Year's Happy Ending

Deborah rushed on nervously. “Well, I have. But if you don’t want to marry me now, I’ll understand….”

“I still want to marry you.” Gideon smiled a little. “My daughter will be delighted, and for that matter, so am I.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I should have said that sooner, shouldn’t I?”

“Why should you? We mustn’t pretend, must we?” Deborah blushed brightly because, of course, her whole life was going to be one of long pretense from that moment.

“Most sensibly spoken. There’s no reason to wait. I don’t suppose you want to glide down the aisle in white satin, do you?” His eyes studied her face, and the blush, which was beginning to die down, took fresh fire.

She lied in a firm voice, “Oh, no, nothing like that….”

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.

Year’s Happy Ending

Betty Neels

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE SEPTEMBER SUN shone hazily on to the narrow garden. Its only occupant, who was busily weeding between the neat rows of vegetables, sat back on her knees and pushed her hair back from her forehead. Long hair, fine and straight and of a shade which could only be described as sandy. To go with the hair she had freckles, green eyes and long curling sandy lashes, startling in an otherwise ordinary face. She bent to her work once more, to be interrupted by her mother’s voice from the open kitchen door: ‘Your cousin Rachel wants you on the phone, Debby—she says it’s important.’

Mrs Farley withdrew her head and Deborah dropped her trowel and ran up the garden, kicked off her sandals at the door and went into the hall. She picked up the receiver warily; Rachel was a dear and they were the best of friends, but she was frowned upon by the older members of the family, they didn’t approve of her life. That she had held down a splendid job with some high powered executive was one thing, but her private goings on were something quite different. ‘Hullo?’ Deborah said, still wary, and her mother poked her head round the sitting room door to hiss:

‘She can’t come and stay—I have your Aunt Maud coming…’

But Rachel didn’t want to come and stay, she spoke without preamble: ‘Debby, you haven’t got another job yet, have you? You’re free…?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘You’ve heard me talk of Peggy Burns—you know, the girl who married some wealthy type with a house somewhere in Dorset? Well her mother’s ill and she wants to go to her, only Bill—her husband—is in the Middle East or some such place and can’t get back for a few weeks, and there are these kids—terrible twins, four years old, and the baby—just beginning to crawl. She’s desperate for a nanny and I thought of you. Marvellous lolly, darling, and a gorgeous house. There’s a housekeeper; rather elderly with bunions or housemaid’s knee or something, and daily help from the village.’

‘Where exactly does she live?’ asked Deborah.

‘Not far from you—Ashmore? Somewhere between Blandford and Shaftesbury. Do say you’ll help out, Debby. Have you got your name down at an agency or something?’

‘Well, yes—but I did say I intended to have a holiday before the next job.’

‘Oh, good, so you can give them a ring and explain.’ Rachel decided.

How like Rachel to skate over the bits she doesn’t want to know about, thought Deborah; the phoning and explaining, the packing, the getting there… ‘I haven’t said I’ll go,’ she said a bit sharply.

Rachel’s self-assured voice was very clear. ‘Of course you’ll go, Debby! Supposing it was your mother and no one would help you?’

‘Why can’t you go?’ asked Deborah.

‘I’m not a trained nanny, silly. Uncle Tom could run you over when he gets back from work; it’s Coombe House, Ashmore, and here’s the phone number so that you can ring and say you’re coming.’ Before Deborah could get her mouth open she went on ‘I’m so grateful, darling, and so will Peggy be—bless you. I must fly—I’ve a new boy friend and he’s taking me out this evening and I must wash my hair.’

‘Rachel…’ began Deborah, too late, her cousin had hung up.

Her mother said indignantly: ‘But you’ve only been home a week darling, and the boys will be back for half term and you’ll miss them. How like Rachel, arranging everything to suit herself without a thought…’

‘Actually, she was trying to help,’ said Deborah fairly, ‘And I suppose I could go if its only for a week or two. I could ask the agency for a temporary job when I leave Ashmore and then be home for Christmas. I’d like that.’

Her mother brightened. ‘That’s true, love, and you haven’t had a Christmas at home for a couple of years, have you? I don’t know what your father will say…’

Deborah said gently, ‘Mother, I’m twenty-three.’

‘Yes, Debby I know, but your father always thinks of you as a little girl even though you’re the eldest. He always will until you get married.’

‘Mother,’ said Deborah with faint exasperation. She would like to get married and have a husband and children and a home to run, but she considered her chances slight. She had plenty of friends for she had lived in Dorchester all her life, but most of them were married or thinking about it, and those who weren’t, girl and man alike, tended to regard her as a well-liked sister to whom they could confide their amatory problems.

She sighed and went back to the phone.

The voice at the other end was pleasant, tinged with panic, but hopeful. ‘Thank God,’ said the voice fervently, ‘Rachel said you’d ring, you’ve no idea…you’re like a miracle, I’d absolutely no idea what to do. I’m not usually such a fool, but I seem to have gone to pieces…’

Deborah heard a watery sigh and said hastily, ‘I’ll come just as soon as I can, Mrs Burns—my father will drive me over as soon as he gets home, that’ll be in about two hours. Can you go to your mother this evening?’

‘Yes, oh yes. She lives in Bath so I can drive myself. I’ll get all ready to leave shall I? And put the twins to bed and see to the baby. You’re an angel. I don’t know your name, at least I’m sure Rachel told me but I don’t think I took it in.’

‘Deborah Farley. Is your house easy to find Mrs Burns?’

‘Yes, oh yes. Facing the village green. There is a green gate that runs up to the side of the house, if you drive in and turn off to the front door.’

‘About half-past seven, Mrs Burns. Goodbye until then.’

Deborah hung up. She would have to pack; uniform and white aprons and sensible shoes. She decided to take some summer clothes with her as well, off duty seemed a little unlikely but she could change in the evenings when the children were in bed. She went and told her mother and then made tea for them both, glancing with regret at the half weeded border she wouldn’t have the time to finish now.

‘I daresay it won’t be for long,’ she observed philosophically, ‘I mean, Mrs Burns’ mother will either get better or die, I hope she gets better, Mrs Burns sounds nice.’

‘I wonder what the children will be like?’ Her mother wanted to know doubtfully.

‘No worse than some I’ve had to deal with,’ Deborah said cheerfully, ‘and probably a good deal better. I’d better go and throw a few things into a bag.’

Her father wasn’t best pleased, he had been looking forward to a quiet evening, reading the papers and watching the TV. He was a kind-hearted man inclined to be taciturn at his work, managing one of the banks in Dorchester, and good at his job, but at the end of the day he was glad enough to get home, potter in the garden if he felt like it, and enjoy the peace and quiet of the evening. He looked at his daughter with faint annoyance.

‘Really, Debby you are supposed to be on holiday.’

‘Father, dear, I know, but this Mrs Burns is desperate and as I explained to mother, I could take a temporary job after I leave there and then come home for Christmas.’ She kissed his cheek and smiled at him.

So he got out the car again and she said goodbye to her mother and Thomas the cat and got in beside him. ‘It’s quickest if you go to Blandford,’ she suggested. ‘It’s on the Shaftesbury road then you can turn off to the right—I looked it up.’

The village, when they reached it, was charming, with its duckpond and the nice old houses clustered around it. And the house was easy enough to find, across the green with the wide gate standing invitingly open.

Mr Farley parked the car precisely before the door and they both got out. The house was stone built, square and Georgian, sheltered by old trees, its sash windows open. Deborah, her father beside her with her case, thumped the big brass knocker, not too loudly in case the children were asleep, and the door was flung open.

The young woman who stood there wasn’t much older than herself, a good deal taller and very slim, with a short mop of fair curly hair and a pretty face. ‘Oh, golly,’ she breathed, ‘I could hug you—you are an angel. Come in…’ She looked at Mr Farley and Deborah said: ‘This is my father, he drove me here.’

Mrs Burns smiled widely at him. She said earnestly: ‘Nanny will be quite happy here, I do assure you Mr Farley, there’s the housekeeper—she’s getting supper actually, and there is plenty of daily help—it’s just the children to look after. Come and have a drink…?’

Mr Farley, quite won over, said that no, he wouldn’t as he had to drive back to Dorchester and his supper was to be waiting for him. He said goodbye to them both and got back into his car and drove off.

‘He’s nice,’ observed Mrs Burns. ‘My father died last year, he was nice too.’ She wrinkled up her nose engagingly. ‘You know—a bit fussy but always there. Of course, I’ve got Bill now, only he’s not at home. He’ll be back in a week or two though.’

She led the way across the hall into a comfortable room and waved Deborah to an easy chair. ‘Do you mind if I don’t stay for supper? I’ll tell you as much as I can, then I’ll be off…I’ll leave my phone number so that you can ring every day. Mary—that’s our housekeeper, will see to the house and the food and so on, she is a dear soul, but getting on a bit so the twins are a bit much for her. If you could cope with them and the baby she’ll see to everything else.’ She handed Deborah a glass of sherry and sat down herself. ‘I’ll tell you the routine…’ She paused: ‘Do you drive?’

‘Oh, yes. Only I haven’t a car.’

‘Good. We all take it in turns to take the children to school. It’s about a mile out of the village, mornings only; it won’t be your turn until next week, anyway.’

‘The baby’s feeds?’ prompted Deborah.

‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Burns then dealt with them. ‘And the baby’s name is Deirdre, but we all call her Dee. The twins are Suzanne and Simon.’ She added, with devastating honesty, ‘They’re awful, but not all the time.’

‘How long do you expect to be away?’ asked Deborah.

‘I haven’t an idea. A week, two…it depends.’ She looked so sad for a moment that Deborah said quickly: ‘Well, a week here or there doesn’t matter much. I’m between jobs.’

Mrs Burns cast her a grateful glance. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Now here’s the twins’ routine…’

Within half an hour Deborah had been told all she wanted to know, been introduced to Mary, toured the house, peeped in on the twins and the baby in the nursery and shown her room next to it. A very nice room it was too; pastel pinks and blues and a thick carpet with the sort of bathroom Deborah had so often admired in glossy magazines. But she didn’t waste time examining it instead she went back downstairs to where Mrs Burns was talking to Mary. She smiled as Deborah joined them.

‘I’m going now, Mary’s got your supper ready. There’s one thing I forgot, she’s going to a wedding in two days’ time and she’ll be away all day. Mrs Twist will be up from the village in the morning—could you cope for the rest of the day?’

Mrs Burns was looking anxious again so Deborah said bracingly: ‘Of course I can, Mrs Burns, everything will be fine. I hope you find your mother better.’ She urged her companion gently to the door and into the Porsche parked in the drive. A lovely car but surely not quite the right thing for a mother with three young children. Her thought was answered as though she had uttered it aloud. ‘This isn’t mine—it’s Bill’s second car. I’ve got a small Daimler, it’s safer for the children he says. But I’m in a hurry now and they’re not with me!’

‘Go carefully,’ urged Deborah.

Mrs Burns nodded obediently and shot off with the speed of light. Deborah watched her skid round into the road and went indoors, hoping that her employer was a seasoned driver. She ate her supper presently in the panelled dining room at the back of the house and then helped Mary clear away the dishes and wash up, and by then it was time to give Deirdre her ten o’clock feed. She sat in the day nursery with the baby on her lap; she took her feed like an angel and dropped off to sleep again as Deborah was changing her. It would be too much to expect the twins to be as placid, thought Deborah, climbing into her comfortable bed.

It was. She went along, next morning dressed in her uniform and a nicely starched apron, to see if they were awake and found the pair of them out of their beds and on the night nursery floor, busy covering the hearth rug with a wild pattern, wielding their felt pens with enthusiasm. She knelt down beside them, wished them good-morning and admired their handiwork. They both peered at her, two small artful faces with the same bright blue eyes as their little sister.

‘You’re the new Nanny,’ said Simon without enthusiasm.

‘Yes, I am, and you’re Simon,’ she smiled at the little girl, ‘and you’re Suzanne.’

‘Is Mummy coming back soon?’ asked the moppet.

‘Just as soon as your granny is better. Mummy’s going to phone today so you’ll be able to speak to her.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’

Deborah wasn’t sure if she’d been told—was it China or Japan? Anyway it was some far flung spot which would take a day or two to get home from, even if he started that very minute. ‘I don’t know exactly, you could ask Mummy, but I’m sure he’ll be home just as soon as he can. Will you start to dress while I change Deirdre?’

‘No.’

‘Then if you’re going to stay in your nightclothes, you’d better go to bed, hadn’t you?’ said Deborah calmly, and went over to see if the baby was awake.

‘Will you tell Mummy if we’re naughty?’ asked Simon.

‘I don’t tell tales,’ Deborah told him cheerfully, ‘that’s a nasty thing to do.’

‘We’ll get dressed,’ said Suzanne, ‘but I can’t do my hair but I can tie a bow knot in my laces.’

‘Clever girl. I’ll do your hair when I’ve seen to Deirdre.’

Breakfast, though noisy, was eaten in a friendly atmosphere, and as soon as it was finished the twins were collected by someone they called Aunty Doris and driven off to school, leaving Deborah to bath and dress Dee, put her in her pram and wheel it round to the back of the house into a sheltered corner while she nipped back indoors to make beds and tidy the nurseries.

Mary, watching her put a load of small garments into the washing machine, approved of her. ‘Plain she may be,’ she confided to Mrs Twist, ‘but she’s a lady, if you know what I mean, and the twins mind her as much as they mind anyone. Sitting there, telling them in that soft voice of hers to eat their breakfast and so sure she was they did too, like lambs! Pity we can’t have her here permanent like.’

The twins returned with a great deal of untapped energy; Deborah combing hair and inspecting hands, decided that a walk was essential after their dinner. She left the twins playing while she saw to the baby and then, with the infant tucked up in the pram and the children armed with small baskets in case they found any blackberries, set out.

They went through the village, stopping at the stores to buy sweets and then took a lane beyond the last of the houses. It led uphill and gave them a view of rolling countryside when they reached the top. Deborah, hot from pushing the pram, sighed with relief to find a splendid hedge of blackberries, an excuse to find a shady spot for the pram and join the twins.

They got home in time for tea, nicely tired and went happily to bed after they had talked to their mother on the phone. There was no change in her mother’s condition, Mrs Burns told Deborah, and she asked if everything was all right at home. Deborah said that everything was fine, that the children had been as good as gold and that Deirdre was a model baby, and would Mrs Burns like to talk to Mary?

A diplomatic gesture which earned her a pleased look, for Mary was delighted.

The next day followed the same pattern as the first, pleasant but filled with the many chores which went with three children. Deborah phoned her mother in the evening, assured her that she was completely happy and not in the least overworked and then went to bed early. The children had been very good, she thought sleepily as she curled up comfortably, and tomorrow there would be a respite because they were going to a friend’s birthday party at the other end of the village. She would take them there, with Dee in the pram and then go back and have tea in the garden. Mary would be going to her wedding in the morning and once Mrs Twist had gone she would have the house to herself. Only for an hour or two but it would be a small pleasure to look forward to.

They had their dinner earlier than usual so that Mrs Twist could wash up the dishes before she went home. Deborah coaxed the children into fresh clothes, fed the baby and set off with her little party. There was a good deal of noise coming from the house as they approached it; the windows were wide open and there was a CD player belting out the latest pop music. Deborah handed the twins over to a rather harassed woman at the door, promised to collect them at six o’clock, and went off with the pram and the sleeping Deirdre. Simon had muttered a gruff goodbye as they went, but Suzanne had flung her arms round Deborah’s neck and hugged her.

It was a glorious day; Deborah strolled along admiring the view, talking from time to time to Deirdre who chuckled and crowed and then dropped off to sleep. She was still sleeping when Deborah reached the house unlocked the door and carried her inside to finish her nap in her cot.

It was early for tea, but the prospect of half an hour in the garden under the open window of the nursery was very tempting. Deborah crossed the hall to go to the kitchen and put on the kettle and presently took her tray on to the patio under the nursery window. She could have spent the rest of the day there but the twins had to be fetched and Deirdre put back into her pram. Deborah whisked round the kitchen, getting things ready for the twins’ supper; she could feed the baby while they ate it. It was still pleasantly warm as she went unhurriedly through the village, collected the twins and walked them back smartly. They were over excited, over tired and peevish. The next hour or so tried her patience and her temper, but at last they were all sleeping and she took off her apron, pushed the hair back from her hot face and went downstairs. Mary wouldn’t be back until late and she had a key, mused Deborah, her mind pleasantly occupied with supper and the thought of an early night with a book as she reached the hall and started towards the kitchen. She was half-way there when the bell pealed, quite gently and only once. Not Mary, she would have let herself in, not any of Mrs Burns’ friends; they knew she was away—her husband? Deborah, who had a romantic mind, pictured him hot footing it half-way round the world to be with his wife and children as she went to the door and opened it.

Not Mrs Burns’ husband; she had seen a wedding photo, he was dark and not much above middle-height and had a moustache, the man on the doorstep was twice as tall and wide. Well, even allowing for exaggeration he was a very large man and solid with it. Besides, he had iron grey hair, bright blue eyes and no moustache. She said enquiringly, ‘Yes,’ in a severe voice, while a host of unpleasant ideas about thieves and robbers and kidnappers seeped into her head.

‘My God,’ observed the man softly, ‘I thought the species was extinct.’ And when she looked nonplussed, ‘Nannies,’ he explained kindly, ‘that’s what you are, isn’t it? I thought you worthy aproned ladies had been swallowed whole by the au pair girls.’

Not only probably a thief thought Deborah, a trifle wildly, but also mentally unstable. ‘Be good enough to go away,’ she said in the firm no-nonsense voice she had been taught to use at the training college.

He leaned his elegantly clad person against the door frame and said equably: ‘I haven’t had a nanny for a long time; I never obeyed her anyway. I’m coming in.’

‘You are not!’ The two little terrors and baby Deirdre suddenly became very precious; he didn’t know they were in the house, of course, but once inside he might go anywhere.

He changed his tactics. ‘This is Peggy Burns’ house?’

She nodded.

‘Good, so I’ll come in…’

‘I don’t know who you are,’ she protested.

‘I don’t happen to have my birth certificate with me, would a passport do?’ He was amused still but impatient now. ‘You’re alone in the house?’

She didn’t answer and he tried again. ‘Is Mrs Burns at home?’

‘No.’

‘Chatty little thing, aren’t you? Where is she?’

Deborah was standing squarely in the doorway her small, rather plump person by no means filling it. ‘At her mother’s house.’

She watched his face change to become serious. ‘Is she ill?’

‘Her mother? Yes. Mrs Burns went yesterday—no the day before that. Now will you please go away?’

For answer she felt two large hands clasp her waist and she was lifted gently aside as he went past her and into the sitting room, where he picked up the phone. She closed the door and went after him, watching while he dialled a number, staring at the wall in front of him. He was a good looking man, in his mid-thirties perhaps. She wondered who he was; if he was an intruder she couldn’t do much about it now, but he looked different suddenly, serious and worried, his voice was different too, no longer casual and so amused. He got the number and asked for Mrs Burns and then said: ‘Peggy? what’s wrong? I got back a couple of days early and came to see you. There’s a small gorgon here, defending your children with her life’s blood…’

He stood listening while Peggy talked. ‘I’m coming over right away. No I didn’t get your cable—I’d already left. I’ll be with you in a couple of hours, maybe a good deal less.’

He listened again and turned to look at Deborah. ‘Coping very well, I should have said; starched backbone and a mouth like a rat trap. I’d hate to be in her bad books.’ And then ‘Hang on love, I’ll be with you in no time at all.’