touch. Damn, the pouring rain must have penetrated one of the cracked tiles on the roof.

Greg noticed it too. “Roof leak,” he said briefly.

“Looks like it,” said Abigail, trying to sound cheerful. “I'll have to get the roof patched up.”

“How will you afford it?” he asked practically.

“I shall go to Saudi Arabia and work for eighteen months,” said Abigail on the spur of the moment. She knew plenty of girls who had gone out and earned a tax-free fortune, at least a fortune in comparison to English nurses' pay.

“Saudi Arabia!” exclaimed Greg. “That's a little drastic, isn't it?”

“Drastic perhaps,” said Abigail defensively, her hackles rising at his incredulous tone, “but very practical. The salary is five times as much as here, and tax-free. I could pay for a new roof and come back with money in my pocket.”

“I don't think it's a good idea at all,” he said brusquely. “Saudi Arabia is no place for a girl like you.”

“I'm the best judge of that, I'm quite capable of looking after myself.”

“I'll have a coffee before I go,” announced Greg, suddenly changing his mind, and plonking himself down in the middle of the settee.

Abigail looked at him crossly. She couldn't very well refuse; he had just driven her a hundred miles. But she didn't feel like embarking on a long argument over the relative merits on raising money for a leaking roof! So it was with a slightly ungracious air that she went into the kitchen, and clattered the coffee cups, trying, not very successfully, not to worry about the future. Although she had just said it was practical, she wasn't happy with the idea of working in the Middle East, a fact wild horses couldn't have dragged from her in front of Greg.

She stood quite still for a moment, breathing in the atmosphere of the cottage. Perhaps she should be sensible and sell it; after all, her father hadn't known about all the expenses when he'd asked her to keep it; and he'd been a sick man, not capable of thinking rationally. But still, she was reluctant to break that promise.

The coffee made, she carried the tray through to the lounge, to find Greg with his feet up, looking for all the world as if he intended to stay, just as long as it took to change her mind!

Abigail glanced towards him warily, as silently she passed a steaming cup of coffee. “Sell the cottage,” he said abruptly, coming straight to the point.

“I've no intention of doing that,” replied Abigail stubbornly.

“Why not? It's only a tumbledown flint cottage.”

“It is not!” her voice rose angrily, “it's the most important thing in life to me!”

“I see.” Greg slowly sipped his coffee, surveying her over the rim of his cup. “Your fiancé has jilted you for another woman, and all you can think about is your precious cottage!”

“You don't understand anything, it's a waste of time talking to you.” Jumping up, she made a move towards the rain-lashed window.

But Greg reached out, and catching her wrist forced her back, to sit beside him on the settee “Sit down,” he ordered tersely. “I feel responsible for the break-up of your engagement, so I feel responsible for you too.”

“There's no need to feel responsible, it had absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“There's not much advice I can give you about your love life,” he began.

“I don't want any advice,” snapped Abigail, “especially not from you!”

“OK. Let's stick to the problem of the cottage,” he was undeterred. “Why are you so determined to keep it?”

Abigail stared stonily across the room, the familiar objects swimming in a haze before her troubled gaze. Greg would never understand a promise made to her dying father, he was too practical, he would never let emotions sway his judgement, she was sure of that.

“Well?” he persisted, “answer me.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me,” came the response.

Abigail took a deep breath. “I promised my father when he was ill that I would keep the cottage. But that's not the only reason—I
want
to keep it. It's the only part of my mother and father I have left.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Greg.

“There you are, I
knew
you wouldn't understand,” cried Abigail angrily. “It is a waste of time talking to you.”

“Why don't you let me finish, before you jump down my throat!”

She maintained a rebellious silence. What did he know about anything! A few short months ago, before he had arrived from America, everything in her life had been calm and ordered—and now—!

“Abigail,” Greg's voice was surprisingly gentle, “you have your memories of your parents. Nothing can destroy those, they're yours, locked in your mind to cherish for ever. The cottage, although lovely, is only bricks and mortar. It can't be
that
important to you.”

“It is,” said Abigail stubbornly, “and I've already decided what to do. I shall give in my notice tomorrow, and go and work in Saudi Arabia.”

Greg snorted impatiently. “You're the most pigheaded female I know,” he said, “impossible to help.”

“I don't need your help,” said Abigail proudly. She tilted her head defiantly, grey eyes flashing, challenging him to disagree.

“OK, have it your own way,” said Greg abruptly, swinging his legs down from the settee in an impatient movement and nearly tipping her on to the floor in the process. “I won't detain you any longer, we're both on duty tomorrow.”

A frigid silence reigned as Abigail opened the door for him; for a moment he paused as if about to say something, but then turning up the collar of his coat against the rain, he disappeared into the, darkness.

After he'd gone, a chilly mood of desolation settled over her. The warm sunshine and the sparkling blue waters of the lake in Italy might as well have been on another planet, they seemed so remote. Miserably she humped her luggage up the stairs, averting her eyes from the ominous damp patch of the lounge ceiling.

Next day, back on the ward, everyone crowed with envy at the sight of her tan. “You are lucky,” sighed Sue, looking at Abigail's sun-streaked hair and healthy tan. “I look so awful, as if I'm dying!” She peered into the changing room mirror, sticking her tongue out at her reflection.

Abigail burst out laughing. Anyone less like dying would be hard to imagine. Sue's flaming red hair, and cream and pink complexion, combined to make her look permanently in the rudest of health.

“The tan will wear off,” Abigail consoled her, as they walked on to the ward together. Sister Collins was at her desk, and gave a perfunctory nod.

“Do you know, I think she actually missed Mr. Lincoln,” said Sue as they pulled the drug trolley out from its corner. “Even though we didn't have a ward round, she made us all do everything as usual, almost as if she was expecting him to turn up!”

Abigail laughed again. She was feeling better already. She was back in the environment she loved, the hospital. This was where she belonged. They stopped at the first patient, and Abigail poured out the linctus prescribed for Mr. Grover, then passed the beaker to Sue. She couldn't help noticing Sue's eyes were riveted on her hand. The ring was gone, but the telltale patch of pale skin showed where it had been.