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Making Sure of Sarah
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. A marriage to secure true love Having fallen in love with Sarah at first sight, Litrik ter Breukel vowed to go slowly because of her youth and innocence. But perhaps he simply needed to propose!
About the Author
BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She now lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
Making Sure of Sarah
Betty Neels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
SARAH looked out of the car’s windows at the flat, peaceful countryside of Holland, no longer listening to her stepfather’s angry voice blaming everyone and everything but himself for getting lost. Her mother, sitting beside him with the map, had been ignored when she had pointed out the road they should have taken, but the main butt of his ill humour was Sarah.
He turned his red, angry face and said over his shoulder, ‘You must have known that we had taken a wrong turning—why didn’t you say so?’
Sarah said in her quiet voice, ‘I don’t know Holland. I came with you and Mother because you wanted someone who could speak French while you were in France.’ She added before he could reply, ‘If you had told us that you intended going back home through Belgium and Holland I would have bought a Dutch dictionary—so that I could have asked the way,’ she pointed out in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Don’t annoy your father, dear,’ said her mother.
‘He isn’t my father; he’s my stepfather,’ said Sarah, and she wondered why her mother, after ten years or more, could bear to be married to him, and why she expected Sarah to think of him as her father. It had been mutual dislike at first sight, but her mother, who had managed to go through life turning a blind eye to anything which upset her, had steadfastly pretended that her ill-tempered husband and the daughter she had never quite understood were the best of friends.
Then, because she loved her mother, Sarah added, ‘There was a road sign a mile or so back. It said “Arnhem, seventeen kilometres”.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ asked her stepfather furiously. ‘Letting me drive miles out of my way.’
‘I did. You told me not to bother you.’
He drove on then, muttering under his breath. Sarah turned a deaf ear, vaguely aware of her mother’s conciliatory murmurs, uneasy now since he was driving much too fast. The road was narrow, with a ditch on either side and fields beyond; it stretched ahead of them with nothing in sight and the March day was drawing to a close. She thanked heaven silently that there were no curves or corners, and no traffic at all.
She had overlooked the ditches. Her stepfather, never a good driver, and an even worse one when he was in a bad temper, took a hand off the wheel to snatch the map from his wife’s lap, and the car shot over the narrow grass verge and tumbled into the ditch.
The ditch was half filled with water draining from the fields, and the car hit the muddy bottom with tremendous force, its bonnet completely buried.
Sarah, flung hither and thither and ending up rather the worse for wear, still in her seat belt, was too shocked to speak, but it was, in a way, reassuring to hear her stepfather swearing, and then shouting, ‘Get me out, get me out!’
Typical! thought Sarah, light-headed. What about Mother…? She came to then, scrambling round until she could undo the belt and lean over the seat where her mother was. Her mother was slumped over, her head against the dashboard, and she didn’t answer when Sarah spoke to her. Sarah leaned over and found her arm and felt for her pulse—beating, she was relieved to find, reasonably strong. Her stepfather gave another shout, and she said loudly, ‘Be quiet, do. Get out and help Mother, she’s hurt…’
‘You stupid girl. I’m hurt—my leg, my chest. Never mind your mother for the moment, go and get help. Be quick. Heaven knows how badly injured I am.’
‘This is your fault,’ said Sarah, ‘and all you can think of is that you’re hurt. Well, so is Mother…’
She wriggled out of her seat, and after a struggle managed to open the door of the car. The water, icy cold and thick with mud, came up to her knees, but she hardly noticed that. It was late afternoon and the sky was grey, but there was still plenty of light. She tugged at the handle of the door by her mother and found it jammed, so got back into the car again and leaned over to open it from inside. It didn’t budge.
Frantically she managed to undo her mother’s seat belt and haul her gently into a more comfortable position, relieved to feel her pulse was stronger now. There were rugs in the boot, but first she must turn off the engine, still running, and take a look at her stepfather. She hung over the back of his seat and managed to undo his seat belt and sit him up a little, not listening to his roars of rage.
And all this had taken only a few minutes, she realised, edging her way round to the boot and finding it thankfully burst open and the rugs easy to reach. She tucked them round her mother and stepfather and then scrambled up the bank and took a look. The flat countryside stretched round her, wide fields divided by ditches, a few trees, and not a house in sight. There was a clump of larger trees some way off. Perhaps there would be a farm there, but surely even on this quiet road there would be traffic or something, someone…
There was; still far off, but coming towards her, was a horse and cart. Sarah shouted then, and waved and shouted again until she was hoarse, but the cart didn’t increase its speed. She didn’t dare to leave her mother and stepfather, and watched it in an agony of impatience as the beast plodded steadily towards her. When the cart was near enough she ran towards it.
The man holding the reins halted the horse and stared down at her.
‘An accident,’ said Sarah. ‘Police, ambulance, hospital.’ And, since he didn’t seem to understand her, she said it all again and added, ‘Please, hurry…’
The man had a broad, dull face but he looked kind. He looked across at the upended car and then back at Sarah. ‘Politie?’
‘Yes, yes. Please, hurry…’
He nodded then, thought for a moment, and broke into speech. It was a pity that she couldn’t understand a word of it, but he ended with the word politie and urged his horse forward. Sarah watched the cart disappear slowly into the distance until the clump of trees hid it from view, and then she climbed back into the ditch.
Her mother was moaning a little, and Sarah tucked the rug more tightly around her and contrived to shift her legs so that they were free of the cold water which filled the front of the car. She tried to do the same for her stepfather, but one leg was at an awkward angle and she didn’t dare to touch it. She made him as comfortable as possible and climbed out of the ditch once more, to meet a heartening sight: the blue flashing lights of a police car coming at speed.
The two men in it were large, reassuringly calm, and spoke English. She wanted to fling herself on a broad chest and burst into tears of relief, but it didn’t seem the right moment.
‘My mother and stepfather are in the car,’ she told them, in a voice which shook only slightly. ‘They’re hurt. Is an ambulance coming?’
‘It comes at once. And you, miss? You are not hurt?’ the older of the two officers asked her.
‘No, I’m fine.’ She peered anxiously over the edge of the ditch to where the other officer was bending over her mother. She would have joined him, but the ambulance arrived then and she was urged to stand on one side while the policemen and the paramedics began the task of getting her mother and stepfather out of the car.
They were hefty men, and made short work of breaking down the car door, releasing her mother and lifting her into the ambulance. Getting her stepfather out was more difficult. His leg was broken and he was cut by broken glass, moreover he disputed their actions, shouting and swearing. Sarah was sorry that he was injured, but she hoped that the men would put his uninhibited behaviour down to shock.
It was almost dark now. While they had been busy, Sarah had unloaded their cases from the boot and stood with them, waiting to be told what to do next.
‘You will come with us to the hospital,’ said the older constable. ‘We will take your luggage to the police station and tomorrow you may come and fetch it.’ He waved the ambulance away and opened the car door for her. ‘You have everything, passports, money?’
‘Yes, I’ve put them in one of the cases. Where are we going?’
‘Arnhem.’ He gave her a brief glance. ‘You are OK?’
Sarah said, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was alive, unhurt, although she was aware of aches and pains and wet and icy feet and legs; she was OK.
The hospital at Arnhem was large and modern, and the Accident Room was heaving with people. The two policemen set her down beside the ambulance, warned her to collect the cases from the police station in the morning and be ready to give a report of the accident, and sped on their way. She watched them go with regret; they had been briskly friendly—warning her stepfather that they would come to the hospital to see him in the morning, patting her on the shoulder in a kindly fashion—and now they had gone, siren sounding, blue lights flashing. Another accident?
Sarah followed the two stretchers into the hospital and presently found herself in a waiting room with a lot of other anxious people. Someone would come and report on her mother and stepfather, she was told by a busy nurse, taking down particulars and thankfully speaking English.
Sarah settled into one of the plastic chairs arranged around the room. Her feet were numb now, and she smelled horrible. A cup of tea, she thought longingly, and a nice warm bath and then bed. She was hungry, too, and she felt guilty about that with her mother and stepfather injured. People came and went. Slowly the room emptied. Surely someone would come for her soon. She closed her eyes on a daydream of endless pots of tea and plates piled high with hot buttered toast and slept.
Mr ter Breukel, consultant orthopaedic surgeon at the hospital, finished his examination of Mr Holt’s leg and bent his massive person over his patient. He studied the ill-tempered face and listened patiently to the diatribe directed at himself, his staff and everyone in general.
When Mr Holt drew breath, he said quietly, ‘You have a broken leg; it will need to be pinned and plated. You have two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and superficial cuts and bruises. You will be put to bed presently and in the morning I will set the leg. You will need to stay here until it is considered expedient to return you to England.’
Mr Holt said furiously, ‘I demand to be sent to England immediately. How am I to know that you are competent to deal with my injuries? I am a businessman and have some influential friends.’
Mr ter Breukel ignored the rudeness. ‘I will see you in the morning. Your wife will be warded also. She has concussion but is not seriously hurt.’
He waited for Mr Holt to say something, and when he didn’t added, ‘Was there anyone else with you?’
‘My stepdaughter.’ Mr Holt gave him a look of deep dislike. ‘She’s quite capable of taking care of herself.’
‘In the circumstances,’ said Mr ter Breukel, ‘that is most fortunate.’
The Accident Room was emptying, so he could safely leave the minor cases to the two casualty officers on duty, but first he supposed he should find this stepdaughter. Probably with her mother…
Mrs Holt was fully conscious now, and complaining weakly. She had no wish to stay in hospital; she must have a private room, she wanted her own nightclothes, her own toiletries…
Mr ter Breukel bent over the stretcher, lifted a limp hand and took her pulse. It was steady and quite strong. ‘Your daughter?’ he asked quietly. ‘She was with you in the car?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Where is she? Why isn’t she here with me? She knows how bad my nerves are. Someone must fetch her. She must find a good hotel where I can stay for a few days until my husband can return to England.’
‘Mr Holt will have to remain here for some time, Mrs Holt, and I cannot allow you to leave this hospital until you have recovered from a slight concussion.’
‘How tiresome.’ Mrs Holt turned her head away and closed her eyes.
Mr ter Breukel nodded to the porters to wheel her away to the ward and went in search of the third member of the party.
The place was quieter now, and the waiting room was empty save for Sarah. He stood looking at her—such an ordinary girl, dirty and dishevelled, a bruise on one cheek and smelling vilely of the mud clinging to her person. A girl without looks, pale, her hair hanging in untidy damp streamers around a face which could easily pass unnoticed in a crowd. A girl completely lacking in glamour.
He sighed deeply; to fall in love at first sight with this malodorous sleeping girl, with, as far as he could see, no pretentious to beauty or even good looks, was something he had not expected. But falling in love, he had always understood, was unpredictable, and, as far as he was concerned, irrevocable. That they hadn’t exchanged a word, nor spoken, made no difference. He, heartwhole until that minute, and with no intention of marrying until it suited him, had lost that same heart.
But he wasn’t a callow youth; he would have to tread softly, otherwise he might lose her. He went close to her chair and said gently, ‘Miss Holt?’
Sarah opened her eyes and allowed them to travel up a vast expanse of superfine clerical grey cloth, past a richly sombre tie and white linen, until they reached his face.
She said clearly, ‘Not Miss Holt; he’s my stepfather. Beckwith—Sarah Beckwith. That’s a nice tie—Italian silk?’
Mr ter Breukel, aware that she wasn’t quite awake yet, agreed gravely that it was Italian silk. Her eyes, he saw with delight, were quite beautiful, a vivid dark blue, veiled by mousy lashes.
Sarah sat up straight and pushed her hair off her face. ‘I’m sorry, I fell asleep.’ She studied his face, a very trustworthy face, she decided, as well as a handsome one, with its high-bridged nose and firm mouth and heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Mother…?’
‘I am Litrik ter Breukel, consultant orthopaedic surgery. I’m sorry there was no one to see you. It has been a busy evening. Your mother is to stay here for a few days. She has been concussed, but should recover quickly. There are one or two cuts and bruises which will heal quickly. Your stepfather has a broken leg, fractured ribs, and he has been cut by glass. He must remain until he is fit to be sent back to England.’
‘Do I have to arrange that?’
‘No, no. We will see to that at the appropriate time.’
‘May I see Mother?’
‘Of course. But first I think you must be checked to make sure that you have no injuries. And you will need a tetanus injection and to be cleaned up.’
‘I’m not hurt, only dirty and a bit scratched. And I smell dreadful…’
She went without demur to the Accident Room, where he handed her over to a stout, middle-aged woman with a kind face and a harassed manner. She spoke English, too. Sarah submitted to being cleaned up, her scratches and bruises dealt with, her injection given, to the accompaniment of her companion’s pleased astonishment that she wasn’t more seriously injured, and then, looking clean and smelling of good soap, she was handed back to Mr ter Breukel, who, eyeing her with all the delight of a man in love, thought she looked like some small girl who had been run through the mangle and left to dry.
He said merely, ‘You feel better now? We will go to your mother.’ And he led the way through the hospital, in and out of lifts, up and down staircases, and eventually into a ward with a dozen beds in it.
Her mother had a corner bed, and was lying back comfortably, but when she saw Sarah she asked peevishly, ‘Where have you been? I feel terrible. I’m sure that I’m a good deal worse than these doctors say. You should have been here with me…’
Sarah said gently, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I fell asleep…’
‘Asleep? You must have known that I was lying here in pain? And your poor father…’
‘Stepfather,’ said Sarah.
‘Yes, well—it is all very well for you, you don’t appear to have been hurt in the least.’ She added fretfully, ‘I knew this would happen; you always manage to annoy him.’
Sarah said nothing to that, and her mother closed her eyes. ‘Now go away and spare a thought for your poor mother before you go to sleep in a comfortable bed.’
Sarah bent and kissed an averted cheek, and then was led away by Mr ter Breukel, who had been standing just behind her, listening to every word.
He made no mention of their conversation, however, but walked her silently to the entrance, where she stopped and offered her hand. ‘You’ve been very kind. Thank you. I know my mother and stepfather will be all right here. May I come and see them in the morning?’
He had no intention of letting her go, and for once a kindly Fate lent a helping hand; Sarah gave a small choking gasp. ‘I’m going to be sick…’
There was a providential sink nearby, and she found herself leaning over it, a firm, cool hand holding her head…
Presently she gasped, ‘Oh, the relief,’ and then, aware of the hand, mumbled, ‘How awful for you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Best thing you could have done. You probably swallowed a good deal of ditchwater.’
He bent over her, wiped her face with his handkerchief and led her outside into the crisp March evening.
Sarah tugged on an arm to call a halt. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I’m fine now.’
‘You have somewhere to go? Money? Do you know your way about Arnhem?’
She looked away, searching for an answer which wouldn’t sound like a fib.
‘The police said I could collect our cases and things in the morning from the police station…’
‘You know where that is?’
‘No, but I can ask.’
