A Girl to Love

“I’m truly sorry about your wife. You’ve been lonely for years, haven’t you? I know you’ve had your work and you’re famous and I expect you have a lot of money, but none of these things are all that important, are they?” She stopped frowning.

“I know how I sound, but I don’t mean to. I think you must marry again.” It cost a lot to say that cheerfully. “The children were talking about the lady you took them to have tea with. They seemed to think you might…”

His laugh was genuinely amused. “Oh, my dear little Sadie, you mustn’t believe all you hear. Pamela is the last woman on earth I would marry. No, I have plans of my own.”

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.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

THE COTTAGE STOOD sideways on to the lane, its wicket gate opening on to a narrow brick path between flower beds, the path ending at an old-fashioned door with a round brass knob and a great knocker. Its thatched roof above cob walls was much patched, although picturesque, and doubtless in the summer it presented a charming picture, but just now, on a dripping November afternoon, it looked forlorn, as forlorn as the girl opening the gate.

She was wrapped in a rather elderly raincoat with a scarf wound round her neck and a woolly cap pulled well down on to a pale face, quite unremarkable save for a pair of fine dark eyes, and despite the bulky coat, she was too thin. She closed the gate carefully, hurried up the path and let herself into the cottage, casting off her outdoor things in the hall and going straight into the sitting room.

It was a pleasant enough room with some nice pieces furnishing it and a scattering of shabby armchairs. The girl switched on the light, scooped up the sleek cat sitting in one of the chairs and with him on her lap, sat down. The room was untidy and across the hall the dining room table was still littered with cups and saucers and plates and the remains of cake and sandwiches consumed by friends who had attended the funeral and returned for tea afterwards. But that would have to wait. The girl had too much on her mind to bother about washing up for the moment; she’d had a shock and she needed to go over every word Mr Banks the solicitor had said to her before she could face up to it.

The funeral had been well attended. Granny had no family except herself left, but many friends, and they had all come; it had been a busy day, and it was only when the last of them had gone and only Mr Banks was left that she had felt a pang of loneliness. At his suggestion that they should sit and have a talk for a while she had felt better and she had sat down opposite him, not surprised when he had said kindly: ‘Sadie, there is the will…’

She had nodded, not over interested; she had lived with her grandmother since she was a very small girl and although there had never been much money she knew that the cottage would be hers. Her grandmother’s pension died with her, but there was always a living to be earned. She had wanted to get a job after she had left school, but her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, so although at twenty-three she was a skilled housewife, a splendid cook and a clever needlewoman, she wasn’t trained for anything else, and she had never thought about it much, especially during the last two years when Granny had been so crippled with arthritis that she had been forced to give up active life and depend entirely on Sadie.

Mr Banks unfolded the will and cleared his throat. Mrs Gillard had left all that she possessed to her granddaughter. But there was more to it than that; he folded the will up tidily and blew his nose, reluctant to speak. When he did, Sadie didn’t believe him at first. The cottage was mortgaged up to the hilt—Granny had been living on the money for some years, for her pension hadn’t gone up as wages had, and what had been a respectable income thirty years ago had dwindled to a mockery of itself… ‘So I am very afraid,’ said Mr Banks apologetically, ‘that there is no money at all, Sadie, and the cottage will have to be sold in order to pay off the mortgage.’