Читать книгу: «Rags To Riches: Her Duty To Please»

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 epitomised 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, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.

CHAPTER ONE

ARAMINTA POMFREY, a basket of groceries over one arm, walked unhurriedly along the brick path to the back door, humming as she went. She was, after all, on holiday, and the morning was fine, the autumn haze slowly lifting to promise a pleasant September day—the first of the days ahead of doing nothing much until she took up her new job.

She paused at the door to scratch the head of the elderly, rather battered cat sitting there. An old warrior if ever there was one, with the inappropriate name of Cherub. He went in with her, following her down the short passage and into the kitchen, where she put her basket on the table, offered him milk and then, still humming, went across the narrow hall to the sitting room.

Her mother and father would be there, waiting for her to return from the village shop so that they might have coffee together. The only child of elderly parents, she had known from an early age that although they loved her dearly, her unexpected late arrival had upset their established way of life. They were clever, both authorities on ancient Celtic history, and had published books on the subject—triumphs of knowledge even if they didn’t do much to boost their finances.

Not that either of them cared about that. Her father had a small private income, which allowed them to live precariously in the small house his father had left him, and they had sent Araminta to a good school, confident that she would follow in their footsteps and become a literary genius of some sort. She had done her best, but the handful of qualifications she had managed to get had been a disappointment to them, so that when she had told them that she would like to take up some form of nursing, they had agreed with relief.

There had been no question of her leaving home and training at some big hospital; her parents, their heads in Celtic clouds, had no time for household chores or cooking. The elderly woman who had coped while Araminta was at school had been given her notice and Araminta took over the housekeeping while going each day to a children’s convalescent home at the other end of the village. It hadn’t been quite what she had hoped for, but it had been a start.

And now, five years later, fate had smiled kindly upon her. An elderly cousin, recently widowed, was coming to run the house for her mother and father and Araminta was free to start a proper training. And about time too, she had reflected, though probably she would be considered too old to start training at twenty-three. But her luck had held; in two weeks’ time she was to start as a student nurse at a London teaching hospital.

Someone was with her parents. She opened the door and took a look. Dr Jenkell, a family friend as well as their doctor for many years.

She bade him good morning and added, ‘I’ll fetch the coffee.’ She smiled at her mother and went back to the kitchen, to return presently with a tray laden with cups and saucers, the coffeepot and a plate of biscuits.

‘Dr Jenkell has some splendid news for you, Araminta,’ said her mother. ‘Not too much milk, dear.’ She took the cup Araminta offered her and sat back, looking pleased about something.

Araminta handed out coffee and biscuits. She said, ‘Oh?’ in a polite voice, drank some coffee and then, since the doctor was looking at her, added, ‘Is it something very exciting?’

Dr Jenkell wiped some coffee from his drooping moustache. ‘I have a job for you, my dear. A splendid opportunity. Two small boys who are to go and live for a short time with their uncle in Holland while their parents are abroad. You have had a good deal of experience dealing with the young and I hear glowing accounts of you at the children’s home. I was able to recommend you with complete sincerity.’

Araminta drew a steadying breath. ‘I’ve been taken as a student nurse at St Jules’. I start in two weeks’ time.’ She added, ‘I told you and you gave me a reference.’

Dr Jenkell waved a dismissive hand. ‘That’s easily arranged. All you need to do is to write and say that you are unable to start training for the time being. A month or so makes no difference.’

‘It does to me,’ said Araminta. ‘I’m twenty-three, and if I don’t start my training now I’ll be too old.’ She refilled his coffee cup with a steady hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, and I do appreciate it, but it means a lot to me—training for something I really want to do.’

She glanced at her mother and father and the euphoria of the morning ebbed way; they so obviously sided with Dr Jenkell.

‘Of course you must take this post Dr Jenkell has so kindly arranged for you,’ said her mother. ‘Indeed, you cannot refuse, for I understand that he has already promised that you will do so. As for your training, a few months here or there will make no difference at all. You have all your life before you.’

‘You accepted this job for me without telling me?’ asked Araminta of the doctor.

Her father spoke then. ‘You were not here when the offer was made. Your mother and I agreed that it was a splendid opportunity for you to see something of the world and agreed on your behalf. We acted in your best interests, my dear.’

I’m a grown woman, thought Araminta wildly, and I’m being treated like a child, a mid-Victorian child at that, meekly accepting what her elders and betters have decided was best for her. Well, I won’t, she reflected, looking at the three elderly faces in turn.

‘I think that, if you don’t mind, Dr Jenkell, I’ll go and see this uncle.’

Dr Jenkell beamed at her. ‘That’s right, my dear—get some idea of what is expected of you. You’ll find him very sympathetic to any adjustments you may have in mind.’

Araminta thought this unlikely, but she wasn’t going to say so. She loved her parents and they loved her, although she suspected that they had never quite got over the surprise of her arrival in their early middle age. She wasn’t going to upset them now; she would see this man, explain why she couldn’t accept the job and then think of some way of telling her parents which wouldn’t worry them. Dr Jenkell might be annoyed; she would think about that later.

Presently the doctor left and she collected the coffee cups and went along to the kitchen to unpack her shopping and prepare the lunch, leaving her mother and father deep in a discussion of the book of Celtic history they were writing together. They hadn’t exactly forgotten her. The small matter of her future having been comfortably settled, they felt free to return to their abiding interest…

As she prepared the lunch, Araminta laid her plans. Dr Jenkell had given her the uncle’s address, and unless he’d seen fit to tell the man that she intended visiting him she would take him by surprise, explain that she wasn’t free to take the job and that would be that. There was nothing like striking while the iron was hot. It would be an easy enough journey; Hambledon was barely three miles from Henley-on-Thames and she could be in London in no time at all. She would go the very next day…

Her mother, apprised of her intention, made no objection. Indeed, she was approving. ‘As long as you leave something ready for our lunch, Araminta. You know how impatient your father is if he has to wait for a meal, and if I’m occupied…’

Araminta promised cold meat and a salad and went to her room to brood over her wardrobe. It was early autumn. Too late in the year for a summer outfit and too warm still for her good jacket and skirt. It would have to be the jersey two-piece with the corn silk tee shirt.

Her mother, an old-fashioned woman in many respects, considered it ladylike, which it was. It also did nothing for Araminta, who was a girl with no looks worth glancing at twice. She had mousy hair, long and fine, worn in an untidy pile on top of her head, an unremarkable face—except for large, thickly fringed hazel eyes—and a nicely rounded person, largely unnoticed since her clothes had always been chosen with an eye to their suitability.

They were always in sensible colours, in fabrics not easily spoilt by small sticky fingers which would go to the cleaners or the washing machine time and time again. She studied her reflection in the looking glass and sighed over her small sharp nose and wide mouth. She had a lovely smile, but since she had no reason to smile at her own face she was unaware of that.

Not that that mattered; this uncle would probably be a prosey old bachelor, and, since he was a friend of Dr Jenkell, of a similar age.

She was up early the following morning to take tea to her parents, give Cherub his breakfast and tidy the house, put lunch ready and then catch the bus to Henley.

A little over two hours later she was walking along a narrow street close to Cavendish Square. It was very quiet, with tall Regency houses on either side of it, their paintwork pristine, brass doorknockers gleaming. Whoever uncle was, reflected Araminta, he had done well for himself.

The house she was looking for was at the end of the terrace, with an alley beside it leading to mews behind the houses. Delightful, reflected Araminta, and she banged the knocker.

The man who answered the door was short and thin with sandy hair, small dark eyes and a very sharp nose. Just like a rat, thought Araminta, and added, a nice rat, for he had a friendly smile and the little eyes twinkled.

It was only then that she perceived that she should have made an appointment; uncle was probably out on his rounds—did doctors who lived in grand houses have rounds? She didn’t allow herself to be discouraged by the thought.

‘I would like to see Dr van der Breugh. I should have made an appointment but it’s really rather urgent. It concerns his two nephews…’

‘Ah, yes, miss. If you would wait while I see if the doctor is free.’

He led the way down a narrow hall and opened a door. His smile was friendly. ‘I won’t be two ticks,’ he assured her. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

The moment he had closed the door behind him, she got up from her chair and began a tour of the room. It was at the back of the house and the windows, tall and narrow, overlooked a small walled garden with the mews beyond. It was furnished with a pleasant mixture of antique cabinets, tables and two magnificent sofas on either side of an Adam fireplace. There were easy chairs, too, and a vast mirror over the fireplace. A comfortable room, even if rather grand, and obviously used, for there was a dog basket by one of the windows and a newspaper thrown down on one of the tables.

She studied her person in the mirror, something which brought her no satisfaction. The jersey two-piece, in a sensible brown, did nothing for her, and her hair had become a little ruffled. She poked at it impatiently and then looked round guiltily as the door opened.

‘If you will come this way, miss,’ said the rat-faced man. ‘The boss has got ten minutes to spare.’

Was he the butler? she wondered, following him out of the room. If so, he wasn’t very respectful. Perhaps modern butlers had freedom of speech…

They went back down the hall and he opened a door on the other side of it.

‘Miss Pomfrey,’ he announced, and gave her a friendly shove before shutting the door on her.

It was a fair-sized room, lined with bookshelves, one corner of it taken up by a large desk. The man sitting at it got to his feet as Araminta hesitated, staring at him. This surely couldn’t be uncle. He was a giant of a man with fair hair touched with silver, a handsome man with a high-bridged nose, a thin, firm mouth and a determined chin. He took off the glasses he was wearing and smiled as he came to her and shook hands.

‘Miss Pomfrey? Dr Jenkell told me that you might come and see me. No doubt you would like some details—’

‘Look,’ said Araminta urgently, ‘before you say any more, I’ve come to tell you that I can’t look after your nephews. I’m starting as a student nurse in two weeks’ time. I didn’t know about this job until Dr Jenkell told me. I’m sure he meant it kindly, and my parents thought it was a splendid idea, but they arranged it all while I wasn’t there.’

The doctor pulled up a chair. ‘Do sit down and tell me about it,’ he invited. He had a quiet, rather slow way of speaking, and she felt soothed by it, as was intended.

‘Briskett is bringing us coffee…’

Araminta forgot for the moment why she was there. She felt surprisingly comfortable with the doctor, as though she had known him for years. She said now, ‘Briskett? The little man who answered the door? Is he your butler? He called you “the boss”—I mean, he doesn’t talk like a butler…’

‘He runs the house for me, most efficiently. His rather unusual way of talking is, I fancy, due to his addiction to American films; they represent democracy to him. Every man is an equal. Nevertheless, he is a most trustworthy and hard-working man; I’ve had him for years. He didn’t upset you?’

‘Heavens, no. I liked him. He looks like a friendly rat,’ she explained. ‘Beady eyes, you know, and a sharp nose. He has a lovely smile.’

Briskett came in then, with the coffee tray, which he set down on a small table near Araminta’s chair. ‘You be mother,’ he said, and added, ‘Don’t you forget you’ve to be at the hospital, sir.’

‘Thank you, Briskett, I’ll be leaving very shortly.’

Asked to do so, Araminta poured their coffee. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being inconvenient,’ she said. ‘You see, I thought if you didn’t expect me it would be easier for me to explain and you wouldn’t have time to argue.’

The doctor managed not to smile. He agreed gravely. ‘I quite see that the whole thing is a misunderstanding and I’m sorry you have been vexed.’ He added smoothly, with just a touch of regret allowed to show, ‘You would have done splendidly, I feel sure. They are six years old, the boys, twins and a handful. I must find someone young and patient to cope with them. Their parents—their mother is my sister—are archaeologists and are going to the Middle East for a month or so. It seemed a good idea if the children were to make their home with me while they are away. I leave for Holland in a week’s time, and if I can’t find someone suitable, I’m afraid their mother will have to stay here in England. A pity, but it can’t be helped.’

‘If they went to Holland with you, would they live with you? I mean, don’t you have a wife?’

‘My dear Miss Pomfrey, I am a very busy man. I’ve no time to look for a wife and certainly no time to marry. I have a housekeeper and her husband, both too elderly to cope with small boys. I intend sending them to morning school and shall spend as much time with them as I can, but they will need someone to look after them.’

He put down his coffee cup. ‘I’m sorry you had to come and see me, but I quite understand that you are committed. Though I feel that we should all have got on splendidly together.’

She was being dismissed very nicely. She got up. ‘Yes, I think we would too. I’m sorry. I’ll go—or you’ll be late at the hospital.’

She held out a hand and had it taken in his large, firm clasp. To her utter surprise she heard herself say, ‘If I cancelled my place at the hospital, do you suppose they’d let me apply again? It’s St Jules’…’

‘I have a clinic there. I have no doubt that they would allow that. There is always a shortage of student nurses.’

‘And how long would I be in Holland?’

‘Oh, a month, six weeks—perhaps a little longer. But you mustn’t think of altering your plans just to oblige me, Miss Pomfrey.’

‘I’m not obliging you,’ said Araminta, not beating about the bush. ‘I would like to look after the boys, if you think I’d do.’ She studied his face; he looked grave but friendly. ‘I’ve no idea why I’ve changed my mind,’ she told him, ‘but I’ve waited so long to start my training as a nurse, another month or two really won’t matter.’ She added anxiously, ‘I won’t be too old, will I? To start training…?’

‘I should imagine not. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘You aren’t too old,’ he assured her in a kind voice, ‘and if it will help you at all, I’ll see if I can get you on to the next take-in once you are back in England.’

‘Now that would be kind of you. Will you let me know when you want me and how I’m to get to Holland? I’m going now; you’ll be late and Briskett will hate me.’

He laughed then. ‘Somehow I think not. I’ll be in touch.’

He went into the hall with her and Briskett was there, too.

‘Cutting it fine,’ he observed severely. He opened the door for Araminta. ‘Go carefully,’ he begged her.

Araminta got on a bus for Oxford Street, found a café and over a cup of coffee sorted out her thoughts. That she was doing something exactly opposite to her intentions was a fact which she bypassed for the moment. She had, with a few impulsive words, rearranged her future. A future about which she knew almost nothing, too.

Where exactly was she to go? How much would she be paid? What about free time? The language question? The doctor had mentioned none of these. Moreover, he had accepted her decision without surprise and in a casual manner which, when she thought about it, annoyed her. He should be suitably grateful that she had delayed her plans to accommodate his. She had another cup of coffee and a bun and thought about clothes.

She had a little money of her own. In theory she kept the small salary she had been getting at the convalescent home to spend as she wished, but in practice she used it to bolster up the housekeeping money her father gave her each month.

Neither he nor her mother were interested in how it was spent. The mundane things of life—gas bills, the plumber, the most economical cuts of meat—meant nothing to them; they lived in their own world of the Celts, who, to them at least, were far more important and interesting.

Now she must spend some of her savings on clothes. She wouldn’t need much: a jacket, which would stand up to rain, a skirt and one or two woollies, and shoes—the sensible pair she wore to the convalescent home were shabby. No need for a new dress; she wasn’t likely to go anywhere.

And her parents; someone would have to keep an eye on them if she were to go to Holland in a week’s time and if Aunt Millicent, the elderly cousin, was unable to come earlier than they had arranged. Mrs Snow in the village might oblige for a few days, with basic cooking and cleaning. Really, she thought vexedly, she could make no plans until she heard from Dr van der Breugh.

Her parents received her news with mild interest. Her mother nodded her head in a knowledgeable way and observed that both she and Araminta’s father knew what was best for her and she was bound to enjoy herself, as well as learn something of a foreign land, even if it was only a very small one like Holland. She added that she was sure that Araminta would arrange everything satisfactorily before she went. ‘You’ll like looking after the dear little boys.’

Araminta said that, yes, she expected she would. Probably they were as tiresome and grubby as all small boys, but she was fond of children and had no qualms about the job. She would have even less when she knew more about it.

A state of affairs which was put right the next morning, when she received a letter from Dr van der Breugh. It was a long letter, typed, and couched in businesslike language. She would be called for at her home on the following Sunday at eleven o’clock and would spend a few hours with her charges before travelling to Holland on the night ferry from Harwich. She would be good enough to carry a valid passport and anything she might require overnight. It was hoped that her luggage might be confined to no more than two suitcases.

She would have a day off each week, and every evening after eight o’clock, and such free time during the day as could be arranged. Her salary would be paid to her weekly in Dutch guldens… She paused here to do some arithmetic—she considered it a princely sum, which certainly sweetened the somewhat arbitrary tone of the letter. Although there was no reason why it should have been couched in friendlier terms; she scarcely knew the doctor and didn’t expect to see much of him while she was in Holland.

She told her mother that the arrangements for her new job seemed quite satisfactory, persuaded Mrs Snow to undertake the housekeeping until Aunt Millicent could come, and then sifted through her wardrobe. The jersey two-piece and the corn silk blouse, an equally sober skirt and an assortment of tops and a warmer woolly or two, a short wool jacket to go over everything and a perfectly plain dress in a soft blue crêpe; an adequate choice of clothes, she considered, adding a raincoat, plain slippers and undies.

She had good shoes and a leather handbag; gloves and stockings and a headscarf or two would fill the odd corners in the one case she intended taking. Her overnight bag would take the rest. She liked clothes, but working in the children’s convalescent home had called for sensible skirts and tops in sensible colours, and she had seldom had much of a social life. She was uneasily aware that her clothes were dull, but there was no time to change that, and anyway, she hadn’t much money. Perhaps she would get a new outfit in Holland…

The week went quickly. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, laid in a stock of food and got a room ready for Aunt Millicent. And she went into Henley and bought new shoes, low-heeled brown leather and expensive, and when she saw a pink angora sweater in a shop window she bought that too. She was in two minds about buying a new jacket, but caution took over then. She had already spent more money than she’d intended. Though caution wasn’t quite strong enough to prevent her buying a pretty silk blouse which would render the sober skirt less sober.

On Sunday morning she was ready and waiting by eleven o’clock—waiting with her parents who, despite their wish to get back to researching the Ancient Celts, had come into the hall to see her off. Cherub was there too, looking morose, and she stooped to give him a final hug; they would miss each other.

Exactly on the hour a car drew up outside and Briskett got out, wished them all good morning, stowed her case in the boot and held the rear car door open for her.

‘Oh, I’d rather sit in front with you,’ said Araminta, and she gave her parents a final kiss before getting into the car, waved them a cheerful goodbye and sat back beside Briskett. It was a comfortable car, a Jaguar, and she could see from the moment Briskett took the wheel that despite his unlikely looks they hid the soul of a born driver.

There wasn’t much traffic until they reached Henley and here Briskett took the road to Oxford.

‘Aren’t I to go to the London address?’ asked Araminta.

‘No, miss. The doctor thought it wise if you were to make the acquaintance of the boys at their home. They live with their parents at Oxford. The doctor will come for you and them later today and drive to Harwich for the night ferry.’

‘Oh, well, I expect that’s a good idea. Are you coming to Holland too?’

‘No, miss. I’ll stay to keep an eye on things here; the boss has adequate help in Holland. He’s for ever to-ing and fro-ing—having two homes, as it were.’

‘Then why can’t the two boys stay here in England?’

‘He’ll be in Holland for a few weeks, popping over here when he is needed. Much in demand, he is.’

‘We won’t be expected to pop over, too? Very unsettling for the little boys…’

‘Oh, no, miss. That’s why you’ve been engaged; he can come and go without being hampered, as you might say.’

The house he stopped before in Oxford was in a terrace of similar comfortably large houses, standing well back from the road. Araminta got out and stood beside Briskett in the massive porch waiting for someone to answer the bell. She was a self-contained girl, not given to sudden bursts of excitement, but she was feeling nervous now.

Supposing the boys disliked her on sight? It was possible. Or their parents might not like the look of her. After all, they knew nothing about her, and now that she came to think about it, nor did Dr van der Breugh. But she didn’t allow these uncertain feelings to show; the door was opened by a girl in a pinafore, looking harassed, and she and Briskett went into the hall.

‘Miss Pomfrey,’ said Briskett. ‘She’s expected.’

The girl nodded and led them across the hall and into a large room overlooking a garden at the back of the house. It was comfortably furnished, extremely untidy, and there were four people in it. The man and woman sitting in easy chairs with the Sunday papers strewn around them got up.

The woman was young and pretty, tall and slim, and well dressed in casual clothes. She came to meet Araminta as she hesitated by the door.

‘Miss Pomfrey, how nice of you to come all this way. We’re so grateful. I’m Lucy Ingram, Marcus’s sister—but of course you know that—and this is my husband, Jack.’

Araminta shook hands with her and then with Mr Ingram, a rather short stout man with a pleasant rugged face, while his wife spoke to Briskett, who left the room with a cheerful, ‘So long, miss, I’ll see you later.’

‘Such a reliable man, and so devoted to Marcus,’ said his sister. ‘Come and meet the boys.’

They were at the other end of the room, sitting at a small table doing a jigsaw puzzle, unnaturally and suspiciously quiet. They were identical twins which, reflected Araminta, wasn’t going to make things any easier, and they looked too good to be true.

‘Peter and Paul,’ said their mother. ‘If you look carefully you’ll see that Peter has a small scar over his right eye. He fell out of a tree years ago—it makes it easy to tell them apart.’

She beckoned them over and they came at once, two seemingly angelic children. Araminta wondered what kind of a bribe they had been offered to behave so beautifully. She shook their small hands in turn and smiled.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to help me to tell you apart, and you mustn’t mind if I muddle you up at first.’

‘I’m Peter. What’s your name—not Miss Pomfrey, your real name?’

‘Araminta.’

The boys looked at each other. ‘That’s a long name.’

They cast their mother a quick look. ‘We’ll call you Mintie.’

‘That’s not very polite,’ began Mrs Ingram.

‘If you’ve no objection, I think it’s a nice idea. I don’t feel a bit like Miss Pomfrey…’

‘Well, if you don’t mind—go and have your milk, boys, while we have our coffee and then you can show Miss…Mintie your room and get to know each other a bit.’

They went away obediently, eyeing her as they went, and Araminta was led to a sofa and given coffee while she listened to Mrs Ingram’s friendly chatter. From time to time her husband spoke, asking her quietly about her work at the children’s home and if she had ever been to Holland before.