Emma’s Wedding

He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. “Will you marry me, Emma?”

“Why?” she asked.

He was amused, but all he said was, “A sensible question. I need a wife to run my home, entertain my friends and—er—support me.”

“But Kulk runs your home beautifully and your friends might not like me. Besides, you don’t need supporting. Indeed, you’ve been supporting me.” She added politely, “Thank you for asking me. But I’ve had a very good idea this morning. I shall sell the cottage and then I can pay you back. Then I’ll get a job.”

“For such a sensible girl you have some odd ideas, Emma. How will you pay the rent and feed yourself on the kind of wages you are able to earn?”

“Well, I must say,” said Emma crossly, “this is a very strange conversation.”

“Indeed it is. Shall we start again. Will you marry me, Emma?”

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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.

Emma’s Wedding

The Best of

Betty Neels

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER ONE

THERE were three people in the room: an elderly man with a fringe of white hair surrounding a bald pate and a neat little beard, a lady of uncertain years and once very pretty, her faded good looks marred by a look of unease, and, sitting at the table between them, a girl, a splendid young woman as to shape and size, with carroty hair bunched untidily on top of her head and a face which, while not beautiful or even pretty, was pleasing to look at, with wide grey eyes, a haughty nose and a wide mouth, gently curved.

The elderly man finished speaking, shuffled the papers before him and adjusted his spectacles, and when her mother didn’t speak, only sat looking bewildered and helpless, the girl spoke.

‘We shall need your advice, Mr Trump. This is a surprise—we had no idea…Father almost never mentioned money matters to either Mother or me, although some weeks before he died…’ her voice faltered for a moment ‘…he told me that he was investing in some scheme which would make a great deal of money, and when I asked him about it he laughed and said it was all rather exciting and I must wait and see.’

Mr Trump said dryly, ‘Your father had sufficient funds to live comfortably and leave both your mother and you provided for. He invested a considerable amount of his capital in this new computer company set up by a handful of unscrupulous young men and for a few weeks it made profits, so that your father invested the rest of his capital in it. Inevitably, the whole thing fell apart, and he and a number of the other investors lost every penny. In order to avoid bankruptcy you will need to sell this house, the car, and much of the furniture. You have some good pieces here which should sell well.’

He glanced at her mother and added, ‘You do understand what I have told you, Mrs Dawson?’

‘We shall be poor.’ She gave a little sob. ‘There won’t be any money. How are we to live?’ She looked around her. ‘My lovely home—and how am I to go anywhere if we haven’t any car? And clothes? I won’t be shabby.’ She began to cry in real earnest. ‘Where shall we live?’ And before anyone could speak she added, ‘Emma, you must think of something…’

‘Try not to get upset, Mother. If this house and everything else sells well enough to pay off what’s owing, we can go and live at the cottage in Salcombe. I’ll get a job and we shall manage very well.’

Mr Trump nodded his bald head. ‘Very sensible. I’m fairly certain that once everything is sold there will be enough to pay everything off and even have a small amount leftover. I imagine it won’t be too hard to find work during the summer season at least, and there might even be some small job which you might undertake, Mrs Dawson.’

‘A job? Mr Trump, I have never worked in my life and I have no intention of doing so now.’ She dissolved into tears again. ‘My dear husband would turn in his grave if he could hear you suggest it.’

Mr Trump put his papers in his briefcase. Mrs Dawson he had always considered to be a charming little lady, rather spoilt by her husband but with a gentle, rather helpless manner which appealed to his old-fashioned notions of the weaker sex, but now, seeing the petulant look on her face, he wondered if he had been mistaken. Emma, of course, was an entirely different kettle of fish, being a sensible young woman, full of energy, kind and friendly—and there was some talk of her marrying. Which might solve their difficulties. He made his goodbyes, assured them that he would start at once on the unravelling of their affairs, then went out to his car and drove away.

Emma went out of the rather grand drawing room and crossed the wide hall to the kitchen. It was a large house, handsomely furnished with every mod con Mrs Dawson had expressed a wish to have. There was a daily housekeeper too, and a cheerful little woman who came twice a week to do the rough work.

Emma put on the kettle, laid a tea tray, found biscuits and, since the housekeeper had gone out for her half-day, looked through the cupboards for the cake tin. She and her mother might have been dealt a bitter blow, but tea and a slice of Mrs Tims’s walnut cake would still be welcome. For as long as possible, reflected Emma.

Mrs Dawson was still sitting in her chair, dabbing her wet eyes.

She watched Emma pour the tea and hand her a cup. ‘How can I possibly eat and drink,’ she wanted to know in a tearful voice, ‘when our lives are in ruins?’

All the same she accepted a slice of cake.

Emma took a bite. ‘We shall have to give Mrs Tims notice. Do you pay her weekly or monthly, Mother?’

Mrs Dawson looked vague. ‘I’ve no idea. Your father never bothered me with that kind of thing. And that woman who comes in to clean—Ethel—what about her?’

‘Shall I talk to them both and give them notice? Though they’ll expect something extra as Father’s death gave them no warning.’

Emma drank some tea and swallowed tears with it. She had loved her father, although they had never been close and the greater part of his paternal affection had been given to her brother James, twenty-three years old and four years her junior. And presently, most unfortunately, backpacking round the world after leaving university with a disappointing degree in science.

They weren’t even quite sure where he was at the moment; his last address had been Java, with the prospect of Australia, and even if they had had an address and he’d come home at once she didn’t think that he would have been of much help.

He was a dear boy, and she loved him, but her mother and father had spoilt him so that although he was too nice a young man to let it ruin his nature, it had tended to make him easygoing and in no hurry to settle down to a serious career.

He had had a small legacy from their grandmother when she died, and that had been ample to take care of his travels. She thought it unlikely that he would break off his journey, probably arguing that he was on the other side of the world and that Mr Trump would deal with his father’s affairs, still under the impression that he had left his mother and sister in comfortable circumstances.

Emma didn’t voice these thoughts to her mother but instead settled that lady for a nap and went back to the kitchen to prepare for their supper. Mrs Tims would have left something ready to be cooked and there was nothing much to do. Emma sat down at the table, found pencil and paper, and wrote down everything which would have to be done.

A great deal! And she couldn’t hope to do it all herself. Mr Trump would deal with the complicated financial situation, but what about the actual selling of the house and their possessions? And what would they be allowed to keep of those? Mr Trump had mentioned an overdraft at the bank, and money which had been borrowed from friends with the promise that it would be returned to them with handsome profits.

Emma put her head down on the table and cried. But not for long. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and picked up her pencil once more.

If they were allowed to keep the cottage at least they would have a rent-free home and one which she had always loved, although her mother found the little town of Salcombe lacking in the kind of social life she liked, but it would be cheaper to live there for that very reason. She would find work; during the summer months there was bound to be a job she could do—waitressing, or working in one of the big hotels or a shop. The winter might not be as easy, the little town sank into peace and quiet, but Kingsbridge was only a bus ride away, and that was a bustling small town with plenty of shops and cafés…

Feeling more cheerful, Emma made a list of their own possessions which surely they would be allowed to keep. Anything saleable they must sell, although she thought it was unlikely that her mother would be prepared to part with her jewellery, but they both had expensive clothes—her father had never grudged them money for those—and they would help to swell the kitty.

She got the supper then, thinking that it was a pity that Derek wouldn’t be back in England for three more days. They weren’t engaged, but for some time now their future together had become a foregone conclusion. Derek was a serious young man and had given her to understand that once he had gained the promotion in the banking firm for which he worked they would marry.

Emma liked him, indeed she would have fallen in love with him and she expected to do that without much difficulty, but although he was devoted to her she had the idea that he didn’t intend to show his proper feelings until he proposed. She had been quite content; life wasn’t going to be very exciting, but a kind husband who would cherish one, and any children, and give one a comfortable home should bring her happiness.

She wanted to marry, for she was twenty-seven, but ever since she had left school there had always been a reason why she couldn’t leave home, train for something and be independent. She had hoped that when James had left the university she could be free, but when she had put forward her careful plans it had been to discover that he had already arranged to be away for two years at least, and her mother had become quite hysterical at the idea of not having one or other of her children at home with her. And, of course, her father had agreed…

Perhaps her mother would want her to break off with Derek, but she thought not. A son-in-law in comfortable circumstances would solve their difficulties…

During the next three days Emma longed for Derek’s return. It seemed that the business of being declared bankrupt entailed a mass of paperwork, with prolonged and bewildering visits from severe-looking men with briefcases. Since her mother declared that she would have nothing to do with any of it, Emma did her best to answer their questions and fill in the forms they offered.

‘But I’ll not sign anything until Mr Trump has told me that I must,’ she told them.

It was all rather unnerving; she would have liked a little time to grieve about her father’s death, but there was no chance of that. She went about her household duties while her mother sat staring at nothing and weeping, and Mrs Tims and Ethel worked around the house, grim-faced at the unexpectedness of it all.

Derek came, grave-faced, offered Mrs Dawson quiet condolences and went with Emma to her father’s study. But if she had expected a shoulder to cry on she didn’t get it. He was gravely concerned for her, and kind, but she knew at once that he would never marry her now. He had an important job in the banking world, and marrying the daughter of a man who had squandered a fortune so recklessly was hardly going to enhance his future.

He listened patiently to her problems, observed that she was fortunate to have a sound man such as Mr Trump to advise her, and told her to be as helpful with ‘Authority’ as possible.

‘I’m afraid there are no mitigating circumstances,’ he told her. ‘I looked into the whole affair when I got back today. Don’t attempt to contest anything, whatever you do. Hopefully there will be enough money to clear your father’s debts once everything is sold.’

Emma sat looking at him—a good-looking man in his thirties, rather solemn in demeanour, who had nice manners, was honest in his dealings, and not given to rashness of any sort. She supposed that it was his work which had driven the warmth from his heart and allowed common sense to replace the urge to help her at all costs and, above all, to comfort her.

‘Well,’ said Emma in a tight little voice, ‘how fortunate it is that you didn’t give me a ring, for I don’t need to give it back.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that we had discussed the future,’ he told her.

‘There is no need, is there? I haven’t got one, have I? And yours matters to you.’

He agreed gravely. ‘Indeed it does. I’m glad, Emma, that you are sensible enough to realise that, and I hope that you will too always consider me as a friend. If I can help in any way…If I can help financially?’

‘Mr Trump is seeing to the money, but thank you for offering. We shall be able to manage very well once everything is sorted out.’

‘Good. I’ll call round from time to time and see how things are…’

‘We shall be busy packing up—there is no need.’ She added in a polite hostess voice, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?’

‘No—no, thank you. I’m due at the office in the morning and I’ve work to do first.’

He wished Mrs Dawson goodbye, and as Emma saw him to the door he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘If ever you should need help or advice…’

‘Thank you, Derek,’ said Emma. Perhaps she should make a pleasant little farewell speech, but if she uttered another word she would burst into tears.

‘How fortunate that you have Derek,’ said Mrs Dawson when Emma joined her. ‘I’m sure he’ll know what’s best to be done. A quiet wedding as soon as possible.’

‘Derek isn’t going to marry me, Mother. It would interfere with his career.’

A remark which started a flood of tears from her mother.

‘Emma, I can’t believe it. It isn’t as if he were a young man with no money or prospects. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t marry at once.’ She added sharply, ‘You didn’t break it off, did you? Because if you did you’re a very stupid girl.’

‘No, Mother, it’s what Derek wishes.’ Emma felt sorry for her mother. She looked so forlorn and pretty, and so in need of someone to make life easy for her as it always had been. ‘I’m sorry, but he has got his career to consider, and marrying me wouldn’t help him at all.’

‘I cannot think what came over your father…’

‘Father did it because he wanted us to have everything we could possibly want,’ said Emma steadily. ‘He never grudged you anything, Mother.’

Mrs Dawson was weeping again. ‘And look how he has left us now. It isn’t so bad for you, you’re young and can go to work, but what about me? My nerves have never allowed me to do anything strenuous and all this worrying has given me a continuous headache. I feel that I am going to be ill.’

‘I’m going to make you a milky drink and put a warm bottle in your bed, Mother. Have a bath, and when you’re ready I’ll come up and make sure that you are comfortable.’

‘I shall never be comfortable again,’ moaned Mrs Dawson.

She looked like a small woebegone child and Emma gave her a hug; the bottom had fallen out of her mother’s world and, although life would never be the same again, she would do all that she could to make the future as happy as possible.

For a moment she allowed her thoughts to dwell on her own future. Married to Derek she would have had a pleasant, secure life: a home to run, children to bring up, a loving husband and as much of a social life as she would wish. But now that must be forgotten; she must make a happy life for her mother, find work, make new friends. Beyond that she didn’t dare to think. Of course James would come home eventually, but he would plan his own future, cheerfully taking it for granted that she would look after their mother, willing to help if he could but not prepared to let it interfere with his plans.

The house sold quickly, the best of the furniture was sold, and the delicate china and glass. Most of the table silver was sold too, and the house, emptied of its contents, was bleak and unwelcoming. But there was still a great deal to do; even when Emma had packed the cases of unsaleable objects—the cheap kitchen china, the saucepans, the bed and table linen that they were allowed to keep—there were the visits from her parents’ friends, come to commiserate and eager, in a friendly way, for details. Their sympathy was genuine but their offers of help were vague. Emma and her mother must come and stay as soon as they were settled in; they would drive down to Salcombe and see them. Such a pretty place, and how fortunate that they had such a charming home to go to…

Emma, ruthlessly weeding out their wardrobes, thought it unlikely that any of their offers would bear fruit.

Mr Trump had done his best, and every debt had been paid, leaving a few hundred in the bank. Her mother would receive a widow’s pension, but there was nothing else. Thank heaven, reflected Emma, that it was early in April and a job, any kind of job, shouldn’t be too hard to find now that the season would be starting at Salcombe.

They left on a chilly damp morning—a day winter had forgotten and left behind. Emma locked the front door, put the key through the letterbox and got into the elderly Rover they had been allowed to keep until, once at Salcombe, it was to be handed over to the receivers. Her father’s Bentley had gone, with everything else.

She didn’t look back, for if she had she might have cried and driving through London’s traffic didn’t allow for tears. Mrs Dawson cried. She cried for most of their long journey, pausing only to accuse Emma of being a hard-hearted girl with no feelings when she suggested that they might stop for coffee.

They reached Salcombe in the late afternoon and, as it always did, the sight of the beautiful estuary with the wide sweep of the sea beyond lifted Emma’s spirits. They hadn’t been to the cottage for some time but nothing had changed; the little house stood at the end of a row of similar houses, their front gardens opening onto a narrow path along the edge of the water, crowded with small boats and yachts, a few minutes’ walk from the main street of the little town, yet isolated in its own peace and quiet.

There was nowhere to park the car, of course. Emma stopped in the narrow street close by and they walked along the path, opened the garden gate and unlocked the door. For years there had been a local woman who had kept an eye on the place. Emma had written to her and now, as they went inside, it was to find the place cleaned and dusted and groceries and milk in the small fridge.

Mrs Dawson paused on the doorstep. ‘It’s so small,’ she said in a hopeless kind of voice, but Emma looked around her with pleasure and relief. Here was home: a small sitting room, with the front door and windows overlooking the garden, a smaller kitchen beyond and then a minute back yard, and, up the narrow staircase, two bedrooms with a bathroom between them. The furniture was simple but comfortable, the curtains a pretty chintz and there was a small open fireplace.

She put her arm round her mother. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and then I’ll get the rest of the luggage and see if the pub will let me put the car in their garage until I can hand it over.’

She was tired when she went to bed that night; she had seen to the luggage and the car, lighted a small log fire and made a light supper before seeing her mother to her bed. It had been a long day, she reflected, curled up in her small bedroom, but they were here at last in the cottage, not owing a farthing to anyone and with a little money in the bank. Mr Trump had been an elderly shoulder to lean on, which was more than she could say for Derek. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Emma aloud.

All the same she had been hurt.

In the morning she went to the pub and persuaded the landlord to let her leave the car there until she could hand it over, and then went into the main street to do the shopping. Her mother had declared herself exhausted after their long drive on the previous day and Emma had left her listlessly unpacking her clothes. Not a very good start to the day, but it was a fine morning and the little town sparkled in the sunshine.

Almost all the shops were open, hopeful of early visitors, and she didn’t hurry with her shopping, stopping to look in the elegant windows of the small boutiques, going to the library to enrol for the pair of them, arranging for milk to be delivered, ordering a paper too, and at the same time studying the advertisements in the shop window. There were several likely jobs on offer. She bought chops from the butcher, who remembered her from previous visits, and crossed the road to the greengrocer. He remembered her too, so that she felt quite light-hearted as she made her last purchase in the baker’s.

The delicious smell of newly baked bread made her nose quiver. And there were rolls and pasties, currant buns and doughnuts. She was hesitating as to which to buy when someone else came into the shop. She turned round to look and encountered a stare from pale blue eyes so intent that she blushed, annoyed with herself for doing that just because this large man was staring. He was good-looking too, in a rugged kind of way, with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. He was wearing an elderly jersey and cords and his hair needed a good brush…

He stopped staring, leaned over her, took two pasties off the counter and waved them at the baker’s wife. And now the thin mouth broke into a smile. ‘Put it on the bill, Mrs Trott,’ he said, and was gone.

Emma, about to ask who he was, sensed that Mrs Trott wasn’t going to tell her and prudently held her tongue. He must live in the town for he had a bill. He didn’t look like a fisherman or a farm worker and he wouldn’t own a shop, not dressed like that, and besides he didn’t look like any of those. He had been rude, staring like that; she had no wish to meet him again but it would be interesting to know just who he was.

She went back to the cottage and found a man waiting impatiently to collect the car and, what with one thing and another, she soon forgot the man at the baker’s.