Everlasting Love. Кэрол Мортимер
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He went in to see his patient.
He was gone for several minutes, a hand to his temple as he left the bedside. ‘You may as well go, Nurse King,’ he told her curtly. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here.’
Olivia pushed past him, not caring in that moment who or what he was, her panicked gaze fixed on the still figure of Mrs Bateson. ‘I—You—She isn’t dead,’ she choked. ‘She can’t be!’
‘She is.’ His hands steadied her as she would have swayed and fallen. ‘About an hour ago, I would say. She just seems to have stopped breathing.’
‘No!’
‘Nurse King—–’
‘Leave me alone!’ She wrenched out of his arms and ran from the ward, the tears falling unchecked.
She ran from the building and into the grounds, stumbling her way through the built-up garden towards the nurses’ home, unaware that she had been followed until strong arms stopped her progress, swinging her round so that she found her face buried against a hard chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ Marcus Hamilton murmured, letting her cry for several minutes into his snowy white shirt, smelling slightly of some tangy aftershave. ‘That’s enough, Olivia!’ He finally shook her gently as she couldn’t seem to stop the tears.
She raised a tear-wet face to him. ‘It doesn’t seem fair. She was so nice—they both were.’
He produced a snowy white handkerchief and gently began to dry her cheeks. ‘You haven’t looked at this from her point of view, you know,’ he said softly, concentrating on his task.
Olivia swallowed hard, standing docilely in front of him now. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘She’s with her husband now, the way she wanted to be.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
He nodded. ‘Of course. So it isn’t a time to cry, is it?’
‘I—–’
‘She would never have got well again, Olivia,’ he told her gently. ‘We’d done all we could for her—and it just wasn’t enough.’
She bit her lip. ‘It still doesn’t seem fair.’
‘Life seldom is.’ He held out his handkerchief to her. ‘Blow your nose,’ he encouraged softly. ‘You’ll feel better.’
‘I—I have my own.’ Now that the shock was passing she was beginning to realise how unorthodox this was. Marcus Hamilton shouldn’t even know she was alive, let alone be comforting her like this! ‘I’m sorry,’ she sounded more controlled now, ‘I—I didn’t mean to cry all over you.’
‘You’ve just never been that close to death before?’ he prompted.
‘No,’ she confirmed huskily.
‘Believe me,’ his voice was gruff as he straightened his shoulders wearily, ‘it never gets any easier.’
Olivia blinked up at him in surprise, her lashes still spiky and damp from where she had been crying. Marcus Hamilton was very pale, a ring of white tension about his mouth, his expression strained. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said dazedly, ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘People seldom do,’ he rasped. ‘Doctors aren’t supposed to feel emotions, especially surgeons.’
‘I really am sorry.’ It had never occurred to her that this hard man could be affected by death as much as she was.
‘But you still aren’t convinced, are you?’ he said ruefully.
‘Convinced?’ She looked puzzled, sure that if he said he was upset by Mrs Bateson’s death then he was. What reason would he have to lie?
‘That I can feel as much as the next man,’ he drawled in reply.
‘Oh, I—But I—–’ her words were cut off by a coolly possessive mouth claiming hers. Marcus Hamilton was kissing her! It seemed hard to believe, although the ruthless insistence of his lips couldn’t be imagined. ‘Mr Hamilton!’ she gasped when he at last raised his head to look down at her.
‘Indeed,’ he derided. ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I—I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ she blushed.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Dark brows rose over steely grey eyes.
‘No,’ she admitted shyly. She had liked the way he kissed her, not been shocked by it. Surprised would be a better way of describing the way she felt. He was so experienced, had kissed her with a thoroughness that set her heart racing, his lips evoking a response from her that had been as spontaneous as it was unreserved.
‘I would.’ He put her firmly away from him, his expression grim. ‘I have a daughter only six years younger than you.’
‘And I have a father fifteen years older than you,’ she retorted. ‘So please don’t try to make it look as if you’re in the least like a father-figure to me.’
Humour lightened the colour of his eyes. ‘That’s put me firmly in my place! Thank you, Olivia,’ he said soberly. ‘I think I occasionally need reminding that thirty-three isn’t old. Now off you go. And please believe that Mrs Bateson is where she wanted to be—with her husband.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘And thank you—for everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ he drawled derisively before turning back towards the hospital building.
Olivia absently answered the greetings she received on the way to her room. She still grieved for Mrs Bateson, would miss her smiling cheerfulness on the ward, and this loss pushed the importance of that unexpected kiss from her mind.
She only had one more day to work before four straight days off, the two days of this week joining up with the two for next week, giving her a nice long break. But that one day on the ward seemed to drag by, the empty bed in the middle of the room a constant reminder of Mrs Bateson’s death. Her fully recovered daughter came on to the ward late that afternoon to collect her mother’s things, and her red-rimmed eyes told the whole story of how heartbroken she was to lose both her parents on the same day.
Olivia’s days off were welcome after the trauma and strain of that last day, although as usual she spent the time at the nurses’ home, only very rarely making the journey from this London hospital to her parents’ home in Wales.
On the third day she attended the joint funeral of the Batesons. She had never been to a funeral before, and wasn’t particularly looking forward to going to this one, and yet her genuine affection for the elderly couple merited this last show of respect on her behalf.
She didn’t wear black, not being a member of the family, but her clothing was sombre, the brightness of her shoulder-length hair muted by being secured at her nape with a black ribbon.
The buses ran regularly from outside the hospital, and she could see the right one coming for her destination as she reached the bus stop?
‘Like a lift, Olivia?’
She frowned down at the driver of the huge car parked at the side of the road. ‘Mr Hamilton …’
He leant over to thrust the passenger door open. ‘Get in.’
‘Oh, but—–’
‘I’m going to the funeral too, Olivia,’ he told her abruptly. ‘Please get in,’ he repeated. ‘I’m about to cause a traffic jam.’ He looked pointedly at the rapidly approaching bus.
She climbed into the burgundy-coloured Rolls-Royce, the engine only a gentle purr in the background as they drove further into town.
‘You look different out of uniform,’ Marcus Hamilton suddenly broke the tense silence between them. At least, it was tense on Olivia’s part,