Dearest Love. Бетти Нилс

      

      “Well, you see, I wouldn’t marry you for your money,” Arabella said.

      “No, no, I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Doctor Teverner spoke gravely; she didn’t see the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

      She got up. “Thank you for letting me talk and for giving me advice. I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.”

      He assured her that she hadn’t, bade her a cheerful good-night and took himself off home where Mrs. Turner met him by saying, “Time you were married, Doctor. And if I’ve said that once, I’ve said it a hundred times!”

      “One day I’ll surprise you,” he promised her.

      About the Author

      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.

      Dearest Love

      Betty Neels

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      DEAR Sir,

      With reference to your advertisement in this week’s Lady magazine, I wish to apply for the post of Caretaker/Housekeeper.

      I am twenty-seven years of age, single with no dependants, and have several years’ experience in household management including washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking. I am a cordon bleu cook. I have a working knowledge of minor electrical and plumbing faults. I am able to take messages and answer the telephone.

      I would wish to bring my cat with me.

      Yours faithfully,

      Arabella Lorimer

      IT WAS the last letter to be read by the elderly man sitting at his desk in his consulting-room, a large apartment on the ground floor of a Regency house, one of a terrace, in Wigmore Street, London. He read it for a second time, gave a rumble of laughter, and added it to the pile before him. There were twelve applicants in all and Arabella Lorimer was the only one to enclose references—the only one to write legibly, too, neatly setting down all the relevant facts. It was a pity that she wasn’t a man…

      He began to read the letters again and was interrupted halfway through by the entry of his partner. Dr Titus Tavener came unhurriedly into the room, a very tall man with broad shoulders and a massive person. He was handsome with a high-bridged nose, a firm mouth and rather cold blue eyes. His hair, once fair, was pepper and salt, despite which he looked younger than his forty years.

      Dr James Marshall, short and stout and almost bald, greeted him with pleasure. ‘Just the man I want. The applications for the caretaker’s post—I have them here; I’ve spent the last hour reading them. I’ve decided which one I shall accept. Do read them, Titus, and give me your opinion. Not that it will make any difference to my choice.’ He chortled as Dr Tavener sat himself down and picked up the little pile of letters. He read them through, one after the other, and then gathered them neatly together.

      ‘There are one or two possibles: the ex-bus driver—although he admits to asthma attacks—then this Mrs Butler.’ He glanced at the letter in his hand. ‘But is she quite the type to open the door? Of course the joker in the pack is Miss Arabella Lorimer and her cat. Most unsuitable.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Obviously a maiden lady down on her luck. I don’t think I believe her skills are quite what she claims them to be. I’d hesitate to leave a stopped-up drain-pipe or a blown fuse to her ladylike hands.’

      His partner laughed. ‘Titus, I can only hope that one day before it’s too late you will meet a woman who will turn you sides to middle and then tramp all over you.’

      Dr Tavener smiled. ‘Unlikely. Perhaps I have been rather hard on the lady. There is always the possibility that she is an Amazon with a tool-kit.’

      ‘Well, you will soon know. I’ve decided that she might do.’

      Dr Tavener got up and strolled to the window and stood looking out on to the quiet street. ‘And why not? Mrs Lane will be glad to leave. Her arthritis isn’t getting any better and she’s probably longing to go and live with her daughter. She’ll take her furniture with her, I suppose? Do we furnish the place?’

      ‘It depends—Miss Lorimer may have her own stuff.’ Dr Marshall pushed back his chair. ‘We’ve a busy day tomorrow; I’ll see if your Amazon can come for an interview at five o’clock. Will you be back by then?’

      ‘Unlikely—the clinic is overbooked as it is. In any case, I’m dining out.’ He turned to look at his partner. ‘I dare say you’ve made a good choice, James.’ He strolled to the door. ‘I’ve some paperwork to deal with. Shall I send Miss Baird home? You’re going yourself? I shall be here for another hour yet—see you in the morning.’

      He went to his own consulting-room, going through the elegant waiting-room with a smile and a nod for their shared receptionist Miss Baird, before going down the passage, past the stairs to the basement and his separate suite. This comprised a small waiting-room, a treatment-room where his nurse worked and his own room facing the garden at the back of the house. A small, narrow garden but well-tended and bright with early autumn flowers. He gave it a brief look before drawing the first of the patients’ notes waiting for his attention towards him.

      Dr Marshall read Miss Arabella Lorimer’s letter once more and rang for Miss Baird. ‘Send a note by special messenger, will you? To this address. Tell the lady to come here at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. A pity she hasn’t a telephone.’ He got up and switched off his desk light. ‘I’m going home, Miss Baird. Dr Tavener will be working for some time yet, but check that he’s still here before you leave.’ He nodded and smiled at her. ‘Go as soon as you’ve got that message seen to.’

      He went home himself then, to his wife and family, and much later Dr Tavener got into his Rolls-Royce and drove himself home to his charming house overlooking the canal in Little Venice.

      Arabella read Dr Marshall’s somewhat arbitrary note sitting in the kitchen. It was a small, damp room, overlooking a weary-looking patch of grass and some broken fencing, but she preferred it to the front room where her landlady sat of a Sunday afternoon. It housed the lady’s prized possessions and Arabella hadn’t been invited in there because of her cat Percy, who would ruin the furniture. She hadn’t minded; she had been grateful that Billy Westlake, the village postman, had persuaded his aunt, Miss Pimm, to take her in for a few days while she found a job and somewhere to live.

      It hadn’t been easy leaving Colpin-cum-Witham, but it had been necessary. Her parents had died together in a car accident and only then had she discovered that her home wasn’t to be hers any longer; it had been mortgaged to the hilt and she had to leave. There