Matilda's Wedding

“Yes, oh, yes!” said Matilda. She turned to the doctor, beaming up at him. “Thank you very much for taking me out to dinner.” She sounded like a well-mannered child. “It was a wonderful evening, you know—the kind of evening one always remembers….”

“Indeed, I shall always remember it, too,” said the doctor. “Sweet dreams, Matilda.” And he bent and kissed her, very much to Mrs. Chubb’s satisfaction and even more to Matilda’s.

And, with a smiling glance at Mrs. Chubb, he was gone.

Matilda turned a dreamy face to the housekeeper. “I’ll go to bed,” she said, and kissed the smiling lady and floated upstairs to her room, for the moment wrapped in a dream world of her own.

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.

Matilda’s Wedding

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

DR LOVELL looked across his desk to the girl sitting in front of it. She would have to do, he supposed; none of the other applicants had been suitable. No one, of course, could replace the estimable Miss Brimble who had been with him for several years before leaving reluctantly to return home and nurse an aged parent, but this girl, with her mediocre features and quiet voice, was hardly likely to upset the even tenor of his life. There was nothing about her appearance to distract him from his work; her mousy hair was in a smooth French pleat, her small nose was discreetly powdered, and if she wore lipstick it wasn’t evident. And her clothes were the kind which were never remembered… She was, in fact, suitable.

Matilda Paige, aware that she was being studied, watched the man on the other side of the desk in her turn. A very large man, in his thirties, she guessed. Handsome, with a commanding nose and a thin mouth and hooded eyes and dark hair streaked with silver. She had no intention of being intimidated by him but she thought that anyone timid might be. A calm, quiet girl by nature, she saw no reason to stand in awe of him. Besides, since the moment she had set eyes on him, not half an hour ago, she had fallen in love with him…

‘You are prepared to start work on Monday, Miss Paige?’

Matilda said yes, of course, and wished that he would smile. Probably he was tired or hadn’t had time for a proper breakfast that morning. That he had a good housekeeper she had already found out for herself, whose brother did the gardening and odd jobs. She had also discovered that he was engaged. A haughty piece, Mrs Simpkins at the village shop had said—been to stay accompanied by her brother once or twice, hadn’t liked the village at all and said so.

‘Rude,’ Mrs Simpkins had said. ‘Them as should know better should mind their manners; grumbled ’cos I didn’t ’ave some fancy cheese they wanted. Well, what’s good enough for the doctor should be good enough for them. ’E’s a nice man, none better, just as ’is dad was a good man, too. A pity ’e ever took up with that young woman of ’is.’

Matilda, sitting primly on the other side of his desk, heartily agreed with Mrs Simpkins. All’s fair in love, she reflected, and got up when he gave his watch a brief glance.

Dr Lovell got up too; his manners were nice… She bade him a brisk goodbye as he opened the surgery door for her and then, shepherded by his practice nurse, left the house.

It was a pleasant old house in the centre of the village. Queen Anne, red-bricked with massive iron railings protecting it from the narrow main street. Lovells had lived there for generations, she had been told, father passing on his profession to son, and this particular twentieth-century son was, from all accounts, acknowledged to be quite brilliant. He had refused offers of important posts in London and preferred to remain at his old home, working as a GP.

Matilda walked briskly down the street, smiling rather shyly at one or two of the passers-by, still feeling that she didn’t belong. The village was a large one, deep in rural Somerset, and as yet had escaped the attention of developers wanting to buy land and build houses, probably because it lay well away from a main road, astride a tangle of narrow country lanes. Because of that, inhabitants of Much Winterlow were slow to accept newcomers. Not that there was anything about the Reverend Mr Paige, his wife and daughter to which they could take exception. Upon his retirement owing to ill health, her father had been offered by an old friend the tenancy of the small house at the very end of the village and he had accepted gratefully. After the rambling vicarage he had lived in for many years, he found the place cramped but the surroundings were delightful and quiet and he would be able to continue writing his book…

Matilda could see her new home now as she came to the end of the last of the cottages in the main street. There was a field or two, ploughed up in readiness for the spring next year, and the house, facing the road—square and hardly worth a second glance, built a hundred years or so earlier as home for the agent of the big estate close by and then later left empty, to be rented out from time to time. Her mother had burst into tears when she had first seen it but Matilda had pointed out that they were fortunate to have been offered it at a rent her father could afford. She’d added cheerfully, ‘It may look like a brick box but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a pretty garden.’

Her mother had said coldly, ‘You are always so sensible, Matilda.’

It was a good thing that she was, for her mother had no intention of making the best of a bad job; she had led a pleasant enough life where her husband had been rural dean; true, the house had been too big and if it hadn’t been for Matilda living at home and taking most of the household chores onto her shoulders there would have been little time to play the role of vicar’s wife. A role Mrs Paige had fulfilled very well, liking the social status it gave her in the small abbey town. But now she was forced to live in this village in a poky house with barely enough to live on…

Matilda pushed open the garden gate and went up the brick path to the front door. The garden was woefully neglected; she would be able to do something about that while the evenings were still light.

She opened the door, calling, ‘It’s me,’ as she did so, and, since no one replied, opened the door on the left of the narrow hallway.

Her father was at his desk, writing, but he looked up as she went in.

‘Matilda—it isn’t lunchtime, surely? I am just about to…’

She dropped a kiss on his grey head. He was a mild-looking man, kind-hearted, devoted to his wife and to her, content with whatever life should offer him, unworried as to where the money would come from to pay their way. He hadn’t wanted to retire but when it had become a vital necessity he had accepted the change in his circumstances with a good grace, accepted the offer of this house from an old friend and settled down happily enough to write.

That his wife was by no means as content as he was was a worry, but he assumed that, given time, she would settle down to their new life. Matilda had given him no worries; she had accepted everything without demur, only declaring that if possible she would find a job.

When she had left school she had taken a course in shorthand and typing, learned how to use a computer and simple bookkeeping. She had never had the chance to use these skills, for her mother had needed her at home, but now, several years later, she was glad that she would be able to augment her father’s pension. It had been a lucky chance that Mrs Simpkins had mentioned that the doctor needed a receptionist…

She left her father with the promise of bringing him a cup of coffee and went in search of her mother.

Mrs Paige was upstairs in her bedroom, sitting before her dressing table, peering at her face. She had been a pretty girl but the prettiness was marred by a discontented mouth and a frown. She turned away as Matilda went in.

‘The nearest decent hairdresser is in Taunton—miles away. Whatever am I going to do?’ She cast Matilda a cross look. ‘It’s all very well for you; you’re such a plain girl, it doesn’t really matter…’

Matilda sat down on the bed and looked at her mother; she loved her, of course, but there were times when she had to admit that she was selfish and spoilt. Hardly Mrs Paige’s fault—she had been an only child of doting parents and her husband had indulged her every whim to the best of his ability and Matilda had been sent away to boarding-school so that she had never been close to her daughter.

And Matilda had accepted it all: her father’s vague affection, her mother’s lack of interest, her life at the vicarage, helping Sunday school, the Mother’s Union, the annual bazaar, the whist drives… But now that was all over.

‘I’ve got the job at the doctor’s,’ she said. ‘Part-time, mornings and evenings, so I’ll have plenty of time to do the housework.’

‘How much is he paying you? I can’t manage on your father’s pension and I haven’t a farthing myself.’

When Matilda told her she said, ‘That’s not much…’

‘It’s the going rate, Mother.’

‘Oh, well, it will be better than nothing—and you won’t need much for yourself.’

‘No. Most of it must go for the housekeeping; there might be enough for you to have help in the house once or twice a week.’

‘Well, if you are working for most of the day I shall need someone.’ Her mother smiled suddenly. ‘And poor little me? Am I to have something too? Just enough so that I can look like a rural dean’s wife and not some poverty-stricken housewife.’

‘Yes, Mother, we’ll work something out without disturbing Father.’

‘Splendid, dear.’ Her mother was all smiles now. ‘Let me have your wages each week and I’ll see that they are put to good use.’

‘I think I shall put them straight into Father’s account at the bank and just keep out enough for you and me.’

Her mother turned back to the mirror. ‘You always have been selfish, Matilda, wanting your own way. When I think of all I have done for you…’

Matilda had heard it all before. She said now, ‘Don’t worry, Mother, there will be enough over for you.’

She went across the small landing to her own room, where she sat down on her bed and did sums on the back of an envelope. She was well aware of the inadequacies of her father’s pension; if they lived carefully there was just enough to live on and pay the bills; anything extra had to be paid for from his small capital—smaller still now with the expense of his illness and their move.

He had received a cheque from his parishioners when he had left the vicarage, but a good deal of that had been swallowed up by carpets and curtains and having the functional bathroom turned into one in which Mrs Paige could bear to be in. The bathroom as it was had been adequate, but her father loved his wife, could see no fault in her, and since she’d wanted a new bathroom she had had it…

He was an unworldly man, content with his lot, seeing only the best in other people; he was also impractical, forgetful and a dreamer, never happier than when he could sit quietly with his books or writing. Matilda loved him dearly and, although his heart attack had led to his retirement and coming to live in straitened circumstances, she had welcomed it since it meant that he could live a quiet life. Now she had a job and could help financially she had no doubt that once her mother had got over her disappointment they would be happy enough.

She went downstairs to the small kitchen to make coffee, and while the kettle boiled she looked round her. It was a rather bare room with an old-fashioned dresser against one wall, an elderly gas cooker and the new washing machine her mother had insisted on. The table in its centre was solid and square—they had brought it with them from the vicarage—and there were four ladder-backed chairs round it. By the small window was a shabby armchair, occupied by the family cat, Rastus. Once she had a little money, decided Matilda, she would paint the walls a pale sunshine-yellow, and a pretty tablecloth and a bowl of bulbs would work wonders…

She carried the coffee into the living room and found her mother there. ‘I’ll take Father his,’ Matilda suggested, and she crossed the hall to the small, rather dark room behind the kitchen, rather grandly called the study. It was very untidy, with piles of books on the floor awaiting bookshelves, and more books scattered on the desk, which was too large for the room but Mr Paige had worked at it almost all of his life and it was unthinkable to get rid of it.

He looked up as she went in. ‘Matilda? Ah, coffee. Thank you, my dear.’ He took off his spectacles. ‘You went out this morning?’

‘Yes, Father, for an interview with Lovell who has the practice here. I’m going to work for him part-time.’

‘Good, good; you will meet some young people and get some sort of a social life, I dare say. It will not entail too much hard work?’

‘No, no. Just seeing to patients and their notes and writing letters. I shall enjoy it.’

‘And of course you will be paid; you must get yourself some pretty things, my dear.’

She glanced down at the desk; the gas bill was lying on it and there was a reminder from the plumber that the kitchen taps had been attended to.

‘Oh, I shall, Father,’ she said in an over-bright voice.

On Monday morning Matilda got up earlier than usual, took tea to her parents and retired to her room. She couldn’t turn herself into a beauty but at least she could be immaculate. She studied her face as she powdered it and put on some lipstick. She wiped it off again, though. She hadn’t worn it at the interview, and although she didn’t think that Dr Lovell had noticed her at all there was always the chance that he had. She suspected that she had got the job because she was as near alike to Miss Brimble as her youth allowed.

She had met that lady once: plain, bespectacled, clad in something dust-coloured. There had been nothing about her to distract the eye of Dr Lovell, and Matilda, unable to find anything in her wardrobe of that dreary colour, had prudently chosen navy blue with a prim white collar. Such a pity, she reflected, dragging her hair back into its French pleat, that circumstances forced her to make the least of herself.

She pulled a face at her reflection. Not that it mattered. She had as much chance of attracting him as the proverbial pig had of flying. Falling in love with a man who hadn’t even looked at you for more than a moment had been a stupid thing to do.

The surgery was at one side of the house and a narrow path led to the side door. It was already unlocked when she got there and a woman was dusting the row of chairs. Matilda bade her good morning and, obeying the instructions she had been given, went into the surgery beyond. The doctor wasn’t there; she hadn’t expected him to be for it was not yet eight o’clock.

She opened a window, checked the desk to make sure that there was all that he might need there, and went back to the waiting room where her desk stood in one corner. The appointments book was on it—he must have put it there ready for her and she set to, collecting patients’ notes from the filing cabinet by the desk. She had arranged them to her satisfaction when the first patient arrived—old Mr Trimble, the pub owner’s father. He was a silent man with a nasty cough and, from his copious notes, a frequent visitor to the surgery. He grunted a greeting and sat down, to be joined presently by a young woman with a baby. Neither the mother nor the baby looked well, and Matilda wondered which one was the patient.

The room filled up then and she was kept busy, aware of the curious looks and whispers. Miss Brimble had been there for so many years that a newcomer was a bit of a novelty and perhaps not very welcome.

Dr Lovell opened his surgery door then, bade everyone a brisk good morning, took Mr Trimble’s notes from Matilda and ushered his patient inside. He ushered him out again after ten minutes, took the next lot of notes from her and left her to deal with Mr Trimble’s next appointment.

It wasn’t hard work but she was kept busy, for the phone rang from time to time, and some of the patients took their time deciding whether the appointments offered them were convenient, but by the time the last person had gone into the surgery Matilda was quite enjoying herself. True, Dr Lovell had taken no notice of her at all, but at least she’d had glimpses of him from time to time…

She dealt patiently with the elderly woman who was the last to go for she was rather deaf and, moreover, worried about catching the local bus.

‘My cats,’ she explained. ‘I don’t like to leave them for more than an hour or two.’

‘Oh, I know how you feel,’ said Matilda. ‘I have a cat; he’s called Rastus…’

The door behind her opened and Dr Lovell said, with well-concealed impatience, ‘Miss Paige…’

She turned and smiled at him. ‘Mrs Trim has a cat, and so have I. We were just having a chat about them.’

She bade Mrs Trim goodbye, shut the door behind her and said cheerfully, ‘I’ll tidy up, shall I?’

He didn’t answer, merely stood aside for her to follow him back into the surgery. As they went in, the door leading to the house opened and a tall, bony woman came in with a tray of coffee.

Matilda bade her good morning. ‘How nice—coffee, and it smells delicious.’

The doctor eyed her with an inscrutable face. Matilda had seemed so meek and quiet during her interview. He said firmly, ‘While you drink your coffee, please make a note of various instructions I wish to give you.’

She didn’t need to look at him to know that she had annoyed him. She said, ‘I talk too much,’ and opened her notebook, her nose quivering a bit at the aroma from the coffee pot.

‘Be good enough to pour our coffee, Miss Paige. I should point out that, more frequently than not, you may not have time for coffee. This morning was a very small surgery and normally I depart the moment the last patient has gone, leaving you to clear up and lock the door and the cabinets. I should warn you that the evening surgery is almost always busy.’

He opened a drawer and handed her a small bunch of keys. ‘If I am held up then I rely upon you to admit the patients and have everything ready, or as ready as possible, for me. Miss Brimble was most efficient; I hope that you will be the same.’

Matilda took a sip of coffee. Strange, she mused, that, of all the millions of men in the world, she should have fallen in love with this coldly polite man with cold blue eyes and, for all she knew, a cold heart as well.

‘I shall do my best to be as like Miss Brimble as possible,’ she told him, and after he had given her a list of instructions she asked, ‘Do you want me for anything else, Doctor? Then I’ll just tidy the waiting room and lock up.’

He nodded, not looking up from the pile of notes on his desk. ‘I shall see you this evening, Miss Paige.’ He glanced up then. ‘This is not a job where one can watch the clock too closely.’

She got up and went to the door, where she said in a quiet little voice, ‘I expect you miss Miss Brimble. We must hope for the best, mustn’t we?’

She closed the door quietly behind her and the doctor stared at it, surprise on his handsome face. But presently he allowed himself to smile. Only fleetingly, though. Miss Paige must conform to his ways or find another job.

Matilda went home, donned an apron and began to load the washing machine. Her father was in the study; her mother was getting coffee in the kitchen.

‘Well, how did you get on?’ she asked. ‘I don’t suppose it was hard work. Is he nice? Your father has to see him within the next few days. Such a nuisance that he has to see the doctor so often; I should have thought that once he had got over his heart attack he would have been cured.’

‘Well, he is cured, Mother, but it’s possible to have another attack unless a doctor keeps an eye on him. He’s feeling fine, though, isn’t he? This is the ideal life for him…’

Mrs Paige said fiercely, ‘Oh, it’s perfect for him but what about me? There’s nothing to do here in this poky little village…’

‘It’s not poky. It’s really quite large and Mrs Simpkins was telling me that there’s always something going on. There’s amateur theatricals in the winter, and bridge parties, and tennis in the summer and cricket. Once you get to know the people living here—’

‘And how do I do that? Knock on people’s doors? We’ve been here almost two weeks.’

‘If you went to the village more often…’ began Matilda. ‘Everyone goes to the village shop…’

‘Everyone? Who’s everyone? No one I can make a friend of. When I think of the pleasant life we had at the vicarage—my friends, the interesting people who came to see your father…’

‘I’m sure there are interesting people here, too,’ said Matilda. ‘Are you going to have coffee with Father? I had some at the surgery. Shall I make a macaroni cheese for lunch?’

Her mother shrugged. ‘What is he like? Dr Lovell? A typical country GP, I suppose.’

Matilda didn’t answer that; she didn’t think that Dr Lovell was typical of anyone, but then, of course, she was in love with him.

She took care to be at the surgery well before five o’clock. She had the patients’ notes ready on his desk and was sitting at her own desk in the waiting room when the first patient arrived. The doctor had been right; there was a steady stream of patients—several nasty coughs, a clutch of peevish children and two young men with bandaged hands. She had seen from the notes that most of them had come from outlying farms, and since they all appeared to know each other the room was full of cheerful voices interspersed with coughing fits and whining small voices.

There was no sign of the doctor and it was already well after five o’clock. Matilda left her desk to hold a fractious toddler while its mother took an older child to the loo. She was still holding it when the surgery door opened and the doctor invited his first patient, an old man with a cough, to come into the surgery.

He looked at Matilda with raised eyebrows but made no comment and by the time he called for his second patient she was back at her desk, busy with the appointments book, very aware that she was being looked over by everyone there. After all, she was a newcomer to the village, and although Mrs Simpkins had given her opinion that Matilda was a nice young lady—a bit quiet, like, but polite—the village had no intention of making up its mind in a hurry.