Nanny by Chance. Betty Neels

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      Don’t miss the chance to read more of Betty Neels’s wonderfully unique stories. Harlequin Romance® is bringing you brand-new novels that have never been published before in North America. So look out for more of Betty Neels’s magical stories coming soon…

      Discovering Daisy (#3746)

      by

       Betty Neels

      A Good Wife (#3758)

      by

       Betty Neels

      About the Author

      We’d like to take this opportunity to pay tribute to BETTY NEELS, who—sadly—passed away last year. Betty was one of our best-loved authors. As well as being a wonderfully warm and thoroughly charming individual, Betty led a fascinating life even before becoming a writer, and her publishing record was impressive.

      Betty spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. On retirement from nursing, Betty started to write, inspired by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

      Over her thirty-year writing career, Betty wrote more than 134 novels and was published in more than one hundred international markets. She continued to write into her ninetieth year, remaining as passionate about her characters and stories then as she was in her very first book.

      Betty will be greatly missed, both by her friends at Harlequin^® and by her legions of loyal readers around the world. Betty was a prolific writer and has left a lasting legacy through her heartwarming novels. She will always be remembered as a truly delightful person who brought great happiness to many.

      Nanny by Chance

      Betty Neels

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      ARAMINTA POMFREY, a basket of groceries over one arm, walked unhurriedly along the brick path to the back door, humming as she went. She was, after all, on holiday, and the morning was fine, the autumn haze slowly lifting to promise a pleasant September day—the first of the days ahead of doing nothing much until she took up her new job.

      She paused at the door to scratch the head of the elderly, rather battered cat sitting there. An old warrior if ever there was one, with the inappropriate name of Cherub. He went in with her, following her down the short passage and into the kitchen, where she put her basket on the table, offered him milk and then, still humming, went across the narrow hall to the sitting room.

      Her mother and father would be there, waiting for her to return from the village shop so that they might have coffee together. The only child of elderly parents, she had known from an early age that although they loved her dearly, her unexpected late arrival had upset their established way of life. They were clever, both authorities on ancient Celtic history, and had published books on the subject—triumphs of knowledge even if they didn’t do much to boost their finances.

      Not that either of them cared about that. Her father had a small private income, which allowed them to live precariously in the small house his father had left him, and they had sent Araminta to a good school, confident that she would follow in their footsteps and become a literary genius of some sort. She had done her best, but the handful of qualifications she had managed to get had been a disappointment to them, so that when she had told them that she would like to take up some form of nursing, they had agreed with relief.

      There had been no question of her leaving home and training at some big hospital; her parents, their heads in Celtic clouds, had no time for household chores or cooking. The elderly woman who had coped while Araminta was at school had been given her notice and Araminta took over the housekeeping while going each day to a children’s convalescent home at the other end of the village. It hadn’t been quite what she had hoped for, but it had been a start.

      And now, five years later, fate had smiled kindly upon her. An elderly cousin, recently widowed, was coming to run the house for her mother and father and Araminta was free to start a proper training. And about time too, she had reflected, though probably she would be considered too old to start training at twenty-three. But her luck had held; in two weeks’ time she was to start as a student nurse at a London teaching hospital.

      Someone was with her parents. She opened the door and took a look. Dr Jenkell, a family friend as well as their doctor for many years.

      She bade him good morning and added, ‘I’ll fetch the coffee.’ She smiled at her mother and went back to the kitchen, to return presently with a tray laden with cups and saucers, the coffeepot and a plate of biscuits.

      ‘Dr Jenkell has some splendid news for you, Araminta,’ said her mother. ‘Not too much milk, dear.’ She took the cup Araminta offered her and sat back, looking pleased about something.

      Araminta handed out coffee and biscuits. She said, ‘Oh?’ in a polite voice, drank some coffee and then, since the doctor was looking at her, added, ‘Is it something very exciting?’

      Dr Jenkell wiped some coffee from his drooping moustache. ‘I have a job for you, my dear. A splendid opportunity. Two small boys who are to go and live for a short time with their uncle in Holland while their parents are abroad. You have had a good deal of experience dealing with the young and I hear glowing accounts of you at the children’s home. I was able to recommend you with complete sincerity.’

      Araminta drew a steadying breath. ‘I’ve been taken as a student nurse at St Jules’. I start in two weeks’ time.’ She added, ‘I told you and you gave me a reference.’

      Dr Jenkell waved a dismissive hand. ‘That’s easily arranged. All you need to do is to write and say that you are unable to start training for the time being. A month or so makes no difference.’

      ‘It does to me,’ said Araminta. ‘I’m twenty-three, and if I don’t start my training now I’ll be too old.’ She refilled his coffee cup with a steady hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, and I do appreciate it, but it means a lot to me—training for something I really want to do.’

      She glanced at her mother and father and the euphoria of the morning ebbed way; they so obviously sided with Dr Jenkell.

      ‘Of course you must take this post Dr Jenkell has so kindly arranged for you,’ said her mother. ‘Indeed, you cannot refuse, for I understand that he has