Grasp a Nettle

“You disposed of your aunt very quickly.”

She shot the Professor a cross look. “I haven’t—she left her scarf in the restaurant, and she wants it this minute.”

“Do I detect a slight vexation? Where is your sunny disposition, Jenny Wren? Snappish, and no gratitude for your rescue, either,” he said.

She made an effort to work her way around him. “Well, I haven’t had the time….”

“To express your deep obligation to me? But this will take very little time, my dear.”

The Professor had kissed her soundly before she could dodge him, and then disconcerted her utterly by standing aside without another word, to let her pass.

Jenny lingered unnecessarily in the restaurant so that he would have already left by the time she went back, and she was quite put out to find that that was exactly what he had done.

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.

Grasp a Nettle

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Tender-handed stroke a nettle And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle And it soft as silk remains.

—Aaron Hill

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE WINDING stone staircase in the corner tower was gloomy excepting for the regular patches of sunlight from the narrow slit windows set at intervals in its thick stone walls, but the girl running up the worn steps thought nothing of the gloom; she was well accustomed to it. She paused now, half way up, to peer out of one of the windows, craning her neck to look along the back drive to Dimworth House. It was almost two o’clock and the first of the visitors were already driving slowly down the narrow, ill-made lane which ran for a mile or more on its way from the main road.

The girl turned her bright coppery head to look down at the wide gravel path bordered by lawns and herbaceous borders, to where, beyond the open gate at its far end, the field used as a car park was waiting, empty, for the cars to fill it. It promised to be a good day in terms of entrance fees; although Dimworth House was one of the smaller stately homes open to the public, it was doing quite nicely, although it meant hard work for the family, and indeed, for everyone connected with the estate. The girl left the window presently, ran up the last curve of the narrow staircase, and pushed open the arched door at its top. It led to a small circular lobby, panelled and empty of furniture. She crossed this, opened the door in the opposite wall and entered a short, carpeted corridor, the walls hung with paintings and with a number of doors in its inner wall. There was a rather fine staircase half way along it, leading to the floor below, and a long latticed window lighting the whole, although not very adequately. The girl hurried along with the air of one familiar with her surroundings and knocked on the end door, and on being bidden to enter, did so.

The apartment was large, low-ceilinged and panelled, furnished with a variety of antique furniture, presided over by an enormous fourposter bed, and was occupied by a very upright elderly lady, sitting at a writing table under the window. She looked up as the girl went in, said: ‘Ah, Jenny,’ in a commanding voice and laid down her pen.

The girl had a charming voice. ‘I found Baxter, he was in the water garden. He’ll do the tickets—he’s putting on a tie and washing his hands, and Mrs Thorpe says she’ll take over from me at four o’clock.’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the desk. ‘I’d better get down to the hall, the cars are starting to arrive, Aunt Bess.’

‘Dear child!’ declared her aunt. ‘I can’t imagine what we shall do when you go back to that hospital tomorrow.’ She coughed. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t been much of a holiday for you.’

Her niece smiled. ‘I’ve loved it,’ she assured her relation, ‘it’s been a nice change from theatre, you know. I’m sorry I can’t stay here for the rest of the summer.’ She had wandered to the window to look out, and the sunshine shone on her bright hair, tied back loosely, and her pretty face, with its hazel eyes, thickly fringed, little tiptilted nose and generous mouth. She was of average height, nicely rounded and gloriously tanned with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

The Hon. Miss Elizabeth Creed, her mother’s sister and a lady of forceful disposition, smiled as she watched her, for she was the only one, bar her great-nephew, for whom she had any affection. Jenny had never allowed her aunt’s caustic tongue to worry her; and although she had been left an orphan at an early age, she had never once asked for money or help of any kind. True, she had a quite adequate income of her own from the trust set up for her by her parents, as well as her salary, but that was chickenfeed compared to the annual revenues enjoyed by her aunt and the very generous allowance given to her dead cousin’s widow and small son, Oliver, who would one day inherit Dimworth and a handsome fortune with it. In the meantime, however, his mother chose to live in Scotland with her parents, and the house was run by his great-aunt until such time as he was considered old enough to do this for himself.

Jenny, who spent her holidays with Aunt Bess, thought it a great pity that the little boy didn’t live at Dimworth, for it was a beautiful place and peaceful, and her cousin, who had died in an air crash a year or so after his marriage, had loved it dearly and would surely have wanted his son to have been brought up there, but Margaret, his widow, had never liked it over-much; she came to stay from time to time, but always made it clear to the rest of the family that she was glad to go again. She would be coming within a few days, bringing the little boy with her, and Jenny had every intention of spending all her days off at Dimworth while he was there, for the two of them were the greatest of friends, and Margaret, beautiful and languid and not particularly maternal, soon tired of his youthful high spirits.

Jenny, leaving her aunt to her writing, skipped down the staircase, crossed the landing below and opened a carved oak door on to a richly furnished sitting room overlooking the front of the house, and through which she threaded her way without loss of time, to go through a small, very old arched door cut into one of its walls. It led to another staircase, a very small one, down which she trod, to open an even smaller door at the bottom opening directly into the entrance hall of the house. There was a large table set in the centre of this vast area, laid out neatly with brochures, postcards, small souvenirs, pots of homemade jam and the like, and she made for the chair at its centre and took her seat just as the first of the visitors poked enquiring heads through the open doors.

The next two hours went fast. Jenny had been right, there were a good number of visitors, and when she had done her stint in the hall and Mrs Thorpe, the vicar’s wife, very correctly dressed in her best summer two-piece and a good hat, had taken over from her, she went across to the old stables, converted into a tea-room, and found that it was nicely filled with family parties, tucking into their cream teas. Florrie, the indispensable housekeeper, and her niece Felicity were managing very well between them, so Jenny made her way back to the house, to enter it by a small door at the side, which led via a back hall into the last of the chain of rooms on view to the public—the dining room, sombre and panelled in oak, its refectory table and massive oak chairs protected by crimson ropes, and the silver goblets and plates on the great table protected by a burglar alarm which no one could see; they gleamed richly against the dark wood.

There were a dozen people there, standing about staring at the treasures around them, gazing without a great deal of interest at the dark oil paintings on the walls—family portraits, and not very colourful ones, although if any of them had studied them closely they would have noticed that most of them portrayed a variety of people with coppery hair, just like Jenny’s.

The next room leading from the dining room was crowded, as it usually was; it was a small apartment, its walls lined with bookshelves, and arranged on a number of small tables was the collection of dolls which Aunt Bess had occupied herself in collecting over the years. This small room led in its turn to the blue drawing room, lofty and rather grand with its ornate ceiling and silk-hung walls, and furnished with gilded chairs and tables and a magnificent harpsichord. The little anteroom leading from it was far more to Jenny’s taste; panelled in pinewood and rather crowded with Regency furniture, surprisingly comfortable to sit on. The family sometimes used the room in the summer, but once the evenings became chilly it was more prudent to stay in the private wing, for a small staircase led from the anteroom, up and down which the wind whistled, leaving anyone silly enough to sit there chilled to the bone.

Jenny didn’t pause, but went up the staircase to cast an eye over the three bedrooms on view. No one had used them for very many years now. Their fourposters were magnificent, the heavy tables and mirrors and chests worth a fortune, but they held little comfort. There were quite a few people here too; she mingled with them, answering a few questions and cautioning people that the stone staircase leading down to the hall was worn in places and needed care before slipping away again, this time to go through yet another of the small doors which peppered the house, into the private wing. It was cosy here, with thick carpets underfoot, damask curtains at the mullioned windows, and a nicely balanced mixture of period furniture. Jenny’s room was down a narrow passage, a roomy apartment with a small sitting room adjoining it and a bathroom on its other side. She had always occupied it, ever since, as a small child, she had spent her holidays at Dimworth.

She went straight to the wall closet now, gathered an armful of clothes and began to pack with speed and neatness. She intended leaving early the next morning, driving herself in the Morgan two-seater which Aunt Bess had given her for her twenty-first birthday; she had had it for four years now, and drove it superbly, making light of the journey to and from London, a journey she made at least twice a month. She would have liked to have spent all her days off at Dimworth, but she had a great many friends in and around the hospital—besides, Toby Blake, the elder son of Aunt Bess’s nearest neighbour, might feel encouraged to propose to her yet again if she went down there too often. She frowned now, thinking about him; she supposed that sooner or later she would marry him, not because she was in love with him, but because they had known each other for such a long time and everyone expected them to. She was aware that this was no reason to accept him, but he did persist. ‘Water wearing out a stone,’ she commented to the room around her as she shut her case, took a cursory look in the mirror and went to find her aunt.

Tea was a meal which, on the days when the house was open to the public, was a moveable feast in the small sitting room on the ground floor. Anyone who had the time had a cup, and old Grimshaw, the butler, made it his business to tread to and fro with fresh tea as it was required. He was on the lookout now for Jenny and as she gained the lower hall, said in his fatherly fashion: ‘I’ll bring tea at once, Miss Jenny,’ and disappeared through the baize door beside the stairs, kitchenwards.

Jenny called after him: ‘Oh, good,’ and added: ‘I’m famished, Grimshaw,’ as she opened the door and went in. Her aunt was sitting by the open window, her tea on the sofa table beside her chair.

‘I must have an aspirin,’ she declared in a voice so unlike her own that Jenny hurried over to her. ‘I have the most terrible headache.’

‘You’ve been working too hard, Aunt Bess. I’ll get them…in your room?’

Her aunt nodded and she sped away to return at the same time as Grimshaw with the teapot. She poured her aunt another cup and shook out two tablets and offered them to her. ‘Do you often get headaches?’ she enquired, casting a professional eye over the elderly white strained face.

‘I’ve never had a headache in my life before,’ observed Miss Creed sharply, ‘only these last few weeks…’

‘And aspirins help?’

‘Not really.’ She was sitting back in her chair, her eyes closed.

‘Then let’s get Doctor Toms to see you.’

Miss Creed opened her eyes and sat up very straight. ‘We will do no such thing, Janet. I’m never ill. You will oblige me by not referring to it again.’

‘Well,’ said Jenny reasonably, ‘if you have any more headaches like this one, I shall certainly refer to it. Probably you need stronger glasses.’

Her aunt turned her head to look at her as she stood at the table, pouring herself her tea. ‘H’m—perhaps that’s it. You’re a sensible girl, Jenny.’

Jenny smiled at her; her aunt always called her Janet when she was vexed, now she was Jenny again. They began to talk of other things and her aunt’s indisposition wasn’t mentioned again that day. Only the next morning when she went along to her aunt’s room to wish her goodbye did that formidable lady declare: ‘If ever I should be ill, Jenny, I should wish you to nurse me.’ And Jenny, noting uneasily the pallor of the face on the pillows, said hearteningly: ‘You’re never ill, my dear, but if ever you are, yes, I’ll look after you—you know that.’ She bent to kiss the elderly cheek. ‘You’ve been father and mother to me for almost all of my life, and very nice parents you’ve been, too.’ She went to the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten days’ time and I’ll telephone late this evening unless anything crops up.’

London at the end of summer was crowded, hot, and smelled of petrol. Jenny wrinkled her nose as she drove across its heart and into the East End. When she had started her training as a nurse, her family, particularly Margaret, had been annoyed at her choice of hospital. With all the teaching hospitals to choose from, she had elected to apply to Queen’s, large and old-fashioned and set squarely in the East End; not the type of place which, since she had insisted on taking up nursing, a Creed or a Wren should choose. But Jenny had had her own way, for despite her pretty face she was a determined girl with a quite nasty temper to go with her hair, and she had done her three years general training, followed it with a midwifery certificate and now held the post of Junior Theatre Sister. Her family still smiled tolerantly at the idea of her having a career, thinking no doubt of Toby Blake waiting in the wings, as it were; sure that very soon now she would realise that to be married to him would be pleasant and suitable and what was expected of her. But Jenny had other ideas, although she wasn’t able to clarify them, even to herself. There would be someone in the world meant for her; she had been sure of that ever since she was a little girl, and although there was no sign of him yet, she was still quite certain that one day she would come face to face with him, and he would feel just as she did—and in the meantime she intended to make a success of her job.

Queen’s looked grey and forbidding from the outside, and indeed, on the inside as well, but she no longer noticed the large draughty entrance hall, nor the long dark passages leading from it. She plunged into them after a cheerful exchange of greetings with the head porter, and presently went through a door, painted a dismal brown, across a courtyard overlooked by most of the hospital’s wards, and into the Nurses’ Home, an old-fashioned building which had been altered and up-dated whenever there had been any money to spare, so that it presented a hotchpotch of styles and building materials. But inside it was fairly up-to-date, with the warden’s office just inside the door and a wide staircase beside the two lifts. Jenny wished the warden, Miss Mellow—who wasn’t in the least mellow—a staid good morning, for it had barely struck noon, and started up the stairs, taking the handful of letters Miss Mellow had wordlessly handed her with her.

Three of them were from Toby; he was a great letter writer; his handwriting small and neat and unmistakable. Jenny sighed as she saw it and glanced at the others; from friends who had married and left hospital, inviting her severally for a weekend, to dinner, and to meet for coffee one day soon. She read them as she wandered upstairs, for she wasn’t on duty until the following morning and she had plenty of time to unpack and get her uniform ready. But Toby’s letters she didn’t open, not until she had gained her room on the third floor, put her case down, kicked off her shoes and curled up on her bed.

There was nothing to say in any of them which she didn’t know already, and why he had to write on three successive days to point out the advantages of marrying him was a mystery—besides, she had seen him only four days ago, and when, as usual, he had asked her to marry him she had said quite definitely, with the frankness of an old friend, that it just wouldn’t work. She put the letters down after a while and went along to the pantry to make a pot of tea. Clare Brook was there, putting on the kettle, having had a free morning from Women’s Surgical, and she greeted Jenny with a cheerful ‘Hullo,’ and went on in mock dismay: ‘You’re on call tonight, ducky. Old Hickory (Miss Dock, the Theatre Superintendent) is off with toothache, Maureen’s got days off and Celia being Celia and left in charge doesn’t feel she should.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Our Celia is getting too big for her boots, just because Mr Wilson likes the way she hands him the instruments… So there you are, Jenny Wren, and for sure there’ll be a massive RTA and you’ll be up all night.’

Jenny spooned tea into the pot. ‘Well, I’ve been away for two weeks,’ she observed, ‘so I suppose it’s fair enough, though it’s beastly to come back to.’

Clare eyed her with interest. ‘Had a good time at that ancestral hall of yours? Seven-course dinners every evening, I suppose, and a dress for each one…’ She spoke without rancour; everyone liked Jenny and nobody grudged her her exalted background. ‘Not engaged to that Toby of yours yet?’

Jenny spooned sugar into their mugs and reached for the biscuit tin. ‘No—it’s silly of me, but I just know we wouldn’t suit. Well, what I mean is…’ she frowned, wishing to make herself clear: ‘We’ve known each other simply years and years, and there’s no…no…’

‘Spice? I know what you mean—you’re so used to each other you don’t even quarrel.’

‘He has a very even temper…’

‘Huh—so there’s nothing for you to sharpen your bad moods on, is there? You need someone with a temper as fine as yours, my dear, without an ounce of meekness in him, to give as good as he gets.’

‘It doesn’t sound very comfortable,’ protested Jenny.

‘Who wants to be comfortable? Chris and I fight quite a bit, you know, and we’re only engaged. Heaven knows what it’ll be like when we marry, but it’ll never be dull.’ Clare handed her mug over for more tea. ‘Which reminds me, I saw the sweetest wedding dress the other day…’

The pair of them became absorbed in the interesting world of fashion.

Jenny had to get up during the night, not for the massive RTA which Clare had prophesied, but for a little boy who had fallen out of his bedroom window to the pavement below; it took hours to patch him up and his chance of survival was so slim as to be almost non-existent. Jenny, going back to bed at three o’clock in the morning, lay awake worrying about him for another hour, so that when she got down to breakfast at half past seven her pretty face was pale and tired, but the news that the child was still alive cheered her up and she ate her breakfast with a fair appetite, wishing, as she always did, that she was back at Dimworth, having her breakfast in the little sitting room overlooking the water garden, with Aunt Bess sitting opposite, reading indignant pieces from the newspaper and calling everybody, impartially, a fool.

There was a heavy list for the morning and Celia Drake, assuming the mantle Miss Dock had temporarily laid down, was at her most trying; if the morning’s work was to run smoothly, then both of them would have to work, sharing the cases. But Celia, topheavy with importance, had elected to take the easiest of the list and leave the long-drawn-out ones to Jenny, which meant that Jenny wasn’t going to get off duty punctually; the list would drag on until after dinner and there would be a wild scramble to get the afternoon list started on time, and although it wasn’t a long one, Jenny guessed who would be scrubbing for it.

She eyed the cases she was expected to deal with and frowned heavily, her lovely hazel eyes dark with temper, while her coppery hair seemed to glow. Celia had retired to the office, probably to sit at the desk and dream of the day when she would—perhaps—be Theatre Superintendent. Jenny poked her indignant head round the door and gave her a fuming look.

‘Come on out and do your share, Celia,’ she invited waspishly. ‘You’re not in Old Hickory’s shoes yet, you know. We’ll share this list, half and half, and if you don’t like the idea, I’ll drop everything and go off sick.’

Celia might hand the instruments with éclat, but her wits weren’t all that quick. ‘Go off sick?’ she wanted to know. ‘But you’re not…’

Jenny nodded her bright head vigorously. ‘Oh, but I am—sick of you. What’s it to be?’

‘Oh, all right,’ declared Celia peevishly, and added nastily: ‘I don’t see why you should have it all your own way just because there’s a baron in your family.’

‘I’ve got his red hair,’ Jenny pointed out, ‘and his nasty temper.’

The day was long and hot and tiring; the cases ran over their times and small complications cropped up which no one could have foreseen; consequently by the end of the morning’s list the surgeons were a little edgy, the housemen ravenous because they hadn’t had a coffee break, and the nurses’ dinnertime hopelessly late. Jenny saw the last case out of theatre, sent as many nurses as she could spare to their meal, drank a hasty cup of tea with the surgeons, and aided by the one nurse she had kept back, started on getting ready for the afternoon’s list. Her staff nurse would be back in time to scrub for the first case, and the list was a straightforward one. She might even have time to eat a sandwich and have another cup of tea.