скачать книгу бесплатно
About the only palatable thing left in the house was the brandy, and he poured both of them a stiff measure and pressed a glass into her hand, curling her stiff fingers around the bowl and urging it to her lips.
She coughed and tried to lower the glass, but he made her take another sip, and then took it from her and placed it on the table within reach. Picking up his own, he downed a hearty gulp and then set it down on the table with hers.
Finally he met her eyes, and the pain he saw there made him doubt all his preconceived ideas about her being a cold-hearted, gold-digging little bitch. She looked lost, afraid, and absolutely desolate, and he felt self-loathing rise up like bile to swamp him.
He knew he ought to apologise, but there weren’t any words he could think of that would make things better, so he stayed silent while she watched him.
Ater a moment she struggled upright and walked over to the rain-lashed window, staring out into the chilly night while she nursed her brandy.
‘How?’ she asked after a long while, and he didn’t pretend not to understand.
‘Cancer,’ he said succinctly. ‘He refused a gastrectomy last October. That’s when I took over the practice. But you know all that——’
She shook her head. ‘No. No, he told me nothing. I knew he hadn’t been well—he told me he had ulcers and that you had taken over just until he was better, but he didn’t say anything about giving up, or … or …’
‘Dying?’ Sam said quietly, and watched as a shudder ran through her delicate frame.
When she spoke her voice was a harsh whisper, a mere thread of sound against the beating of the rain on the glass.
‘When?’
Sam ran his hand wearily over his face. ‘Two weeks ago tomorrow—in the early hours of Saturday morning.’
She shifted restlessly for a moment and then was still again, as if she wanted to run away and was holding herself there by a superhuman effort. ‘Did—did he know?’
‘Oh, yes. I think he knew almost from the beginning. At first he might have thought he had ulcers, but I think he must have realised quite quickly that it was more serious. He went into hospital in October for a gastroscopy, which confirmed it, but he knew it was too late. His actual death was caused by pneumonia, but it was only a matter of days.’ Sam paused, then added gently, ‘He was ready to go.’
Lydia nodded. ‘Yes, I can imagine. He hated feeling ill.’ She swallowed. ‘Where was he?’
Sam closed his eyes, remembering. ‘Here, where he wanted to be. He had a private nurse, but I got a locum in to cover when I knew it was getting close, and I stayed with him then till the end.’
Thank you——’
There’s no need to thank me!’ Sam snapped, much too harshly, and then more gently, ‘I did it for him, to give him dignity, and peace. He was a good man, and I thought the world of him.’
Her shoulders stiffened as the pain knifed through her, and she turned back to him, her soft grey eyes like pools of mist in her grief.
‘I think I’d like to go to bed now,’ she said in a voice brittle with control, and headed towards the door at the top of the stairs which led through to the main house.
‘You can’t sleep in there,’ he told her, ‘the power’s off and the place will be damp and freezing. Have my bed. I’ll sleep here on the sofa.’
He thrust open the bedroom door and flicked on the light. The quilt was rumpled where he had sat on it to tie his shoes, and his dressing-gown was flung over the foot of the bed, but it looked soft and inviting. She nodded briefly.
‘I’ll bring your cases up—I put them in the surgery,’ he murmured, and left her to it.
Lydia sat down on the edge of the bed and stared blindly at her feet. She couldn’t believe that Gramps was gone, that she would never again hear his big, hearty laugh or feel the warmth of his arms around her. He had always been there for her, when everything else had failed her, when her father had gone off and left her and her mother alone, when the pain had become too much and her mother had taken her life—always, through it all, he had been there to catch her when she fell and kiss her better. And now …
She was dimly aware of Sam coming back into the room, of him helping her to her feet and easing off her mac, and then, when she still stood there, taking off her blouse and skirt as well, then pushing her gently down on to the bed and covering her with the quilt.
She was shaking, either from the cold or from shock, and he came back moments later with a hot water-bottle which he tucked into her arms. She thought he smoothed back the hair from her face, but she wasn’t sure because the touch was so light and she seemed disconnected from her body, as if it belonged to someone else.
Gradually her shudders died away and sleep claimed her exhausted mind.
Sam turned off the light, pulled the door to and gave the sofa a dirty look. Pulling pillows and blankets out of the cupboard on the landing, he undressed to his briefs and wrapped himself in the blankets, stretching out as well as he could on the inadequately short two-seater.
By the time he had eaten the stew had been dried up and the potato hard as iron. Hunger chewed at his insides and guilt tortured his conscience.
It had taken him all of ten seconds to realise that he had made a dreadful mistake, that, for all her faults, and he was sure she must be riddled with them, she was not a gold-digger and her distress at her grandfather’s death had been not only genuine but frighteningly deep.
He had been quite worried about her when he had come up with her luggage, but she seemed to be sleeping now. He would have to apologise in the morning for the way he had broken the news to her, but he really believed she should have had his letters, the first telling her to come home to her grandfather, the second informing her of the date of the funeral.
He shifted on to his back, propped his legs on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. She still should have been here! She should have realised that he was ill and needed her. Damn it, day after day the old man had asked for her! If Sam had only realised that she hadn’t known he would have sent for her sooner.
The moon broke through a hole in the clouds and tracked steadily across the sky, and Sam lay and watched it, and wondered why old Dr Moore hadn’t told Lydia that he was dying.
He woke suddenly when the room was still in darkness, and lay for a moment wondering what had disturbed him.
Then he heard it again, a thin, high moan, an animal keening that cut through him to the bone.
Untangling the blankets, he stumbled off the sofa and into the bedroom, but it was empty. The sound came again, and he followed it downstairs and into the surgery.
He found her, curled into a ball on the old leather armchair at the desk, with her arms wrapped tightly round a cushion, rocking gently back and forth while the terrible sound of grief was torn from her throat.
Her eyes were dry and sightless, and she ignored him as he lifted her from the chair and sat down with her cradled against the broad expanse of his chest. She was wearing his dressing-gown but still she was shivering, and he hadn’t taken the time to pull on any clothes, so he stretched out and turned on the electric heater. It could be a long night.
Then, holding her close, he rocked her, brushing the hair from her eyes and pressing his lips to her crown as if he could take away the pain.
He could feel the tension building in her, and then suddenly the dam burst and the tears came, accompanied by huge, racking sobs that gradually died away to leave her spent and weak against his shoulder. She slept then, relaxed into the curve of his arms, and he stayed where he was, holding her quietly, until the dawn lightened the sky.
Then she stirred and sat up, embarrassed and bewildered, and he smiled slightly and let her go.
‘I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt…’ Her hands fluttered helplessly for a moment before she clamped them together, ‘I wanted to be near him.’
‘I know. Don’t apologise, I often feel the same. Would you like a cup of tea?’
She nodded. ‘Please. I think I’ll just wash my face—perhaps I’ll feel better then.’
He led the way upstairs, and while she cleaned up he put the kettle on and pulled on his jeans and a jumper, suddenly conscious of his scanty attire.
When she emerged from the bathroom, her face pink and scrubbed, her hair brushed and tied back in a pony-tail, and looking about seventeen, he was shocked to feel himself respond to her.
Technically speaking, she was a scrawny little thing for all her height, weighing next to nothing, her face too small for those ridiculously large eyes, her mouth full and soft and vulnerable, and yet he wanted her. His dressing-gown was wrapped tightly round her slim frame, the belt accentuating her tiny waist. He was sure he could span it with his fingers, and his palms tingled with the need to cup the soft jut of her breasts in his hands. She should have looked ridiculous, but there was something about her, her quiet dignity, the graceful way she moved those absurdly long legs as she walked towards him, that lifted her above criticism and made her beautiful. Sam felt the unbidden surge of desire, mingled dangerously with the urge to protect and nurture, and when their eyes met it was as if she saw right through him, and he felt ashamed.
Tea,’ he said economically, and thrust a mug into her hand, taking his and standing by the window.
She sat down among the tangled blankets and sighed.
‘I’m sorry you had to sleep on this; it can’t have been comfortable,’ she offered, and he shrugged.
‘I’ve known worse. Don’t think about it. You needed the bed more. I’ll put the heating on in the house today and get it aired for you. You can sleep in your own bed from tonight.’ He turned to face her, and found himself trapped again in the clear grey pools of her eyes.
‘I’m sorry about your grandfather,’ he apologised, dragging his eyes away from hers with difficulty. I didn’t realise you hadn’t got the letters. I suppose the post is a little primitive?’
Her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile. ‘Something like that. And the clinic is mobile, so that makes us even harder to find. We only got the Christmas cards last week!’
Sam’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry, I—I would never have told you like that.’
She lifted her hand. ‘Please, don’t worry. It really doesn’t matter. The end result would have been the same.’ She fiddled with the belt of his dressing-gown for a moment, then looked up. ‘Is his car still in the garage? I’d like to go——Is he buried——? Oh, hell!’
She fumbled in the pockets, and Sam thrust a handful of tissues into her hands and waited while she pulled herself together.
‘He was buried in the churchyard. If you can hang on until after surgery I’ll take you later, but first I have to go down to the village shop and get some food in before I can offer you breakfast.’
She nodded, and drained her tea. ‘Do you mind if I have a shower?’ she asked.
He glanced at his watch. ‘No, do it now. The water’s hot. I’ll go and sort out the heating in the house.’
He disappeared through the door on the landing, and Lydia stayed where she was for a moment, nursing the still-warm cup and trying to sort out her feelings.
He had been so foul to her last night—understandably, really, if he had thought that she had come back just to claim her inheritance. And yet today he was patient, kind, understanding … She could see now why Gramps had spoken of him in such warm words, almost as if he were the son her father had failed to be.
Which brought her to the next problem.
Sam came back into the room, and she voiced her thoughts almost unconsciously.
‘How long do you think it will take you to find another practice?’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4bf9e6cb-03c1-5ba3-9eea-123ae71c18c2)
As AN opening gambit, it was not an unqualified success.
Sam froze in his tracks, turned slowly to Lydia and glared at her with hostile disbelief.
‘Let me get one thing perfectly straight,’ he said coldly. This is my practice. Understand? Mine. Officially, legally, all signed and sealed and recognised by the relevant authorities. It is not up for grabs, I am not going anywhere, and it is not open to discussion. If you want a job I suggest you pick up a professional journal and find out what’s available—because this one isn’t.’
He ran down the stairs, and she yelled after him, ‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house?’
He stopped halfway and ran back up, pointing at the connecting door. ‘That’s your house, Miss Moore. The heating’s on, so’s the electricity. I’m going to the village shop. I suggest you get your things moved off my property by the time I get back.’
He turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs, and a few seconds later Lydia heard the surgery door bang and then the revving of a car engine.
He shot off the drive with a spray of gravel, and the sound seemed to release her from her trance. She leapt to her feet and ran into the bedroom, wrenching off his dressing-gown as if she could distance herself further from him by doing so. Then she snatched up her things, dashing away the tears that would keep gathering on her lashes and clogging up her view.
Damn him! How dared he speak to her like that? How dared he throw her out? First thing on Monday morning she was going to see her solicitor to find out about the will, because one thing was certain—living next to him was going to be insufferable!
She dragged her cases along the floor to the landing, opened the door and half dragged, half carried them up the three steps to the main part of the house. She got them as far as the door of her bedroom, and then collapsed on the landing floor in tears.
Why was she always rejected? First her father, then her mother, then Graham; even Jim Holden had found someone to replace her. And now the one person who had always had time for her was gone, and in his place was a cruel, unfeeling career doctor, who was probably hideously efficient and hated by all her grandfather’s patients. Well, damn him!
She forgot his kindness of this morning, his caring and compassion, the way he had given up his bed for her. Gone was all memory of his arms cradling her against his chest, soothing her until her grief had run its course and she was quiet. Instead she remembered only his harsh words, and the fact that he had thrown her out.
‘Your practice, indeed! We’ll see about that!’ she yelled at the door, and, scrubbing away the last of the tears, she pulled on her clothes, ran downstairs to the hall and picked up the phone, dialling with shaking fingers.
‘Hello? Sir James? Hello, it’s Lydia Moore. I’m sorry to disturb you at home,’ she began, all ready to launch into the fray.
‘Lydia, my dear! How are you? I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather—a tragic loss to the medical profession, not to mention you … tragic loss.’
Lydia swallowed. ‘Yes, it was. I wish someone had let me know——’
‘We did try, my dear, but there was no time. The end was quite quick, I gather. And of course Dr Davenport was wonderful to him. Got a locum in at his own expense so that he could be with your grandfather till the last. Like a son—better than a son, if you’ll forgive my saying so.’
Lydia could. She had grown used to the idea that her father had been a cruel and unfeeling man, but she really didn’t want to listen to Sir James praising Sam, either!
He continued, ‘Harry was extremely fond of him, y’know. They became very close over the months, and nothing was too much trouble. I understand he’s left him the practice premises—very appropriate, don’t you think? He certainly deserves them. What are you going to do about the rest of the house?’
Lydia frowned. In the face of so much praise from the chairman of the local branch of the FHSA, she could hardly criticise Sam without sounding whining and ungrateful, so she stalled. ‘I haven’t made a decision yet, Sir James. It all depends on where I end up working——’
‘Nice little practice up near Diss needs a new partner—might consider a young woman, given the right encouragement. Want me to have a word?’
Here was her chance. ‘Well, actually, Sir James, I was rather hoping to have taken over from my grandfather——’
Yes, I know. Pity about that. Given another couple of years’ experience, we might even have considered you, but it’s a big practice, and very widespread. We’d even suggested that Harry should take a partner, but young Davenport seems to be managing admirably on his own. He’s set up links with Hastings three miles away to cover each other’s on call, so they’ve got their free time sorted out. Maybe if the population increases we could justify another post, but I don’t think there’s any likelihood of his leaving in the foreseeable future. However, Harry’s patients all seem to be delighted with his successor, and I must say, from this end, he seems much more efficient than Harry ever was!’
Lydia sighed. More praise! Was there no end to the virtue of this paragon?
‘I think Gramps found the paperwork of the new contract all a bit daunting——’
Sir James laughed. ‘Don’t we all, my dear? Still, if it helps to make a more efficient health service—let me know what you decide about that other job, won’t you? It’s a big group—they could afford to take someone without too much experience. In the meantime, we could always use another locum in the area.’
‘Yes, I’ll consider it. Thank you, Sir James.’
She hung up, her last hopes dashed.
Sam Davenport was obviously a well-liked and respected member of the professsion already, and it wouldn’t help her case at all to go making waves.
She wandered slowly through the house, touching familiar things, hearing the past echo in her mind, until she found herself in the conservatory again.
Tucking her feet up under her bottom, she curled up in the old wicker rocking-chair and stared sadly down the neglected garden.
She had come home before she had really got over the shock of Graham’s defection, to take up the reins of her future with Gramps because she had had an uneasy suspicion about him—only to have her world snatched out from under her feet at a stroke.
Her unease had been too little, too late, and now he was gone; her dreams lay in the dust, trampled underfoot by a man whom everyone else seemed to hold in almost reverent awe—and who clearly despised her as a gold-digger.
If he only knew! She didn’t want the terrible responsibility for the crumbling old house—God knew how she would maintain it. She supposed it was worth quite a bit, but it was entirely academic because she would never sell it unless driven to it in absolute desperation.
As if to press home the point, the skies opened again and she noticed that the guttering was leaking near the corner—well away from the practice end, otherwise no doubt the highly efficient Dr Davenport would have dealt with it!
Suppressing a shiver, she turned back to the house and walked round it again, this time looking with the candid eyes of an estate agent instead of through the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia. Everywhere there were signs of neglect. It was clean enough, but the paintwork was old and chipped, the wallpaper faded, and some of the upstairs ceilings showed signs of damp, unlike the surgery and flat, all of which had been recently decorated and recarpeted throughout. She cast another despairing glance around the sitting-room.
