Stars Through the Clouds (Book Drawing Submission)

STARS THROUGH THE CLOUDS
by Betty Magdalen

Ward Sister Euphemia Bishop walked between the beds on the ward, checking on the elderly ladies sleeping finally after a difficult evening with this one needing her glasses found and that one needing a cup of Horlicks and a comforting shoulder to cry on. Despite her size, she was graceful and efficient, making no noise as she went. At the end of the ward was her office, and the off-duty roster that seemed to refuse her best efforts at untangling.
Euphemia was still struggling to sort out all her nurses' requests for days off when she remembered that she needed to get the patients ready in the morning for that Dutch doctor they were sending her. She rustled among her papers; his name was impossible to remember, and she suspected she'd never say it correctly. Oh, well, the Dutch were invariably polite about well-meaning efforts to master their language. Ah, here it was.
"Professor Thijs de Jongh-Bijlsma," she tried out loud.
"Yes?"
Euphemia jumped. "You scared me," she accused the giant standing negligently in the doorway. He was smilingly placidly at her, but she could tell that he was quite tired. He was wearing elderly cords and a disreputable sweater, and there was a smudge of soot on the back of one hand.
"My apologies. I heard my name, and thought you wished to speak to me."
Euphemia could feel herself blushing. She frowned at him. "Sit down," she ordered him ungraciously. "You look dead on your feet. You were called out, I gather?"
"A warehouse fire near the Isle of Dogs; unfortunately there were several people squatting there when the fire broke out." His sleepy blue eyes glinted dangerously. He might be exhausted, but she sensed he missed nothing. Euphemia knew she was attractive, but no girl looks her best at 3:00 a.m. She suspected her nose was in need of some powder, and resisted the urge to smooth the wisps of silky dark hair escaping from her cap, the anachronistic starched and frilled affair that St. Engelbert's nurses wore. Theirs was the very last of the hopelessly outdated Victorian hospitals in London, but its staff managed with some pride to maintain its traditions.
"Yes, well, Professor, why are you here now?" Euphemia asked coolly.
"Mrs. Brenda Keith. She will be needing an adjustment in the treatment of her Buerger's thromboangiitis obliterans. As I was in the hospital anyway, I thought I would come early to see her."
Euphemia softened. Mrs. Keith was a favorite of hers. In her usual calm manner, she conveyed the pertinent details of the patient's care and condition. When she was done, she looked to see if he was satisfied. He had his eyes closed. Was he asleep?
"I'm not asleep," he informed her without opening his eyes.
This was insupportable. She still had the off-duty roster to complete. "Well, if there's nothing else?" she asked briskly.
"Oh, there's more. I plan to woo you, introduce you to my dogs and faithful friend and servant Jans, be sure to have you with me when the next disaster occurs so that your life can be briefly in danger and I can save you, accompany you to the Governor's Ball, misunderstand your friendship with that earnest houseman I passed in the hall, although I will then realize that he is merely telling you about his girlfriend in South Africa and not actual evidence that I am too old for you, sort out your feelings for me, and then propose marriage."
"Well, I never!"
He smiled at her expression of outrage. "But I am far too tired to do any of those things at present. I will settle for a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive biscuit."