Once For All Time. Betty Neels

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      James bent and kissed her—hard.

      “Do you know what that is?” he asked her.

      Clotilde took a steadying breath and did her best to behave normally, which was difficult in the circumstances. “No,” she managed.

      “That’s my farewell salute to Sister Clotilde Collins.” He grinned at her. “You can think about that until I see you again, Tilly.”

      He was gone—just like that, leaving the office door open. She wanted to shout a dozen questions at him. Did he know she was leaving?

      Or was it, she wondered, an oblique way of telling her he had decided to marry Dr. Mary Evans after all?

      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.

      Once for All Time

      Betty Neels

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      CONTENTS

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      WOMEN’S MEDICAL was quiet, for the Senior Consulting Physician’s round had just begun. Dr Thackery was already at the first bed; a large man and tall, with lint-fair hair thickly sprinkled with grey, and blue heavy-lidded eyes. Oblivious of the admiring gaze of his patients fastened upon his handsome head, he bent over the elderly woman he was examining, his own gaze fixed on the wall behind her bed while he prodded gently.

      Presently he said over his shoulder: ‘Sister, I think we’ll have another X-ray.’ He had a deep deliberate voice, and his newly appointed House Physician drew in her breath at the sound of it and closed her eyes in a lovesick fashion. Clotilde handed over the appropriate form and gave her a quick amused glance as she did so. Everyone—that was, everyone female fell for Dr Thackery; such a silly waste of time too, because he was quite oblivious of their adoring looks. She had worked for him for three years now and never once had he cast an eye, even faintly interested, at any one of the nurses, sisters or women doctors working at St Alma’s. He wasn’t married, although he had been seen on numerous occasions with a variety of girls—and good luck to him, mused Clotilde, briskly handing the signed form to Dr Evans, who received it as though it were a gift from heaven, blushing heavily. He was nice, kind and thoughtful and almost annoyingly placid, although she had upon occasion felt acute pity for whoever he was hauling over the coals in that calm courteous voice, chilly with icy displeasure. But never with her; they enjoyed a pleasant relationship, a detached friendliness which was quite impersonal. Away from the ward she knew nothing about him, nor was she curious, and if he was to have called her Clotilde instead of Sister Collins she would have been dumbstruck. That he mostly looked at her as though he didn’t see her properly didn’t vex her in the least; she was a pretty girl with dark thickly fringed eyes, a straight nose and a wide curving mouth and hair as dark as her eyes, inclined to curl and which she screwed into a bun on top of her head, adding another inch or two to her tall and splendid figure. Possessed of these attributes, she had never lacked attention from men, and now that she and Bruce were engaged, she had little interest in anyone else.

      Dr Thackery made his leisurely way to the next bed and she went with him, notes ready to hand, her mind now wholly on her work; which was more than could be said for Dr Evans, or, for that matter, his patient.

      Miss Knapp was fiftyish, thin, refined and with a tongue as sharp as her equally sharp nose. But during Dr Thackery’s round the sharpness was hidden under a die-away behaviour calculated to attract his sympathy.

      Only it didn’t. His manner towards her couldn’t be faulted; Clotilde had to admit that his bedside manner was flawless, he had examined her, asked a few pertinent questions, assured her that she would be going home within a few days, and passed on to the next bed before she could squeeze out a single tear of self-pity.

      A different kettle of fish here. Old Mrs Perch lay quietly, seldom speaking, and then only to thank someone for whatever they had done for her. Leukaemia, held at bay by Dr Thackery for hard fought months, was at last catching up with her; she knew it and so did he, but he sat on the edge of the bed, engaging her in cheerful talk between his questions, and was answered with equal cheerfulness. ‘And this dear girl,’ whispered Mrs Perch, nodding at Clotilde, ‘always there when she’s wanted—you have no idea what a treasure she is, Doctor.’

      He dropped the lids over his eyes. ‘Oh, but indeed I have, Mrs Perch. Sister Collins is my right hand, although I shall have to find myself another one when she marries.’

      Mrs Perch chuckled, it sounded like paper rustling. ‘There’ll be plenty wanting