The Mistletoe Kiss. Бетти Нилс

      The professor scooped Humphrey into his arms. ‘He’s a well-loved member of my household, Anneliese. He keeps himself cleaner than many humans, and he is brushed so regularly that I doubt if there is a single loose hair.’

      He took the cat to the kitchen and sat him down in front of the Aga.

      ‘Juffrouw van Moule doesn’t like cats,’ he told Beaker in an expressionless voice. ‘He’d better stay here until she goes back to the hotel. Could you give us supper about half past eight? Something light; if we’re going to have tea now we shan’t have much appetite.’

      When he went back to the sitting room Anneliese was sitting by the fire. She made a lovely picture in its light, and he paused to look at her as he went in. Any man would be proud to have her as his wife, he reflected, so why was it that he felt no quickening of his pulse at the sight of her?

      He brushed the thought aside and sat down opposite her, and watched her pour their tea. She had beautiful hands, exquisitely cared for, and they showed to great advantage as she presided over the tea tray. She looked at him and smiled, aware of the charming picture she made, and presently, confident that she had his attention once more, she began to talk about their future.

      ‘I know we shall see a good deal of each other when you come back to Holland in December,’ she began. ‘But at least we can make tentative plans.’ She didn’t wait for his comment but went on, ‘I think a summer wedding, don’t you? That gives you plenty of time to arrange a long holiday. We might go somewhere for a month or so before settling down.

      ‘Can you arrange it so that you’re working in Holland for a few months? You can always fly over here if you’re wanted, and surely you can give up your consultancies here after awhile? Private patients, by all means, and, of course, we mustn’t lose sight of your friends and colleagues.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘You’re famous here, are you not? It is so important to know all the right people…’

      When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘I am going to be very unselfish and agree to using this house as a London base. Later on perhaps we can find something larger.’

      He asked quietly, ‘What kind of place had you in mind, Anneliese?’

      ‘I looked in at an estate agent—somewhere near Harrods; I can’t remember the name. There were some most suitable flats. Large enough for entertaining. We would need at least five bedrooms—guests, you know—and good servants’ quarters.’

      Her head on one side, she gave him another brilliant smile. ‘Say yes, Ruerd.’

      ‘I have commitments for the next four months here,’ he told her, ‘and they will be added to in the meantime. In March I’ve been asked to lecture at a seminar in Leiden, examine students at Groningen and read a paper in Vienna. I cannot give you a definite answer at the moment.’

      She pouted. ‘Oh, Ruerd, why must you work so hard? At least I shall see something of you when you come back to Holland. Shall you give a party at Christmas?’

      ‘Yes, I believe so. We can talk about that later. Have your family any plans?’

      She was still telling him about them when Beaker came to tell them that supper was ready.

      Later that evening, as she prepared to go, Anneliese asked, ‘Tomorrow, Ruerd? You will be free? We might go to an art exhibition…?’

      He shook his head. ‘I’m working all day. I doubt if I shall be free before the evening. I’ll phone the hotel and leave a message. It will probably be too late for dinner, but we might have a drink.’

      She had to be content with that. She would shop, she decided, and dine at the hotel. She was careful not to let him see how vexed she was.

      The next morning as the professor made his way through the hospital he looked, as had become his habit, to where Ermentrude sat. She wasn’t there, of course.

      She was up and dressed, getting the house just so, ready for her mother and father. She had slept long and soundly, and had gone downstairs to find that the professor had left everything clean and tidy in the kitchen. He had left a tea tray ready, too; all she’d needed to do was put on the kettle and make toast.

      ‘Very thoughtful of him,’ said Emmy now, to George, who was hovering hopefully for a biscuit. ‘You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’d know one end of a tea towel from the other. He must have a helpless fiancée…’

      She frowned. Even if his fiancée was helpless he could obviously afford to have a housekeeper or at least a daily woman. She fell to wondering about him. When would he be married, have children? Where did he live while he was working in London? And where was his home in Holland? Since neither George nor Snoodles could answer, she put these questions to the back of her mind and turned her thoughts to the shopping she must do before her parents came home.

      They knew about the bomb, of course; it had been on TV and in the papers. But when Emmy had phoned her parents she had told them very little about it, and had remained guiltily silent when her mother had expressed her relief that Emmy had been on day duty and hadn’t been there. Now that they were home, exchanging news over coffee and biscuits, the talk turned naturally enough to the bomb outrage. ‘So fortunate that you weren’t there,’ said Mrs Foster.

      ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was,’ said Emmy. ‘But I was quite all right…’ She found herself explaining about Professor ter Mennolt bringing her home and him making tea.

      ‘We are in his debt,’ observed her father. ‘Although he did only what any decent-thinking person would have done.’

      Her mother said artlessly, ‘He sounds a very nice man. Is he elderly? I suppose so if he’s a professor.’

      ‘Not elderly—not even middle-aged,’ said Emmy. ‘They say at the hospital that he’s going to marry soon. No one knows much about him, and one wouldn’t dare ask him.’

      She thought privately that one day, if the opportunity occurred, she might do just that. For some reason it was important to her that he should settle down and be happy. He didn’t strike her as being happy enough. He ought to be; he was top of his profession, with a girl waiting for him, and presumably enough to live on in comfort.

      Her two days went much too quickly. Never mind if it rained for almost all of the time. Her father was away in the day, and she and her mother spent a morning window shopping in Oxford Street, and long hours sitting by the fire—her mother knitting, Emmy busy with the delicate embroidery which she loved to do.

      They talked—the chances of her father getting a teaching post near their old home were remote; all the same they discussed it unendingly. ‘We don’t need a big house,’ said her mother. ‘And you could come with us, of course, Emmy—there’s bound to be some job for you. Or you might meet someone and marry.’ She peered at her daughter. ‘There isn’t anyone here, is there, love?’

      ‘No, Mother, and not likely to be. It would be lovely if Father could get a teaching post and we could sell this house.’

      Her mother smiled. ‘No neighbours, darling. Wouldn’t it be heaven? No rows of little houses all exactly alike. Who knows what is round the corner?’

      It was still raining when Emmy set off to work the following morning. The buses were packed and tempers were short. She got off before the hospital stop was reached, tired of being squeezed between wet raincoats and having her feet poked at with umbrellas. A few minutes’ walk even on a London street was preferable to strap-hanging.

      She was taking a short cut through a narrow lane where most of the houses were boarded up or just plain derelict, when she saw the kitten. It was very small and very wet, sitting by a boarded-up door, and when she went nearer she saw that it had been tied by a piece of string to the door handle. It looked at her and shivered, opened its tiny mouth and mewed almost without sound.

      Emmy knelt down, picked it up carefully, held it close and rooted around in her shoulder bag for the scissors