The End of the Rainbow

The trembling turned to stillness as she saw Waldo halt and turn to look at her with suddenly alert eyes.

“England?” he questioned, and when Olympia realized that he was not going to say any more than that, she went on, “It was a woman, a girl I imagine, by her voice—it was pretty…” Olympia swallowed the anger she had been nursing all day and went on steadily. “The girl was anxious to speak to you, she didn’t know who I was, but she told me not to tell your wife.”

He regarded her gravely, his face impassive. “I take it she didn’t give her name?”

“No. The girl said you knew her number,” she replied, and in the small silence that fell between them, she asked, “Waldo, who is she?”

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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

A SNEERING MARCH WIND WAS blowing down Primrose Hill Road, driving everyone and everything before it, but there was one battling figure struggling into its teeth—a young woman, hurrying along at a great rate, her head bent, her hair, whipped out of her head-scarf, blowing around her face. Presently she turned down a side road and pausing only to tuck her hair away out of her eyes, hurried on, faster now in its comparative shelter. It was a pleasant enough street, lined with tall, late-Victorian houses, nicely maintained still, each with its narrow railed-off area steps leading to a basement, and each, too, with its heavy front door, bearing an impressive brass knocker. Halfway along these superior dwellings the girl stopped, darted up the steps, put down the basket which she was carrying, opened the door with some difficulty, whisked up the basket and went inside.

The hall she entered was chilly and rather dim, with a polished linoleum floor and a table, flanked by two chairs, against one wall. There was a handsome vase on the table, empty, and a scrupulously clean ashtray. The stairs were covered with lino too, and although everything was spotlessly clean and free from dust, it held neither warmth nor welcome. The girl paused only long enough to close the door behind her before crossing the hall and making her way down the stairs beyond a small archway at the back. She had reached the bottom and had her hand on a door in the narrow dark passage beyond when she was halted by a voice. It called sharply from the floor above: ‘Olympia, come here at once!’

The girl put her basket down and went upstairs again, opened one of the massive mahogany doors in the hall, shut it quietly behind her, and waited near it, looking across the carpeted floor to where her aunt sat at her desk. Miss Maria Randle was a large woman, approaching middle-age but still handsome despite her severe expression. She looked up briefly now. ‘You have been gone a long time,’ she observed coldly.

‘There was a good deal of shopping…’

‘Nonsense—when I was a girl of your age, I thought nothing of twice the amount I ask you to do.’ She sighed, ‘But there, you are hardly capable of a normal girl’s work; if I had known when I adopted you, gave you a good home and educated you at such expense, that you would repay me in such an ungrateful fashion, I would have thought twice about it.’

Olympia had heard it all before; she sighed soundlessly, and her face took on the wooden expression which concealed her hurt feelings and which her aunt referred to as mulish. It was a pleasant face, although it had no startling good looks; grey eyes, nicely fringed, a short straight nose, a wide, softly curved mouth and a determined chin didn’t quite add up to prettiness. Her hair was a warm brown, hanging round her shoulders rather untidily; it caught Miss Randle’s annoyed eye and enabled her to voice another grievance. ‘And your hair!’ she declared severely. ‘Surely you can do something about it? You’re a disgrace—if any of the doctors were to see you like this I’m sure I don’t know what they would think.’

Olympia said nothing at all; she was perfectly well aware that her aunt knew as well as she did that the doctors only saw her when she was in uniform, her hair smoothed back into a neat bun under a plain cap. Maybe her aunt remembered this too, for she didn’t pursue the matter further, but: ‘You are on duty in ten minutes—leave the shopping in the kitchen, and see that you’re not late. You must try and remember that my staff are expected to be punctual, and that includes you, Olympia.’ She frowned heavily. ‘Such a ridiculous name,’ she added crossly.