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“You clever girl,” said Maggy, dropping a kiss on the little girl’s straight hair. She looked at Paul.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Doctor?”
“The most beautiful girl in the world.” But he wasn’t looking at his small patient. He bent forward, and Maggy felt his lips on hers. She stood quite still, looking at him, her cheeks very pink, but her brown eyes met his gray ones squarely.
“I don’t intend to apologize, Maggy,” he said, almost lazily.
Maggy forced her voice to normalcy. “There is no need, Doctor. I don’t doubt you’ve kissed many a girl before me, and will kiss many more. I’m sure it means nothing to you.”
“Just a minute, Maggy. Are you sure of that?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at her with a faint mocking smile on his face.
“Aye,” she said slowly, “I’m sure.”
About the Author
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.
A Match for Sister Maggy
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE SWING DOORS were almost noiseless, but old George had been head porter at St Ethelburga’s for so many years now that his ears were familiar with the faintest whisper of sound and identified it at once. He now put down his paper and peered through his cubbyhole window at the man who had just come in. A big man—a very big man; well over six and a half foot tall and broad with it; who strolled in leisurely fashion towards him. He was a handsome man too, with grey eyes, a straight nose and a wide firm mouth and dark hair, liberally sprinkled with grey. George was sure that he knew who he was; he beamed at him and said,
‘Good morning, sir. Dr Van Beijen Doelsma, isn’t it?’ The big man, so addressed, winced slightly at the mutilation of his name by George’s Cockney tongue, but smiled and nodded and said, ‘Good morning,’ in a pleasant voice. ‘I believe I am early?’
George turned to his switchboard. ‘If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll ring Sir Charles, he told me to let him know when you arrived.’
Dr Doelsma nodded again, put vast hands into the pockets of his elegant suit, and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He appeared very relaxed—slumbrous, in fact, with eyes half closed. They flew open however as his attention was caught by a figure tearing across the hospital forecourt. It was a woman, and she ran well, and he wondered why a Ward Sister in all the dignity of navy blue and white uniform needed to race around in such an unheard-of fashion. In his experience, hospital Sisters moved calmly and with a self-confident authority, designed to gain respect both from the nurses under them and the doctors they themselves worked for. The swing doors burst open with a crash, and George, waiting for his connection, looked over his shoulder, tut-tutted loudly and put his old head through his little window.
‘One day you’ll get caught, Sister MacFergus, running like that; you ought to know better!’
The girl came to a halt in front of the cubbyhole, and Dr Doelsma, as yet unnoticed, looked her up and down in a leisurely fashion. She was a tall young woman, well built and nicely rounded; she reminded him of the women of his own native Friesland, save for her hair, which was a bright chestnut and inclined to curl, but tidily confined in a French pleat at the back. She put up a large shapely hand and gave her starched cap an impatient tweak, and he observed that despite her haste she was not in the least breathless. She bent her noble proportions to George’s level.
‘Am I late? Has he come, George? Nine o’clock for a lecture! The man ought to be shot!’ She had a soft voice, with a lilt of the Highlands in it. ‘There’s Staff Nurse off sick, and four test meals, and do send a porter over, there’s someone for X-ray.’ She frowned heavily above magnificent dark eyes, and her splendid bosom heaved with exasperation.
‘Why are you looking at me so strangely, George? I know I’m late; I’ll just have to creep in unobserved.’ She paused and looked down at herself. ‘Well, not unobserved, perhaps—but he’ll not notice. He’ll be elderly and shortsighted and fat and bald, and I’ll not understand a word the poor wee man says.’ She caught the faint sound wrung from Dr Doelsma’s lips, and glanced over her shoulder. She smiled at him kindly and said, ‘Good morning. I didn’t see you. Am I keeping you waiting?’ She turned back to look at George’s disconcerted face and added severely, ‘Don’t gobble, George,’ and with a starched rustle swept away round the corner of the long corridor, and out of sight.
George pushed his old-fashioned steel spectacles down his nose and peered at Dr Doelsma, and was relieved to see that the doctor was laughing softly. The sight emboldened him to say:
‘Sister MacFergus was a bit worried, sir; she’d be that upset if she knew who you were—you couldn’t get a nicer young lady…’He broke
