Judith

Just for a moment she forgot that she didn’t like him overmuch. “Oh, but I would.” Then continued sharply, “Why do you ask?”

She was annoyed when he didn’t answer. Instead he observed in a silky voice that annoyed her very much, “You would find it very tame after London.”

Judith said sharply, “No, I wouldn’t. And now if you’ll let go of my arm, I should like to go.” She added stiffly, “I shan’t see you again, Professor Cresswell. I hope your book will be a success. It’s been nice meeting you.” She uttered the lie so unconvincingly that he laughed out loud.

“Of course the book will be a success—my books always are. And meeting you hasn’t been nice at all, Judith Golightly.”

She patted the dogs’ heads swiftly and went down the path without another word. She would have liked to have run, but that would have looked like retreat. She wasn’t doing that, she told herself stoutly. She was getting away as quickly as possible from someone she couldn’t stand the sight of.

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

HALF PAST two o’clock in the morning was really not the time at which to receive a proposal of marriage. Judith Golightly swallowed a yawn while her already tired brain, chock-a-block with the night’s problems, struggled to formulate a suitable answer. She was going to say no, but how best to wrap it up into a little parcel of kind words? She hated hurting people’s feelings, although she was quite sure that the young man sitting in the only chair in her small office had such a highly developed sense of importance that there was little fear of her doing that. Nigel Bloom was good-looking in a selfconscious way, good at his job even though he did tend to climb on other people’s shoulders to reach the next rung up the ladder, and an entertaining companion. She had gone out with him on quite a number of occasions by now and she had to admit that, but he had no sense of humour and she had detected small meanesses beneath his apparent open-handedness; she suspected that he spent money where it was likely to bring him the best return or to impress his companions. Would he be mean with the housekeeping, she wondered, or grudge her pretty clothes?

He had singled her out for his attention very soon after he had joined the staff at Beck’s Hospital as a surgical registrar, although she hadn’t encouraged him; she was by no means desperate to get married even though she was twenty-seven; she had had her first proposal at the age of eighteen and many more besides since, but somehow none of them had been quite right. She had no idea what kind of man she wanted to marry, for she had seldom indulged in daydreaming, but of one thing she was sure—he would have to be tall; she was a big girl, splendidly built, and she had no wish to look down upon a husband, if and when she got one.

She leaned against the desk now, since there was nowhere for her to sit, and remarked with a little spurt of unusual rage, ‘Why do you sit down and leave me standing, Nigel? Do you feel so very superior to a woman?’

He gave a tolerant laugh. ‘You’re tired,’ he told her indulgently. ‘I’ve been on the go all day, you know, and you didn’t come on duty until eight o’clock last evening—and after all, you don’t have the real hard work, do you? Two night Sisters under you and I don’t know how many staff nurses and students to do the chores.’

Judith thought briefly of the hours which had passed, an entire round of the Surgical Wing—ninety beds, men, women and children—every patient visited, spoken to, listened to; the reports from each ward read and noted; at least five minutes with each nurse in charge of a ward, going over the instructions for the night, and all this interrupted several times: two admissions, one for theatre without delay, a death, anxious relatives to see and listen to over a cup of tea because that made them feel more relaxed and gave them the impression that time was of no account, a child in sudden convulsions; housemen summoned and accompanied to a variety of bedsides, phone calls from patients’ families—it had been never-ending, and there were more than five hours to go.