“I need a wife and you need a future. Will you marry me, Serena?”

She said slowly, “Supposing I fell in love with someone? Suppose you fell in love with another woman?”

“I have had ample time to meet a girl I wished to marry—the risk is slight. And you?”

“Me? Well, I haven’t met many men.” She sighed. “I’m not sure that I believe in love.”

“But do you believe in liking, in friendship, in sharing your life with someone who shares your interests and enjoys your company?”

She said thoughtfully, “Yes, I do believe in that. And I do like you. I don’t know anything about you, but sometimes one meets someone and one feels at home with them at once—like old friends….”

“Indeed, and that is how I feel with you, Serena. Comfortable.”

He smiled at her then, and she smiled back, feeling, for the first time in weeks, secure.

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.

A Good Wife
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

SERENA LIGHTFOOT, awakened by the early sun of an April morning, rolled over onto her back and contemplated the ceiling; today was her twenty-sixth birthday. Not that it was going to be any different from any other day in the year; her father certainly wouldn’t remember, Matthew, her younger brother, a curate living some way away and recently married, might possibly send her a card, and Henry, her elder brother, a solicitor and family man, wouldn’t give her a thought, although his wife might possibly remember. There was Gregory, of course, with whom she had that old-fashioned thing, an ‘understanding’…

She got up then, wasting a few minutes hanging out of the window to admire the view; she never tired of it—rural Dorset. Away from the main roads, the village was half hidden by a small wood, the hills were close by and beyond them lay the quiet countryside. The church clock struck seven and she withdrew her head and set about getting dressed, then skimmed downstairs to the kitchen to make the early-morning tea.

The kitchen was large, with a lamentable lack of up-to-date equipment. There was a scrubbed wooden table ringed around by sturdy chairs, an old-fashioned gas cooker flanking a deep sink and a vast dresser along one wall. There was a shabby rug in front of the cooker and two Windsor chairs, in one of which there was a small tabby cat to whom Serena wished a good morning before she put on the kettle. The one concession to modernity was a cumbersome fridge which, more often than not, ran amok.

Serena left the kettle to boil and went to the front door to fetch the post. There was a small pile of letters in the post box, and just for a moment she pretended that they were all for her. They weren’t, of course: bills, several legal-looking envelopes, a catalogue or two, and, just as she had expected, two birthday cards for herself. And no card from Gregory. But she hadn’t really expected one from him; he had made it plain to her on several occasions that birthdays were scandalously overpriced and a waste of money. Gregory didn’t believe in wasting money; her father and brothers approved of him for that reason. Serena wasn’t sure of that, but she hoped in a vague way that when they married she would be able to change his frugal ways.

She went back to the kitchen and made the tea, offered milk to the cat and, as the clock struck the half hour, took a tray of tea up to her father’s room.

This was a large, gloomy apartment with heavy old-fashioned furniture, closely curtained against the morning brightness. She tweaked one curtain aside as she crossed the room, the better to see the occupant in the vast bed.

Mr Lightfoot matched the room, gloomy and the epitome of a late-Victorian gentleman, whiskers and all. He sat up in bed, not speaking, and when Serena wished him good morning, he grunted a reply.

‘A good morning for some,’ he observed, ‘but for those who suffer as I do, daylight is merely the solace after a sleepless night.’

Serena put the tray down and handed him his letters. That her father’s snores shattered the peace of the house was something on which there was no point in remarking. She had long ago learned that the only way in which to live with him was to allow his words to flow over her head. She said now, ‘It’s my birthday, Father.’

He was opening his letters. ‘Oh, yes? Why have the gas company sent me another bill? Gross carelessness.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t pay the first one?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Serena. I have always paid my bills promptly.’

‘But it is possible to make a mistake,’ said Serena, and took herself out of the room, wondering for the thousand and first time how her mother could have lived with such a tiresome man. She herself very often found life quite intolerable, living here with him, doing almost all of the housework, cooking and shopping and looking after him. He had for some time now declared that he was an invalid, and he led an invalid’s life with no concern for her.

Since Dr Bowring had said that there was nothing wrong with him he had refused to see him again, declaring that he knew far better what was wrong with him than any doctor. So he had devised his own treatment for his illness, having declared that he was suffering from a weak heart and congestion of the lungs. He had over the years added lumbago to these, which gave him every reason to take to his bed whenever he wished to do so.

It hadn’t been so bad when her mother had been alive. They had had a housekeeper, and between the two of them Serena and her mother had devised a routine which had allowed them enough freedom; there had been a certain amount of social life for them. Serena had had her tennis parties and small dances at friends’ houses, and her mother had been able to play bridge and enjoy coffee with her friends. Then her mother had fallen ill and died without fuss or complaint, only asking Serena to look after her father. And, since Serena had known that her mother had loved her despot of a husband, she had promised that she would. That had been five years ago…

Her life since then had altered dramatically: the housekeeper had been dismissed; Serena, her father had declared, was quite capable of running the house with the help of a woman from the village who came twice a week for a few hours. What else was there for her to do? he’d wanted to know, when she had pointed out that the house wasn’t only large, it was devoid of any labour-saving devices. Sitting in his armchair by his bedroom window, wrapped in rugs, with a small table beside him bearing all the accepted aids to invalidism, he had dismissed her objections with a wave of the hand.

Since she had to account for every penny of the housekeeping allowance he gave her each month she’d had no chance to improve things. True, there was a washing machine, old now, and given to rather frightening eruptions and sinister clankings, and there was central heating in some of the rooms. But this was turned off at the end of March and not started again until October. Since the plumber from Yeovil came each half year and turned it on and off, there wasn’t much she could do about that.

Serena, recognising the brick wall she was up against, had decided sensibly to make the best of things. After all, Gregory Pratt, a junior partner in the solicitors’ firm in Sherborne, had hinted on several occasions that he was considering marrying her at some future date. She liked him well enough, although she had once or twice found herself stifling a yawn when he chose to entertain her with a resumé of his day’s work, but she supposed that she would get used to that in time.

When he brought her flowers, and talked vaguely about their future together, she had to admit to herself that it would be nice to marry and have a home and her own children. She wasn’t in love with Gregory, but she liked him, and although like any other girl she dreamed of being swept off her feet by some magnificent man, she thought it unlikely that it would happen to her.

Her mother, when she’d been alive, had told her that she was a jolie laide, but her father had always been at pains to tell her that she was downright plain, an opinion upheld by her brothers, so that she had come to think of herself as just that—a round face, with a small nose and a wide mouth, dominated by large brown eyes and straight light brown hair worn long, in a rather careless knot on top of her head. That her mouth curved sweetly and her eyes had thick curling lashes was something she thought little of, nor did she consider her shape, pleasingly plump, to be much of an asset. Since Gregory had never, as far as she could remember, commented upon her appearance, there had been no one to make her think otherwise.

She went back to the kitchen and boiled an egg for her breakfast, and put her two cards on the mantelpiece. ‘I am twenty-six, Puss,’ she said, addressing the tabby cat, ‘and since it is my birthday I shall do no housework; I shall go for a walk—up Barrow Hill.’

She finished her breakfast, tidied the kitchen, put everything ready for lunch and went to get her father’s breakfast tray.

He was reading his paper and didn’t look up. ‘I’ll have a little ham for lunch, and a few slices of thin toast. My poor appetite gives me concern, Serena, although I cannot hope that you share that concern.’

‘Well, you had a splendid breakfast,’ Serena pointed out cheerfully. ‘Egg, bacon, toast and marmalade, and coffee. And, of course, if you got up and had a walk that would give you an appetite.’

She gave him a kindly smile; he was an old tyrant, greedy and selfish, but her mother had asked her to look after him. Besides, she felt sorry for him, for he was missing so much from life. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she told him. ‘It’s a lovely morning…’

‘A walk? And am I to be left alone in the house?’

‘Well, when I go to the shops you’re alone, aren’t you? The phone is by the bed, and you can get up if you want and go downstairs for a change.’

She reached the door. ‘I’ll be back for coffee,’ she told him.

She fetched a jacket—an elderly garment she kept for gardening—found stout shoes, put a handful of biscuits into a pocket and left the house. Barrow Hill looked nearer than it was, but it was still early. She turned away from the road leading down to the village, climbed a stile and took the footpath beside a field of winter wheat.

It was a gentle climb to start with, and she didn’t hurry. The trees and hedges were in leaf, there were lambs bleating and birds singing and the sky was blue, a washed-out blue, dotted with small woolly clouds. She stopped to stare up at it; it was indeed a beautiful morning, and she was glad that she had rebelled against the routine of housework and cooking. No doubt her father would be coldly angry when she got back, but nothing he could say would spoil her pleasure now.

The last bit of Barrow Hill was quite steep, along a path bordered by thick undergrowth, but presently it opened out onto rough ground covered in coarse grass and strewn with rocks, offering a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. It was a solitary spot, but she saw that today she was going to have to share it with someone else. A man was sitting very much at ease on one of the larger rocks—the one, she noticed crossly, which she considered her own.

He had turned round at the sound of her careful progress through the stones and grass tufts, and now he stood up. A very tall man, with immensely broad shoulders, wearing casual tweeds. As she went towards him she saw that he was a handsome man too, but past his first youth. Nearer forty than thirty, she reflected as she wished him good morning, casting a look at her rock as she did so.

His ‘Good morning,’ was cheerful. ‘Am I trespassing on your rock?’

She was rather taken aback. ‘Well, it’s not my rock, but whenever I come up here I sit on it.’

He smiled, and she found herself smiling back. He had a nice smile and it was unexpected, for his features were forbidding in repose—a powerful nose, heavy-lidded blue eyes and a thin mouth above the decidedly firm chin. Not a man to treat lightly, she thought.

She sat down without fuss on the rock, and he sat on a tree stump some yards away. He said easily, ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here. It’s quite a climb…’

‘Not many people come up here for that reason, and, of course, those living in the village mostly go to Yeovil to work each day. In the summer sometimes people come and picnic. Not often, though, for they can’t bring a car near enough…’

‘So you have it to yourself?’

She nodded. ‘But I don’t come as often as I would like to…’

‘You work in Yeovil too?’

He asked the question so gently that she answered, ‘Oh, no. I live at home.’

He glanced at her hands, lying idly in her lap. Small hands, roughened by work, not the hands of a lady of leisure. She caught his glance and said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘I look after my father and run the house.’

‘And you have escaped? Just for a while?’

‘Well, yes. You see, it’s my birthday…’

‘Then I must wish you a very happy day.’ When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘I expect you will be celebrating this evening? A party? Family?’

‘No. My brothers and their families don’t live very close to us.’

‘Ah, well—but there is always the excitement of the postman, isn’t there?’

She agreed so bleakly that he began to talk about the country around them; a gentle flow of conversation which soothed her, so that presently she was able to tell him some of the local history and point out the landmarks.

But a glance at her watch set her on her feet. ‘I must go.’ She smiled at him. ‘I enjoyed talking to you. I do hope you will enjoy your stay here.’

He got up and wished her a pleasant goodbye, and if she had half hoped that he would suggest going back to the village with her she was disappointed.

It had been pleasant, she reflected, going hurriedly back along the path. He had seemed like an old friend, and she suspected that she had talked too much. But that wouldn’t matter; she wasn’t likely to see him again. He had told her casually that he was a visitor. And now she came to think of it he hadn’t sounded quite English…

She reached the house a little out of breath; her father had his coffee at eleven o’clock each morning and it was five minutes to the hour. She put the kettle on, still in her jacket, and ground the beans, then kicked off her shoes, smoothed her hair, laid a tray and, once more her quiet self, went up to her father’s room.

He was sitting in his great armchair by the window, reading. He looked up as she went in. ‘There you are. Gregory telephoned. He has a great deal of work. He hopes to see you at the weekend.’

‘Did he wish me a happy birthday?’ She put down the tray and waited hopefully.

‘No. He is a busy man, Serena. I think that you sometimes forget that.’ He picked up his book. ‘I fancy an omelette for lunch.’ He added reprovingly, ‘My bed is not yet made; I shall probably need to rest after I have eaten.’

Serena went back downstairs, reminding herself that she had had a few hours of pure pleasure on Barrow Hill; it would be something to think about. She supposed that it was because it was her birthday that she had been so chatty with the stranger there. She blushed at the thought.

‘Not that it matters,’ she told Puss, offering the small beast sardines from the tin she had opened. ‘He doesn’t know me from Adam, and I don’t know him, though I think he’d be rather a nice person to know. He’ll have forgotten all about me…’

However, he hadn’t. He walked back to Dr Bowring’s house, thinking about her. He had known the doctor and his wife for many years—they had been medical students and she a nurse—creating an easy friendship which had lasted, despite the fact that he lived and worked in Holland. On his occasional visits to England he contrived to see them, although this was the first time he had visited them in Somerset. At lunch he told them of his walk up Barrow Hill.

‘And I met a girl there—rather shabby clothes, round face, brown hair—very untidy, nice voice. Said she looked after her father but she’d escaped for an hour or two because it was her birthday.’

‘Serena Lightfoot,’ chorused his companions. ‘A perfect darling,’ said Mrs Bowring. ‘Her father’s the horridest old man I’ve ever met. Threw George out, didn’t he, darling?’

The doctor nodded. ‘He’s perfectly fit, but has decided to be an invalid for the rest of his life. I’m not allowed in the house, but from what I can glean from the village gossip he spends his days sitting around or lying in bed, enjoying ill health. When his wife died he sacked the housekeeper, and now Serena runs the place with old Mrs Pike going there twice a week. No life for a girl.’

‘So why doesn’t she leave? She’s old enough and wise enough, surely?’

‘I’ve done my best to persuade her to get a job away from home—so has the rector—but it seems that she promised her mother that she would look after him. It’s not all gloom and doom though. It’s an open secret in the village that Gregory Pratt intends to marry her. He’s a partner in a law firm in Sherborne. A prudent man, with an eye on Mr Lightfoot’s not inconsiderable financial status and the house—both of which it is presumed he will leave to Serena. She has two brothers, both with incomes of their own and steady positions, but neither of them see much of her or their father, and have let it be known that they neither expect nor want anything when he dies.’

‘So is Serena by way of being an heiress?’

‘It seems so. Neither her father nor her brothers seem to have mentioned it to her, but I have heard that Gregory is aware of it.’

‘So he would have told her, surely?’

‘Oh, no. That might give her the idea that he only wants to marry her for her money and the house.’

The Dutchman raised heavy brows. ‘And does he?’

‘Of course. My dear Ivo! He’s not in love with her, I feel sure, and I doubt very much if she is with him, but he’s always very attentive if they should go out together, which isn’t often, and I think she likes him well enough. She’s a sensible girl; she knows she hasn’t much in the way of looks, and very little chance of leaving home unless her father dies. Even then she has had little chance to go out into the world and meet people.’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Mrs Bowring, ‘for she’s great fun and so kind and gentle; she must long for pretty clothes and a chance to meet people of her own age. You’ve no idea what a job it is to get her here for drinks or dinner. Her wretched father manages to feel ill at the last minute, or he telephones just as we’re sitting down to dinner and demands her back home because he’s dying.’

They began to talk of other things then, and Serena wasn’t spoken of again. Two days later Mr van Doelen drove himself back to London and shortly after, back to Holland.

It was the following Saturday when Gregory called to see Serena, although after greeting her in a somewhat perfunctory fashion he went upstairs to see her father. A man who knew on which side his bread was buttered, and intending to have jam on it too, he lost no opportunity of keeping on good terms with Mr Lightfoot. He spent half an hour or so discussing the stockmarket, and listening with every appearance of serious attention to Mr Lightfoot’s pithy remarks about the government, before going back downstairs to the sitting room to find Serena sitting on the floor, doing the Telegraph crossword puzzle.

He sat down in one of the old-fashioned armchairs. ‘Would you not be more comfortable in a chair, Serena?’

‘Do you suppose an etui is the same thing as a small workbag, Gregory?’

He frowned. ‘Really, my dear, you ask the most stupid questions.’

‘Well, they can’t be all that stupid or they wouldn’t be in a crossword puzzle.’ She sat back on her heels and looked at him. ‘You forgot my birthday.’

‘Did I? After all, birthdays aren’t important, not once one is adult.’

Serena pencilled in a word. Gregory was probably quite right; he so often was—and so tolerant. Her brothers had told her that he would be a good and kind husband. Sometimes, though, she wondered if she would have liked him to be a little more exciting. And why was it that everyone took it for granted that she would marry him?

She said now, ‘I should have liked a card, and flowers—a great sheaf of roses in Cellophane tied with ribbon—and a very large bottle of perfume.’

Gregory laughed. ‘You really must grow up, Serena. You must have been reading too many novels. You know my opinion about wasting money on meaningless rubbish…’

She pencilled in another word. ‘Why should flowers and presents be meaningless rubbish when they are given to someone you love or want to please? Have you ever felt that you wanted to buy me something madly extravagant, Gregory?’

He lacked both imagination and a sense of humour, and besides, he had a high opinion of himself. He said seriously, ‘No, I can’t say that I have. What would be the point, my dear? If I were to give you a diamond necklace, or undies from Harrods, when would you have the occasion to wear them?’

‘So when you buy me a present at Christmas you think first, Now, what can I buy Serena that she can find useful and use each day? Like that thing you gave me for shredding things which takes all day to clean?’

He refused to get annoyed. He gave her an indulgent smile. ‘I think you must be exaggerating, Serena. How about a cup of tea? I can’t stay long; I’m dining with the head of my department this evening.’

So she fetched the tea, and he told her of his week’s work while he drank it and ate several slices of the cake she had baked. Since she had little to say, and that was sensible, he reflected that despite her lack of looks she would be a quite suitable wife for him; he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the house and the comfortable inheritance she would have, and which would make her even more suitable.

He went back upstairs to say goodbye to Mr Lightfoot, and presently came down again to give her a peck on a cheek and tell her that he would do his utmost to come and see her the following weekend.

Serena shut the door behind him and gathered up the tea things. She reflected that Gregory wasn’t just frugal, he was downright mean. Washing up, impervious to her father’s voice demanding attention, she considered Gregory. She wasn’t sure when it had first become apparent that he was interested in her. She had felt flattered and prepared to like him, for her life had been dull, and, after a while, her father had signified his approval of him. When her brothers had met him, they had assured her in no uncertain terms that Gregory would be a splendid husband, and she, with the prospect of a life of her own, had allowed herself to agree with them.

But now the years were slipping away, and Gregory, although he talked often enough of when they would marry, had never actually asked her to marry him. He had a steady job, too. Serena being Serena, honest and guileless and expecting everyone else to be the same—except for her father, of course—had never for one moment thought that Gregory was waiting for her father to die, at which point he would marry her and become the owner of the house and a nice little capital. He had no doubt that Serena would be only too glad to let him take over the house and invest her money for her. He didn’t intend to be dishonest, she would have all she wanted within reason, but it would be his hand which held the strings of her moneybags.

Of course, Serena knew nothing of this… All the same doubts were beginning to seep into her head. Other thoughts seeped in, too, about the stranger she had talked to so freely on Barrow Hill. She had liked him; it had seemed to her that she had known him for a long time, that he was like an old, trusted friend. Nonsense, of course—but, nonsense or not, his memory stayed clearly in her head.

During the week her elder brother came. His visits were infrequent, although he lived in Yeovil, but, as he pointed out, he was a busy man with little leisure. At Christmas and on his father’s birthday he came, with his wife and two children—duty visits no one enjoyed—and every month or so he came briefly. He was very like his father, and they didn’t get on well, so the visits were brief. Serena, offering coffee or tea, was always questioned closely as to finances, warned to let him know if she should ever need him, but was never asked if she was happy or content with the life she led. And this visit was like all the others: brief and businesslike with no mention of herself.

Over a second cup of coffee she said, ‘I should like a holiday, Henry.’

‘A holiday? Whatever for? Really, Serena, you are sometimes quite lacking in sense. You have a pleasant life here; you have friends in the village and leisure. And who is to look after Father if you were to go away?’

‘You could pay someone—or your wife Alice could come and stay. You said yourself that you have a splendid au pair who could look after the children.’

Henry’s colour had heightened. ‘Impossible. Alice has the house to run, and quite a busy social life. Really, Serena, I had no idea that you were so selfish.’ He added, ‘And the au pair is leaving.’

He went away then, wishing her an austere goodbye, leaving her to go upstairs and discover why her father was shouting for her.

A few days later her younger brother came. Matthew was a gentler version of his brother. He also didn’t get on well with his father, but he was a dutiful son, tolerant of Mr Lightfoot’s ill temper while at the same time paying no more than duty visits. He was accompanied by his wife, a forceful young woman who was scornful of Serena, whom she considered was hopelessly old-fashioned in her ideas. She came into the house declaring breezily that Serena was neglecting the garden, and did she know there was a tile loose on the porch roof?

‘These things need attention,’ she pointed out. ‘It doesn’t do to neglect a house, certainly not one as large as this one. I must say you’re very lucky to live so splendidly.’

Serena let that pass, allowing her sister-in-law’s voice to flow over her unlistening head while her brother went to see his father. It was while they were having tea that she said, ‘Henry came the other day. I told him I wanted a holiday.’

Matthew choked on his cake. ‘A holiday? Why, Serena?’

At least he sounded reasonably interested.

‘This is a large house, there are six bedrooms, attics, a drawing room, dining room, sitting room, kitchen and two bathrooms. I am expected to keep them all clean and polished with the help of an elderly woman from the village who has rheumatism and can’t bend. And there’s the garden. I had a birthday a week or so ago—I’m twenty-six—and I think I’m entitled to a holiday.’

Matthew looked thoughtful, but it was his wife who spoke. ‘My dear Serena, we would all like holidays, but one has one’s duty. After all, you have only yourself and your father to care for, and uninterrupted days in which to arrange your tasks to please yourself.’

‘But I don’t please myself,’ said Serena matter-of-factly. ‘I have to please Father.’

Matthew said, ‘Well, it does seem to me to be quite reasonable… You have spoken to Henry…?’

‘Yes, he thinks it’s a silly idea.’

Matthew was at heart a good man, but under his brother and his wife’s thumbs. He said, ‘Oh, well, in that case I don’t think you should think any more about it, Serena.’

When Serena said nothing, he added, ‘I dare say you see a good deal of Gregory?’ Then he said, ‘A steady young man. You could do worse, Serena.’

‘Well, I dare say I could do better,’ said Serena flippantly. ‘Only I never meet any other men.’

She had a sudden memory of the man on Barrow Hill.

Gregory came at the weekend. She hadn’t expected him and, since it was a wet, dreary day, had decided to turn out a kitchen cupboard. Her untidy appearance caused him to frown as he pecked her cheek.

‘Must you look like a drudge on a Saturday morning?’ he wanted to know. ‘Surely that woman who comes to clean could do the work in the kitchen?’

Serena tucked back a strand of hair behind an ear. ‘She comes twice times a week for two hours. In a house this size it barely gives her time to do the kitchen and bathrooms and Hoover. I didn’t expect you…’

‘Obviously. I have brought you some flowers.’

He handed her daffodils wrapped in Cellophane with the air of a man conferring a diamond necklace.

Serena thanked him nicely and forebore from mentioning that there were daffodils running riot in the garden. It’s the thought that counts, she reminded herself as she took off her pinny. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Father has had his.’

‘I’ll go and see him presently.’ Gregory added carefully, ‘Henry tells me that you want to go on holiday.’

She was filling the kettle. ‘Yes. Don’t you think I deserve one? Can you think of somewhere I might go? I might meet people and have fun?’

Gregory said severely, ‘You are being facetious, Serena. I cannot see why you should need to go away. You have a lovely home here, with every comfort, and you can please yourself as to how you organise your days.’

She turned to look at him. He was quite serious, she decided, and if she had expected him to back her up she was to be disappointed.

‘You make it sound as though I spend my days sitting in the drawing room doing nothing, but you must know that that isn’t true.’

‘My dear Serena, would you be happy doing that? You are a born housewife and a splendid housekeeper; you will make a good wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘And now how about that coffee?’

He went to see her father presently, and she began to get lunch ready. Her father had demanded devilled kidneys on toast and a glass of the claret he kept in the dining room sideboard under lock and key. If Gregory intended to stay for lunch, he would have to have scrambled eggs and soup. Perhaps he would take her out? Down to the pub in the village where one could get delicious pasties…

Wishful thinking. He came into the kitchen, saying importantly that he needed to go to the office.

‘But it’s Saturday…’

He gave her a tolerant look. ‘Serena, I take my job seriously; if it means a few hours’ extra work even on a Saturday, I do not begrudge it. I will do my best to see you next Saturday.’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

His hesitation was so slight that she didn’t notice it. ‘I promised mother that I would go and see her—sort out her affairs for her—she finds these things puzzling.’

His mother, reflected Serena, was one of the toughest old ladies she had ever encountered, perfectly capable of arranging her affairs to suit herself. But she said nothing; she was sure that Gregory was a good son.

On Sunday, with the half-hope that she might see the stranger again, she walked up to the top of Barrow Hill, but there was no one there. Moreover, the early-morning brightness had clouded over and it began to rain. She went back to roast the pheasant her father had fancied for his lunch, and then spent the afternoon with Puss, listening to the radio.

While she listened she thought about her future. She couldn’t alter it for the moment, for she had given her word to her mother, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t try and learn some skill, something she could do at home. She was handy with her needle, but she didn’t think there was much future in that; maybe she could learn how to use a computer—it seemed that was vital for any job. There were courses she could take at home, but how to get hold of a computer?

Even if she found something, where would she get the money to pay for it? She had to account for every penny of the housekeeping money her father gave her each month, and when she had asked him for an allowance so that she might buy anything she needed for herself, he had told her to buy what she needed and have the bill sent to him. But to buy toothpaste and soap and expect the shopkeeper to send a bill for such a trivial purchase really wasn’t possible, so she managed to add these items to the household bills from the village shop.

Since she hardly ever went out socially, she contrived to manage with her small wardrobe. She had on one occasion actually gone to Yeovil and bought a dress and had the bill sent to her father, but it had caused such an outcry that she had never done it since. She had never been sure if the heart attack he had assured her she had given him had been genuine or not, for he had refused to have the doctor. Instead he had lain in his bed, heaping reproaches on her head every time she had entered the room. By no means a meek girl, Serena had nonetheless felt forced to believe him.

Ten days later, on a bright May morning, Mr Perkins the family solicitor called. He was a nice old man, for when her mother had died, and he had been summoned by Mr Lightfoot, he had come upon Serena in the kitchen, crying her eyes out. He had patted her on the arm and told her not to be too unhappy.

‘At least your father has provided for your future,’ he had reassured her. ‘You need never have that worry. I should not be telling you this, but it may help a little.’

She had thanked him and thought little of it at the time, but over the years she had come to assume that at least her future was secure.

Now Mr Perkins, older and greyer, was back again, and was closeted for a long time with her father. When he came downstairs at length he looked upset, refused the coffee she offered him and drove away with no more than a brief goodbye. He had remonstrated against Mr Lightfoot’s new will, but to no avail.

Serena’s brothers had mentioned her wish to have a holiday to their father. They had been well meaning, but Mr Lightfoot, incensed by what he deemed to be gross ingratitude and flightiness on the part of Serena, had, in a fit of quite uncalled for rage, altered his will.

Mr Perkins came with his clerk the next day and witnessed its signature, and on the following day Mr Lightfoot had a stroke.

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