The Proposal

The Proposal
Betty Neels

Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.True love is never ordinary… Two mischievous dogs led Francesca Haley to a chance meeting with Dr. Renier Pitt-Colwyn, and a ragtag kitten won her his goddaughter’s heart. But the handsome Dutchman could hardly be interested in an ordinary girl like her…. Or could he?

The Proposal

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

THE HAZY early morning sun of September had very little warmth as yet, but it turned the trees and shrubs of the park to a tawny gold, encouraging the birds to sing too, so that even in the heart of London there was an illusion of the countryside.

The Green Park was almost empty so early in the day; indeed the only person visible was a girl, walking a Yorkshire terrier on a long lead. She was a tall girl with a tawny mane of hair and vivid blue eyes set in a pretty face, rather shabbily dressed; although her clothes were well cut they were not in the height of fashion.

She glanced at her watch; she had walked rather further than usual so Lady Mortimor, although she wouldn’t be out of bed herself, would be sure to enquire of her maid if the early morning walk with Bobo had taken the exact time allowed for it. She could have walked for hours … She was on the point of turning on her heel when something large, heavy and furry cannoned into her from the back and she sat down suddenly and in a most unladylike fashion in a tangle of large dog, a hysterical Bobo and Bobo’s lead. The dog put an enormous paw on her chest and grinned happily down at her before licking her cheek gently and then turning his attention to Bobo; possibly out of friendliness he kept his paw on her chest, which made getting to her feet a bit of a problem.

A problem solved by the arrival of the dog’s owner—it had to be its owner, she decided … only a giant could control a beast of such size and this man, from her horizontal position, justified the thought; he was indeed large, dressed in trousers and a pullover and, even from upside-down, handsome. What was more, he was smiling …

He heaved her to her feet with one hand and began to dust her down. ‘I do apologise,’ he told her in a deep, rather slow voice. ‘Brontes has a liking for very small dogs …’

The voice had been grave, but the smile tugging at the corners of his thin mouth annoyed her. ‘If you aren’t able to control your dog you should keep him on a lead,’ she told him tartly, and then in sudden fright, ‘Where’s Bobo? If he’s lost, I’ll never—’

‘Keep calm,’ begged the man in a soothing voice which set her teeth on edge, and whistled. His dog bounded out from the bushes near by and his master said, ‘Fetch,’ without raising his voice and the animal bounded off again to reappear again very shortly with Bobo’s lead between his teeth and Bobo trotting obediently at the other end of it.

‘Good dog,’ said the man quietly. ‘Well, we must be on our way. You are quite sure you are not hurt?’ He added kindly, ‘It is often hard to tell when one is angry as well.’

‘I am not angry, nor am I hurt. It was lucky for you that I wasn’t an elderly dowager with a Peke.’

‘Extremely lucky. Miss …?’ He smiled again, studying her still cross face from under heavy lids. ‘Renier Pitt-Colwyn.’ He offered a hand and engulfed hers in a firm grasp.

‘Francesca Haley. I—I have to go.’ Curiosity got the better of good sense. ‘Your dog—that’s a strange name?’

‘He has one eye….’

‘Oh, one of the Cyclopes. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Haley.’ He stood watching her walking away towards the Piccadilly entrance to the park. She didn’t look back, and presently she broke into an easy run and, when Bobo’s little legs could no longer keep up, scooped him into her arms and ran harder as far as the gate. Here she put him down and walked briskly across the road into Berkeley Street, turned into one of the elegant, narrow side-streets and went down the area steps of one of the fine houses. One of Lady Mortimor’s strict rules was that she and Bobo should use the tradesmen’s entrance when going for their thrice-daily outings. The magnificent entrance hall was not to be sullied by dirty paws, or for that matter Francesca’s dirty shoes.

The door opened onto a dark passage with white-washed walls and a worn lino on the floor; it smelled of damp, raincoats, dog and a trace of cooked food, and after the freshness of the early morning air in the park it caused Francesca’s nose to wrinkle. She opened one of the doors in the passage, hung up the lead, dried Bobo’s paws and went through to the kitchen.

Lady Mortimor’s breakfast tray was being prepared and her maid, Ethel, was standing by the table, squeezing orange juice. She was an angular woman with eyes set too close together in a mean face, and she glanced at the clock as Francesca went in, Bobo under one arm. Francesca, with a few minutes to spare, wished her good morning, adding cheerfully, ‘Let Lady Mortimor know that Bobo has had a good run, will you, Ethel? I’m going over for my breakfast; I’ll be back as usual.’ She put the little dog down and the woman nodded surlily. Bobo always went to his mistress’s room with her breakfast tray and that meant that Francesca had almost an hour to herself before she would begin her duties as secretary-companion to that lady. A title which hardly fitted the manifold odd jobs which filled her day.

She went back out of the side-door and round to the back of the house, past the elegant little garden to the gate which led to the mews behind the terrace of houses. Over the garage she had her rooms, rather grandly called by Lady Mortimor a flat, where she and her young sister lived. The flat was the reason for her taking the job in the first place, and she was intent on keeping it, for it made a home for the pair of them and, although Lady Mortimor made it an excuse for paying her a very small salary, at least they had a roof over their heads.

Lucy was up and dressed and getting their breakfast. She was very like her sister, although her hair was carroty instead of tawny and her nose turned up. Later on, in a few years’ time, she would be as pretty as Francesca, although at fourteen she anguished over her appearance, her ambition being to grow up as quickly as possible, marry a very rich man and live in great comfort with Francesca sharing her home. An arrangement, Francesca had pointed out, which might not suit her husband. ‘I hate you working for that horrid old woman,’ Lucy had said fiercely.

‘Well, love,’ Francesca had been matter-of-fact about it, ‘it’s a job and we have a home of sorts and you’re being educated. Only a few more years and you will have finished school and embarked on a career which will astonish the world and I shall retire.’

Now she took off her cardigan and set about laying the table in the small sitting-room with its minute alcove which housed the cooking stove and the sink.

‘I had an adventure,’ she said to her sister, and over the boiled eggs told her about it.

‘What kind of a dog?’ Lucy wanted to know.

‘Well, hard to tell—he looked like a very large St Bernard from the front, but he sort of tapered off towards the tail, and that was long enough for two dogs. He was very obedient.’

‘Was the man nice to him?’ asked Lucy anxiously, having a soft spot for animals; indeed, at that very moment there was a stray mother cat and kittens living clandestinely in a big box under the table.

‘Yes—he didn’t shout and the dog looked happy. It had one eye—I didn’t have time to ask why. It had a funny name, too—Brontes—that’s—’

‘I know—one of the Cyclopes. Could you meet the man again and ask?’

Francesca thought about it. ‘Well, no, not really …’

‘Was he a nice man?’

‘I suppose so.’ She frowned. ‘He thought it was funny, me falling over.’

‘I expect it was,’ said Lucy. ‘I’d better go or I’ll miss the bus.’

After Lucy had gone she cleared away the breakfast things, tidied the room and their bedroom, and made sure that she herself was tidy too, and then she went back to the house. She was expected to lunch off a tray at midday and she seldom got back until six o’clock each evening; she arranged food for the cat, made sure that the kittens were alive and well, and locked the door.

Her employer was still in bed, sitting up against lacy pillows, reading her letters. In her youth Lady Mortimor had been a handsome woman; now in her fifties, she spent a good part of her days struggling to retain her looks. A face-lift had helped; so had the expert services of one of the best hairdressers in London and the daily massage sessions and the strict diet, but they couldn’t erase the lines of discontent and petulance.

Francesca said good morning and stood listening to the woman’s high-pitched voice complaining of lack of sleep, the incompetence of servants and the tiresome bills which had come in the post. When she had finished Francesca said, as she nearly always did, ‘Shall I attend to the bills first, Lady Mortimor, and write the cheques and leave them for you to sign? Are there any invitations you wish me to reply to?’

Lady Mortimor tossed the pile of letters at her. ‘Oh, take the lot and endeavour to deal with them—is there anything that I should know about this morning?’

‘The household wages,’ began Francesca, and flushed at Lady Mortimor’s snide,

‘Oh, to be sure you won’t forget those …’

‘Dr Kennedy is coming to see you at eleven o’clock. Will you see him in the morning-room?’

‘Yes, I suppose so; he really must do something about my palpitations—what else?’

‘A fitting for two evening gowns at Estelle, lunch with Mrs Felliton.’

‘While I am lunching you can get my social diary up to date, do the flowers for the dining-room, and go along to the dry-cleaners for my suit. There will be some letters to type before you go, so don’t idle away your time. Now send Ethel to me, have the cheques and wages book ready for me by half-past ten in the morning-room.’ As Francesca went to the door she added, ‘And don’t forget little Bobo …’

‘Thank you or please would be nice to hear from time to time,’ muttered Francesca as she went to get the wages book, a weekly task which at least gave her the satisfaction of paying herself as well as the rest of the staff. She entered the amounts, got out the cash box from the wall safe and put it ready for Lady Mortimor, who liked to play Lady Bountiful on Fridays and pay everyone in cash. The bills took longer; she hadn’t quite finished them when Maisie, the housemaid, brought her a cup of coffee. She got on well with the staff—with the exception of Ethel, of course; once they saw that she had no intention of encroaching on their ground, and was a lady to boot, with a quiet voice and manner, they accepted her for what she was.

Lady Mortimor came presently, signed the cheques, handed out the wages with the graciousness of royalty bestowing a favour and, fortified with a tray of coffee, received Dr Kennedy, which left Francesca free to tidy the muddled desk she had left behind her and take Bobo for his midday walk, a brisk twenty minutes or so before she went back to eat her lunch off a tray in the now deserted morning-room. Since the lady of the house was absent, Cook sent up what Maisie described as a nice little bit of hake with parsley sauce, and a good, wholesome baked custard to follow.

Francesca ate the lot, drank the strong tea which went with it and got ready to go to the cleaners. It wasn’t far; Lady Mortimor patronised a small shop in Old Bond Street and the walk was a pleasant one. The day had turned out fine as the early morning had indicated it might and she allowed her thoughts to roam, remembering wistfully the pleasant house in Hampstead Village where they had lived when her parents had been alive. That had been four years ago now; she winced at the memory of discovering that the house had been mortgaged and the debts so large that they had swallowed up almost all the money there was. The only consolation had been the trust set aside for Lucy’s education so that she had been able to stay on as a day pupil at the same well-known school.

There had been other jobs of course, after learning typing and shorthand at night-school while they lived precariously with her mother’s elderly housekeeper, but she had known that she would have to find a home of their own as quickly as possible. Two years ago she had answered Lady Mortimor’s advertisement and since it offered a roof over their heads and there was no objection to Lucy, provided she never entered the house, she had accepted it, aware that her wages were rather less than Maisie’s and knowing that she could never ask for a rise: Lady Mortimor would point out her free rooms and all the advantages of working in a well-run household and the pleasant work.