Philomena's Miracle

“I’m going back to work, too, you know, and living in a country house is no new thing for Philomena. Her own home is a charming one in England with surroundings just as lovely as these.”

He kissed his mother, waved to Tritia and shook his head at her as he opened the car door for Philomena. But he didn’t mention Tritia’s rudeness during the short drive, instead talking about nothing much until they arrived at Mevrouw de Winter’s door, where he stood quietly while Philomena thanked him for her weekend.

He looked down at her, smiling a little. “It was rather spoilt, wasn’t it? We must make up for it next time.”

She had the sad thought that there was unlikely to be a next time. Tritia would see to that, and perhaps it would be as well—her suddenly surprised mind warned her that falling in love with one’s rich, handsome employer was something which happened in novels, not to real girls such as herself.

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 CORRIDOR was long and austere, its walls coloured a dreary margarine, its paintwork brown varnished, the floor a shiny lino, cracked here and there, the whole very clean and uninviting despite the early April sunlight streaming through its long, narrow windows along one side. But to Nurse Philomena Parsons it was fairyland; the whole world was fairyland, for in her pocket was the letter informing her that she had been placed on the State Register; she had passed her finals, she could wear a silver buckle on her belt now and the world was her oyster. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Commander Frost, RN retired, whom she was wheeling to X-Ray in a chair, was in one of his nasty tempers, she might have broken into a gay whistle or danced a few steps as she pushed, but the old gentleman was in a crusty mood that morning and although she was so happy herself she had a soft heart which sympathised with his jaundiced outlook on life; probably, she conceded, at his age and in his circumstances, she would be crusty too, so she agreed with his mutterings about the inconvenience of being taken to X-Ray at eight o’clock in the morning in a low gentle voice which did much to soothe his feelings, smiling to herself as she spoke, thinking of the letter in her pocket. The smile was a charming one, lighting her mediocre features to prettiness and bringing a sparkle to her lovely green eyes, fringed with preposterously long lashes; her one beauty, unless one counted the honey-gold hair, long and thick and fine and pulled back into such a severe bun that its beauty, for the most part, was lost.

It would be necessary to take a lift down to X-Ray; there were two halfway down the corridor and she could see that there was someone waiting by them. The lifts were old and shaky and no one other than patients and their attendant nurses or porters was allowed to use them. The man waiting didn’t appear to come into any of these categories; he was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his eyes closed. He was very good-looking, Philomena considered, and very large; even when she unconsciously drew up her five feet three of nicely rounded person, she still had to look a long way up to him. She brought the chair to a smart halt in front of the lift and fell to studying him; good shoes, beautifully polished, a tweed suit which wasn’t new but of a masterly cut, a sober tie…blue eyes were staring at her, so she said good morning politely.

‘Good morning—and should there not be a porter to push that thing?’ he asked.

She smiled at him. ‘Oh, usually there is, but the porters are on an hour’s strike about something or other.’ She hesitated and added: ‘Perhaps you don’t know, but they’re awfully fussy about anyone but patients and nurses using the lifts; they don’t work very well, you see, and if they get overloaded they break down.’

For a moment he looked as though he was going to laugh, but his deep rather slow voice was quite serious. ‘Kind of you to tell me, but don’t you think that I should come with you in the lift to give a hand with that chair?’