Marion Lennox - Prescription-One Husband

‘Fern…Fern, I’m sorry…’

The thickset Sam was sweating and pale. His broad face had a sickly green tinge and his dinner suit looked as if it was too tight and too hot for him. Rivulets of sweat were running down from his receding hairline.

Behind him, the vicar looked on with astonished concern.

‘Sam, what is it?’ Fern whispered.

The trumpet sang out unconcernedly behind them but now Fern’s attention was fairly fixed on her fiancé.

‘I can’t…’

It was too much.

Sam cast his bride an agonised glance, clutched his stomach and bolted…

Fern was left standing alone at the altar.

It wasn’t just Sam.

Fern stood in the centre of the aisle, still holding her uncle’s arm, and around her the church erupted into action. It was as if Sam’s departure had opened a release valve.

There were people pushing past with the same agonised expression that Fern had seen on Sam’s face, hands to mouth or stomach…

The church was emptying as if it was burning.

Fern stared around her, dumbfounded.

The vicar was backing into the vestry.

Someone was sobbing at the end of one of the pews.

The strident trumpet died away. The trumpet player let his instrument fall. The trumpeter stared down at Fern from his place in the choir-stalls for a long moment before, with a small groan, he too disappeared from view.

And then, as Fern gazed around the chaotic church, she saw a girl move quietly from the back pew. She was a slip of a girl-Fern’s age or a little younger-dressed demurely in black with her mass of unmanageable hair tied back severely into a knot.

Lizzy Hurst…

Lizzy was slipping away, as unobtrusively as she could, and there was no agony on Lizzy Hurst’s face.

On her lips was a smirk of malicious triumph.

It had to be food poisoning…

Fern’s mind worked fast as she gazed round at the confused scene. There was no explaining what was happening except the theory of a massive dose of something bad to eat.

Fern’s aunt was in trouble. Uncle Al turned as Aunt Maud walked unsteadily forward from the front pew and clutched her husband’s arm.

‘Take…take me home, Al,’ Maudie whispered. ‘F-fast! Oh, Fern, I’m sorry but I think I’m going to be sick…’

She turned and ran.

Fern’s uncle looked helplessly at Fern. ‘What…?’

‘Uncle, I think the wedding’s off,’ Fern said unsteadily. ‘Auntie Maud needs you.’

Al closed his eyes in disbelief and then nodded. He followed his wife, leaving Fern at the altar. Alone.

Good grief!

Well, she couldn’t stay here. Fern walked slowly to the main entrance, her fabulous bridal train sweeping unnoticed behind her.

Outside there were people climbing into cars and departing at speed. There were also people who weren’t even trying to make it home. From where she stood, Fern could see Sam’s broad back in the bushes at the side of the church. His shoulders were heaving as his stomach rid itself of whatever was troubling it.

Fern’s heart wrenched in pity. Poor Sam. He’d planned this magnificent wedding for years-and now this!

What on earth had he eaten? What on earth had they all eaten?

She started down the steps towards Sam but then paused.

‘Some wedding!’

The voice behind her made Fern jump.

The voice was deep, resonant and, astonishingly, laced with laughter. Fern didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. The unknown wedding guest!

‘What on earth have you been feeding your guests?’ the stranger demanded. Then, as Fern stayed silent-staring out at Sam and the surrounding chaos-he placed a cool hand on the bare skin exposed by the dropped shoulders of Fern’s gown and twisted her round to face him.

‘Well, Dr Rycroft?’ he asked. The stranger met her stunned gaze with a quizzical arch of mobile brows. His penetrating eyes demanded a response.

‘I didn’t…I haven’t…’ Through the mist of her veil Fern met the man’s satirical look with bewilderment. ‘Dear heaven…This is awful!’ Her voice broke on a confused whisper.

‘I’ve been to a few weddings but none as different as this,’ the man told her. Incredibly, those eyes were still filled with lurking laughter. ‘It is awful, isn’t it? You should have made it “bring your own basin”!’

Fern gasped. ‘Look, I don’t know who on earth you are but this is hardly a laughing matter!’

‘No.’ The smile finally faded from the dark eyes as the stranger surveyed the scene before them.

It was truly awful. The people unaffected were fully occupied with those who were. There were huddled groups of misery everywhere.

‘I guess we shouldn’t laugh until we know what’s happened,’ the man said slowly. He took Fern’s hand in a swift, decisive tug and pulled her forward from the church door. ‘So, Dr Rycroft…’

‘Look, I don’t know you,’ Fern managed, digging her satin shoes into the ground and resisting his pull. ‘Who the heck are you?’

He grinned, laughter returning with a smile that lightened and warmed and made Fern want to smile right back-no matter how ridiculous a smile would be in the circumstances. Those deep eyes dared her to smile. It was all Fern could do to keep her lips from twitching.

‘Well, I know you, Dr Rycrof,’ the stranger told her. ‘I make it a point to know the names of all brides whose weddings I attend.’ His smile belied the mock gravity of his words.

‘And you attend heaps?’ Fern snapped. She shook her head as if trying to rid herself of a bad dream. She was so confused that she was dizzy.

‘You’re asking if I’m a professional wedding guest?’ That dangerous smile again. ‘Hardly that, Dr Rycroft.’ He released her shoulders, held out a large hand and enveloped her smaller one in a strong, reassuring grip. ‘I’m Quinn Gallagher-the island doctor.’

Quinn Gallagher…

Dizziness receded.

Fern nodded. At least one piece of the puzzle was falling into place. She’d forgotten this man’s arrival.

Quinn Gallagher was an island blessing.

Barega Island had always needed a doctor but none had been tempted to a place that was cut off from the mainland by two hundred miles of sea and restricted to a population of a few hundred plus occasional tourists. Barega might be an island paradise but it was hardly a lucrative medical practice.

When Fern had announced that she intended studying medicine the islanders were delighted. At last they’d have a doctor. A lawyer, too, if Sam Hubert came back.

Unfortunately neither Fern nor Sam had any such intention.

And Fern had been made to feel so guilty!

‘After all we’ve done for you,’ the islanders had told Fern reproachfully. ‘We’ve accepted you as one of us-it’s the least you can do to come back here and practise.’

She couldn’t It would kill her.

So when Aunt Maud had written and announced that the island had a new doctor Fern had been delighted.

‘Dr Gallagher’s such a nice man,’ Maudie had written. ‘So responsible and caring. He’s a real family doctor. Fern, I know you won’t mind us inviting him to your wedding.’

Of course she hadn’t minded. Fern had been so grateful that she could have kissed the unknown Quinn Gallagher. ‘Invite him, by all means,’ she’d written back.

A family doctor…Fern had conjured up visions of some elderly, retiring doctor who wanted to mix a little fishing and rural tranquillity with his medicine.

So why had Quinn Gallagher decided to practise medicine on Barega?

That had nothing to do with her, Fern thought hastily. What should be bothering her right now was that almost half her wedding guests seemed to be in extremis. Including her fiancé.