Table Of ContentThe doctors choice by Hilary Wilde
It is never pleasant to be jilted, and when Nurse Clare Butler’s fiance tells
her brutally that he has never really loved her,she hides her heartache by taking
a new job in the Australian Outback. Looking after a motherless seven-year-old
boy is no easy task — and nor is guarding her feelings against the magnetism of
young Barry’s uncle, Doctor David Johnson. After all,David is the one who
warned her against falling in love on the rebound… and he loves Gillian, Barry’s
beautiful stepmother, whose sudden arrival threatens everything that Clare has
achieved.
printed in Great Britain
First published in Great Britain 1964 by Mills & Boon Limited, 17-19 Foley
Street, London W1A 1DR
© Hilary Wilde 1964
Australian copyright 1979
Philippine copyright 1979
ISBN 0 263 73208 8
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of
the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or
names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or
unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure inventions.
The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or
otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior
consent of the Publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
CHAPTER ONE
CLARE BUTLER, walking along the busy corridors of the large London
teaching hospital, was happy. In four days’ time she would be marrying Doctor
Peter Wendell, who was working in the hospital, and after their honeymoon in
Spain they would be going to Glasgow to live and work.
Clare’s navy-blue cloak hung loosely from her shoulders, her red-gold hair
was tucked well under her white starched cap, her green eyes were dancing with
amusement as nurses and interns she knew well passed her and teased her.
Glancing at her watch, she began to hurry. Peter had phoned her during the night
when she was on duty and had asked her to look in at his flat on her way home,
and she must not be late!
First, though, she must call in for her usual morning chat with seven-year-old
Barry Johnson. He was an Australian boy who had travelled fourteen thousand
miles to have a hole-in-the-heart operation which had proved very successful.
The door to his private ward was ajar, so she pushed it open, and then
paused, hesitating because she saw that Barry was not alone. His uncle, Doctor
David Johnson, was with him.
“Hi, Nurse!” the small boy with dark hair called excitedly from his bed.
“Was it a good party yester-day?”
The big man by his side turned to look at Clare. “Do come in, Nurse,” he
invited, his voice friendly.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Clare said quietly.
Doctor Johnson was a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a deep,
quiet voice.
“Nurse, was it fun?” Barry’s dark blue eyes were alight. “What happened?
What did they give you?”
Clare smiled. “A shower.”
“A shower?” the small boy echoed, his voice startled.
“Had you a mac … or a swimsuit? I mean, wasn’t it cold?”
Clare glanced at the silent man and saw his mouth curve into a smile. He was
devoted to his small nephew, having accompanied him on this long trip to
England, doing refresher courses while he stayed with the small boy. She had
also heard that he was a Flying Doctor in Australia, single, heart-whole, and
allergic to young women!
“Not that kind of shower, Barry,” Clare explained, smiling at. the boy, whose
dark hair was rumpled and whose bed, as usual, was untidy. “This is a party
where your friends give you things for the kitchen. Like wooden spoons and tea-
cloths.”
Barry looked scornful. “Sounds awful boring.”
Clare laughed and, glancing up, saw the thoughtful glance Doctor Johnson
was giving her. She wondered anxiously if she looked very untidy, for she was
tired after a busy night.
a busy night.
“It was fun, Barry,” Clare said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to go now.”
“You’ve only just got here,” he complained, his mouth sad.
“I know, darling,” she told him. “You — well, tomorrow I’ll — I’ll have
more time, but… .”
“I understand you are leaving the hospital in a few days?” Doctor Johnson
said quietly.
“Yes, I’m getting married on Saturday,” she told him with a smile.
She realized that this was the first time she had really looked at Doctor
Johnson. He had been merely Barry’s uncle. Now she began to understand why a
wave of excitement had swept through the hospital when he arrived, for he was
very good-looking, with those broad shoulders, and a skin tanned by the sun. His
dark hair was smooth and she liked his stormy grey eyes.
“I wish you weren’t going to get married,” Barry said miserably. “You’re my
only friend.”
Clare took the seven-year-old boy’s hand and held it tightly as she smiled. A
few red curls escaped from her starched white cap. There were shadows under
her slanting green eyes and tenderness in her smile. “‘Course I’m not, darling.
We’re all your friends.”
He shrugged shoulders that were too thin. “I don’t think so. Why do you
have to go and get married?” he asked, his voice sulky.
Again Doctor Johnson intervened quietly. “I understand you’re giving up
nursing. It seems a pity.”
Clare coloured. Many of her friends had bitterly criticized her for making the
decision. “Yes, Doctor, but —” She and Peter had argued about this for a long
time. Loving him so much, in the end she had agreed.
Peter wanted a wife to be waiting when he came home, the dinner cooked
and ready!
“It seems rather a —” Doctor Johnson began.
“Waste?” Clare supplied the word, her cheeks burning. It was the word
Eileen, her Irish friend, had used.
The big man frowned. “Nothing you learn is a waste,” he said sternly.
The door opened, and Barry’s nurse was there, a tray in her hands.
“I must go, Barry darling,” Clare said. “See you tomorrow.”
“That’s a promise?” Barry called.
Clare nodded with a smile and slipped out of the room, but a voice halted
her.
“Nurse!”
Clare turned and saw Doctor Johnson following her.
She stifled a sigh. “Yes, Doctor?”
He was frowning. “I must apologize for appearing to criticize your decision
to give up nursing,“he said stiffly.
“It’s quite all right, Doctor,” Clare said quickly. “It wasn’t an easy decision
to make.”
“But you had the right to make it,” the man, tower-ing above her, said firmly.
“And no one has the right to criticize you. I want to thank you for your kindness
/to Barry.”
“I’m not kind to him,” she said, startled.. “I like him.”
There was the faintest trace of a smile on his grave face.
“He likes you. Life hasn’t been easy for Barry.” He hesitated. “I know you’re
in a hurry, but I’d like to explain a few things.”
As they talked, they walked down the corridor towards the lift, standing to
one side to allow two orderlies to wheel a trolley by. Later they passed a couple
of interns, who glanced at them curiously.
“Barry is a very disturbed boy,” Doctor Johnson continued gravely, his hands
clasped behind his back, his head bent towards Clare. “His father died a few
years ago and his stepmother walked out on him. They were staying with my
brother at the time, and my brother —well, he wants to adopt Barry legally when
he can contact the boy’s mother and get her permission.”
“His stepmother walked out on him?” Clare repeated slowly.
Doctor Johnson looked down. “Yes, I knew her quite well,” he said, his voice
dry. “She always took the easiest course. She knew Barry wouldn’t starve, that
Ian and Val would love him as one of their own children.”
Vaguely, as they walked, Clare was noticing the surprised and amused
glances nurses were giving them as they passed them. She thought for a moment
of how the grapevine in the hospital would pass on the news.
“But how could his stepmother leave him?” Clare asked.
Doctor Johnson frowned. “I don’t know. She’d had him from a small baby
and was practically the same as his real mother – but she was a strange girl and
terrified of illness. When she lost her husband and realized she had a delicate
child to look after, she took the obvious course and walked out.”
“Obvious!” Clare said scornfully. “Barry needed her.”
She remembered how Barry’s hot little fingers had clung to hers those nights
she had been his “special”, shortly after his operation.
“She never wanted to be needed,” Doctor Johnson said quietly.
“But—” Clare began, and drew a long deep breath.
She was wasting her time, she knew, for obviously Doctor Johnson more
than liked Barry’s stepmother. “Is Barry happy with your brother?”
“I think so,” the doctor by her side said slowly. “As happy as he can be, at
the moment. He finds it difficult to trust anyone.”
“Who can blame him?” Clare asked as they reached the lift, and she saw a
small group of nurses waiting who gave them curious glances. “He must
obviously have looked on her exactly as his real mother.”
“He did.” Doctor Johnson held out his hand. “Now, I may not have the
chance again, Nurse, but I would like to wish you happiness in your new life. We
shall miss you.”
She blushed. “Thank you, sir.” She felt the warm strength of his fingers as
they closed round her hand.
“You’re taking Barry home soon?”
“Yes, in about ten days, I hope. Goodbye, and good luck.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Clare gave the big man a quick smile before turning to
the lift as it stopped and the doors opened.
She found herself standing next to Eileen Mullins, her dark-eyed Irish friend.
“How on earth did you work it, honey?” Eileen teased. “Chatting with the
Great Big Icicle as if you were old buddies! What would Peter say?”
“He’d understand. We were discussing Barry,”
Clare said, a little indignantly. Eileen and she had been close friends since
the day they met, both raw, rather scared probationers, but Eileen had never liked
Peter.
The lift spilled them out on to the ground floor and they left the hospital
together, going out into one of London’s overcast mornings.
Eileen smiled. “Only four more days and wedding bells will Ting.” Her smile
vanished and she looked worried, her dark hair blowing untidily in the breeze.
“I hope you’ll be happy, Clare,” she said abruptly, and turned away, hurrying
towards the nurses’ hostel.
Clare walked in the opposite direction, for when she was on night duty she
always slept at home, in the small flat her parents had in Chelsea. They always
waited for her before they went to work; her mother helped her father run his
small optical instruments factory. But today, Clare knew, they might not be able
to wait, for she was going to be very late.
Hurrying along the busy street, she thought affectionately of her parents, who
had been married for twelve years before her arrival, which had proved both a
surprise and a delight. Generous, unpossessive, deeply loving parents, they had
always cherished a dream and saved for it, even if it was but a small sum.
Now, with Clare’s marriage so close, they were selling their business, had let
their flat furnished for a year, and were setting off on a journey round the world,
finding jobs as they went. A dream come true.
She turned left, down a narrow alley towards the tall dingy building in which
Peter lived. She ran up the white steps of the tall narrow house and put her finger
on the bell under Peter’s name.
It seemed ages, but at last the door opened and Peter stood there. She lifted
her face, her eyes wide with happiness. She could never get over the wonder of it
—that, out of all the nurses in Queen Anne’s Hospital, Peter had chosen her.
They had danced, gone on the river; then, six months before, Peter had asked her
to be his wife. She smiled at the lean, handsome man with blond hair, bright blue
eyes and infectious smile. Suddenly she shivered. He was not smiling; he had
not kissed her!
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said quickly.
“You’re not late,” he countered curtly.
She led the way through the dark hall, up the steep stairs with their faded
carpet, past closed doors, and finally they were in Peter’s tiny flatlet. The
windows gave a view of London’s sooty chimneypots, and elongated television
aerials which looked like grotesque examples of abstract sculpture. She had
often wondered how Peter could live in such a squalid, uncomfortable place.
Now he closed the door with a small slam and she swung round, startled.
He stood stiffly, leaning against the door, his face cold.
“Peter darling, what’s happened?” Clare asked, going to him, her hands
outstretched. “What is it?”
He held up his hand. “Wait a moment, Clare. I’ve got something to tell you.”
His voice was that of a stranger. She felt as if she had a tight band round her
head. She lifted her hand and jerked off her white starched cap.
“Tell me what?” she gasped. She felt cold and afraid.
He went to stand by the window, his back to her.
“Tell you I—”
Suddenly she knew what he was trying to say. She closed her eyes with the
shock and pain of it. There was a silence that seemed to drag on endlessly, but at
last she found her voice.
“You don’t want to marry me?”
He turned, and she saw the relief on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and moved
towards her. “Clare, I—”
She was not listening. Blindly she passed him and went to stare out of the
window at the forest of chimneypots, the narrow windows, the low grey clouds
in the sky.
“What happened? You stopped loving me?” she said slowly. “When?”
“It’s a girl in Guildford. We met two years ago and then not again until
Mother was ill and I went home.
About – about seven months ago,” Peter said.
Clare swung round. “But we weren’t even engaged, then.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I know, but—”
“But! But what?” Clare demanded, her pale face flushing suddenly. “I don’t
understand you, Peter.”
Her voice shook. “If you were in love with this girl, then – then why did you
ask me to marry you?”
– then why did you ask me to marry you?”
Peter stood very still, his hands deep in the trouser pockets of his dark suit,
his bright blue eyes narrowed as he looked at the girl facing him. He frowned.
“Well, let’s face it, Clare, you did rather rush me,” he said his voice annoyed.
voice annoyed.
She took a step backward, her hand flying to her mouth. “I – rushed you?”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s what I said. After all, I only kissed you, and you
immediately jumped to conclusions and—”
“But, Peter—” she said quickly, and then stopped, staring at him, her eyes
wide with dismay. How well she remembered. That particular kiss! The way he
had held her close, his mouth demanding, his hands loving.
“It was a – a different sort of kiss,” she finished slowly. He laughed
scornfully. “Don’t tell me you’d never . He laughed scornfully. “Don’t tell me
you’d never been kissed like that before! It didn’t mean – marriage,” he added as
he watched her face.
As she stared at him, a wave of misery swept through her. Could he be right?
She tried to remember that evening. The lights low, the soft music, his arms so
tightly round her.
Had he asked her to marry him? Had he put it into words? Or was she the
one who had said she loved him?
She took the ring off her finger.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said quietly as she gave him the ring.
He took it, looking at her white face. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. Suddenly his
eyes were wary. “It’s going to be a bit awkward. I mean, at the hospital—”
She stared at him. And despised and forgave him in the same moment, for it
meant so much to Peter — other people’s good opinion of him.
“I’ll tell them we’ve changed our minds,” she said, as she picked up her
white starched cap and turned to the door, thinking of all the things that had to be
done.
“I’ll put an announcement in the papers and — and return the presents,” she
added wearily.
“Thanks a ton,” he said, his voice suddenly cheerful.
At the door she turned, the pain almost more than she could bear as she
looked at him.
He smiled. “You always were a good sport,” he said.
She went down the steep stairs quickly, and as she left the drab building the
cold wind hit her and seemed to revive her. At last she was on the bus, sitting
hunched up, facing the dreary future. Chelsea, and she could walk down
Beaufort Street to their block, then she was climbing four flights of cold stone
steps and their green front door was before her. She unlocked it quietly, looking
down the long corridor and wishing she could escape the next half-hour. What
would they say?
In less than a week the flat had to be vacated, but first they must unpack the
crate of wedding presents, sort out each present from the list, repack separately
with a small note. There would be letters to write, people to phone… .
She closed her eyes for a moment as exhaustion and misery seemed to
swamp her.
“What’s wrong?” her mother asked anxiously.
Clare opened her eyes and tried to smile at the plump, short woman with
greying hair and smiling mouth.
“The wedding’s off,” she said flatly. “Peter’s changed his mind.”
“Changed his mind?” her mother gasped.
Clare felt suddenly cold as she slid the blue cape from her shoulders and
hung it on the peg in the hall. “Yes, there’s another girl,” she said dully.
“Left it a bit late, hasn’t he?” her father said from the doorway, his face
shocked.
Clare looked at the thin, bald man with the tired, rounded shoulders and tried
