The Moon for Lavinia. Betty NeelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
“It’s like a dream,” she told him, “and everything has happened so quickly, it doesn’t seem real.”
He touched her cheek with a gentle finger. “It’s real, my dear.”
He spoke so softly that she exclaimed, “Oh, Radmer, are you sorry that…? Do you want to change your mind…? It would be all right, truly it would. I can’t think why you chose me in the first place.”
He took her hands in his, there in the empty corridor outside her room. “Don’t be a goose! I’m not sorry and I don’t want to change my mind, although, like you, I’m not quite sure why I chose you.”
He bent to kiss her and wished her good night and she slipped into her room…. It was silly to cry about nothing, and that was what she was doing. She told herself that over and over again before she at last fell asleep.
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.
The Moon for Lavinia
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
IT WAS QUIET now that the day’s lists were over; the operating theatre, gleaming with near-sterile cleanliness and no longer lighted by its great shadowless lamp, looked a very different place from the hive of ordered activity it had been since early morning, for now the surgeons and anaesthetists had gone, as well as Theatre Sister and most of her staff; indeed, the department held but one occupant, a nurse sitting on a stool in front of one of the trolleys, sorting instruments with swift precision.
She was a small, neat person, a little plump, and with a face which was neither plain nor pretty, although when she laughed her hazel eyes widened and twinkled and her too large mouth curved charmingly. It was a pity that she laughed all too seldom, and now, deep in thought as she worked, she looked rather on the plain side and sad with it. She finished her task, tidied everything away neatly and began a final inspection of the theatre before she went off duty. It was a Sunday evening, and for some reason one staff nurse was considered sufficient to be on duty after six o’clock; presumably on the principle that it being a Sunday, people would be less prone to require emergency surgery, and for once this had been proved right; the evening hours, spent in doing the necessary chores had been too quiet, so that Lavinia Hawkins had had time to think, which was a pity, for she had nothing pleasant to think about.
She went along to take off her gown, threw it into the laundry bin, and then sat down again, this time on the only chair the changing room possessed. The June sun, still warm and bright, streamed in through the window, and she could hear, very faintly, the subdued hum of the London evening traffic, most of it returning from an outing to the sea. It would have been a perfect day for them, thought Lavinia without envy, although she wasn’t very happy herself; it was a good thing that she was going to Aunt Gwyneth’s in two days’ time and would have the chance to talk to Peta, her young sister—perhaps they would be able to plan something. Quite forgetful of the time, she took Peta’s letter from her pocket and read it once more.
Peta was dreadfully unhappy; when their mother had died, more than a year ago now, and Aunt Gwyneth had offered her a home, Lavinia had been grateful for her help. There was no money, the annuity her mother had lived upon died with her; her father had died a number of years earlier, and although she herself had been self-supporting and had even been able to help out with Peta’s school fees, her sister’s education had been at a stage when to make changes in it would have been nothing short of criminal. For one thing, Peta was clever and working for her O levels, and for another, Lavinia was only too well aware that a sound education for her sister was essential if she was to be self-supporting too, so that when her mother died Lavinia accepted her aunt’s offer with an eager gratitude which she had since come to regret.
It hadn’t worked out at all. Aunt Gwyneth was a widow and comfortably off, living in a large house on the outskirts of Cuckfield which was run by a highly efficient housekeeper, leaving her free to indulge her passion for bridge and committee meetings. Lavinia had honestly thought that she would be glad to have Peta to live with her; she had no children of her own and Peta was a darling, pretty and sweet-tempered and anxious to please. It was after she had been at Cuckfield for several months that Lavinia began to sense that something was wrong, but it had taken her a long time to persuade Peta to tell her what was amiss and when, at last, she had got her to talk about it it was to discover that it wasn’t just the natural unhappiness she felt at the loss of her mother—life wasn’t fun, she confided to Lavinia; her aunt had discovered that having a teenager in the house had its drawbacks. True, Peta was at school all day, but at the week-ends and during the holidays she was made to feel a nuisance, and whenever she suggested that she might spend a few days with Lavinia, there were always good reasons why she shouldn’t…
Lavinia, her arm round her sister’s slim shoulders, had frowned. ‘Darling, you should have told me,’ she had said. ‘I could have spoken to Aunt Gwyneth,’ but even as she uttered the words she had known that it wasn’t going to be as easy as all that. Peta was due to take her O levels in a week or two’s time, and the plan had been for her to stay on at school and try for her A levels in a couple of years. Even if Lavinia had had a flat of her own, which she hadn’t, it would still be difficult, for there would still be the question of where Peta should go to school and how would she ever afford the fees? ‘Look,’ she had advised, ‘could you hang on for another year or two, love—just until you’ve got those A levels? I’m to have Sister Drew’s job when she retires, and that’s less than a year now; I’ll save every penny I can and find a flat.’
And Peta had agreed. That had been barely a week ago, and now here was her letter, begging Lavinia to take her away from Aunt Gwyneth, promising incoherently to stay until the exam results were out, if only she would take her away… Lavinia folded the letter