by Betty Neels
Dear Reader,
We’d like to take this opportunity to pay tribute to Betty Neels, who, sadly, passed away last year. Betty was one of our best-loved authors. As well as being a wonderfully warm and thoroughly charming individual, Betty led a fascinating life even before becoming a writer, and her publishing record was impressive.
Betty spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, 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. On retirement from nursing, Betty started to write, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
Over her thirty-year writing career, Betty wrote more than 134 novels, and published in more than one hundred international markets. She continued to write into her ninetieth year, remaining as passionate about her characters and stories then as she was in her very first book.
Betty will be greatly missed, both by her friends within Harlequin and by her legions of loyal readers around the world. Betty was a prolific writer, and we have a number of new titles to feature in our forthcoming publishing programs. Betty has left a lasting legacy through her heartwarming novels, and she will always be remembered as a truly delightful person who brought great happiness to many.
The Editors
Harlequin Romance®
Liz Fielding was born and raised in Berkshire, U.K. She started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to, during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children, she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992.
She now lives with her husband, John, in west Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet.
Liz Fielding won the 2001 RITA Award for Best Traditional Romance, for The Best Man and the Bridesmaid.
And you can find out more about the author by visiting her Web site at www.lizfielding.com.
Praise for Betty Neels:
“Betty Neels works her magic to bring us a touching love story.”
—Romantic Times
“Betty Neels delights readers with a sweet tale.”
—Romantic Times
“Fans will not be disappointed.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for Liz Fielding:
“Liz Fielding creates amazing characters, outstanding scenes and an exciting premise….”
—Romantic Times
About AND MOTHER MAKES THREE:
“Ms. Fielding continues to delight me with her storytelling and rich prose. She is now on my automatic buy-list.”
—Bookbug on the Web
“Liz Fielding…spins a wonderful story.”
—Romantic Times
BETTY NEELS
LIZ FIELDING
The Engagement Effect
CONTENTS
AN ORDINARY GIRL
Betty Neels
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
A PERFECT PROPOSAL
Liz Fielding
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
AN ORDINARY GIRL
Betty Neels
CHAPTER ONE
PHILOMENA SELBY, the eldest of the Reverend Ambrose Selby’s five daughters, was hanging up sheets. It was a blustery March morning and since she was a small girl, nicely rounded but slight, she was having difficulty subduing their wild flapping. Finally she had them pegged in a tidy line, and she picked up the empty basket and went back into the house, where she stuffed another load into the washing machine and put the kettle on. A cup of coffee would be welcome. While she waited for it to boil she cut a slice of bread off the loaf on the table and ate it.
She was a girl with no looks to speak of, but her face was redeemed from plainness by her eyes, large and brown, fringed by long lashes beneath delicately arched brows. Her hair, tangled by the wind, was brown too, straight and fine, tied back with a bit of ribbon with no thought of fashion. She shook it back now and got mugs and milk and sugar, and spooned instant coffee as her mother came into the kitchen.
Mrs Selby was a middle-aged version of her daughter and the years had been kind to her. Her brown hair was streaked with silver-grey and worn in a bun—a style she had never altered since she had put her hair up as a seventeen-year-old girl. There were wrinkles and lines in her face, but the lines were laughter lines and the wrinkles didn’t matter at all.
She accepted a mug of coffee and sat down at the table.
‘Mrs Frost called in with a bag of onions to thank your father for giving her Ned a lift the other day. If you’d pop down to Mrs Salter’s and get some braising steak from her deep-freeze we could have a casserole.’
Philomena swallowed the last of her bread. ‘I’ll go now; the butcher will have come so there’ll be plenty to choose from.’
‘And some sausages, dear.’
Philomena went out of the house by the back door, and down the side path which led directly onto the village street. When she reached the village green she joined the customers waiting to be served. She knew that she would have to wait for several minutes. Mrs Salter was the fount of all news in the village and passed it on readily while she weighed potatoes and cut cheese. Philomena whiled away the time peering into the deep-freeze cabinet, not so much interested in braising steak as she was in the enticing containers of ice cream and chocolate cakes.
Her turn came, and with the steak and sausages wrapped in a not very tidy parcel she started off back home.
The car which drew up beside her was silent—but then it would be; it was a Bentley—and she turned a rather startled face to the man who spoke to her across the girl sitting beside him.
‘We’re looking for Netherby House, but I believe that we are lost…’
Philomena looked into the car, leaning on the window he had opened.
‘Well, yes, you are. Have you a map?’
His companion thrust one at her and she opened it out, pausing to smile at the girl as she leaned further in.
‘Look, this is Nether Ditchling—here.’ She pointed with a small hand, reddened by the cold wind. ‘You need to go through the village as far as the crossroads—’ her finger moved on ‘—go right and go to Wisbury; that’s about three miles. There are crossroads at the end of the village. Go right, and after a mile you’ll see a lane signposted to Netherby House. Can you remember that?’ she asked anxiously.
She looked at him then; he had a handsome, rather rugged face, close-cropped dark hair and blue eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, and she had the strange feeling that something had happened…
‘I shall remember,’ he told her, and smiled.
Philomena gave her head a little shake. ‘People often get lost; it’s a bit rural.’ She withdrew her head and picked up her steak and sausages from the girl’s lap, where she had dumped them, the better to point the way on the map. She smiled as she did so and received a look of contempt which made her blush, suddenly aware that in this elegant girl’s eyes she was a nonentity.
‘So sorry. It’s only sausages a
nd steak.’
She didn’t hear the small sound which escaped the man’s lips and she stood back, hearing only his friendly thanks.
Her mother was still in the kitchen, peeling carrots. ‘Philly, you were a long time…’
‘A car stopped on its way to Netherby House; they’d got lost. A Bentley. There was a girl, very pretty and dressed like a fashion magazine, and a man driving. Mother, why is it that sometimes one meets someone one has never met before and it seems as though one has known them for always?’
Mrs Selby bent over the carrots. She said carefully, ‘I think it is something which happens often, but people don’t realise it. If they do then it is to be hoped that it may lead to happiness.’
She glanced at Philly, who was unwrapping the sausages. ‘I wonder why they were going to Netherby House. Perhaps their eldest girl has got engaged—I did hear that it was likely.’
Philly said, ‘Yes, perhaps that’s it. They weren’t married, but she had an outsize diamond ring…’
Her mother rightly surmised that the Bentley and its occupants were still occupying her daughter’s thoughts. She said briskly, ‘Will you make your father a cup of coffee? If he’s finished writing his sermon he’ll want it.’
So Philly went out of the kitchen, across the cold hall and along a passage to the back of the house, which was a mid-Victorian building considered suitable for a vicar of those days with a large family and several servants. The Reverend Selby had a large family, but no servants—except for Mrs Dash, who came twice a week to oblige—and the vicarage, imposing on the outside, was as inconvenient on the inside as it was possible to be.
Philly skipped along, avoiding the worn parts of the linoleum laid down years ago by some former incumbent, and found her parent sitting at his desk, his sermon written. He was tall and thin, with grey hair getting scarce on top, but now, in his fifties, he was still a handsome man, with good looks which had been passed on to his four younger girls. Philly was the only one like her mother—something which he frequently told her made him very happy. ‘Your mother is a beautiful woman,’ he would tell her, ‘and you are just like she was at your age.’
They were words which comforted Philly when she examined her face in the mirror and wished for blue eyes and the golden hair which framed her sisters’ pretty faces. But she was never downcast for long; she was content with her lot: helping her mother run the house, helping with the Sunday School, giving a hand at the various social functions in the village. She hoped that one day she would meet a man who would want to marry her, but her days were too busy for her to spend time daydreaming about that.
The driver of the Bentley, following Philomena’s instructions, drove out of the village towards the crossroads, listening to his companion’s indignant voice. ‘Really—that girl. Dumping her shopping in my lap like that.’ She shuddered. ‘Sausages and heaven knows what else…’
‘Steak.’ He sounded amused.
‘And if that’s typical of a girl living in one of these godforsaken villages—frightful clothes and so plain—then the less we leave London the better. And did you see her hands? Red, and no nail polish. Housework hands.’
‘Small, but pretty, none the less, and she had beautiful eyes.’
He glanced sideways at the perfect profile. ‘You’re very uncharitable, Sybil. Ah, here are the crossroads. Netherby is only a mile ahead of us.’
‘I never wanted to come. I hate engagement parties…’
‘I thought you enjoyed ours.’
‘That was different—now we’re only the guests.’
The house was at the end of a narrow lane. It was a large, rambling place, and the sweep before the front door was full of cars.
Sybil sat in the car, waiting for him to open the door. ‘I shall be bored stiff,’ she told him as they walked to the door, and he looked at her again. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful, with perfect features and golden hair cunningly cut. But just now she looked sulky, and her mouth was turned down at the corners. ‘That stupid girl and now this…’
But once she was inside, being greeted by their host and hostess and the various friends and acquaintances there, the sulky look was replaced by smiles and the charm she switched on like a light. She was in raptures over the engagement ring, laughed and talked, and was the picture of a dear friend delighted to join in the gossip about the wedding. At the luncheon which followed she kept her end of the table entranced by her witty talk.
‘You’re a lucky fellow, James,’ observed a quiet little lady sitting beside the rather silent man. ‘Sybil is a lovely young woman, and so amusing too. When do you intend to marry?’
He smiled at her. ‘Sybil is in no hurry, and in any case we’re short-staffed at the hospital. I doubt if I could find the time. She wants a big wedding, which I understand takes time and organising.’
Kind, elderly eyes studied his face. There was something not quite right, but it was none of her business. ‘Tell me, I hear that there is a scheme to open another ward…?’
‘Yes, for premature babies. It’s still being discussed, but we need more incubators.’
‘You love your work, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
She saw that she wasn’t going to be told more and asked idly if he had enjoyed the drive down from town.
‘Yes, it’s a different world, isn’t it? Last time I saw you, you were making a water garden. Is it finished?’
They turned to their neighbours presently, and then everyone left the table to stand around talking, or walked in the large formal garden, and it was there that Sybil found him presently.
‘Darling, we simply must leave. I’m so bored. Say that you take a clinic this evening and that you have to be back by seven o’clock.’ When he looked at her, she added, ‘Oh, darling, don’t look like that. It’s such a stuffy party.’
She had a lovely smile, so he smiled back and went in search of their hostess.
Having got her own way, Sybil was at her most charming self, keeping up amusing talk as they drove back to London. As he slowed through Nether Ditchling she said with a laugh, ‘Oh, this is the place where we talked to that plain girl with the sausages. What a dull life she must lead. Shall we be back in time to have dinner together somewhere I can dress up? I bought the loveliest outfit the other day—I’ll wear it.’
‘I must disappoint you, Sybil. I’ve a pile of paperwork, and I want to check a patient at the hospital.’
She pouted prettily, clever enough to know that he wasn’t to be persuaded. She put a hand on his knee. ‘Never mind, darling. Let me know when you can spare an evening and we’ll go somewhere special.’
He drove her to her parents’ flat in Belgravia and went straight to the hospital—where he forgot her, the luncheon party and the long drive, becoming at once engrossed in the progress of his small patient. But he didn’t forget the girl with the sausages. That they would meet again was something he felt in his very bones, and he was content to wait until that happened.
March had come in like a lamb and it was certainly going out like a lion. Winter had returned, with wind and rain and then the warning of heavy snow. Professor James Forsyth, on his morning round one Saturday morning, was called to the phone. ‘An urgent message,’ Sister had told him.
It was Sybil. ‘James, darling, you’re free this afternoon and tomorrow, aren’t you? I simply must go to Netherby. I’ve bought a present for Coralie and Greg and it’s too large to send. Will you be an angel and drive me down this afternoon? I promise you we won’t stay, and we can come straight back and dine somewhere. I thought tomorrow we might go to Richmond Park. The Denvers are always inviting us to lunch and I’m dying to see their new house.’
Professor Forsyth frowned. ‘Sybil, I have asked you not to phone me at the hospital unless it is an urgent matter.’
‘Darling, but this is urgent. I mean, how am I to get this wretched present down to Netherby unless you drive me there?’ She added with a wistful charm which was hard t
o resist, ‘Please, James.’
‘Very well, I’ll drive you down there and back. But I can’t take you to dinner this evening and I need Sunday to work on a lecture I’m due to give.’
He heard her murmured protest and then, ‘Of course, darling, I quite understand. And thank you for finding the time for poor little me. Will you fetch me? I’ll have an early lunch. I can be ready at one o’clock.’
As they left London behind them the dark day became darker, with unbroken cloud and a rising wind. Their journey was half done when the first idle snowflakes began to fall, and by the time they were driving through Nether Ditchling it was snowing in earnest.
Sybil, who had been at her most charming now that she had got what she wanted, fell silent.
‘Will ten minutes or so be enough for you to deliver your gift? I don’t want to linger in this weather.’
She was quick to reassure him. ‘Don’t come in; I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll explain that you have to get back to town.’
At the house she said, ‘Don’t get out, James. If you do they’ll want us to stay for tea. I’ll be very quick.’
She leaned across and kissed his cheek, got out of the car and ran up the steps to the front door, and a moment later disappeared through it.
The doctor sat back and closed his eyes. He was tired, and the prospect of a quiet day at home was very welcome. Peaceful hours in his study, making notes for his lecture, leisurely meals, time to read…
He glanced at his watch; Sybil had been gone for almost fifteen minutes. He could go and fetch her, but if he did they might find it difficult to leave quickly. He switched on the radio: Delius—something gentle and rather sad.
Sybil was sitting by the fire in her friend Coralie’s sitting room. The wedding present was open beside them and there was a tea tray between them. Another few minutes wouldn’t matter, Sybil had decided, and a cup of tea would be nice. While they drank it details of the wedding dress could be discussed…
She had been there for almost half an hour when she glanced at the clock.
