Cobweb Morning. Бетти Нилс

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      “A lovely morning,” observed the doctor.

      “Heavenly—the mist makes everything look like fairyland….”

      “A cobweb morning—that’s what it’s called in these parts—did you not know that?”

      She smiled up at him. “No, I didn’t. It’s a beautiful description.”

      He said seriously, “Yes, and you are a beautiful girl, Alexandra.” He bent his head to kiss her, taking his time about it. Then, “I have to go now,” he told her abruptly, and went.

      Alexandra had up till now thought of her flagrant worship of him as a child’s gratitude for what he had done for her. Now she wasn’t so sure. She was very young, of course, but what had age to do with loving someone?

      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.

      Cobweb Morning

      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

      THE hospital dining-room was almost empty save for the maid on duty, wiping down tables in a belligerent manner and in an ever-increasing circle around the one occupied table, whose three occupants watched her warily between their mouthfuls of the wholesome if unimaginative fish pie which had been all that was left on the day’s menu. She returned their looks with a cross one of her own and spoke sourly.

      ‘There ain’t no afters, it’ll ’ave ter be cheese and biscuits.’

      The eldest of the three ladies, a thin person in her forties with an ill-tempered face and wearing a ward Sister’s uniform, merely frowned, while the small, pretty creature sitting opposite her, also in Sister’s uniform but looking somehow unaccustomed to it, looked apologetically at the speaker and murmured that it didn’t matter. It was left to the third member of the party to turn a pair of fine eyes in the maid’s direction and request her in a crisp voice to bring the cheese and biscuits. ‘And I have no doubt,’ she went on in her pleasant voice, ‘that you can find us a pot of tea, can’t you, Bertha?’

      She smiled with such charm that the grumpy Bertha smiled back, flung down her cloth, and although muttering, went away to fetch what had been requested of her, while the Sister who had spoken sat back in her chair and began a desultory conversation with her two companions. She was a very pretty young woman, with a creamy skin and abundant hair, as dark as her eyes, and with a delightful nose which tilted ever so slightly at its tip above a generously curved mouth and a small determined chin. She was a tall, well-built girl, whose figure showed off to perfection the uniform she was wearing—that of a hospital Sister, too, but rather different from the others, and decidedly better fitting, moreover, the neat coil of hair above her neck was crowned with the frilled and goffered cap of one of the famous London hospitals, its strings tied in a bow under her chin; a piece of old-fashioned nonsense which vastly became her.

      The cheese and biscuits and a large pot of tea arrived, were consumed hurriedly, and the three ladies prepared to leave. It was already two o’clock as they rose from the table and the November afternoon had dwindled into a wet, grey prospect which promised an even worse evening. Alexandra Dobbs twitched her bows into a more comfortable position with a well-kept hand and looked out of the window as they crossed the large, comfortless room. There was nothing to see outside; a hotchpotch of walls and annexes and a few trees beyond; she would have liked to have been back at her own hospital, with the traffic thundering past in a subdued roar and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the Sisters’ sitting-room when she went off duty, or what was more likely, a meal out with one of the Medical Registrars, Anthony Ferris—a young man who, at thirty, was climbing up his particular ladder successfully enough and had lately given her to believe that he would like her to climb with him. Indeed, she had wondered once or twice in the last few days if she would decide to marry him; she had, since the age of seventeen—ten years ago—been the recipient of a number of proposals of marriage, and while refusing them politely, had taken none of them seriously, but Anthony was different; he was ambitious, he wanted a consulting practice, a good income and a suitable wife. The only reason that she hadn’t encouraged him so far was because she had a niggling feeling that she wasn’t suitable. Besides, when she really thought seriously about it, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to marry him; she had told herself that it was silly to indulge in childish fancies, Anthony and she were well suited—everyone who knew them told her that—and yet she had the oddest feeling that somewhere in the world there was a man waiting for her—a man about whom she would have no doubts at all.

      This nebulous figure was at the back of her mind now, as she walked back with her companions to the new Intensive Care Unit, recently opened at the hospital—a small unit of two beds, for the hospital was small, too; serving a provincial town and its surrounding rural west country area. It was this unit which was the reason for her being there; she had been Sister-in-Charge of the large, always busy unit at St Job’s for several years now, and had been seconded to the hospital in order to instruct its staff: Sister Baxter, who had no wish to be trained, anyway, not because she didn’t want to run the new unit, but because she considered that no one could instruct her about anything; she knew it already, and Sister Pim, very young and inexperienced and quite frankly terrified of Sister Baxter. A fine setup, Alexandra considered as she went over the apparatus just once more. It was the third day of her visit and she was due back in the morning; it was a pity, without wishing anyone any harm, that a patient needing intensive care couldn’t be admitted, so that she could judge for herself if Sister Baxter knew what she was about. She very much doubted it, and Sister Pim, although a charming girl, had had no experience at all; she had barely qualified when she had been offered the post. On her own she might do very well, but with Sister Baxter bullying her she would turn into a yes-woman, doing what she was told whether it was right or not.

      A pity, mused Alexandra, who had never been a yes-woman in her life, partly because she had an elder brother and two younger ones, all of whom had made it their business to see that she could stand up for herself. Her mother, watching her lovely little daughter climbing trees, swimming like a fish and giving as good as she got when it came to holding her own against her brothers, had at times worried that she might grow up a tomboy, but Alexandra hadn’t; she had become a charming girl with nice manners, a willingness to help at church bazaars and other rural events, a pleasant way with children, and an endless patience with the elderly and their foibles. The perfect wife, Mrs Dobbs had told herself, well satisfied, and had spent the next eight or nine years wondering why Alexandra didn’t get married. Instead the dear girl had carved a career for herself in the nursing profession and had shown no signs of wanting to marry at all, although just lately Mrs Dobbs had been more hopeful; Alexandra had mentioned, more and more frequently, Anthony