Winter of Change

Winter of Change
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.He was her guardian angel. At twenty-one, Mary Jane Pettigrew was perfectly able to look after herself, but it came as quite a surprise to discover she had inherited a large house and an income to go with it.There was, of course, a catch, and his name was Fabian van der Blocq, who had been appointed Mary Jane’s guardian. She couldn’t even marry without his consent! Mary Jane wasn’t going to let Fabian have it all his own way. But that was easier said than done!

He looked down his long nose at her. “Be good enough not to interfere.”

Mary Jane’s bosom heaved, her nice eyes sparkled with temper. “Well, really it’s not your business—”

He interrupted her. “Oh, but it is. I am here at your grandfather’s request to attend to his affairs—at his urgent request, I remind you, before he should die—and here you are telling me what to do and what not to do. You’re a tiresome girl.” With which parting shot, uttered in his perfect, faintly-accented English, he went into the study.

Mary Jane, a gentle-natured girl for the most part, flounced into the sitting room and, quite beside herself with temper, poured herself a whiskey. It was unfortunate that Mr. Van Blocq chose to return only five minutes later.

“Good God, woman. Can’t I turn my back for one minute without you reaching for the whiskey bottle!”

She said carefully in a resentful voice, “You’re enough to drive anyone to drink. Are you married? If you are, I’m very sorry for your wife.”

He took her glass from her, set it down and poured himself a drink. “No, I’m not married,” he said blandly, “so you may spare your sympathy.”

About the Author

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.

Winter of Change

Betty Neels

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

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

SISTER THOMPSON made her slow impressive way down Women’s Surgical, bidding her patients a majestic good morning as she went, her sharp eyes behind their glasses noticing every small defect in the perfection she demanded on her ward—and that applied not only to the nursing and care of the ladies lying on either side of her, but also to the exact position of the water jugs on the lockers, the correct disposal of dressing gowns, the perfection of the bedspreads and the symmetry of the pillows. The nurses who worked for her held her in hearty dislike, and when posted to her ward quickly learned the habit of melting away out of her sight whenever their duties permitted. Something which Mary Jane Pettigrew, her recently appointed staff nurse, was, at that particular time, quite unable to do. She watched her superior’s slow, inevitable progress with a wary eye as she changed the dressing on Miss Blake’s septic finger; she had no hope of getting it done before Sister Thompson arrived, for Miss Blake was old and shaky and couldn’t keep her hand still for more than ten seconds at a time. Mary Jane, watching Nurse Wells and Nurse Simpson disappear, one into the sluice room, the other into the bathrooms at the end of the ward, wondered how long it would be before they were discovered—in the meantime, perhaps she could sweeten Sister Thompson’s temper.

She fastened the dressing neatly and wished her superior a cheerful good morning which that good lady didn’t bother to answer, instead she said in an arbitrary manner: ‘Staff Nurse Pettigrew, you’ve been on this ward for two weeks and not only do you fail to maintain discipline amongst the nurses; you seem quite incapable of keeping the ward tidy. There are three pillows—and Miss Trump’s top blanket, also Mrs Pratt’s water jug is in the wrong place…’

Mary Jane tucked her scissors away in her pocket and picked up the dressing tray. She said with calm, ‘Mrs Pratt can’t reach it unless we put it on that side of her locker, Sister, and Miss Trump was cold, so I unfolded her blanket. May the nurses go to coffee?’

Sister Thompson cast her a look of dislike. ‘Yes—and see that they’re back before Mr Cripps’ round.’ She turned on her heel and went back up the ward and into her office, to appear five minutes later with the information that Mary Jane was to present herself to the Chief Nursing Officer at once, ‘and,’ added Sister Thompson, ‘I suggest that you take your coffee break at the same time, otherwise you will be late for the round.’

Which meant that unless the interview was to be a split-second, monosyllabic affair, there would be no coffee. Mary Jane skimmed down the ward, making a beeline for the staff cloakroom. Whatever Sister Thompson might say, she was going to take a few minutes off in order to tidy her person. The room was small, nothing more than a glorified cupboard, and in order to see her face in the small mirror she was forced to rise on to her toes, for she was a small girl, only a little over five feet, with delicate bones and a tiny waist. She took one look at her reflection now, uttered a sigh and whipped off her cap so that she might smooth her honey-brown hair, fine and straight and worn in an old-fashioned bun on the top of her head. The face which looked back at her was pleasant but by no means pretty; only her eyes, soft and dark, were fine under their thin silky arched brows, but her nose was too short above a wide mouth and although her teeth were excellent they tended to be what she herself described as rabbity. She rearranged her cap to her satisfaction, pinned her apron tidily and started on her journey to the office.

Her way took her through a maze of corridors, dark passages and a variety of staircases, for Pope’s Hospital was old, its ancient beginnings circumvented by more modern additions, necessitating a conglomeration of connecting passages. But Mary Jane, her thoughts busy, trod them unhesitatingly, having lived with them for more than three years. She had no idea why she was wanted, but while she was in the office it might be a good idea to mention that she wasn’t happy on Women’s Surgical. She had been aware, when she took the post, that it would be no bed of roses; Sister Thompson was notorious for her ill-temper and pernickety ways, but Mary Jane, recently State Registered, had felt capable of moving mountains… She would, she decided as she sped down a stone-flagged passage with no apparent ending, give in her notice at the end of the month and in the meantime start looking for another job. The thought of leaving Pope’s was vaguely worrying, as she had come to regard it as her home, for indeed she had no home in the accepted sense. She had been an orphan from an early age, brought up, if one could call it that, by her grandfather, a retired Army colonel, who lived in a secluded house near Keswick and seldom left it. She had spent her holidays there all the while she was at the expensive boarding school to which he had sent her, and she had sensed his relief when she had told him, on leaving that admirable institution, that she wished to go to London and train to be a nurse, and in the three years or more in which she had been at Pope’s she had gone to see him only once each year, not wishing to upset his way of living, knowing that even during the month of her visit he found her youthful company a little tiresome.

Not that he didn’t love her in his own reserved, elderly fashion, just as she loved him, and would have loved him even more had he encouraged her to do so. As it was she accepted their relationship with good sense because she was a sensible girl, aware too that she would probably miss a good deal of the fun of life because she would need to work for the rest of it; even at the youthful age of twenty-two she had discovered that men, for the most part, liked good looks and failing that, a girl with a sound financial background, and she had neither, for although her grandfather lived comfortably enough, she had formed the opinion over the years that his possessions would go to some distant cousin she had never seen, who lived in Canada. True, old Colonel Pettigrew had educated her, and very well too, provided her with the right clothes and given her handsome presents at Christmas and on her birthday, but once she had started her training as a nurse, he had never once offered to help her financially—not that she needed it, for she had the good sense to keep within her salary and although she liked expensive clothes she bought them only when she saved enough to buy them. Her one extravagance was her little car, a present from her grandfather on her twenty-first birthday; it was a Mini and she loved it, and despite her fragile appearance, she drove it well.

The office door was firmly closed when she reached it and when she knocked she was bidden to enter at once the outer room, guarded by two office Sisters, immersed in paper work, one of whom paused long enough to wave Mary Jane to a chair before burying herself in the litter of papers on her desk. Mary Jane perched on the edge of a stool, watching her two companions, feeling sorry for them; they must have started out with a desire to nurse the sick, and look where they were now—stuck behind desks all day, separated from the patients by piles of statistics and forms, something she would avoid at all costs, she told herself, and was interrupted in her thoughts by the buzzer sounding its summons.

The Chief Nursing Officer was quite young, barely forty, with a twinkling pair of eyes, a nice-looking face and beautifully arranged hair under her muslin cap. She smiled at Mary Jane as she went in.

‘Sit down, Staff Nurse,’ she invited. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

‘Oh lord, the sack!’ thought Mary Jane. ‘Old Thompson’s been complaining…’ She was deep in speculation as to what she had done wrong when she was recalled to her surroundings by her companion’s pleasant voice.

‘It concerns your grandfather, Nurse Pettigrew. His housekeeper telephoned a short time ago. He isn’t very well and has asked for you to go to his home in order to look after him. Naturally you will wish to do so, although I’ve been asked to stress the fact that there’s no’—she paused—‘no cause for alarm, at least for the moment. I believe your grandfather is an old man?’

Mary Jane nodded. ‘Eighty-two,’ she said in her rather soft voice, ‘but he’s very tough. May I go at once, please?’

‘As soon as you wish. I’ll telephone Sister Thompson so that there’s no need for you to go back to the ward. Perhaps when you get to your grandfather’s, you’ll let me know how things are.’

She was dismissed. She made her way rapidly to the Nurses’ Home, thankful that she wouldn’t have to face Sister Thompson, her mind already busy with the details of her journey. It was full autumn, it would be cold in Cumbria, so she would take warm clothes but as few as possible—she could pack a case in a few minutes. She was busy doing that when her bedroom door was flung open and her dearest friend, Janet Moore, came in. ‘There’s a rumour,’ she began, ‘someone overheard that you’d been sent to the Office.’ Her eyes lighted on the little pile of clothes on the bed. ‘Mary Jane, you’ve never been…no, of course not, you’ve never done anything really wicked in your life. What’s up?’

Mary Jane told her as she squeezed the last sweater into her case, shut the lid and started to tear off her uniform. She was in slacks and a heavy woolly by the time she had finished, and without bothering to do more than smooth her hair, tied a bright scarf over it, pushed impatient feet into sensible shoes, caught up her handbag and the case and made for the door, begging her friend to see to her laundry for her as she went. ‘See you,’ she said briefly, and Janet called after her:

‘You’re not going now—this very minute? It’s miles away—it’ll be dark…’

‘It’s ten o’clock,’ Mary Jane informed her as she made off down the corridor, ‘and it’s two hundred and ninety miles—besides, I know the way.’

It seemed to take a long time to get out of London, but once she was clear of the suburbs and had got on to the A1, she put a small, determined foot down on the accelerator, keeping the little car going at a steady fifty-five, and when the opportunity occurred, going a good deal faster than that.

Just south of Newark she stopped for coffee and a sandwich and then again when she turned off the A1 at Leeming to cross the Yorkshire fells to Kendal. The road was a lonely one, but she knew it well, and although the short autumn afternoon was already dimming around her, she welcomed its solitude after the rush and bustle of London. At Kendal she stopped briefly before taking the road which ran through Ambleside and on to Keswick. The day was closing in on her now, the mountains around blotting out the last of a watery sun, but she hardly noticed them. At any other time she would have stopped to admire the view, but now she scarcely noticed them, for her thoughts were wholly of her grandfather. The last few miles of the long journey seemed endless, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she wove the car through Keswick’s narrow streets and out again on to the road climbing to Cockermouth. Keswick was quickly left behind; she was back in open country again and once she had gone through Thronthwaite she slowed the car. She was almost there, for now the road ran alongside the lake with the mountains crowding down to it on one side, tree-covered and dark, shutting out the last of the light, and there was only an odd cottage or two now and scattered along the faint gleam of the water, larger houses, well away from each other. The road curved away from the lake and then returned and there, between it and the water, was her grandfather’s house.

It stood on a spit of land running out into the lake, its garden merging into the grass alongside the quiet water. It was of a comfortable size, built of grey stone and in a style much favoured at the beginning of the nineteenth century, its arched windows fitted with leaded panes, its wrought-iron work a little too elaborate and a turret or two ornamenting its many-gabled roof. All the same it presented a pleasing enough picture to Mary Jane as she turned the car carefully into the short drive and stopped outside the front porch. Its door stood open and the woman standing there came to meet her with obvious relief.

‘Mrs Body, how lovely to see you! I came as quickly as I could—how’s Grandfather?’

Mrs Body was pleasant and middle-aged and housekeeper to the old Colonel for the last twenty years or more. She took Mary Jane’s hand and said kindly, ‘There, Miss Mary Jane, if it isn’t good to see you, I must say. Your grandfather’s not too bad—a heart attack, as you know, but the doctor’s coming this evening and he’ll tell you all about it. But now come in and have tea, for you’ll be famished, I’ll be bound.’

She led the way indoors as she spoke, into the dim, roomy hall. ‘You go up and see the Colonel, he’s that anxious for you to get here—and I’ll get the tea on the table.’

Mary Jane nodded and smiled and ran swiftly up the uncarpeted staircase, past the portraits of her ancestors and on to the landing, to tap on a door in its centre. The room she was bidden to enter was large and rather over-full of ponderous furniture, but cheerful enough by reason of the bright fire burning in the grate and the lamps on either side of the bed.