Betty Neels - A Good Wife

She said slowly, “Supposing I fell in love with someone? Suppose you fell in love with another woman?”

“I have had ample time to meet a girl I wished to marry—the risk is slight. And you?”

“Me? Well, I haven’t met many men.” She sighed. “I’m not sure that I believe in love.”

“But do you believe in liking, in friendship, in sharing your life with someone who shares your interests and enjoys your company?”

She said thoughtfully, “Yes, I do believe in that. And I do like you. I don’t know anything about you, but sometimes one meets someone and one feels at home with them at once—like old friends….”

“Indeed, and that is how I feel with you, Serena. Comfortable.”

He smiled at her then, and she smiled back, feeling, for the first time in weeks, secure.

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.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

SERENA LIGHTFOOT, awakened by the early sun of an April morning, rolled over onto her back and contemplated the ceiling; today was her twenty-sixth birthday. Not that it was going to be any different from any other day in the year; her father certainly wouldn’t remember, Matthew, her younger brother, a curate living some way away and recently married, might possibly send her a card, and Henry, her elder brother, a solicitor and family man, wouldn’t give her a thought, although his wife might possibly remember. There was Gregory, of course, with whom she had that old-fashioned thing, an ‘understanding’…

She got up then, wasting a few minutes hanging out of the window to admire the view; she never tired of it—rural Dorset. Away from the main roads, the village was half hidden by a small wood, the hills were close by and beyond them lay the quiet countryside. The church clock struck seven and she withdrew her head and set about getting dressed, then skimmed downstairs to the kitchen to make the early-morning tea.

The kitchen was large, with a lamentable lack of up-to-date equipment. There was a scrubbed wooden table ringed around by sturdy chairs, an old-fashioned gas cooker flanking a deep sink and a vast dresser along one wall. There was a shabby rug in front of the cooker and two Windsor chairs, in one of which there was a small tabby cat to whom Serena wished a good morning before she put on the kettle. The one concession to modernity was a cumbersome fridge which, more often than not, ran amok.

Serena left the kettle to boil and went to the front door to fetch the post. There was a small pile of letters in the post box, and just for a moment she pretended that they were all for her. They weren’t, of course: bills, several legal-looking envelopes, a catalogue or two, and, just as she had expected, two birthday cards for herself. And no card from Gregory. But she hadn’t really expected one from him; he had made it plain to her on several occasions that birthdays were scandalously overpriced and a waste of money. Gregory didn’t believe in wasting money; her father and brothers approved of him for that reason. Serena wasn’t sure of that, but she hoped in a vague way that when they married she would be able to change his frugal ways.

She went back to the kitchen and made the tea, offered milk to the cat and, as the clock struck the half hour, took a tray of tea up to her father’s room.

This was a large, gloomy apartment with heavy old-fashioned furniture, closely curtained against the morning brightness. She tweaked one curtain aside as she crossed the room, the better to see the occupant in the vast bed.

Mr Lightfoot matched the room, gloomy and the epitome of a late-Victorian gentleman, whiskers and all. He sat up in bed, not speaking, and when Serena wished him good morning, he grunted a reply.

‘A good morning for some,’ he observed, ‘but for those who suffer as I do, daylight is merely the solace after a sleepless night.’

Serena put the tray down and handed him his letters. That her father’s snores shattered the peace of the house was something on which there was no point in remarking. She had long ago learned that the only way in which to live with him was to allow his words to flow over her head. She said now, ‘It’s my birthday, Father.’

He was opening his letters. ‘Oh, yes? Why have the gas company sent me another bill? Gross carelessness.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t pay the first one?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Serena. I have always paid my bills promptly.’

‘But it is possible to make a mistake,’ said Serena, and took herself out of the room, wondering for the thousand and first time how her mother could have lived with such a tiresome man. She herself very often found life quite intolerable, living here with him, doing almost all of the housework, cooking and shopping and looking after him. He had for some time now declared that he was an invalid, and he led an invalid’s life with no concern for her.

Since Dr Bowring had said that there was nothing wrong with him he had refused to see him again, declaring that he knew far better what was wrong with him than any doctor. So he had devised his own treatment for his illness, having declared that he was suffering from a weak heart and congestion of the lungs. He had over the years added lumbago to these, which gave him every reason to take to his bed whenever he wished to do so.

It hadn’t been so bad when her mother had been alive. They had had a housekeeper, and between the two of them Serena and her mother had devised a routine which had allowed them enough freedom; there had been a certain amount of social life for them. Serena had had her tennis parties and small dances at friends’ houses, and her mother had been able to play bridge and enjoy coffee with her friends. Then her mother had fallen ill and died without fuss or complaint, only asking Serena to look after her father. And, since Serena had known that her mother had loved her despot of a husband, she had promised that she would. That had been five years ago…

Her life since then had altered dramatically: the housekeeper had been dismissed; Serena, her father had declared, was quite capable of running the house with the help of a woman from the village who came twice a week for a few hours. What else was there for her to do? he’d wanted to know, when she had pointed out that the house wasn’t only large, it was devoid of any labour-saving devices. Sitting in his armchair by his bedroom window, wrapped in rugs, with a small table beside him bearing all the accepted aids to invalidism, he had dismissed her objections with a wave of the hand.