Stormy Springtime. Betty Neels

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      “I’m sorry I was rude, Professor Culver. You must come whenever you want.”

      “Of course,” the professor responded. “Be good enough to ring me if you’re worried—and thank you for my supper. Not quite the evening I had intended, but nonetheless a good deal more interesting. And I leave my mother in good hands.”

      He stood towering over Meg, staring down at her upturned face. Probably a very nice man, she thought illogically…if one happened to like him. And then he did the last thing she would have expected—he swooped down and kissed her on the cheek.

      “Thank you, little Meg,” he said softly, and let himself out of the house.

      Meg was left with a head full of mixed emotions.

      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.

      Stormy Springtime

      Betty Neels

      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

      THE JANUARY afternoon was already darkening and a mean wind was driving rain against the windows of a room which, in its cheerful comfort, defied the evil weather outside. It was of a fair size, with a log fire blazing in its old-fashioned chimney-piece, lighted by several table lamps and furnished tastefully if somewhat shabbily. Its three occupants were seated close to the fire: three girls, sisters, deep in discussion.

      ‘It’s absolutely certain that the house will sell at once—it’s got everything the estate agents like to boast about—modernised Georgian, adequate bathrooms, a tennis court—you name it, we’ve got it. It should fetch a good price.’

      The speaker was a handsome young woman, older than the other two but still worth a second and third glance. She was very fair, with hair cut short and meticulous make-up. She was dressed expensively but without much imagination. She glanced at her two companions and went on, ‘Charles says it would be downright foolish not to sell. We should each get a share…we shall invest ours, of course, so that James and Henry will have the proper schooling…’

      The girl sitting opposite her stretched her long legs and yawned. ‘Thank heaven I can please myself! I shall buy a flat near the hospital and give myself a super holiday.’ She added smugly, ‘I’ve been promised a Sister’s post in a couple of months.’ She was sunk in pleased thought for a few moments. ‘Where will you send the boys?’

      The third girl sat between them, curled up in an easy chair. She hadn’t contributed to the conversation so far, but no one had expected her to. Ever since she could remember, she, the middle sister, had been ignored in a kindly fashion. As a child she had been very much in their shadows; that they were fond of her there was no doubt, the fondness strongly mixed with kindly indifference, but from earliest childhood she had been the one who had needed to be helped over hedges and gates, who fell out of trees, who hung back behind her sisters when people called. And the ease with which she passed her O and A levels at school was quite eclipsed by their brilliance at sports and theatricals. Besides, she was small and plump, with a face which was only redeemed from plainness by large grey eyes, heavily fringed, and a wide, gentle mouth. And now, with Cora married to a young accountant with ambition and the mother of two small sons, and Doreen embarked on a career in hospital—but only until such time as she could catch the eye of some eminent doctor—she had to admit to herself that she had nothing much to show for the last few years. True, she had stayed at home, largely because everyone took it for granted that she wanted to do so, and she had looked after her mother and after a year, she had taken over the housekeeping as well. She had, of necessity, become an excellent cook and a splendid housewife, helped by Betsy, who should have retired years ago but stubbornly refused, and by Mrs Griffiths, who popped in three times a week to do the rough work.

      But now their mother was dead, her pension no longer paid, and there was precious little money save what their home would fetch. Cora and Doreen had never bothered overmuch about the pension—they had taken it for granted that it was enough for their mother and Meg to live on and pay their way. In their fashion they had been generous—dressing gowns and slippers and hampers at Christmas—but neither of them had suggested that Meg might like a holiday or even an evening out at a theatre… Meg bore them no grudge; Cora had her own life to lead and her own home and family, and besides, she lived in Kent and came home but rarely. And as for Doreen, everyone who knew her said what a splendid nurse she was and what a brilliant future she had before her. Besides, being such a handsome young woman, she could pick and choose from among her men friends and their invitations to dine and dance and go to the theatre, which left her little time to go to Hertfordshire.

      Meg had been content enough; Hertingfordbury, where they had lived all their lives, was a charming village, the main roads bypassing it so that it was left in comparative peace with its church standing in the steep churchyard, its pub, the White Horse, still doing good business since the sixteenth century, and the equally ancient cottages. There were larger houses too— Georgian, built of rose brick, standing in roomy grounds, well cared for, handed on from one generation to the next. Meg’s home was perhaps not as well cared for as other similar houses—there hadn’t been the money during the last few years—but she had kept the garden in good order, and even if the outside paintwork wasn’t as fresh as she might wish, she had done wonders with the lofty, well-proportioned rooms. Her sisters had good-naturedly dismissed her hours of careful painting and wallpapering as a pleasant little hobby to keep her occupied—to their credit, they had never realised that she had enough to occupy her without any hobbies. Their mother had had a worsening heart condition which, for the last few months of her life, had confined her to bed and couch, which meant a good deal of running to and fro and disturbed nights for Meg. And Meg, being Meg, had never complained. Not that she had ever felt downtrodden or put upon; she was a girl of common sense, and it was obvious to her that, since Cora had a home and family to look after, and Doreen had set her ambitious sights on becoming the wife of some eminent doctor, it was perfectly natural for them to pursue their own interests, since she had never exhibited any ambitions of her own.

      She