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“You disposed of your aunt very quickly.”
She shot the Professor a cross look. “I haven’t—she left her scarf in the restaurant, and she wants it this minute.”
“Do I detect a slight vexation? Where is your sunny disposition, Jenny Wren? Snappish, and no gratitude for your rescue, either,” he said.
She made an effort to work her way around him. “Well, I haven’t had the time….”
“To express your deep obligation to me? But this will take very little time, my dear.”
The Professor had kissed her soundly before she could dodge him, and then disconcerted her utterly by standing aside without another word, to let her pass.
Jenny lingered unnecessarily in the restaurant so that he would have already left by the time she went back, and she was quite put out to find that that was exactly what he had done.
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.
Grasp a Nettle
Betty Neels
Tender-handed stroke a nettle And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle And it soft as silk remains.
—Aaron Hill
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE WINDING stone staircase in the corner tower was gloomy excepting for the regular patches of sunlight from the narrow slit windows set at intervals in its thick stone walls, but the girl running up the worn steps thought nothing of the gloom; she was well accustomed to it. She paused now, half way up, to peer out of one of the windows, craning her neck to look along the back drive to Dimworth House. It was almost two o’clock and the first of the visitors were already driving slowly down the narrow, ill-made lane which ran for a mile or more on its way from the main road.
The girl turned her bright coppery head to look down at the wide gravel path bordered by lawns and herbaceous borders, to where, beyond the open gate at its far end, the field used as a car park was waiting, empty, for the cars to fill it. It promised to be a good day in terms of entrance fees; although Dimworth House was one of the smaller stately homes open to the public, it was doing quite nicely, although it meant hard work for the family, and indeed, for everyone connected with the estate. The girl left the window presently, ran up the last curve of the narrow staircase, and pushed open the arched door at its top. It led to a small circular lobby, panelled and empty of furniture. She crossed this, opened the door in the opposite wall and entered a short, carpeted corridor, the walls hung with paintings and with a number of doors in its inner wall. There was a rather fine staircase half way along it, leading to the floor below, and a long latticed window lighting the whole, although not very adequately. The girl hurried along with the air of one familiar with her surroundings and knocked on the end door, and on being bidden to enter, did so.
The apartment was large, low-ceilinged and panelled, furnished with a variety of antique furniture, presided over by an enormous fourposter bed, and was occupied by a very upright elderly lady, sitting at a writing table under the window. She looked up as the girl went in, said: ‘Ah, Jenny,’ in a commanding voice and laid down her pen.
The girl had a charming voice. ‘I found Baxter, he was in the water garden. He’ll do the tickets—he’s putting on a tie and washing his hands, and Mrs Thorpe says she’ll take over from me at four o’clock.’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the desk. ‘I’d better get down to the hall, the cars are starting to arrive, Aunt Bess.’
‘Dear child!’ declared her aunt. ‘I can’t imagine what we shall do when you go back to that hospital tomorrow.’ She coughed. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t been much of a holiday for you.’
Her niece smiled. ‘I’ve loved it,’ she assured her relation, ‘it’s been a nice change from theatre, you know. I’m sorry I can’t stay here for the rest of the summer.’ She had wandered to the window to look out, and the sunshine shone on her bright hair, tied back loosely, and her pretty face, with its hazel eyes, thickly fringed, little tiptilted nose and generous mouth. She was of average height, nicely rounded and gloriously tanned with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
The Hon. Miss Elizabeth Creed, her mother’s sister and a lady of forceful disposition, smiled as she watched her, for she was the only one, bar her great-nephew, for whom she had any affection. Jenny had never allowed her aunt’s caustic tongue to worry her; and although she had been left an orphan at an early age, she had never once asked for money or help of any kind. True, she had a quite adequate income of her own from the trust set up for her by her parents, as well as her salary, but that was chickenfeed compared to the annual revenues enjoyed by her aunt and the very generous allowance given to her dead cousin’s widow and small son, Oliver, who would one day inherit Dimworth and a handsome fortune with it. In the meantime, however, his mother chose to live in Scotland with her parents, and the house was run by his great-aunt until such time as he was considered old enough to do this for himself.
Jenny, who spent her holidays with Aunt Bess, thought it a great pity that the little boy didn’t live at Dimworth, for it was a beautiful place and peaceful, and her cousin, who had died in an air crash a year or so after his marriage, had loved it dearly and would surely have wanted his son to have been brought up there, but Margaret, his widow, had never liked it over-much; she came to stay from time to time, but always made it clear to the rest of the family that she was glad to go again. She would be coming within a few days, bringing the little boy with her, and Jenny had every intention of spending all her days off at Dimworth while he was there, for the two of them were the greatest of friends, and Margaret, beautiful and languid and not particularly maternal, soon tired of his youthful high spirits.
Jenny, leaving her aunt to her writing, skipped down the staircase, crossed the landing below and opened a carved oak door on to a richly furnished sitting room overlooking the front of the house, and
