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‘You would make a good doctor’s wife.’
Deborah blushed. Dr Wright was a nice young chap and Deborah had blushed twice at his name. Sir James wasn’t sure why he felt a vague regret. As for Deborah, the blush hadn’t been for Dr Wright; she had at that very moment made the discovery that if she were to be a doctor’s wife she would want Sir James Marlow to be that doctor. Just for the moment nothing and nobody else mattered while she digested this exciting fact before she suppressed it sternly as a load of nonsense.
Dear Reader
With the worst of winter now over, are your thoughts turning to your summer holiday? But for those months in between, why not let Mills & Boon transport you to another world? This month, there’s so much to choose from—bask in the magic of Mauritius or perhaps you’d prefer Paris … an ideal city for lovers! Alternatively, maybe you’d enjoy a seductive Spanish hero—featured in one of our latest Euromances and sure to set every heart pounding just that little bit faster!
The Editor
BETTY NEELS 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. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
Waiting for Deborah
Betty Neels Table of Contents THE man standing in front of the empty fireplace was short and stockily built with a long thin face and light brown hair already receding from his forehead. He was dressed in a pin-striped suit, a coloured shirt and a perfectly dreadful tie, and he was obviously pleased both with his appearance and his attire. When he spoke it was with a pomposity which was quite unsuited to his age and his appearance. There were two other persons in the room, a young woman, elegantly dressed and faultlessly made up, her dark hair brushed into a carefully careless cloud around her good looks, who was lounging on a sofa, and another girl, considerably younger, sitting on a small chair by the window. Unlike her companion, she had carroty hair which was straight and pinned rather carelessly into a knot at the back of her neck. She had no looks to speak of and she was far too thin; only her eyes, when she glanced at the man, were beautiful: vividly blue, large and fringed with curling lashes several shades darker than her hair. She sat composedly, her hands clasped in the lap of her tweed skirt, and listened to the man as he talked. ‘Of course I shall sell this place and the furniture. I may have to wait for my money but I have my flat and you, Barbara, have yours.’ ‘I haven’t a flat,’ observed the girl with the carroty hair in a matter-of-fact voice. They both looked at her. ‘My father was good enough to allow you to live here in comfort with him while he was alone, very generous of him considering that you are no relation …’ ‘My mother married him.’ Her stepbrother waved that away with a podgy hand. ‘And since her death he gave you a home—a very comfortable home too—you have lived at your ease, Deborah, and I consider that I owe you nothing.’ ‘Yes, well—I thought you might think that.’ She added in a small calm voice, ‘You and Barbara have never liked me.’ ‘Well, you have no need to wallow in self-pity,’ said Barbara nastily. ‘You’ve had plenty of experience running a household, you get yourself a job—a mother’s help or something. Anyway this is all very boring. Walter, I’ll leave it all to you; just let me have my share when you’ve got rid of this place.’ She got up gracefully and went to rearrange her hair in front of the old-fashioned mirror above the fireplace. ‘Very well, it may take some time. I suppose Deborah can stay here and caretake until the house is sold.’ He didn’t ask her if she were willing but went on, ‘I’ll see that you have money for food and so on.’ He joined his sister on the way to the door. ‘And don’t think that you can throw my money around; I shall want accounts kept of every penny you spend.’ ‘There won’t be any accounts,’ said Deborah reasonably, ‘because I have no money; you took the chequebooks as soon as my stepfather died and probably any cash there was in the house as well.’ Walter went an unbecoming puce and gobbled. ‘Don’t be impertinent, you know nothing about such things.’ He took his wallet from a pocket and counted out some notes. ‘You will need very little money; this should be sufficient for some weeks.’ He bustled Barbara out of the room and banged the door after him only to open it again. ‘And kindly remember that this house and its contents are now mine.’ She sat quietly until she heard the bang of the front door—banging doors was Walter’s way of expressing his annoyance. She got to her feet then, picked up the money and put it in her handbag and went along to the kitchen to make herself some lunch. She was alone in the house; there had been a cook and a housemaid when her stepfather had been alive but Walter had dismissed them with a month’s wages the moment the funeral was over. Unnecessary mouths to feed, he had told Barbara; he wouldn’t need to pay Deborah anything if she stayed at the house until he had sold it. She had nowhere to go, no family living near by, and her only friends were elderly ones of her mother. She had lost touch with them anyway, for his father had discouraged any social life which she might
