Betty Neels - Promise of Happiness

Baron Tiele Raukema was leaning against the door, staring at her. “Thank you, no. You’ve filled out very nicely, Becky.”

She was so surprised at this that she stared at him, her mouth open, and then said, “You don’t mean that I’m getting fat?”

The horror in her voice made him laugh. “No, only that you’re no longer a thin mouse.”

She had nothing to say to that. After a moment, she said, “It as a lovely evening. I would like to thank you, Baron. Bertie and Pooch liked it, too.”

“And I, Becky? Do you think that I liked it?”

His voice was too silky for her liking, but she answered him seriously. “Yes, you did, to begin with, and then I began to bore you, didn’t I? The wine, you know. I am not used to it and it made me chatty. I’m sorry it was a wasted evening for you.”

“You’re wrong.” His voice was so mild that it did not sound like his at all. “I enjoyed every single moment of it, Becky.” He took a step forward and swept her to him with one great arm, kissed her hard and went away, leaving her standing there staring at the closed door.

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

THE ROAD over the moors was lonely, its surface glistening from the drizzle which had been falling since first light. It was still very early; barely six o’clock, but already full daylight by reason of the time of year—the end of June, but as yet there was no sign of the clouds breaking, so that the magnificence of the scenery was a little marred by their uniform greyness.

There were no houses in sight and no cars, only a solitary figure marching briskly on the crown of the road, the thin figure of a girl, wrapped in a shabby old-fashioned raincoat, her hair tied in a sopping scarf. Marching beside her was a black retriever, no longer young, attached to a stout string, and tucked under the other arm was a plastic bag from the top of which protruded a cat’s head. It was an ugly beast, made more so by its wetness and a battle-scarred ear, but it was quiet enough, taking no notice of the road but fixing its eyes on the girl’s face.

‘We’re free, my dears,’ she told them in a rather breathy voice, because she was walking so quickly. ‘At least, if we can get to Newcastle we are. The main road’s only another mile; there may be a bus,’ she added, more to reassure herself than the animals. ‘Anyway, they won’t find we’re gone for another two hours.’

The dog whimpered gently and she slowed her steps, and said: ‘Sorry, Bertie.’ Without the animals she could have got away much faster, but the thought hadn’t even entered her head. They had been her solace for two years or more and she wasn’t going to abandon them. She began to whistle; they were together and hopeful of the future; she had a pitifully small sum in her purse, the clothes she stood up in, by now very wet, and a comb in her pocket—there had been no time for more; but she was free, and so were Bertie and Pooch. She whistled a little louder.

She intended to join the A696 north of Newcastle with the prospect of at least another six miles to go before she reached the city. She had been walking through moorland, magnificent country forming a small corner of the National Park, but very shortly it would be the main road and Newcastle at the end of it.

The main road, when she joined it presently, was surprisingly free from traffic and she supposed it was too early for a bus. She began to wonder what she would do when she got there and her courage faltered a little at the prospect of finding somewhere to spend the night, and most important, a job. And that shouldn’t be too difficult, she told herself bracingly; she was a trained nurse, surely there was a hospital who would employ her and let her live in—which left Bertie and Pooch… And they would want references… She was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear the big car slowing behind her and then stopping a few paces ahead. It was a large car, a silver- grey Rolls-Royce Corniche, and the man who got out of the driving seat was large too and very tall, with pepper and salt hair and very blue eyes in a handsome face. He waited until the trio had drawn abreast of him before he spoke. He said ‘good morning’ with casual politeness and looked amused. ‘Perhaps I can give you a lift?’ he offered, still casual, and waited quietly for his answer.

‘Well, thank you—but Bertie and Pooch are wet, they’d spoil your lovely car.’ She looked it over before her eyes went back to his face.

For answer he opened the back door. ‘There’s a rug—your dog can sit on it.’ He studied Pooch’s damp fur. ‘Perhaps the cat beside him, or would you rather have him on your knee?’

‘Oh, with me, if you don’t mind, it’s all a bit strange for him.’

He opened the door for her and when they were all settled she said contritely: ‘We’re all so wet— I’m sorry.’

‘It’s of no importance. Where can I set you down?’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘My name’s Raukema van den Eck—Tiele Raukema van den Eck.’

‘Rebecca Saunders.’ She offered a wet hand and he shook it, still with an air of amusement. She really was a nondescript little thing, no make-up and far too thin—her pansy brown eyes looked huge and there were hollows in her cheeks, and her hair was so wet he could hardly tell its colour.

‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked again, and this time there was faint impatience in his voice.

‘Well, anywhere in Newcastle, thank you,’ she made haste to assure him. ‘I must look for a job.’

‘A little early in the day for that, surely?’ he queried idly. ‘You must have left home early—you live close by?’

‘I left home just before four o’clock. It’s six miles away, down a side road.’

Her companion shot her a quick glance. He said on a laugh: ‘You sound as though you’re running away from a wicked stepmother!’

‘Well, I am,’ said Rebecca matter-of-factly. ‘At least, she’s not exactly wicked, but I had to run away; Basil was going to drown Pooch and shoot Bertie, you see.’