Never Say Goodbye

Her family had to come first

To keep her small family together, Isobel Barrington managed to make ends meet—just!—by doing private nursing jobs. Her mother had only a small pension and her younger brother had to be educated somehow.

Isobel really shouldn’t have had time to fall in love with Dr. Thomas Winters—but she did anyway. Unfortunately, he wasn’t likely to be interested in her when the lovely Ella Stokes was around, so Isobel ought to try to forget him. Easier said than done!

“Oh, the poor dear, is she bad? And just as she was doing so nicely, too…”

Dr. Thomas Winters looked stern and angry and his eyes were like granite. Isobel thought it very likely that he had come against his will because Nanny had insisted. She said kindly, in her gentle voice, “I’m indeed sorry to hear about Nanny, but I can’t come with you.You know I go where the agency sends me and I just came back from a case. I’m sure if you phone them they’ll have a nurse free.”

He gave her a thin smile.“My dear Isobel, you underestimate me. I have already arranged with the agency that you’ll return with me this evening.”

Her eyes grew round. “The arrogance of it!” she declared. “I may refuse a case, you know, Dr. Winters, and I’m doing just that.”

“You won’t do that.” His voice was quiet.“You’re a kind and gentle girl. I’m sorry if I’ve made you angry, but Nanny is ill, and I did not bring her all this way to see her slip through my fingers.”

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.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER ONE

THE HOUSE, one of a row of similar Regency houses in an exclusive area of London, gave no hint from its sober exterior as to the magnificence of its entrance hall, with its imposing ceiling and rich carpet, nor even more to the equally imposing room, the door to which an impassive manservant was holding open. Isobel Barrington walked past him and, obedient to his request that she should take a seat, took one, waiting until he had closed the door soundlessly behind him before getting up again and beginning a slow prowl round the room. It was a very elegant room, with watered silk panelled walls, a marble fireplace and some intimidating armchairs of the French school, covered in tapestry. The rest of the furniture was Chippendale with nothing cosy about it, although she had to admit that it was charming. Not her kind of room, she decided with her usual good sense; it would do very well for people as elegant as itself; the kind who thought of Fortnum and Mason as their local grocer and understood every word of an Italian opera when they went to one.

She began to circle the room, looking at the profusion of portraits on its walls; gentlemen with unyielding faces in wigs and a variety of uniforms, all sharing the same handsome features; ladies, surprisingly enough, with scarcely a pretty face between them, although they were all sweet as to expression. Isobel, studying a young woman in an elaborate Edwardian dress, concluded that the men of the family had good looks enough and could afford to marry plain wives. ‘Probably they were heiresses,’ she told herself, and sat down again.

She might not match the room for elegance, but she shared a lack of good looks with the various ladies hanging on its walls. She was on the small side, with a neat figure and nice legs and a face which missed prettiness by reason of too wide a mouth and too thin a nose, although her skin was as clear as a child’s and her blue eyes held a delightful twinkle upon occasion. She was dressed in a plain blue dress and looked as fresh and neat as anyone could wish. She put her purse on the small table beside her and relaxed against the chair’s high back. When the door opened she sat up and then got to her feet with a calm air of assurance.

‘Miss Barrington?’ The man who spoke could have been any one of the gentlemen hanging on the walls; he had exactly the same good looks and forbidding expression, although his greying hair was cropped short and his clothes, exquisitely tailored, were very much in the modern fashion.

Isobel met his dark, impersonal stare with a steady look. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And you are Dr Winter?’

He crossed the room and stopped before her, a very tall, largely built man in his thirties. He didn’t answer her but observed coldly: ‘The Agency assured me that they were sending a sensible, experienced nurse with a placid disposition.’

She eyed him with a gentle tolerance which made him frown. She said kindly: ‘I’m a sensible woman and I have eight years’ experience of nursing and I am of a placid disposition, if by that you mean that I don’t take exception to rudeness or get uptight if things go a little wrong…’ She added: ‘May I sit down?’

The frown became thunderous. ‘I beg your pardon, Nurse, please do take a chair…’ He didn’t sit himself, but began to wander about the room. Presently he said: ‘You’re not at all the kind of nurse I intended to take with me. Have you travelled?’

‘No, but I’ve nursed in a variety of situations, some of them rather out of the ordinary way of things.’

‘You’re too young.’ He stopped marching around the room and looked at her.

‘I’m twenty-five—a sensible age, I should have thought.’

‘Women at any age are not always sensible,’ he observed bitterly.

Isobel studied him carefully. An ill-tempered man, she judged, but probably just and fair-minded with it, in all probability he was a kind husband and father. She said calmly: ‘Then it really doesn’t matter what age I am, does it?’

He smiled, and his face was transformed so that she could see that he could be quite charming if he wished. ‘All the same—’ he began and then stopped as the door opened and the manservant came in, murmured quietly and went away again.

‘You must excuse me for a moment, Miss—er—Barrington. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.’

She was left to contemplate the portraits of his ancestors on the walls, although she didn’t pay much attention to them; she had too much to think about. It was a severe blow if he didn’t give her the job…she needed it badly enough. When she had left hospital to take up agency nursing, she hadn’t had her heart in it: she had loved her work as Male Surgical Ward Sister and her bedsitting room in the nurses’ home and going home for her weekends off. However, when her only, younger brother Bobby had been given the chance of going to a public school and her mother had confided to her that there wasn’t enough money to send him, she had given up her post, put her name down at a nursing agency and by dint of working without breaks between cases had earned enough to get Bobby started.

She didn’t really enjoy it. It was a lonely life and she had far less free time; on the other hand, she could earn almost twice as much money and she had no need to pay for her food and room. And she wouldn’t have to do it for ever. Bobby was a bright boy, he was almost certain to get a place in one of the universities in four or five years’ time and then she would go back to hospital life once more. She should have liked to marry, of course, but she had no illusions about her looks, and although she could sew and cook and keep house she had never got to know a man well enough for him to appreciate these qualities. It was a regret that she kept well hidden, and it had helped to have a sense of humour and a placid nature as well as a strong determination to make the best of things.

She braced herself now for Dr Winter’s refusal of her services, and when he came back into the room looking like a thundercloud, she gave an inward resigned sigh and turned a calm face to him.

‘That was the nursing agency,’ he said shortly. ‘They wanted to know if I was satisfied with you for the job I had in mind, and when I said I’d expected someone older and more experienced they regretted that there was positively no one else on their books.’ He cast her an exasperated look. ‘I intend to leave England in two days’ time, and there’s no opportunity of finding someone else in forty-eight hours…I shall have to take you.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ she assured him briskly. ‘Perhaps you would tell me exactly what kind of case I’m to nurse.’

‘An old lady crippled with arthritis. My old nurse, in fact.’

The idea of this self-assured giant of a man having a nanny, even being a small boy, struck Isobel as being faintly ludicrous, but the look that he bent upon her precluded even the faintest of smiles. He sat down at last in one of the Chippendale chairs, which creaked under his weight. ‘She married a Pole and has lived in Gdansk since then. Her husband died last year and I’ve been trying since then to get a permit for her to return to England. I’ve now succeeded and intend to bring her back with me. You will understand that I shall require a nurse to accompany me; she’s unable to do much for herself.’

‘And when do we get back to England?’ Isobel asked.

‘I shall want your services only until such time as a suitable companion for her can be found.’ He crossed one long leg over the other and the chair creaked again. ‘We fly to Stockholm where we stay the night at a friend’s flat and take the boat the following day to Gdansk, we shall probably be a couple of days there and return to Stockholm and from there fly back to England. A week should suffice.’

‘Why are we not to fly straight to Gdansk? And straight back here again?’

‘Mrs Olbinski is a sick woman; it’s absolutely necessary that she should travel as easily as possible; we shall return by boat to Stockholm and spend at least a day there so that she can rest before we fly back here. And we spend a day in Stockholm so that the final arrangements for her can be made.’

He got up and wandered to the window and stood staring out. ‘You have a passport?’

‘No, but I can get one at the Post Office.’

He nodded. ‘Well, this seems the best arrangement in the circumstances; not exactly as I would have wished, but I have no alternative, it seems.’

‘You put it very clearly, Dr Winter,’ said Isobel. Her pleasant voice was a little tart. ‘Do you want to make the arrangements for the journey now, or notify the agency?’

‘I’ll contact the agency tomorrow.’ He glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘I have an appointment shortly and can spare no more time. You will get your instructions, Miss—er—Barrington.’

She got to her feet. ‘Very well, Dr Winter—and the name is Barrington, there’s no er in front of it.’ She gave him a vague smile and met his cold stare and walked to the door. ‘You would like me to wear uniform, I expect?’ And when he didn’t answer, she said in patient explanation: ‘It might help if you had any kind of difficulties with the authorities…’

‘You’re more astute than I’d thought, Miss Barrington.’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s exactly what I would wish you to do.’

He reached the door slightly ahead of her and opened it. ‘Perhaps you would confine your luggage to one case? I’ll fill in details during the flight.’

The manservant was hovering in the splendid hall. ‘Oh, good,’ said Isobel cheerfully. ‘One wants to know something about a case before taking it on. Goodbye, Dr Winter.’ She smiled kindly at him and made an exit as neat and unremarkable as herself.

She took a bus, a slow-moving journey of half an hour or more, back to her home—a small terraced house on the better side of Clapham Common. It looked exactly like the houses on either side of it, but in the narrow hall there was a difference. In place of the usual hallstand and telephone table there was a delicate wall table with rather a nice gilded mirror above it, and the small sitting room into which she hurried was furnished with what their neighbours referred to disparagingly as old bits and pieces, but which were, in fact, the remnants of furniture saved from the sale of her old home some ten years earlier. She never went into the little house without nostalgia for the comfortable village house she had been born and brought up in, but she never mentioned this; her mother, she felt sure, felt even worse about it than she did.

Her mother was sitting at the table, sewing, a small woman with brown hair a good deal darker than her daughter’s, the same blue eyes and a pretty face. She looked up as Isobel went in and asked: ‘Well, darling, did you get the job?’

Isobel took off her shoes and curled up in a chair opposite her mother. ‘Yes, but it’s only for a week or two, though. Dr Winter isn’t too keen on me, but there wasn’t anyone else. I’m to go to Poland with him to fetch back his old nanny.’

Her mother looked faintly alarmed. ‘Poland? But isn’t that…’ she paused, ‘well, eastern Europe?’

‘He’s got a permit for her to come to England to live. Her husband died last year and she’s crippled with arthritis, that’s why I’m to go with him; she’ll need help with dressing and so on, I expect.’

‘And this Dr Winter?’

‘Very large and tall, unfriendly—to me at any rate, but then he expected someone older and impressive, I think. He’s got a lovely house. I’m to be told all the details at the agency tomorrow and be ready to travel in two days—in uniform.’

Her mother got up. ‘I’ll get the tea. Is he elderly?’

Isobel thought. ‘Well, no; he’s a bit grey at the sides, but he’s not bald or anything like that. I suppose he’s getting on for forty.’

‘Married?’ asked her mother carelessly as she went to the door.

‘I haven’t an idea, but I should think so—I mean, I shouldn’t think he would want to live in a great house like that on his own, would you?’

She followed her mother into the little kitchen and put on the kettle, and while it boiled went into the minute garden beyond. It was really no more than a patch of grass and a flower bed or two but it was full of colour and well kept. There was a tabby cat lying between the tulips and forget-me-nots. Isobel said: ‘Hullo, Blossom,’ and bent to inspect the small rose bushes she cherished when she was home. They were nicely in bud and she raised her voice to say to her mother, ‘They’ll be almost out by the time I get back. It’s June next week.’

She spent her evening making a list of the things she would need to take with her; not many, and she hesitated over packing a light jacket and skirt. Dr Winter had said uniform, but surely if they were to stay in Stockholm for a day, she need not wear uniform, nor for that matter on the flight there. Perhaps the agency would be able to tell her.

The clerk at the agency was annoyingly vague, offering no opinion at all but supposing it didn’t matter and handing Isobel a large envelope with the remark that she would probably find all she wanted to know inside it. Isobel annoyed the lady very much by sitting down and reading the contents through, for, as she pointed out in her sensible way, it would be silly to get all the way home and discover that some vital piece of information was missing.

There was nothing missing; her ticket, instructions on how to reach Heathrow and the hour at which she was to arrive and where she was to go when she got there, a reminder that she must bring a Visitor’s Passport with her, a generous sum of money to pay for her expenses and a brief note, typed and signed T. Winter, telling her that she had no need to wear uniform until they left Stockholm. Isobel replaced everything in the envelope, wished the impatient lady behind the desk a pleasant day and went off to the Post Office for her passport. She had to have photos for it, of course. She went to the little box in a corner of the Post Office and had three instant photos taken; they were moderately like her, but they hardly did her pleasant features justice—besides, she looked surprised and her eyes were half shut. But since the clerk at the counter didn’t take exception to them, she supposed they would do. Her mother, naturally enough, found them terrible; to her Isobel’s unassuming face was beautiful.

She left home in plenty of time, carrying a small suitcase and a shoulder bag which held everything she might need for the journey. After deliberation she had worn a coffee-coloured pleated skirt, with its matching loose jacket and a thin cotton top in shrimp pink, and in her case she had packed a second top and a Liberty print blouse, and because she had been told at the agency that the Scandinavian countries could be cool even in May and June, she had packed a thick hooded cardigan she had bought with her Christmas money at Marks and Spencer.

She took the underground to Heathrow and then found her way to departure number two entrance and went to stand, as she had been told to, on the right side of the entrance. She was ten minutes early and she stood, not fidgeting at all, watching the taxis drawing up and their passengers getting out. She hadn’t been there above five minutes when she was startled to hear Dr Winter’s deep voice behind her.

‘Good morning, Miss Barrington. We will see to the luggage first, if you will come with me.’

Her good morning was composed, a porter took her case and she went across to the weigh-in counter for their luggage to be taken care of, handed her ticket to the doctor and waited until the business had been completed, studying him while she did so.

He was undoubtedly a very good-looking man, and the kind of man, she fancied, who expected to get what he wanted with the least possible fuss. He looked in a better temper, she was relieved to see; it made him look a good deal younger and the tweed suit he was wearing, while just as elegantly cut as the formal grey one he had worn at her interview, had the effect of making him seem more approachable.

‘Well, we’ll go upstairs and have coffee while we wait for our flight.’ He spoke pleasantly and Isobel didn’t feel the need to answer, only climbed the stairs beside him, waited a few moments while he bought a handful of papers and magazines and went on up another flight of steps to the coffee lounge, where he sat her down, fetched their coffee and then handed her the Daily Telegraph and unfolded The Times for himself.

Isobel, who had slept badly and had a sketchy breakfast, drank her coffee, thankfully, sat back in her chair, folded the newspaper neatly and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep at once and the doctor, glancing up presently, blinked. He was by no means a conceited man, but he couldn’t remember, offhand, any woman ever going to sleep in his company. He overlooked the fact that he had made no attempt to entertain her.

Isobel, while no beauty, looked charming when she slept, her mouth had opened very slightly and her lashes, golden-brown and very long, lay on her cheeks, making her look a good deal younger than her twenty-five years. Dr Winter frowned slightly and coughed. Isobel’s eyes flew open and she sat up briskly. ‘Time for us to go?’ she enquired.

‘No—no. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was surprised…’

She gave him her kind smile. ‘Because I went to sleep. I’m sure girls don’t go to sleep when they’re with you.’ To make herself quite clear, she added: ‘Nurses when you’re lecturing them, you know. I expect you’re married.’

His look was meant to freeze her bones, only she wasn’t that kind of a girl. She returned his stare with twinkling eyes. ‘You expect wrongly, Miss Barrington.’ He looked down his patrician nose. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I were to address you as Nurse.’

‘Yes, Dr Winter.’ The twinkle was so disconcerting that he looked away still frowning.

She had time to do the crossword puzzle before their flight was announced, leaving him to return to his reading.

She had a window seat on board and she was surprised to find that they were travelling first class, but pleased too, usually if she had to travel to a case, she was expected to use the cheapest way of getting there. She fastened her seat-belt and peered out of the window: it wasn’t until they were airborne that she sat back in her seat.

‘You’ve flown before?’ asked Dr Winter. He didn’t sound interested just polite, so she said that yes, once or twice, before turning her attention to the stewardess, who was explaining what they should all do in an emergency. And after that there was coffee and then lunch; and a very good one too, with a glass of white wine and coffee again. Isobel made a good meal, answered the doctor’s occasional remarks politely and studied the booklet about Sweden offered for her perusal. A pity she wouldn’t see more of the country, she thought, but she was lucky to have even a day in Stockholm; reading the tourist guide, there appeared to be a great deal to see.

There was someone waiting for them at the airport—a thickset man, very fair with level blue eyes and a calm face, leaning against a big Saab. He and Dr Winter greeted each other like old friends and when the doctor introduced Isobel, he took her hand in his large one and grinned at her. ‘Janssen—Carl Janssen. It is a pleasure. We will go at once to my house and you will meet my wife Christina.’

He opened the car door and ushered her inside while Dr Winter got into the front seat. Isobel, who despite her placid nature had become a little chilled by his indifferent manner, felt more cheerful; Mr Janssen’s friendly greeting had warmed her nicely. She made herself comfortable and watched the scenery.

It was beautiful. They were already approaching the city, which at first glance looked modern, but in the distance she could see a glimpse of water and there were a great many trees and parks. They slowed down as they neared the heart of the city and the streets became narrow and cobbled.

‘This is Gamla Stan—the old town,’ said Mr Janssen over one shoulder. ‘We live here. It is quite the most beautiful part of Stockholm.’

He crossed a square: ‘Look quickly—there is the old Royal Palace and Storkyrkan, our oldest church—you must pay it a visit.’

He swept the car into a labyrinth of narrow streets before she had had more than a glimpse, to stop and then turn into a narrow arched way between old houses. It opened on to a rectangular space filled with small gardens and ringed by old houses with a steeple roof and small windows and wrought iron balconies.

‘This,’ said Carl Janssen in a tone of deep satisfaction, ‘is where we live.’

He opened the car door with a flourish and Isobel got out and looked around her. No one looking around them would have known that they were in the middle of a busy city. There was no one to be seen, although curtains blew at open windows and somewhere there was a baby crying and music. Between the high roofs she could see the thin steeple of a church and here and there in the gardens were lilacs, late blooming, and birds twittering in them.

‘Heaven!’ said Isobel.

Which earned her a pleased look from her host. ‘Almost,’ he agreed. ‘But come in and meet Christina.’

He led the way between the little gardens to a small door and opened it. There was a steep staircase inside and Isobel, urged on by a friendly voice from above, climbed it. The girl at the top was about her own age, a big, fair-haired girl who took her hand as she reached the top and exclaimed: ‘You are the nurse? Yes, my name is Christina.’