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Dear Reader,
Looking back over the years, I find it hard to realise that thirty of them have gone by since I wrote my first book—Sister Peters in Amsterdam. It wasn’t until I started writing about her that I found that once I had started writing, nothing was going to make me stop—and at that time I had no intention of sending it to a publisher. It was my daughter who urged me to try my luck.
I shall never forget the thrill of having my first book accepted. A thrill I still get each time a new story is accepted. Writing to me is such a pleasure, and seeing a story unfolding on my old typewriter is like watching a film and wondering how it will end. Happily of course.
To have so many of my books re-published is such a delightful thing to happen and I can only hope that those who read them will share my pleasure in seeing them on the bookshelves again…and enjoy reading them.
A Secret Infatuation
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
EUGENIE SPENCER, tall, splendidly built, dark hair, dark eyes and beautiful, put out a reluctant hand to turn off the alarm clock and got out of her bed. She dug her feet into slippers, dragged on a dressing-gown and went to the window and peered out into the early day. The April morning was misty, veiling the moorland and the great outcrops of rock, although the mist was slowly dispersing under the faint warmth of the early sun. She nodded in satisfaction. Driving her father to Exeter would be no problem; she could take the Moretonhampstead road across the moor. It was lonely for most of the way but she had been born and brought up on Dartmoor and was familiar with its vastness, its sudden mists and wild winter weather. Her father had been team rector for as long as she could remember, visiting the remote villages over a wide area, assisted by two fellow clergy. When she had gone away to train as a nurse and then take a post as ward sister at a London teaching hospital, she had returned home at every opportunity until his sudden severe heart attack had put an end to her career; for, after several weeks of hospital treatment, it was obvious that he wouldn’t be fit for work for a long time. He was sent home to recover slowly and she had given up her job and come home to help her mother, take upon her shoulders the mundane parochial jobs, nurse her father and cope with the Reverend Mr Watts who had been sent to act as locum to the parish. A zealous young man who, coming from one of the big inner cities, had no idea of village life and even less of village life on Dartmoor.
The villages were small and widely scattered, not to mention the remote farmhouses, frequently cut off in winter. This morning, though, the moor was inviting, stretching away in grand loneliness as far as the eye could see. Eugenie nipped smartly across the landing to the bathroom to begin her day.
Presently, in a tweed skirt, a sweater over a blouse and sensible shoes on her feet, her hair piled rather haphazardly on top of her head, she went downstairs to the kitchen to open the door for Tiger, the elderly spaniel, and Smarty, the crotchety old cat, and then put on a kettle to make early morning tea.
The Rectory was a short distance from the village, midway between Dartmeet and Two Bridges, a solid house, capable of standing up to bad weather, its rooms comfortably furnished, the kitchen old-fashioned without modern fitments but with an Aga and a solid dresser laden with plates and china, rather haphazardly arranged. Eugenie moved to and fro at her familiar tasks, roused her parents and laid the table for breakfast. It was still early but her father couldn’t be hurried and there were several small chores to be done before they could leave.
Her mother came downstairs first, a woman as tall as her daughter and still with the echo of youthful beauty in her face.
‘You go and feed the chickens! She took the bowl of eggs from Eugenie’s hand with a smile, and then added, ‘Your Father’s a bit edgy—you will drive carefully, darling?’
Eugenie opened the garden door. ‘Yes, Mother dear, and we’ll be back for tea.’
She lingered at the bottom of the garden after she had fed the chickens. Tiger and Smarty, anxious for their breakfast, wove themselves around her as she stood looking about her. The village was out of sight, round the curve of a steep hill, and the only other house in sight was a shepherd’s cottage half a mile away. ‘Very different from London,’
