Betty Neels - Wish with the Candles

“Yes, but only twice, and one was a middle-aged widower.”

“I’m middle-aged, Emma, and I may be a widower.”

Emma said instantly, “No—you’re not, are you?” She tried to see his face, but the moonlight played tricks; his eyes gleamed, whether with amusement or anger she didn’t know.

“And would it make any difference if I were, Emma?”

She gave up trying to read his expression and stared out of the window instead. After a moment or two she said with perfect truth, “None at all,” and, all the same, was extravagantly relieved when he replied:

“Well, I’m not. As I said, I have waited patiently and I think the years of waiting will be worthwhile.”

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

MISS EMMA HASTINGS closed her eyes and a shudder ran through her nicely curved person; she opened them again almost immediately, hoping, rather after the manner of a small child, that what she didn’t wish to see would be gone. Of course it wasn’t. The Rolls-Royce Cornische convertible still gleamed blackly within a yard or so of her appalled gaze. In other, happier circumstances she would have been delighted to have had the opportunity of viewing its magnificence at such close quarters, but now, at this moment, she could only wish it on the other side of the world, not here within inches of her, with the bumper of her humble Ford Popular, third hand, locked with the pristine beauty of the Rolls’ own single bumper.

Its driver was getting out and Emma made haste to do the same, quite forgetting that the Ford’s door handle on her side could be temperamental and had taken that moment to jam while she was fiddling with it. As she tugged and pushed she had plenty of time to observe the man strolling towards them. As magnificent as his car, she thought, eyeing his height and breadth of shoulder, and her heart sank as she saw his hair, for it was a dark, rich copper, and redheaded people were notoriously nasty-tempered. Her mother apparently thought otherwise, for she said softly, ‘Oh, Emma, what a remarkably handsome man!’ and Emma, cross because she couldn’t get out, began tartly, ‘Oh, Mother…’ and went on silently fighting the door, which, to make matters worse, yielded instantly under the man’s hand.

She got out then, all five foot three of her, feeling a little better because she was face to face with him even though her eyes were on a level with his tie. She studied its rich silkiness for a long moment and then lifted her gaze to his face. His eyes, she noticed with something of a shock were green, unexpectedly cool. Probably he was furious; she said quickly in her pleasant voice, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch—it was my fault,’ and smiled with relief when he answered her in English.

‘You were on the wrong side of the road.’ He spoke curtly, but Emma was so relieved to hear her own tongue that she hardly noticed it and went on, ‘I’m so glad you’re English,’ and when he gave her a sudden sharp look and barked ‘Why?’ at her, she explained cheerfully:

‘Well, the Dutch are awfully nice, but they’re not very—very lighthearted…’

He laughed nastily. ‘Indeed? Am I supposed to be lighthearted because I have been run into by a careless girl who has probably damaged my car? You are an appalling driver.’

‘I’m not,’ said Emma with spirit, ‘I’m quite good, only they drive on the wrong side of the road and when I turned the corner I forgot—only for a moment.’ She returned the icy stare from the green eyes with a cool one from her own hazel ones and added with dignity:

‘Of course, I will pay for any damage.’ Her heart sank as she said it; Rolls-Royces were expensive cars, doubtless their repairs cost a good deal more than the lesser fry of the motoring world. She blinked at the unpalatable thought that she would probably be footing the bill—in instalments—for months ahead and ventured uncertainly:

‘Perhaps the damage isn’t too bad.’

The man looked down a nose which reminded her strongly of Wellington’s. ‘Probably extensive,’ he stated evenly, his eyes boring into hers. Emma drew a long breath—it wasn’t any good trying to guess at the cost; she thrust the unpleasant thought to the back of her mind and remarked practically, ‘Well, if we could undo the cars we could see…’

A faint convulsion swept over the stranger’s face. ‘And how do you propose to—er—undo them?’ His voice was too smooth for her liking. She shot him a doubtful glance and then walked past him to have a look. It seemed to her that the Ford had had the worst of the encounter, for its bumpers were dented and twisted and hooked under the Rolls’ bumper. Emma, who knew very little about cars anyway, hoped that its engine was all right. She said now, ‘If we could lift your car off mine…’

The convulsion returned briefly. ‘Have you ever tried to lift a Rolls-Royce, young lady?’ His voice was silky and when she shook her head he went on, still very silky, ‘You really are bird-witted, aren’t you?’

He had come to stand beside her, now he lifted an elegantly shod foot and gently kicked that piece of bumper which the Ford had wrapped round the Rolls. It fell to the road with an apologetic clang and Emma, watching it with her mouth open, didn’t wait for its last rattle before she burst into hot speech.

‘How dare you—how dare you kick my car, just because it’s old!’ She could have been accusing him of kicking an old lady from her throbbing accents; her voice shook with temper; her quite ordinary face seemed to have taken on a more vivid sheen. The man turned to look at her once more, intently this time, as if he were studying something he had previously overlooked.

‘And how dare you drive on the wrong side of the road?’ he queried mildly, ‘an offence which I fear in this country is frowned upon by the law.’

As if some demon god had been listening to his words, a small white car skimmed round the bend of the road, made as if to pass them, and then stopped. It had the word Politie painted on its sides and the familiar blue lamp on its roof, and if that wasn’t enough to convince Emma that Damocles’ sword really had fallen, its doors opened and two large square men in the uniform of the Dutch police stepped out, advanced with the deliberate step of their kind and then stood to look about them. After a minute one of them spoke, and Emma, supposing it to be the equivalent of ‘Well, well, what’s all this?’ said apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t understand…!’ and then turned to the stranger. ‘Do you speak the language at all?’ she wanted to know. ‘Perhaps you could make them understand.’