Roses Have Thorns

He was coldhearted and arrogant…and she loved him to distraction.

Sarah had been happy working at the hospital—until Radolf Nauta interfered and left her jobless. Forced to find other means to support herself, she was totally unprepared when she ran into the domineering Radolf again—and he hadn’t changed one bit! The only problem Sarah had? She soon realized that her heart now belonged to him, and there was nothing she could do to fight it.

She knew at once who it was, for her nose was within an inch of a vast expanse of waistcoat which could belong only to the Professor.

She said crossly, “Oh, no…” and then, aghast at her own rudeness, “Good afternoon, Professor Nauta.”

She detected mockery in his “Good afternoon, Miss Fletcher,” and his slow appraisal of her person. “Well, well, it would be rude to say that I scarcely recognize you, wouldn’t it? Would it be appropriate for me to quote Chaucer? ‘And she was fair as is the rose in May…’”

Sarah eyed him with dislike. “Roses have thorns—Shakespeare said that—and good day to you, Professor. You are not only rude, you are unkind, too.”

She looked up at him with her pansy eyes and met his hard gaze unwaveringly, and then was totally disarmed by his sudden smile. It was kind and friendly and contrite.

“Forgive me, Sarah. I am not sure what prompted me to speak to you like that. I wonder why, when we meet, I feel the urge to annoy you?”

“I have no idea,” said Sarah, trying to ignore the smile….

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.

Roses Have Thorns

The Best of

Betty

Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH SAT BEHIND her desk and watched the first of the patients for Professor Nauta’s clinic come in through the swing-doors. Led, as usual, by old Colonel Watkins, recovering for the third time from a stroke and eighty if he was a day. The Professor’s clinic started at half-past eight and it had become Sarah’s responsibility, although she wasn’t sure how it had happened, to come on duty early in order to check his patients; the other two receptionists, married ladies with homes, husbands and children to cope with, were adamant about leaving exactly on time and not a minute later, just as they arrived exactly when they should and not a moment sooner. So that Professor Nauta’s clinic, held weekly at eight-thirty, invariably fell to the lot of Sarah, who, being single, living alone and therefore from their point of view without cares, was the obvious one of the trio to come early or stay late.

The Colonel was followed by Mrs Peach, who had been coming for years, and hard on her heels came a pair of teenagers, giving their names with a good deal of giggling, and after them a steady stream of people, most of whom Sarah knew by sight if not by name. She bade each one of them good morning, made sure that the new patients knew what was wanted of them, and ticked off her neat list. There were five minutes to go before the half-hour when the last patient arrived, and exactly on the half-hour the Professor came through the swing-doors, letting in a great deal of chilly March air. Sarah took a quick look at him and decided that he seemed no more impatient and ill-tempered than usual. He was a very big man, tall and broad-shouldered and good-looking, with fair hair already grey at the temples, a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. His eyes were pale blue which turned to steel when he was annoyed—which was quite often, although it was conceded by those who worked for him at St Cyprian’s that he was invariably kindness itself to his patients, however tiresome they were.

He went past Sarah’s desk with a snappy, ‘Good morning, Miss Fletcher,’ and a glance so brief that he couldn’t have noticed if she had been wearing a blonde wig and spectacles. She would have been very surprised to know that he had taken in her appearance down to the last button as he’d gone past her. Small, a little too thin, pleasant-faced without being pretty, beautiful pansy eyes, a thin, delicate nose, a wide mouth and a crown of hair which took her some considerable time to put up each morning. He had noted her sparkling white blouse, too, and the fact that she wore nothing which jangled, only a sensible wristwatch. A sensible young woman, he reflected briefly, as neat as a new pin and not given to chat. Not all that young—late twenties, perhaps, although she had the freshness of a young girl. He reached his consulting-room, greeting the nurse waiting for him, and sat down at his desk, dismissing Miss Fletcher from his mind without effort, listening to Colonel Watkins’ tetchy old voice complaining about the treatment he was having at the physiotherapy with a patience and sympathy at variance with the cool manner he demonstrated towards the hospital staff.

Sarah, left to herself for a time, got on with the morning’s chores until Mrs Drew and Mrs Pearce arrived, and, hard on their heels, the first patients for the Surgical Outpatients; after that there was no time for anything but the work at hand until, one by one, they went along to the canteen for their coffee-break. As Sarah made her way back to her desk she could see the vast back of Professor Nauta, trailed by his registrar and a houseman, disappearing down the long corridor leading to the main hospital. He was walking fast and she felt a fleeting pity for his companions, who while trying to keep up with him were probably being treated to some of his impatient and caustic remarks.

The day, wet and windy as only March could be, darkened early. The clinics were finishing, Sarah and her companions had gone in turn to their cups of tea and, since there was nothing much to do, she had been left to deal with the telephone or any enquiries while they went to tidy themselves up so that, promptly at five o’clock, they could leave to catch their buses. Mrs Drew lived in Clapham and Mrs Pearce had a long journey each day to and from Leyton, and since Sarah had a room within ten minutes’ walk of the hospital it had been taken for granted for some time now that she would be the last to leave. She cleared up, put things ready for the morning and went back to her desk to scan the appointments book. It was quiet now; the nurses had gone and so had the doctors, all but Professor Nauta, who had returned half an hour previously and gone to his consulting-room, pausing just long enough to tell her that on no account was he to be disturbed. She had just stopped herself in time from enquiring what she should do in case of fire or emergency. Leave him to burn to a crisp, neglect to inform him of some dire happening? He would never forgive her. She had murmured politely at his cross face and gone back to her work. And now, in five minutes or so, she would be free to go home.

The wide swing-doors, thrust open by a firm hand, caused her to look up in surprise. She eyed the elderly lady who was advancing towards her with a purposeful air, and said politely, ‘I expect you’ve missed your way? This isn’t a ward—just the outpatients’ clinics. If you will tell me which ward you want, I’ll show you the way.’

The visitor stood on the other side of the desk studying her. She was a handsome woman, and dressed with an elegance which whispered money discreetly. She put her handbag down on the desk and spoke. She had a clear, rather high voice and an air of expecting others to do as she wished. ‘I wish to see Professor Nauta; perhaps you would be kind enough to tell him.’

Sarah eyed her thoughtfully. ‘The Professor left instructions that on no account was he to be disturbed. I’m sorry—perhaps I could make an appointment for you?’

‘Just let him know that I wish to see him…’ She smiled suddenly and her whole face lit up with a faintly mischievous look.

Sarah lifted the receiver and buzzed the Professor’s room. ‘A lady is here,’ she told him. ‘She wishes to see you, sir.’

He said something explosive in what she took to be Dutch; it sounded forceful and very rude. ‘Good God, girl, didn’t I tell you that I wasn’t to be disturbed?’

‘Indeed you did, sir.’ She was suddenly annoyed—she was, after all, only doing what had been asked of her by this rather compelling lady, and if he wanted to use bad language he wasn’t going to be allowed to use it to her. ‘You should watch your language,’ she told him tartly, and was instantly appalled. She would get the sack…

‘Tell him that I am his mother,’ suggested the lady.

‘Your mother wishes to see you, sir,’ said Sarah, and thumped the receiver back without waiting for a reply.

The Professor, for all his size and bulk, could move swiftly and silently; he was looming over Sarah’s desk before she could regain her habitual serenity.

Not that he had anything to say to her. A very rude, arrogant man, considered Sarah, watching him greet his parent with every appearance of delight, then escort her to his consulting-room without saying a word to herself. When Mrs Drew and Mrs Pearce returned within minutes, she got her things and left with them. Normally, she would have told whoever was on duty in the Lodge that the Professor was still there, but just for once she wasn’t going to do that. Let him be locked in or want her for something; her hours were nine to five, on paper at least, and it was already ten minutes past the hour.

She walked back to her bedsitting-room, still put out. His mother could have said at once who she was and saved a good deal of unpleasantness. Now Sarah had been rude to a consultant and, if he chose to do so, he could get her fired. She walked briskly down the respectable, dull street of terraced houses and let herself into the end one, went up the shabby stairs, bare of carpet, and unlocked the door of her bedsit.

It was quite a large room, papered in a dreary green, its paintwork a useful dark brown, its low window opening on to a decrepit balcony with a corrugated roof. It was because of the balcony that Sarah stayed there; Charles, the cat she had befriended as a kitten, regarded it as his own and she had gone to a good deal of trouble to make it a home for him: there was grass growing in a pot at one end, a basket lined with old blanket, water and food, even a ball for him to toy with when he got bored. When she was home he joined her in the room, sat beside her while she ate her meals and slept on her feet. He came to meet her now and, as usual, she told him of her day’s doings as she took off her things, hung them behind the curtain in one corner, and started to get their supper.

The room was furnished, after a fashion: there was a divan bed, a table, two chairs, a down-at-heel easy chair drawn up to a gas fire, some shelves along one wall and a small gas stove beside a sink. Sarah had done what she could to improve it with a cheerful bedspread, cushions and a cheap rug on the floor, flowers, even when she had to go without something in order to buy them, and a pretty reading-lamp. All the same, it was a far cry from her home in Kent. It was several years since she had left it and she was still homesick for the nice old house and the quiet country round it. But she had known long before she’d left home that she would have to go; her stepmother had never liked her, and when her father had died she had made it plain to Sarah that she had no longer been welcome in her home. That had been five years ago and Sarah, twenty-eight years old, thought it unlikely that she would ever go home again.

Nor for that matter, did she think that anything exciting would happen to her. She was in a rut, earning just enough to live on, knowing few people, too shy to join a club of any sort and painfully aware that the girls in other rooms of the house regarded her as rather dull—even if willing enough to lend tea and sugar and listen, upon occasion, to one of their highly coloured lamentations of a love-affair gone wrong. She was aware too that they pitied her for her lack of boyfriends and pretty clothes. She dressed nicely but always with an eye to long-lasting fashion, so that no one bothered to look at her twice.

As she pottered round the room, she talked to Charles. ‘In a nasty temper, he was,’ she pointed out as she scooped his supper into a saucer. ‘I wonder what he’s like at home? If he has a home… I just can’t imagine anyone wanting to marry him. He’s to be pitied… I wonder why his mother wanted to see him? It must have been something urgent.’

Charles, his furry face buried in his supper, took no notice. ‘I’d quite like to know,’ said Sarah to his uninterested back.

* * *

THE PROFESSOR CLOSED the door gently after his parent, offered her the chair behind his desk, then stood leaning back against the door, his hands in his pockets. ‘Nice to see you, my dear. Something’s worrying you?’ He smiled as he spoke so that his stern expression became all at once attractive.

His mother settled herself comfortably. ‘Who is that girl at the desk?’

His smile widened; his mother, a charming woman, had a mind which leapt from here to there, sometimes without obvious reason. ‘The receptionist and clerk, one of three. Miss Sarah Fletcher.’

‘She told you to mind your language…’

‘So she did. I could get her sacked for that.’

‘But you won’t?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Your grandmother would like her.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you have come over to see me, Mama?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, dear. Your father and I have talked about it and we decided that I should come and talk to you about her. She will be coming out of hospital in ten days’ time; there’s nothing more to be done for her, as you know, but she absolutely refuses to have a nurse—she says she has seen all the nurses she ever wishes to see. On the other hand, there must be someone to be with her… I wondered if you know of anyone? You see, your father feels that she has every right to do whatever she likes now that she has so short a time to live.’ She paused. ‘It struck me, just now waiting for you, that the young woman at the desk was just the type she would tolerate. And don’t tell me I’m fanciful, it was one of my feelings…’

He left the door and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘You think that Grandmother would be happy with her?’

‘Yes, I do. I don’t know anything about the girl, just this feeling in my bones… She looked kind and patient. Nothing to look at, of course, but Grandmother isn’t going to mind about that.’ She fetched a sigh. ‘Your father is very worried—I know she is an irritable old autocrat, but she is his mother and she is ninety.’

‘And she only has a few more weeks to live.’ He frowned down at his beautifully polished shoes. ‘If Miss Fletcher has some holidays due to her I might be able to persuade her to go over to Holland and stay with you. I don’t imagine she travels around much; probably lives at home with her parents or goes home for her holidays.’

‘She’s not married or anything like that?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Mama. I can find out, of course. Have you been to my place yet? You left your baggage there? Good. Can you stay for a couple of days and I’ll see her in the morning? I shall have to see the hospital manager if she agrees. She may refuse…’

His mother got to her feet. ‘I’m being a nuisance, my dear. I’ll get a taxi and leave you to finish whatever it was that you were doing.’

‘I’ll drive you home and come back after dinner. You will want to phone Father.’

He smiled at her very kindly and she wondered if he smiled at his patients like that. She suspected that he allowed no one but his family and close friends to see anything of his warmth and kindness; he was thirty-six now, she reflected, and it was ten years since the girl he had intended to marry had thrown him over for a South American millionaire. Ever since then he had allowed no one and nothing to get beneath his smooth, cold politeness. Mevrouw Nauta, sending up a silent prayer that someday soon a girl with enough love and determination would penetrate that chilly civility, followed her only son out of the room.

* * *

IT WAS RAINING the next morning as Sarah bade Charles goodbye and ran down the stairs. It would be a busy day, she remembered, for Mrs Drew had arranged to have a day off so that she could take her small son to the dentist. She hung up her dripping raincoat, smoothed her damp mass of hair and sat down at her desk, ready to welcome the first patient.

It was Mr Clew’s morning and his patients, legs in plaster, arms in slings, quite a few on crutches, came pouring in. His clinic wasn’t over until lunchtime, when Mrs Pearce took herself off to the canteen, leaving Sarah to get ready for the afternoon. Post-Natal and toddlers, and likely to go on long after five o’clock. She ticked off names, arranged old notes where they could be got at a moment’s notice and wondered what the canteen had to offer in the way of a hot meal. For reasons of economy her breakfast was frugal, and now her insides were rumbling.

The door, thrust open impatiently by Professor Nauta, made her look up. Her heart sank, remembering that she had been impertinent on the previous day and he was probably going to tick her off—or worse, threaten her with dismissal. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and wished him a calm good morning.

‘Have you had your lunch?’ he wanted to know, not wasting time on niceties.

‘No, sir.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘In ten minutes.’ She folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to speak.

‘Perhaps you will be good enough to have lunch with me?’ And, at her look of absolute surprise, ‘I wish to have a talk with you. I am a busy man and can spare little time and you, I imagine, have your work to do. I will be outside the main entrance in fifteen minutes’ time.’

He had turned on his heel and gone through the doors before she had managed to close her astonished mouth and give utterance.

The idea that he was suffering from overwork and unaware of what he was doing crossed her mind, to be instantly denied—he wasn’t that kind of man. There was no doubt in her mind that he had meant exactly what he had said. And where would they go for a meal? Surely not to the hospital canteen, that hotbed of gossip? She wasn’t dressed for the type of restaurant he probably frequented, and, besides, why should he waste money on her? She gave up worrying about that and worried about why he wanted to see her, instead.

When Mrs Pearce came back from her own lunch, Sarah tidied herself, got into her raincoat and took herself off to the main entrance. Mrs Pearce hadn’t been very punctual and it was several minutes past the fifteen he had told her. Perhaps he wouldn’t be there… He was, sitting in his dove-grey Rolls-Royce, beating a tattoo on the steering-wheel.

It surprised her when he got out and went round the car to open the door for her, but she said nothing; only when she was sitting beside him she reminded him, ‘I have three-quarters of an hour for lunch, Professor.’

‘I am aware of that.’ He drove out of the hospital forecourt into the busy East End and turned the car south towards the river. Just past the Monument he turned into a narrow street and stopped before a corner pub.

At her look he said smoothly, ‘Perfectly respectable, Miss Fletcher; I come here frequently for lunch.’

He ushered her out of the car and in through the doors to a snug bar, almost empty of customers although from the other side of the passage Sarah could hear cheerful voices and the thud of darts on the dartboard.

She was urged to a corner table and asked what she would like to drink. Something to keep up the courage she felt sure she was going to need presently? Or tonic water and a clear head? She chose the latter.

‘The beef sandwiches are excellent,’ suggested the Professor, sounding almost friendly, and he gave the order, at the same time glancing at his watch. ‘I shall not beat about the bush,’ he told her and she nodded; she would have been surprised if he had.

‘Do you have any holidays due to you?’

There seemed no point in asking him to explain at the moment. ‘Yes, two weeks.’

‘Good. Have you a family, Miss Fletcher? Parents, sisters, brothers?’

‘No.’

‘Then if you have no plans for your holiday would you consider going over to Holland and acting as companion to my grandmother? Ninety years old and extremely tetchy; she is also dying.’ He broke off as the sandwiches were put on the table with her tonic water and his beer. ‘I should perhaps tell you that my mother took an instant liking to you and feels that you are exactly the right person to be with my grandmother.’

Sarah eyed him cautiously. ‘We barely spoke,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘It sounds a lot of double Dutch to me.’ She stopped and went red. ‘I am sorry, I quite forgot that you are Dutch.’

He inclined his head gravely and gave her a cool look down his commanding nose. ‘Let us not concern ourselves with my feelings,’ he begged. ‘Be good enough to consider what I have said; we shall, of course, pay all expenses and a suitable fee, and all arrangements will be made for you. It would be convenient if you could travel within the week.’

‘I doubt if I could get my holidays at such short notice.’

‘That can also be arranged, Miss Fletcher.’

She bit into a sandwich. He was right, the beef was excellent. A sudden thought struck her as she took another bite. ‘Oh, but I can’t—I can’t leave Charles.’

The Professor drank some beer. ‘Charles? Your, er, young man?’

‘I haven’t got one,’ she said flatly. ‘Charles is my cat, and there is no one to look after him.’

He offered the sandwiches. ‘I am on the committee of an animal sanctuary just across the river in Greenwich. Charles would be happy and well cared for there, and I will undertake to take him there and return him to you when you get back.’

She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You are going to a great deal of trouble, Professor Nauta.’

His eyes were cold steel. ‘I am fond of my grandmother, Miss Fletcher.’

She finished her sandwich, drank the rest of her tonic water and sat back in the comfortable, shabby chair. She had nothing to lose, she reflected; it would make a delightful change from the drab respectability in which she lived, and he had said that Charles would be cared for. The fee would be welcome, too: shoes, a new dress for her meagre wardrobe, and perhaps, on a Bank Holiday, a day-trip to the sea. She heard herself say, ‘Very well, Professor Nauta, if you will arrange everything and see that Charles is quite safe, I’ll do it.’

She felt no last-minute regret, and as for the Professor, he showed no sign of satisfaction, merely nodded briefly and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Fletcher. I will make the arrangements and keep you informed. Have you a passport?’

She shook her head.

‘Then go to the post office and get a visitor’s passport—it will be sufficient for your stay in Holland.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We should be getting back.’