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An unexpected inheritance!
When Henrietta was left a house in a Dutch village, she decided to make her home there, and settled happily into her new abode. She thought she would like everything about Holland—except Marnix van Hessel. As “lord of the manor,” he behaved as if it were still the Middle Ages! Why couldn’t he just marry his fiancée and leave Henrietta in peace?
“I have no idea who you are, but this is my house and I must ask you to leave it.”
He came right into the kitchen. “A very hoity-toity speech,” he remarked in an English as perfect as her own. “Quite wasted on me and useless to anyone else around here—they wouldn’t have understood a word of it.”
“Who are you?” She stood her ground, although the instinct to move back was strong, but she was annoyed at being called hoity-toity. So she lifted her pretty, determined chin and looked down her fine nose at him.
“Your landlord.” He laughed without amusement….
“You’re mistaken.This house is mine. My aunt, Miss Brodie, left it to me.”
He sighed loudly. “I have neither the time nor the patience to mull over the intricacies of leasehold property. Take my word for it that I own the lease on this house, Miss Henrietta Brodie.”
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, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.
Henrietta’s Own Castle
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
SISTER HENRIETTA BRODIE yawned as she climbed the last few treads of the staircase leading to Women’s Medical; she had stayed up late the night before, listening, with three other Ward Sisters, to Agnes Bent, who had Men’s Medical and was leaving to get married in a few weeks’ time and had still to solve the knotty problem of whether to wear a hat or a veil at her wedding. She was a girl of gentle nature, easily swayed by other opinions, and the argument had gone on until after midnight. Henrietta had rather enjoyed it; she liked Agnes, who was pretty enough to wear whatever she fancied and look lovely, but the others had been divided in their opinions, so that the discussion, prolonged with several pots of tea, had gone on for longer than she had bargained for, and when she had at last got to bed, it was to lie awake until the small hours.
Agnes’ happy chatter had reminded her that she was going to be twenty-nine in a week’s time, and what was worse, she had recently refused Roger Thorpe, the chief pharmacist at St Clement’s, for the second time, and she didn’t think that he would ask her again. If she had had any relatives to advise her, they would probably have told her that she had been silly to have given up the chance of marrying such a worthy man—her own age, steady and serious and hard-working. And so dull, added Henrietta to herself. Roger hadn’t been the first man to ask her to marry him, but he could possibly be the last.
She had sat up in bed at three o’clock in the morning, struck by the sobering thought that twenty-nine was only a year from thirty. Had she been foolish? Roger had all the makings of a good husband, and yet, she had reflected, he had accepted her refusal with a lukewarm regret; he might have been disappointed, but he hadn’t been heartbroken. Her tired mind registered that fact while it had wondered in a nebulous fashion if she would ever meet a man who was neither too worthy nor dull, and who, if she were fool enough to refuse him, would follow her ruthlessly until she changed her mind—he would have to be rich, because she was poor, and good-looking, and because she was tall and well built, he would have to be bigger than she was… She had slid back against the pillow, and slept on the idea.
She remembered it all very clearly now as she crossed the landing to her office, her ears registering the various ward sounds; the breakfast things being collected on to the trolleys, the swish of the curtains as the nurses started to draw them round the beds, the metallic clink of bedpans from the far end of the ward and Mrs Pim’s shrill old voice calling: ‘Nurse, Nurse!’ just as she always did after each and every breakfast. But nothing untoward—Henrietta nodded to herself and opened the office door.
The night nurses were waiting for her, and so was her staff nurse, Joan Legg. She wished them good morning in her quiet, pretty voice, and sat down at her desk. The Kardex was open at the first patient’s name, ready for her to read, but instead she asked: ‘Did you have a good night, Nurse Cutts? That new case—Miss Crow—was the sedation enough or do you want a bigger dose for tonight?’
