CHAPTER ONE

      FLORENCE, CLEANING THE upstairs windows of the vicarage, heard the car coming up the lane and, when it slowed, poked her head over the top sash to see whom it might be. The elegant dark grey Rolls-Royce, sliding to a halt before her father’s front door, was unexpected enough to cause her to lean her splendid person even further out of the window so that she might see who was in it. The passenger got out and she recognised him at once. Mr Wilkins, the consultant surgeon she had worked for before she had left the hospital in order to look after her mother and run the house until she was well again—a lengthy business of almost a year. Perhaps he had come to see if she was ready to return to her ward; unlikely, though, for it had been made clear to her that her post would be filled and she would have to take her chance at getting whatever was offered if she wanted to go to work at Colbert’s again; besides, a senior consultant wouldn’t come traipsing after a ward sister…

      The driver of the car was getting out, a very tall, large man with pepper and salt hair. He stood for a moment, looking around him, waiting for Mr Wilkins to join him, and then looked up at her. His air of amused surprise sent her back inside again, banging her head as she went, but she was forced to lean out again when Mr Wilkins caught sight of her and called up to her to come down and let them in.

      There was no time to do more than wrench the clean duster off her fiery hair. She went down to the hall and opened the door.

      Mr Wilkins greeted her jovially. ‘How are you after all these months?’ he enquired; he eyed the apron bunched over an elderly skirt and jumper. ‘I do hope we haven’t called at an inconvenient time?’

      Florence’s smile was frosty. ‘Not at all, sir, we are spring-cleaning.’

      Mr Wilkins, who lived in a house with so many gadgets that it never needed spring-cleaning, looked interested. ‘Are you really? But you’ll spare us a moment to talk, I hope? May I introduce Mr Fitzgibbon?’ He turned to his companion. ‘This is Florence Napier.’

      She offered a rather soapy hand and had it engulfed in his large one. His, ‘How do you do?’ was spoken gravely, but she felt that he was amused again, and no wonder—she must look a fright.

      Which, of course, she did, but a beautiful fright; nothing could dim the glory of her copper hair, tied back carelessly with a boot-lace, and nothing could detract from her lovely face and big blue eyes with their golden lashes. She gave him a cool look and saw that his eyes were grey and intent, so she looked away quickly and addressed herself to Mr Wilkins.

      ‘Do come into the drawing-room. Mother’s in the garden with the boys, and Father’s writing his sermon. Would you like to have some coffee?’

      She ushered them into the big, rather shabby room, its windows open on to the mild April morning. ‘Do sit down,’ she begged them. ‘I’ll let Mother know that you’re here and fetch in the coffee.’

      ‘It is you we have come to see, Florence,’ said Mr Wilkins.

      ‘Me? Oh, well—all the same, I’m sure Mother will want to meet you.’

      She opened the old-fashioned window wide and jumped neatly over the sill with the unselfconsciousness of a child, and Mr Fitzgibbon’s firm mouth twitched at the corners. ‘She’s very professional on the ward,’ observed Mr Wilkins, ‘and very neat. Of course, if she’s cleaning the house I suppose she gets a little untidy.’

      Mr Fitzgibbon agreed blandly and then stood up as Florence returned, this time with her mother and using the door. Mrs Napier was small and slim and pretty, and still a little frail after her long illness. Florence made the introductions, settled her mother in a chair and went away to make the coffee.

      ‘Oo’s that, then?’ asked Mrs Buckett, who came up twice a week from the village to do the rough, and after years of faithful service considered herself one of the family.

      ‘The surgeon I worked for at Colbert’s—and he’s brought a friend with him.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘I’ve