Free Nurse for the Doctor by Averil Ives

to stammer, and saw that he was frowning a little.
    “Why didn’t we see you in the dining room tonight, Nurse Winters?”
    She didn’t know how to reply to this, but at last some awkward words left her lips.
    “There are such things as conventions ... I mean, it wouldn’t be correct for me to mingle too freely with your guests, and both Mrs. Duveen and I agreed ... That is to say, I was happier dining in my own room, and we both thought it would be far more fitting.”
    “I see.” But his frown didn’t lessen. “Nevertheless, I look upon you as a guest, and in future I shall expect you to remember that, and shall look to see you in the dining room whenever we take our meals.” He turned and walked beside her along the path. “Come now and have some coffee.”
    She felt very small, and foolish, like a rebuked child, as she kept pace with his long strides, and she was secretly appalled at the idea of making her appearance amongst the others with her hair wind-blown, and in her plain uniform-like dress that would inevitably set her miles apart from the rest of the company. And Mrs. Duveen ... Mrs. Duveen, she felt certain, wouldn’t approve at all.
    She tried to get herself excused, summoning up the courage to put forward a plea on a matter that was vital to the retention of her pride.
    “ Senor ”—Mrs. Duveen had explained to her that in spite of his elevated status it was customary to address the marquis in this simple fashion—“If you please, senor, I would much prefer not to ... I mean, I don’t really want any coffee, and...”
    “Then a glass of wine after the chill of the out-of-doors will help you to sleep,” and she realized it was no use attempting any more excuses. “It is important that a nurse should sleep well in order that she shall be fresh to look after her patient. ‘Isn’t that so, Senorita Winter?” And he looked at her with strange, dark, penetrating eyes as they passed beneath the swinging lantern in the hall.
    She wondered whether he realized that for the past hour and more her thoughts had been almost entirely with Michael.
    The huge, formal room where the rest of the party were relaxing after a dinner of many courses—each one a triumph for the marquis’s chef—seemed to Josie to be a blaze of light when they entered it. She could feel the light beating down on her ruffled fair curls, drawing attention to the lack of color in her cheeks, and the puritanical whiteness of her collar and cuffs. She could also see Mrs. Duveen, sharing a damask-covered couch with an elderly, white-haired Spaniard who had been paying her the most extravagant compliments ever; since dinner ended, looking at her with a frankly startled expression in her eyes, and Michael turn his sleek head towards her. He was lying back in one of the most comfortable chairs in the room, and Dona Maria had just provided him with an additional cushion which she was certain was necessary for his complete comfort. As Josie, with dragging steps—although there was nothing dragging about the brisk steps which carried her host to the array of drinks set out on a side table—reached the middle of the room, the marquis’s sister, with an almost maternal smile of solicitude for the invalid, bent above him with an ivory box of cigarettes, and he was just about to submit to having one lighted for him when Josie came to a halt.
    “Is anything wrong , Nurse Winter?” Mrs. Duveen asked sharply, sitting upright against the pearl-grey damask.
    Josie felt the color beginning to flood to her face.
    “No, nothing—nothing,” she assured her employer, and wondered whether it was purely her imagination, or whether Michael really did look a little concerned as he gazed up at her. He even made an attempt to rise and offer her his chair.
    “What happened to you, Josie?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you put in an appearance at dinner?”
    “That is precisely the question I put to Miss Winter,” the Marquis de Palheiro said, in a