Francesca walked down the aisle beside Marc, sure now that everything was going to be all right; the little church with its flowers and tranquillity told her so.
She heard Marc’s voice and then her own; she saw the ring slipped onto her finger, and it wasn’t until then that she realized that they were married.
Nothing seemed quite real, but she would doubtless remember it all later on. A dream wedding, she reflected, and tried to think of something she could say to him.
Marc said easily, “A beautiful little church, isn’t it?” He sounded placid, not in the least like a just-married man….
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.
Over her thirty-year writing career, Betty wrote more than 134 novels and was 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 has left a lasting legacy through her heartwarming novels. She will always be remembered as a truly delightful person who brought great happiness to many.
The Editors
Harlequin Romance®
The Fortunes of Francesca
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
FRANNY was admitted by a butler who looked as though he hated her, shown into a small, cold room and bidden to wait there. She sat herself down on one of the stiff little chairs arranged round the table in its centre and wished that she hadn’t come. The advertisement had sought a girl Friday. This term could cover anything from washing up in the kitchen to dealing with invitations on beautifully engraved cards and paying the household bills with an odd spell of babysitting when called upon. It was not what she would have chosen if given a choice, but a job and the wages which went with it had become essential.
The butler returned and frostily requested her to follow him. Crossing the hall and mounting the stairs behind him, Franny reflected that she could always refuse to take the job if she was offered it. She thrust the thought aside; common sense reminded her that she needed work.
‘The young person,’ said the butler, opening the double doors at the head of the stairs. Franny sailed past him. She was of medium height, rather too thin, with brown hair and ordinary features easily forgotten, but she had an air of composed dignity.
‘My name is Francesca Bowen,’ she said clearly, and advanced towards the occupant of the room. This was a forbidding lady if ever there was one; she was handsome, middle-aged, with rigidly controlled grey hair and a haughty nose. She looked down it now.
She gave Franny a regal nod. ‘You appear very young.’
‘I’m twenty-three, Lady Trumper.’
Lady Trumper hadn’t expected to be answered; she looked her surprise and leafed through some letters she was holding.
‘You have trained for two years as a nurse. Why did you not continue?’
‘I left to look after my aunt and my brother. My aunt was ill at the time.’
‘I do not require a nurse.’
‘Well, I didn’t suppose you did,’ said Franny cheerfully, ‘but you never know, it might come in useful. I can type and keep accounts, answer the phone, walk the dog, babysit…’ She paused. ‘I’m not a very good cook.’
‘I have a cook, Miss Bowen. Nor do I require a baby-sitter. I am afraid that you are not suitable for the post I have in mind.’
Lady Trumper stretched out a hand and touched a bell, and the butler opened the door so quickly Franny decided that he had been standing outside listening. He preceded her down the hall with an I-told-you-so look on his face, and was on the point of ushering her out into the street when an elderly woman in a large white apron rushed into the hall.
‘Mr Barker— Oh, Mr Barker, come quickly. Elsie’s cut her hand that bad; she’s bleeding like a pig and screaming her head off. Whatever shall I do?’
Barker said with dignity, ‘I will come and see Elsie, Mrs Down, it is probably nothing more than a slight wound.’
He followed her through the baize door at the back of the hall and Franny, unnoticed for the moment, went with them.
It wasn’t a slight wound; it was a nasty deep slice in poor Elsie’s forearm, bleeding profusely and no one was doing anything about it.
Franny swept forward. ‘Someone get a doctor or an ambulance, whichever is quickest. Clean towels and bandages, if you have them.’
Elsie’s face was the colour of ashes. Franny lifted her arm above her head, found the pressure point and applied a finger, and when Mrs Down came with the towels asked, ‘Can you cover the cut with several of them and press down hard? Just for a little while until help comes.’
