Waiting For Deborah Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About The Author

  Books by Betty Neels

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Copyright

  “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 a moment nothing and nobody else mattered while she digested this exciting fact before she suppressed it sternly as a load of nonsense.

  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.

  Books by Betty Neels

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

  3315—A GIRL IN A MILLION

  3323—AT ODDS WITH LOVE

  3339—THE AWAKENED HEART

  3347—A VALENTINE FOR DAISY

  3355—DEAREST LOVE

  3363-nA SECRET INFATUATION

  3371—WEDDING BELLS FOR BEATRICE

  3389-A CHRISTMAS WISH

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  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

  Waiting for Deborah

  Betty Neels

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 have had; her place, he had told her frequently, was at home, looking after him. It was, Walter had observed in a satisfied voice, a most satisfactory arrangement.

  Deborah ate her lunch, got her outdoor things and left the house, walking briskly in the chill March wind. The bus stop was some minutes away, for her stepfather’s house was in one of the secluded roads in Hampstead, but she enjoyed the short walk, her head full of plans. She was free; never mind what Walter had said, she would find a job as quickly as possible and leave the house. She could leave the keys with the house agent…

  In Oxford Street, off the bus, she bought an evening paper and scanned its columns for agents’ addresses. There was any number. She chose the nearest, stated her wish to work as a mother’s help, paid her fee, and made her way to the second address she had marked on the newspaper. She visited four agencies and the fees made a considerable hole in Walter’s money. Set a sprat to catch a mackerel, Deborah told herself, getting on the bus again to go back to Hampstead and the large unfriendly house she had called home for some years.

  She had tea and supper together for it was already early evening, sitting in the kitchen, pencil and paper on the table beside her, doing optimistic sums. She had given her telephone number to the agencies; they would ring if there was anything suitable. In the meanwhile she would pack her clothes and—since it hadn’t entered her head to do otherwise—clean and dust and Hoover the gloomy rooms until she was able to leave. She locked up presently and went upstairs to her room and got ready for bed. She didn’t like being alone in the house but, since she had no choice, she tried to ignore the small noises and creaks which somehow only sounded at night. Tonight, however, she was too excited at the thought of her future to worry about that.

  She didn’t expect to hear anything the next day but by the end of the fourth day she was getting worried. A man from the house agent had been, inspected the house and told her that he would be in touch with her stepbrother, and it seemed to her highly likely that Walter would pay a visit in the very near future. She phoned the agencies the next morning and the first three had nothing for her but the fourth was more hopeful; if she would go along to the office perhaps she would like to consider a post which might suit her.

  Deborah lost no time. The rush-hour was over, the bus made good time, and she found herself in Oxford Street, five minutes’ walk from the side-street and the agency.

  She was at its door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Debby—it is Debby? My dear, such a long time since I saw you last—your stepfather died recently, did he not? Two weeks ago, wasn’t it? Are you living with your stepbrother?’

  The speaker was elderly, well dressed and still pretty and her smile was warm.

  ‘Mrs Dexter, how lovely to see you—it’s years…’

  ‘So it is,’ said her companion and reflected that Deborah’s looks hadn’t improved with the passing of time and surely she had been wearing that jacket and skirt when they had met last. ‘You must have lunch with me and tell me your news, but first I must go and see that tiresome woman in the agency. You remember old Mrs Vernon? A friend of your dear mother’s and of your grandmother’s too. She had a stroke some months ago and now she is living with her niece who simply can’t cope with her and has begged me to find someone to live in and look after her—a light post, she tells me, with a little housework and ironing and so forth. There’ s help in the house anyway but Clara—the niece, you know—tells me that she herself isn’t too strong.’

  Mrs Dexter drew breath and Deborah said quickly, ‘Mrs Dexter, I need a job badly, as soon as possible—would I do?’

  ‘You? My dear—but surely…did your stepfather not leave you provided for?’ And when Deborah shook her head, ‘And your stepbrother—I’ve forgotten his name—there must be plenty of money?’

  ‘I believe there is, but Walter is settling things. He’s selling the house—I’m staying there until it’s sold and then I am to find work. Only I thought I wouldn’t wait for that so I’ve got my name down at several agencies for mother’s help or something similar. I’m used to running a house and looking after invalids.’

  She spoke without bitterness and Mrs Dexter patted her arm. ‘You have had more than your fair share of that, my dear. I believe that you would do very well for Mrs Vernon, especially as she has known you and your mother. We will go and see the woman inside and settle things.’

  They mounted the stairs together and at the top Mrs Dexter said, ‘I forgot to tell you, they live in the depths of the country—the Cotswolds, would you mind?’

  ‘Mind? I shall love it, and Walter won’t know where I am…’

  Mrs Dexter paused on the landing. ‘You had a stepsister too—a very pretty girl.’

  ‘Barbara, yes, she has a boutique somewhere near Harrods.’

  ‘She wouldn’t like you to live with her?’ ventured Mrs Dexter.

  ‘She doesn’t like me either,’ said Deborah in a voice quite empty of self-pity.

  Mrs Dexter said no more but swept into the agency office, dealt briskly with the stony-eyed woman behind the desk and swept out again, Deborah in tow. ‘That’s settled,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘I shall drive you down myself the day after tomorrow. Clara will be both relieved and delighted. Did I mention your salary? No?’ She thought for a moment and mentioned a sum which Deborah, quite without money of her own for a long time, found unbelievably generous. They had coffee together in a chic little cafe and parted company the best of friends, Mrs Dexter to go into Liberty’s and Deborah to scour BHS for the replenishment of her meagre wardrobe. Something suitable for the companion of a bedridden old lady and some decent undies—a dressing-gown too in case she had to get up in the night and sensible shoes, for presumably if her new job was in the country she would walk in her free time. Pleased with her purchases, she took herself back to Hampstead, and over her tea counted her remaining money. There wasn’t a great deal left, but she wouldn’t need any for the first week or so. Walter would be furious when he discovered that she had used his money in such a fashion but, after all, he had given it to her…She went to bed happy for the first time in years.

  She spent the next day finishing her packing and making sure that the house was as clean and tidy as she could make it. She had thought a lot about writing a note to Walter and finally composed a stiff little letter telling him that she had found work for herself, left the keys with the house agent and turned off the water. He would be annoyed, of course, but it was unlikely that he would bother to look for her. She left the note on the hall table and went to bed for the last time in the house in the plainly furnished room her stepfather had considered good enough for her. Before she went to sleep she wondered what her room would be like in Mrs Vernon’s house. Speculating happily about her future, she went to sleep.

  She was to be fetched in the morning and Mrs Dexter’s chauffeur-driven car drew up before the door shortly after nine o’clock. Sitting in the back with her mother’s friend, Deborah was invited to ask any questions she wished. ‘Mrs Vernon—is she Mrs Vernon’s aunt?’ ‘No, no—Robert Vernon is her nephew. He and Clara have three children: two boys and a girl—let me see, they must be between ten and fourteen years old now, Robin, Ruth and Laurie. Clara has a busy life; Robert is a successful solicitor and has his office in the nearest town but they live near a small village four miles or so north of there. Eastleach—it’s really two hamlets on either side of the road.’ ‘Is Mrs Vernon completely bedridden?’ ‘I believe so. From what Clara told me she remains in bed. The local nurse has been coming each day to attend to her but Clara has found it impossible to get her out of bed which is what the doctor recommends.’ Mrs Dexter cast a rather worried look at Deborah. ‘I hope that you will be strong enough, dear…’

  ‘I nursed Mother for almost a year and when my stepfather became ill I nursed him too. He was a difficult patient,’ added Deborah without rancour, remembering the disturbed nights, the constant complaining and the lack of freedom. She had tackled Walter once about getting someone to relieve her occassionally so that she might have a few hours to herself and had been lectured at length on the subject of her ingratitude. What did she expect? Had she not a cook and a housemaid to do everything for her? Was she not fed and clothed? Had she not a comfortable roof over her head?

  She had allowed his tirade to flow over her head and thought her own thoughts.

  Since they travelled for a good part of the way on the M4, turning off at Swindon and going north to Lechlade, the journey took little more than two and a half hours. As they left the town behind them and took a narrow country road Deborah felt the first pangs of doubt. Supposing the old lady didn’t like her? Or her niece for that matter? Well, she had burnt her boats now and there was no turning back. Her spirits lifted a little at Mrs Dexter’s kind, ‘You will be so welcome, my dear, and I am sure that you will be happy here.”

  The car turned into a short drive and drew up before a lovely old Cotswold house, its walls and roof of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, its windows with stone mullions and leaded panes. Deborah got out of the car and looked around her with delight; there were daffodils massed in beds on either side of the house and clumps of them dotted around the well-kept lawns surrounding the house. It seemed like heaven after the house at Hampstead.

  In answer to Mrs Dexter’s tug on the bell-pull the door was opened by a stout little woman with a round smiling face and twinkling eyes, enveloped in a print overall. She wished them good day in a soft country voice and stood aside for them to go on ahead.

  ‘It’s Mrs Dexter and the young lady, isn’t it?’ She beamed at them both. ‘Mrs Vernon’s in the drawing-room—this way.’

  The hall was pleasant and immaculate and so was the room into which they were shown, flowers everywhere, cushions well shaken, silver photo frames gleaming, and the woman crossing the room to greet them was as immaculate. Dressed in a well cut tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater and just the right amount of gold jewellery, she looked less than her years, her face skilfully made-up and her golden hair cut by a masterly hand. She was good-looking but she wore a discontented air as she kissed the air by Mrs Dexter’s cheek.

  ‘Aunt Phyllis, you have no idea how delighted I am to see you!’ She glanced at Deborah. ‘And this is Miss Everett?’

  She smiled at Deborah but didn’t shake hands and her blue eyes held no warmth. Deborah’s heart sank. She doesn’t like me, she reflected, and then decided that she had been mistaken when Mrs Vernon said, ‘It is such a relief to me that I shall have help with my aunt. It is a light post and you will have plenty of time to yourself, but I lead a busy life with the children and various social commitments and I rely upon you to take good care of her at all times.’ She smiled, though again the smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do leave your things in the cloakroom and we will have lunch, then I can take you to my aunt.’

  The dining-room was as pristine as the drawing-room and rather chilly. A grumpy-looking maid served lamb chops and vegetables and then jellied fruit and custard and Mrs Vernon and Mrs Dexter chatted lightly, careful to include Deborah in the conversation. They had their coffee at the table and presently Mrs Dexter said that she must go again. ‘I must be back in town in good time,’ she explained. ‘I’m dining early, for I’m going to the theatre with friends.’ She smiled kindly at Deborah. ‘My dear, I’m sure that you will be happy here—do write and tell me how you are getting on, won’t you? I am so glad that we met at such a fortuitous time.’