The Moon by Night by Gilbert Morris, Lynn Morris Page A

blessed I am…. How I miss him!
    Cheney and Shiloh saw very little of each other these busy days, as they worked hard to establish themselves in their chosen careers. Thinking of how near she had come to nagging Shiloh into a life that he had no desire for—becoming a doctor—just to please her, Cheney gave a little shudder and promised herself that she would never, never drag Shiloh into the complex, teeming, demanding, difficult, consuming world of medicine again.
    The main entrance of the hospital was the original grand portico of the house, with walnut wainscoting and a discreetly green-striped velvet wallpaper, an immense Bohemian crystal chandelier, and long walnut refectory tables on each side. Victoria had contracted with a hothouse upstate to supply fresh flowers every week. The vibrant splashes of orange, yellow, and white mums, great blooms nodding in Stilton vases, lit up the great foyer. Just ahead was the chapel, newly built by the partners. On each side were offices and sitting rooms, one for the physicians and one for the nurses and other staff. Quickly Cheney stored her outerwear in the doctors’ sitting room and went back across to the administration offices.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mrs. Buchanan, Dr. Pettijohn,” she said breezily as she entered the office. “Good heavens, Victoria, you’re practically buried under that pile of papers. I’ve never seen you work so hard. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen you work at all. Being married to Dev has made you practically industrious.”
    â€œHardly,” Victoria Elizabeth Steen de Lancie Buchanan answered languidly. “Dr. Pettijohn does all the work. I just watch and look as if I understand it all and nod approvingly.”
    Victoria was a tiny blond woman with a crystalline beauty, fabulously wealthy, married to a man she adored, and she was Cheney’s best friend. She was also an extremely shrewd, intelligent, and exacting businesswoman.
    â€œGood afternoon, Dr. Duvall,” Dr. Pettijohn said smoothly. “I assure you I would never allow Mrs. Buchanan to disappear under a mountain of paperwork.”
    Dr. Marcus Pettijohn was the other staff physician besides Cheney and Cleve Batson. He was a young man, with thick, curly sandy blond hair and mustache, blue eyes, and a complexion as fine as a woman’s. He was of average height and slight of build. He was undoubtedly intelligent and had had the advantage of attending L’Hôpital de la Charité in Paris and of receiving his medical degree from that illustrious institution. But when his father had passed away, Dr. Pettijohn had been required to return to New York. Elmore Pettijohn, his father, had owned Pettijohn’s Apothecary on the south side of the block on Twenty-Fourth Street, as had his father before him, when he had established the business in 1790.
    Cheney and Dev had used Pettijohn’s Apothecary since they had opened their practice in 1865, and they missed the elder Mr. Pettijohn very much. He had been a kind, personable gentleman who was the most conscientious and careful apothecary Cheney had ever known. He had been so proud of his son Marcus. After old Mr. Pettijohn had died and Marcus had returned to New York, Marcus had taken over the business. But when Dev and Victoria had considered all the applications they had received for staff physician, they had decided on Marcus Pettijohn. So Dr. Pettijohn had closed the apothecary shop and sold the little cottage to Mr. Roe, who owned Roe’s Livery and Stables on the same block.
    Marcus Pettijohn had proved to be such a valuable assistant in helping Victoria with the administration of the hospital that he had been named administrative assistant, and Cheney and Cleve had agreed that he should have the coveted day shift—from eight to six—in the hospital. Actually, neither Cheney nor Cleve had cared. Cheney liked working from two until midnight. She had found, in San