For Ever and Ever (20 page)

Later she went to say goodnight to Claire, in the small hospital ward where she still slept. And a very pink-cheeked, bright-eyed Claire she found there.

“Oh, Leonie, what a day it’s been!”

Leonie smiled.

“You’ve certainly had your fill of excitement,” she agreed. “And your father is so happy to be with you again.”

“I know. He’s such a darling.” There was a half remorseful note in Claire’s voice. “And—he has an odd habit of being right about things, somehow.”

“I should think,” Leonie agreed gravely, “that your father is one of the shrewdest—and kindest—of men.”

“Ye-es.” Claire was silent for a moment. Then she said suddenly, “Leonie, what am I going to do about Kingsley?”

“How do you mean, dear?”

“You
know
what I mean. I’ve had such a lot of time to think about things while I’ve been lying here ill. And I know he—he isn’t all that I thought. And then,” she added, with naive irrelevance, “there’s Maurice.”

“Yes,” agreed Leonie, “there’s Maurice, who could really hardly be nicer.”

“Oh, Leonie, do you think that too?”

“When I look at you two together I think of a hand and a glove,” Leonie replied, smiling. “A very firm, warm hand, and a beautiful, decorative glove.”

“You do? Oh, my dear, that’s just how it feels.” Claire smiled doubtfully, but as though she could not quite suppress her happiness. “Do you think I’m behaving very badly to Kingsley?”

“No,” said Leonie, and she did not even offer to elaborate that.

“How am I going to tell Father, I wonder?” Claire faced another unpleasant reality reluctantly.

“You don’t need to. I told him,” Leonie replied calmly.

“You told him! Oh, Leonie, how could you?—Well, I suppose someone had to, with Kingsley here as large as life. But if Father knows, why hasn’t he come rampaging to me, with reproaches and warnings?”

“He thought it better to make little of the whole incident and not speak about it at all.”

“Impossible! That isn’t Father’s way.”

“No? Well, I persuaded him it was the best way,” Leonie explained with a smile.

“Leonie, you’re a witch! You really managed that?—But what about Kingsley? What sort of scene does Father propose to make with him, I wonder?”

“That’s been glossed over too, Claire. You don’t need to worry. Your father simply ignored Kingsley. There’ll be no scene there. There will be nothing unpleasant or agitating. Unless you want to make an issue of it, the whole thing is over.”

“But I—I’ll have to speak to Kingsley about it.”

“That’s for you to decide. But I doubt if he will seek a discussion,” Leonie said. “He knows it’s over too.”

And in this she was perfectly correct. No one saw much of the Assistant Surgeon during those last few days, and the only person who remarked upon it was Nurse Meech, who thought he left too much for Mr. Pembridge to do.

During the final clearing up and packing which the last day involved, Leonie found the courage and opportunity to ask Mr. Pembridge timidly about future plans.

“You are going on the Pacific cruise, aren’t you?” she said, as casually as she could.

“Oh, yes.”

“And then? I—I suppose you’ll be doing the return journey almost immediately after?” She thought if she could even start counting up the weeks until he might be back in London, that would be something.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I might stay on in Australia.”

“Stay on in Australia!” She simply could not hide her dismay. “Oh, but—why?”

“Why not?” He raised his eyebrows and looked as though he thought her questions a trifle impertinent.

“But I thought—I thought you were going back to St. Catherine’s and—”

“Oh, not
there
!” he exclaimed, as though the very mention of the place tormented and exasperated him. “Anywhere but there.”

And then Leonie knew there was nothing more to say.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke almost in a whisper.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he replied curtly, and turned to speak to Nurse Meech, as she came into the surgery.

And that was all. Better go and finish her packing now, Leonie supposed. They would be in quite early in the morning, and Claire would need all the assistance she could give.

On her way from the surgery to her cabin, Leonie hardly noticed the occasional smile or greeting directed towards her, until someone barred her way and Nicholas Edmonds’ voice said,

“Hello. Why are you cutting me dead?”

“Oh—I’m sorry—” She gave a breathless little laugh. “I didn’t notice—I was thinking—”

“About something which worries you?” he suggested shrewdly.

“Oh, no.” She pulled herself together and answered firmly, not wanting questions at this moment. “
You
look very bright and well.” She turned the subject quickly. “I think the voyage must have done you a lot of good.”

“I think it must.” His smile had some particular meaning, she thought suddenly, and she saw his glance go amusedly and, she thought, tenderly, to Renee Armand, who was laughing and talking not far away.

“I see. It’s not only a question of health?” She smiled too, then, able to rejoice in someone else’s happiness in spite of her own heartache.

“Not entirely,” he conceded.

“I’m so glad! Did she—? Are you—?”

“We are,” he agreed. “I’m not doing the Pacific cruise after all. In fact, I’m accompanying—my wife on her Australian tour. And then we shall fly back together about June to London.”

“Oh, that’s
wonderful
!” Leonie wrung his hand, and went on her way a little comforted, in spite of the fact that her own affairs remained unaffected by this happy reunion.

In one sense it was quite a gay last evening. Claire and Maurice were in great spirits, and Sir James was kindness itself in the plans he was making for Leonie’s enjoyment during her stay in Sydney. She had nothing to do but smile and accept and say how wonderful it all was.

But when at last she escaped to her cabin, and had shut the door and made herself safe even from Claire, she flung herself on her bed and cried her heart out. For nothing that Sydney could offer had any real charm if Mr. Pembridge had gone out of her life.

The ship had docked even before the passengers awoke next morning, and as soon as breakfast was over, people started going ashore. Everything stood ready packed in the suite which Claire and Leonie had shared throughout the voyage, and the luxurious rooms which had almost become home suddenly looked empty and alien.

All the casual goodbyes had been said. Only the one which mattered remained. And, on leaden feet, and with a throat which felt dry and aching, Leonie made her way for the last time to the familiar surgery.

He was sitting at his desk, as she had seen him a hundred times in the last weeks, but the room looked bare and singularly without purpose, now that everything had been put away.

He got up immediately when she came in, and held out his hand to her, as though he did not expect the interview to be more than brief.

“Well, Nurse”—the term was half teasing, now that she was in mufti and her nursing days were so completely over—”I have to thank you once again for all the invaluable help you gave me. I understand the Captain is making a report, and I’m sure you will be hearing gratefully from the Company.”

“Oh—I enjoyed it.” She smiled stiffly as his fingers closed round hers. “It—it was a wonderful voyage.”

“Was it?” He smiled at her. “Well, I daresay that’s how it seems now, in retrospect.”

“I hate—saying goodbye.”

“One always does,” said Mr. Pembridge, who had no doubt said fifty other unimportant goodbyes that morning. “I suppose you have everything planned for the immediate future.”

“Oh, yes.”
She thought of Sir James’ kind planning, and wondered how she was to go through with it all.

“Then there’s nothing to say now but—goodbye and good luck.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Pembridge,” she said, almost in a whisper. And because she knew suddenly that the tears would come any moment now, she almost pulled her hand away and made for the door.

And then, as she reached it, he spoke again, in a quick, staccato, almost desperate way. And what he said was,

“I’m a fool to interfere, I know. But your happiness means so much to me, child. Won’t you think again? You’re making a terrible mistake, you know.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Leonie
swung round as though she had been shot. She had heard only one sentence of what Mr. Pembridge had said, “You happiness means so much to me, child.”

“Wh-what did you say?” She came slowly back across the surgery to where he stood beside his desk, watching her with slightly narrowed eyes and a curious suggestion of nervousness about him.

“I said I think you’re making a mistake.”

“No, not that. The other bit. About my happiness meaning something to you.”

“Haven’t you guessed that it does?”

“No. How should I? I thought—” She stopped, because now, by a process of delayed action, the rest of his speech had impinged on her consciousness. “What do you mean about my making a mistake? What mistake?”

“Oh”—he made an impatient, despairing little gesture—“I don’t know what I can say at this point that would turn you from a path you’ve followed so determinedly. But I don’t believe you’ll be happy with Stour. I don’t think he’s worthy of you.”

“Worthy of me? Of course he’s not worthy of me. Nor of any other decent girl either,” replied Leonie with spirit. “But he doesn’t have to be. He’s nothing to me. I shan’t ever see him again if I can help it. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You—you say he’s nothing to you?” She was astonished—almost shocked—to see that Mr. Pembridge had actually gone quite pale. “You mean that—you’re not—going to marry him?”

“Marry him? I’d rather scrub floors—or preferably wards. And if they were wards at St. Catherine’s—”

She stopped suddenly, because she found it impossible to complete her brave little joke. The mention of beloved St. Catherine’s, and all it stood for, suddenly took her by the throat, and without the slightest warning she put her hands over her face and burst into tears.

“Oh, I wish I were back at St. Catherine’s,” she sobbed, like a disconsolate child exiled from all that mattered. “I’d l-love to scrub floors, and—and if you were there—”

“Don’t, darling!” Suddenly and incredibly, Mr. Pembridge took her in his arms and began to kiss her. “Don’t cry like that. What is it you want? You shall have it—anything in the world, if it’s humanly possible to get it for you. What do you want, Leonie?”

“Th-this will do to go on with. J-just having you kiss me and call me ‘darling’.”

“But you could have had that any time you liked,” he protested, kissing her wet cheek again. “Any time on the voyage. You only had to say the word.”

“
What
word?” inquired Leonie, not unreasonably, though she kissed him softly, to show that she was not really angry with him. “You were never anything but very much the Senior Surgeon. If I made the slightest overture—”

“But you made it as plain as you could that it was that damned assistant of mine that you wanted.”

“I did not. I wanted you. Terribly!”

And then, for a frightful moment, she realized that she had said a great deal more than she had a right to say, even if he called her “darling” and kissed her, and in a sort of panic she struggled to get away from him.

But Mr. Pembridge held her lightly but securely and said,

“Oh, no, my dearest. I’m not going to let you go now. Not until this whole tormenting muddle is explained.”

“It’s—it’s a dreadfully long story.”

“I don’t mind about that. I’ve had enough of half knowledge and misunderstandings.”

“But before I tell you about it, would you tell me one thing?”

“If I can.”

“Only you can. Why are you so different all at once? Why are you holding me and—and kissing me and calling me lovely names?”

“Because I adore you,” said the Senior Surgeon, as though stating the obvious.

“Oh, Mr. Pembridge—”

“My name is Simon,” he told her.

“Yes, I know. It’s a lovely name—Simon.” She smiled suddenly and put up her hand against his thin cheek. “Do you really—love me?”

“More than I can say.” He looked down at her with a tenderness all the more moving because it had been held in check so long.

“But—what about the—the other girl?”

“What other girl?”

“The one—who died. Only yesterday you said you couldn’t bear to go back to St. Catherine’s because of her. There was such real pain in your voice when you spoke of it. You said you would go anywhere but there, and you sounded as though your grief were as fresh as ever.”

“Did I?” Simon Pembridge said slowly. “Well, the thought of St. Catherine’s did hurt almost more than I could bear. But not because of her, poor girl. What I couldn’t face was the thought of the place without you.”

“Mr. Pembridge!—Simon, I mean—was
that
it?”

He nodded.

“Then you—you have managed to—get over her at last?”

“Leonie”—he drew her close against him in a nervous, loving clasp that went strangely to her heart— “I’m going to tell you something I have never told anyone else. You’re the only person who has a right to know it. I had ceased to love her before she was taken ill. I’m inclined to think she, too, knew we had made a mistake. I don’t know. But if she had lived, I cannot imagine that we should have gone on with the engagement.”

“Then—losing her was not the absolute heartbreak it might have been?”

“In some ways, it was worse,” he said sombrely. “I felt that in some dreadful way I had failed her. I kept on thinking that if I had truly loved her, her well-being would have meant so much to me that I would have realized the trouble in time. Or that if she had known there was a strong, unconquerable love between us, that might have turned the scale and given her the strength to hold on, instead of slipping away. I tell you, Leonie, there were times during those first months when I felt like her murderer.”