Romantic Encounter. Betty Neels
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get out as you go in.’
‘Oh, Buster. She’s devoted to him—he’s a splendid tabby; not as fine as our Charlie Brown, though. Do you like cats?’
‘Yes, we have one; she keeps my own dog company.’
‘We have a Labrador—Higgins. He’s elderly.’ She fell silent, mulling over the way he had said ‘we have one’, and Mr Fitzgibbon waited patiently for the next question, knowing what it was going to be.
‘Are you married?’ asked Florence.
‘No—why do you ask?’
‘Well, if you were I don’t think we should be going out like this without your wife… I expect you think I’m silly.’
‘No, but do I strike you as the kind of man who would take a girl out while his wife actually sat at home waiting for him?’
Florence looked sideways at his calm profile. ‘No.’
‘That, from someone who is still not sure if she likes me or not, is praise indeed.’
They drove on in silence for a few minutes until she said in a small resolute voice, ‘I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr Fitzgibbon.’
‘Contrary to your rather severe opinion of me, I don’t annoy easily. Ah—here we are. I hope you’re hungry?’
The Chequers Inn was charming. Florence, ushered from the car and gently propelled towards it, stopped a minute to take a deep breath of rural air. It wasn’t as good as Dorset, but it compared very favourably with Wimpole Street. The restaurant was just as charming, with a table in a window and a friendly waiter who addressed Mr Fitzgibbon by name and suggested in a quiet voice that the duck, served with a port wine and pink peppercorn sauce, was excellent and might please him and the young lady.
Florence, when consulted, agreed that it sounded delicious, and agreed again when Mr Fitzgibbon suggested that a lobster mousse with cucumber might be pleasant to start their meal.
She knew very little about wine, so she took his word for it that the one poured for her was a pleasant drink, as indeed it was, compared with the occasional bottle of table wine which graced the vicarage table. She remarked upon this in the unselfconscious manner that Mr Fitzgibbon was beginning to enjoy, adding, ‘But I dare say there are a great many wines—if one had the interest in them—to choose from.’
He agreed gravely, merely remarking that the vintage wine he offered her was thought to be very agreeable.
The mousse and duck having been eaten with relish, Florence settled upon glazed fruit tart and cream, and presently poured coffee for them both, making conversation with the well-tried experience of a vicar’s daughter, and Mr Fitzgibbon, unexpectedly enjoying himself hugely, encouraged her. It was Florence, glancing at the clock, who exclaimed, ‘My goodness, look at the time!’ She added guiltily, ‘I hope you didn’t have any plans for your evening—it’s almost ten o’clock.’ She went on apologetically, ‘It was nice to have someone to talk to.’
‘One should, whenever possible, relax after a day’s work,’ observed Mr Fitzgibbon smoothly.
The nearby church clocks were striking eleven o’clock when he stopped before Mrs Twist’s little house. Florence, unfastening her seatbelt, began her thank-you speech, which he ignored while he helped her out, took the key from her, unlocked the door and then stood looming over her.
‘I find it quite unnecessary to address you as Miss Napier,’ he remarked in the mildest of voices. ‘I should like to call you Florence.’
‘Well, of course you can.’ She smiled widely at him, so carried away by his friendly voice that she was about to ask him what his name was. She caught his steely eye just in time, coughed instead, thanked him once again and took back her key.
He opened the door for her. ‘Mind Buster,’ he reminded her, and shut the door smartly behind her. She stood leaning against it, listening to the silky purr of the car as he drove away. Buster, thwarted in his attempt to spend the night out, waited until she had started up the narrow stairs and then sidled up behind her, to curl up presently on her bed. Strictly forbidden, but Florence never gave him away.
If she had expected a change in Mr Fitzgibbon’s remote manner towards her, Florence was to be disappointed. Despite the fact that he addressed her as Florence, it might just as well have been Miss Napier. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but she felt a vague disappointment, which she dismissed as nonsense in her normal matter-of-fact manner, and made a point of addressing him as ‘sir’ at every opportunity. Something which Mr Fitzgibbon noted with hidden amusement.
It was very nearly the weekend again, and there were no unexpected hold-ups to prevent her catching the evening train. It was almost the middle of May, and the vicarage, as her father brought the car to a halt before its half-open door, looked welcoming in the twilight. Florence nipped inside and down the wide hall to the kitchen, where her mother was taking something from the Aga.
‘Macaroni cheese,’ cried Florence happily, twitching her beautiful nose. ‘Hello, Mother.’ She embraced her parent and then stood her back to look at her. ‘You’re not doing too much? Is Miss Payne being a help?’
‘Yes, dear, she’s splendid, and I’ve never felt better. But how are you?’
‘Nicely settled in—the work’s quite interesting too, and Mrs Twist is very kind.’
‘And Mr Fitzgibbon?’
‘Oh, he’s a very busy man, Mother. He has a large practice besides the various hospitals he goes to…’
‘Do you like him, dear?’ Mrs Napier sounded offhand.
‘He’s a very considerate employer,’ said Florence airily. ‘Shall I fetch Father? He went round to the garage.’
‘Please, love.’ Mrs Napier watched Florence as she went, wondering why she hadn’t answered her question.
Sunday evening came round again far too soon, but as Florence got into the train at Sherborne she found, rather to her surprise, that she was quite looking forward to the week ahead. Hanging out of the window, saying a last goodbye to her father, she told him this, adding, ‘It’s so interesting, Father—I see so many people.’
A remark which in due course he relayed to his wife.
‘Now, isn’t that nice?’ observed Mrs Napier. Perhaps by next weekend Florence might have more to say about Mr Fitzgibbon. Her motherly nose had smelt a rat concerning that gentleman, and Florence had barely mentioned him…
Florence, rather unwillingly, had found herself thinking about him. Probably because she still wasn’t sure if she liked him, even though he had given her a splendid dinner. She walked round to the consulting-rooms in the sunshine of a glorious May morning, and even London—that part of London, at least—looked delightful. Mrs Keane hadn’t arrived yet; Florence got the examination-room ready, opened the windows, put everything out for coffee, filled the kettle for the cup of tea she and Mrs Keane had when there was time, and went to look at the appointment book.
The first patient was to come at nine o’clock—a new patient, she noted, so the appointment would be a long one. The two following were short: old patients for check-ups; she could read up their notes presently. She frowned over the next entry, written in Mrs Keane’s hand, for it was merely an address—that of a famous stately home open to the public—and when that lady arrived she asked about it.
Mrs Keane came to peer over her shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, dear. A patient Mr Fitzgibbon visits—not able to come here. He’ll go straight to Colbert’s from there. Let’s see, he’ll be there all the afternoon, I should think—often goes back there in the evening on a Monday, to check on the operation cases, you know. So there’s only Lady Hempdon in the afternoon, and she’s not until half-past four.’ She hung up her jacket and smoothed her neat old-fashioned hairstyle. ‘We’ve time for tea.’
The first patient arrived