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“Is there someone you would like to marry?” Tane persisted.
Euphemia wandered on a few paces and examined a charming group of miniature roses. If she said yes, he would want to know who, and if she said no, that would be a lie, and she found she couldn’t tell him lies easily. “Your roses are really magnificent,” she observed.
He laughed. “Put in my place, am I? Do I know him?”
She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m not going to answer that either.”
The doctor took his hand from her arm and flung an arm around her shoulders. “I can’t think why you object so strongly—after all, I have an interest in you. You’re my landlady, and this man, whoever he is, might decide to buy the house, and then where should I be?”
She said earnestly, “I can promise you that won’t happen,” and then, forgetting everything else but his comfortable presence, she added, “He won’t ever marry me. He’s…he’s…”
“Ah, the eternal triangle.” His voice was soothing and just sufficiently impersonal, although there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. “But take heart, Phemie, there is nearly always a way out.”
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.
An Apple from Eve
Betty Neels
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
IT HAD STARTED to rain fiercely and suddenly after a long dry, hot day, and the girl at the wheel of the elderly Morris 1000 halted cautiously at the traffic lights in the middle of Chiswick, listening anxiously to the puffs and wheezing of the engine—a good car on the open road, she thought loyally, but a bit of a problem in city traffic. The lights had been red for a long time; she glanced sideways at a bus drawn in close to her left and then looked to her right: a steel grey Bentley within inches of her, its driver staring ahead of him, showing her a handsome profile with an arrogant nose and a high forehead. She judged him to be a large man, although it was difficult to know that from where she was. She amused herself guessing his age; thirty-five? Forty? Younger than that perhaps, his hair was so fair that it could have been silver. He turned his head suddenly and she was disconcerted by his cold blue stare; one didn’t expect complete strangers to smile at one, but neither did one expect a look of glacial dislike. She restrained herself with difficulty from the childish impulse to make a face at him, to be rendered speechless with rage as a long arm in a beautifully tailored sleeve stretched across and tapped her indicator.
‘Unless you intend suicide, I suggest that you put that thing in.’ His voice was as cold as his look and before she could say a word, the lights had changed and the Bentley had slipped away, out of sight in the thick traffic within seconds.
It seemed to Euphemia that she would never reach the M3, and when she did the turning to Chobham was endless miles away. She heaved a sigh of relief when she turned off at last to go through Chobham and then take the narrow road to her home, Hampton-cum-Spyway was a very small village, tucked away in a valley, with an outsize church, a cluster of picturesque cottages and a scattering of comfortably sized old houses. She went slowly down the short street, past the butchers, the baker and the post office and general stores, and drove round the village green, glimpsing old Dr Bell’s car in front of her home as she turned into the gateway at the side of the house, its gate propped open for so many years now that it no longer fulfilled its function, and stopped in front of the garage.
She turned off the engine, got out and went under the rose arch in the hedge to the front garden, crossed the unkempt lawn and opened the front door. The house was charming; wisteria hung over it like a purple waterfall, almost hiding the roses sharing the walls with it, hiding too the shabby state of the paintwork. The door was solid oak studded with nails and opened into a pleasant hall. The girl went in, dropping her handbag on to a side table, stepped over a hole in the carpet with the air of one who had done it many times before, and ran upstairs two at a time.
The landing was spacious with several doors and a number of narrow passages leading in all directions. She went straight to a door at the front of the house and went in.
It was a large room, dominated by a fourposter bed and a good deal of dark oak furniture. Her father lay on the bed, his face ashen against the pillows, Dr Bell stood at the foot, Ellen, her younger sister, was standing behind him, not looking. There was a fourth person in the room bending over her father, who straightened up as she went to the bed. The driver of the Bentley.
Euphemia took her father’s limp hand and smiled at him, not speaking, and it was Dr Bell who broke the silence. ‘Euphemia, my dear—I’m glad you could come so quickly. A colleague of mine at St Cyprian’s advised me to call in Dr van Diederijk as consultant. He’s a heart specialist of international reputation.’ He turned to the giant of a man standing by the bed. ‘This is Euphemia Blackstock, the eldest of the Colonel’s children.’
The doctor nodded and said how do you do in a politely disinterested voice. ‘Can we talk somewhere?’ he asked. ‘The Colonel’s daughters could perhaps stay with him…?’
Ellen had gone to stand by Euphemia. She was a pretty girl, fair and blue-eyed and with an air of helplessness, in direct contrast to her sister, for Euphemia was above middle height, on the plump side, with rich dark brown hair and tawny eyes and an exquisite nose above a soft too wide mouth. The mouth became surprisingly firm now. ‘I should like to know what you decide,’ she addressed Dr van Diederijk in a quiet voice that expected an answer.
He raised pale eyebrows. ‘Of course, Miss Blackstock. You are a nurse, I believe?’ Somehow he managed to convey astonishment at that fact.
‘Yes.’ He might be an eminent heart specialist, but she began to wonder if he had a heart himself. Reassurance and a little kindliness would have been acceptable; she had had Ellen’s frightened, garbled message while she was on duty and she had driven home as fast as she could, full of forebodings. They were a close-knit family, more so since her mother had died a year previously, and they all loved their fiery-tempered, tough parent. To see him laid low on his bed had terrified Euphemia, although she hadn’t allowed it to show. She wondered now if her father had been holding out on them, knowing that there was something wrong and not telling them.
She followed the two men out of the room and ignoring the consultant’s cool annoyance, addressed herself to Dr Bell.
‘Did Father know that he was ill? Was this unexpected? And if it wasn’t why wasn’t I told?’
‘He expressly forbade me to mention it, Euphemia.’ Dr Bell looked uncomfortable. ‘A question of valves,’ he went on. ‘I suggested that he might put himself in the hands of a surgeon some months ago, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and now it’s become imperative.’
‘He could recover if they operate?’
‘That’s