Beatrice: Betty Neels tribute, #1

By Susan Leona Fisher

Beatrice leaves behind her life and job in London to stay with her great aunt Jane, her only remaining relative. Being mixed race in the early eighties is not that unusual in the big city, but in the north, she does rather stand out as different and wonders if she'll be able to get work. As it happens there's an aristocratic lady who needs a typist and is delighted to discover Beatrice's half-African roots, when at last Beatrice manages to get there. She is somewhat late for her interview, which happens to fall on the day the snowy winter of 1981/2 begins. Beatrice's car gets stuck in the middle of nowhere and she's in serious trouble—until a bad-tempered farmer on a tractor comes to her rescue. She hopes she'll never have to encounter him again, but fate has other ideas…as does the farmer himself. Enjoy this traditional take on the contemporary sweet romance in the style of the late Betty Neels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201888473

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tuesday 24th November 1981, North Yorkshire

What was it Aunt Jane had said? It’s only up the hill, over the top and down the other side. Beatrice had been on the road a matter of ten minutes when she began to catalogue the BUTS that should have been appended to that confident assurance.

First of all, Aunt Jane’s Mini was at least twelve years old. Jane was actually Beatrice’s great aunt. Great was not an adjective appropriate to describing the maturity of her motor car, however. It might be a Mark III Mini, allegedly well-maintained by Stan, who ran the little repair shop in Jane’s village of Low Well Bottoms, but perhaps even he couldn’t work his magic in this situation, which was definitely demonstrating High Bad Tops at this moment. It did not like going uphill and the engine was misfiring. Beatrice was in first gear, trying to play the clutch to keep the wretched thing moving.

As if that wasn’t enough, this model had no heater and it was darned cold. Freezing temperatures had arrived from the Arctic yesterday. Having announced their arrival in dramatic fashion by creating over one hundred tornadoes the length and breadth of the country, they were not, according to the weather report, planning on going away quickly.

She should have taken the news more seriously and done the sensible thing, by ringing to alter her appointment. But that would have risked someone else getting the job before she had the chance of being interviewed and she really wanted it. At least freezing temperatures made it too cold to snow, according to Aunt Jane. At the very moment she had that thought, however, the first flakes of white began cascading gently down, huge artistic creations, to spatter against the windscreen. It was fortunate she was going slowly, because it took her a while to remember where the wiper switch was. That, however, became academic when the car gave up completely and the engine gave one final sputter and stalled.

A few attempts to get it started again led to several pathetic coughs. The battery was definitely firing, but the engine simply wouldn’t catch. Well, she thought, if I can’t go up, I could release the handbrake and roll backwards down the hill. She tried, but it wouldn’t move on the layer of snow already coating the road. Would another vehicle happen along this distinctly un-busy narrow lane? The windscreen was now entirely covered in snow and the wipers couldn’t cope and stopped moving. She turned them off, fearing they might break.

Beatrice was beginning to suspect she was in a very dodgy situation. She would have to get out and walk back down the hill. It was either that, or freeze to death right here. Then came the realisation as to what she was wearing. She’d chosen one of her workplace power suits consisting of a knee-length pencil skirt and a jacket with shoulder pads and wide lapels, in a business-like navy, combined with her best cream silk shirt. It was the perfect outfit for a job interview, but hardly appropriate for a snow-storm. She’d not had occasion to wear such smart clothes since quitting the London scene. The suit was less of a problem than the matching shoes. Colour-co-ordinated they might be, but three-inch heels were less advisable for negotiating an ice-encrusted slope.

Prayer might be another possibility, she supposed, but the Almighty was unlikely to appreciate any special requests from a petitioner who’d removed him from her Christmas card list years ago. On the other hand, she did accompany Aunt Jane to the sweet little church in Low Well Bottoms most Sundays. That might count for something, however tongue-in-cheek her participation.

What was that noise? Had she already lost consciousness and been spirited away to stand before the pearly gates for judgement, while the bell tolled? Then she realised it wasn’t a bell at all, but a very loud and harsh horn, accompanied by the deep rumble of a large engine, coming from behind. Looking over her shoulder, through the snow-encrusted back window, she made out the blurry glow of two high-up powerful beams of light. The aggressive beeping stopped and suddenly her door was wrenched open.

What the hell are you doing sitting here? You’re lucky I didn’t smash into you. Why the deuce haven’t you switched on your lights? From the deep voice, the speaker must be male, but beyond that she couldn’t make him out at all. He was covered from head to toe in bulky waterproofs, with a balaclava covering all but his eyes, topped by a chunky woollen hat, with a thick scarf around his neck and mouth, heavy duty gloves and knee length Wellington boots.

She looked in the general direction of his eyes, which were very dark and angry, and gave her sweetest smile. I would have thought that was obvious. It’s such a lovely day I’ve brought a picnic to enjoy at the top of the hill. I’m told there are lovely views all round.

Ha, bloody, ha. This is no joking matter. He was examining her outfit now. From the city, are you? Damned idiot. Whatever made you think a clapped-out banger like this could cope with severe winter weather?

It was doing fine until the snow came. That was a complete lie, but she wasn’t going to admit that in the presence of this aggressive individual.

He leaned closer and for one bizarre moment she thought he intended kissing her, until she realised he was examining the instrument panel. And, naturally, you looked at the fuel gauge before setting out. He pointed at it. This little display here, where it says F.U.E.L. It’s quite simple. You check where the needle is pointing, see—F stands for full, which unfortunately you are not. E stands for the opposite, which clearly you are—an empty tank and an empty head! He stood up straight again, hands on hips.

Oh, bother, she said, recalling yesterday’s outing, when she and Jane had gone shopping to stock up against the cold weather. Aunt Jane mentioned it needed topping up. The only thing is there’s no fuel station in Low Well Bottoms and there was such a queue at the big supermarket we thought we’d leave it until later. Jane will probably remember and worry that I was going to run out of petrol. She’s very much one of those people who likes to have everything under control—ex-primary school headmistress, you know. But, hey...is that a tractor you’re on? I don’t suppose you’ve one of those cans with some spare fuel?

I have, but it’s no use to you, seeing as it’s diesel and I presume this has a petrol engine.

I’m not sure. Does it matter?

People like you should not be let loose on the road. You’ve absolutely no idea... He pulled the door wider. Come on. Where’s your coat?

She looked at the back seat—no coat. Oh bother! She shrugged. I left in rather a hurry. She knew she shouldn’t have allowed Jane to insist on making her a cup of tea before her departure. It had made her later leaving than intended and warmed her up, so she forgot to grab her lovely warm winter coat on the way out.

Dear God, woman. Have you no sense at all? He removed his woollen hat and plonked it on her curly head and then shed his waxed jacket and made her put that on, before winding the scarf to cover her nose and mouth. Leave the key in the ignition. No one’s going to steal it, are they?

No, I suppose not. She sensed he might actually be smiling beneath that slightly sinister balaclava. Since he clearly did not find the situation amusing, she guessed it must be at how totally ridiculous she looked in his clothing.

He was about to pull her to her feet, but stopped. He was staring down at her shoes. Why am I not surprised?

He did pull her upright, but Beatrice was not expecting what happened next. He bent and slid one arm behind her knees, the other behind her back and bodily carried her to the rumbling tractor. Once there, an equally challenging task awaited, getting her up via the high step and into the cab.

You’ll have to sit on the tool box behind the seat, he shouted at her, at the same time picking something up from the driver’s seat. Put these on.

Beatrice stared at him. Her mind had gone as frozen as her body.

Oh, for goodness sake! Balancing on the edge of the cab. he took the ear muffs from her unresisting fingers and put them in place. Beatrice got the feeling he could be quite nice and caring if he wasn’t so bad-tempered. He climbed down, but he’d not finished bossing her about.

Sit still! he shouted above the noise of the engine, and for God’s sake don’t touch anything, or your aunt Jane will have one flat Mini and you will be short of a driver.

Beatrice couldn’t see what he was doing, but it must have involved somehow shifting the car to the edge of the road. At last he returned to the tractor, strapped himself in his seat and set them off.

Hold on wherever you can, he called out.

If she’d thought the tractor noisy when it was stationary, once it got moving, it was impossible to make oneself heard. The man hadn’t asked where she was headed, but what did it matter? She must already be late for her interview. Her hands were lost inside the voluminous arms of the borrowed jacket and she was too cold to attempt extracting her left wrist to check the time. Besides which, she feared she might well tumble from her perch if she didn’t keep holding on with both hands. The huge vehicle vibrated like an earth tremor.

As soon as possible, her priority must be to telephone Aunt Jane and let her know she was safe. She would have seen the change in the weather and no doubt have begun to worry.

The snow had become really thick and Beatrice was aware she wouldn’t have been able to see her way even if the car had kept going. It was completely disorientating with everything whited out and no sense of where the edges of the road were, for there were no hedgerows or stone walls on this barren stretch. The man was obviously local and was having no trouble, although he was employing caution and moving quite slowly. Visibility was dreadful. At last they were going downhill, although the snow didn’t abate. The gradient was quite steep in places and Beatrice appreciated the security of being in such a solid vehicle.

Once on level ground he soon turned them through an open gate onto a track. There was a board at the roadside, but the lettering was obliterated by a coating of snow. She guessed it might be a farm and so it turned out. He stopped beside an ancient-looking stone-built house, situated on the edge of a huge yard, which was surrounded by large barns. Everything was white and the snow lay several inches deep already.

Her rescuer climbed down and got Beatrice to balance on the step. Then he folded her over his shoulder like a fireman and carried her into the house, where he lowered her to stand on a stone-flagged floor. It was a functional room, very ordered, with a row of rubber boots in various shades and sizes along one wall, above which were wooden pegs, some hung with jackets such as the one she had on. One corner had a large ceramic sink set on the floor with a single tap over it.

If I could trouble you for the jacket and so on, he said, interrupting her examination of the room.

Of course, she said, removing the items. I wonder— she began, but he cut her off.

—you’ll find Cindy somewhere through there, he said, pointing at the door into the house. I have work to do.

He put on his things and, with one more smouldering look from his dark eyes, which were still all she could see of his face, he strode back out. Beatrice found herself standing arms akimbo staring after him. What a rude man, even though she suspected he’d probably saved her life. He’d not even given her time to say thank you.

She’d best find this Cindy person, his wife presumably, and hope she was a little more friendly than her husband.

Hello, she called out, pushing open the door the man had indicated. Anyone home?

She stepped through and found herself in a huge traditional farmhouse kitchen, as she imagined it at least, not having experience of the same. Everything was scrubbed pine and open shelving, with solid stone flags and a huge range. And it was delightfully and comfortingly warm. A black and white collie was lying in a basket near the stove and raised his head as she entered, gave a rudimentary thwack of his tail and then went back to sleep.

Hello, she called again. Anyone home?

A woman appeared through another doorway, carrying a packet of something, and Beatrice spied multiple shelves of provisions behind her in what must be a walk-in larder.

Oh, hello, the woman said, running one hand through her blonde wavy hair. Stuck in the snow, are you?

I was, yes. A man on a tractor very kindly rescued me. Never mind that he’d made her feel like an absolute nuisance and an utter nincompoop to boot.

From the far side of the scar? That would be Richard. He took a bale of hay over to the Smithsons. They have a smallholding over that way.

My lucky day, Beatrice said. I’m very grateful.

No coat? You must be freezing. How about a mug of tea? the woman asked. I’m Cindy, by the way.

Beatrice. Thank you. I’d really appreciate it. I’m not exactly dressed for the weather.

Cindy looked her up and down. So I see. But I guess you’re dressed up like that for something special. She busied herself warming the pot. Do have a seat.

Beatrice sank gratefully onto the nearest chair at the large table. A job interview. She glanced at her watch. I’m somewhat late now.

Cindy finished pouring hot water into the teapot and glanced up at the large clock on the opposite wall. Oh dear. You’re welcome to ring and let them know. The phone’s on the wall by the door there. She pointed at the door that led into the rest of the house.

That’s really kind. Oh... Beatrice got that sinking, light-headed feeling that comes when you’ve suddenly realised you’ve forgotten something really important. What an idiot! I’ve left my handbag in the car.

Cindy frowned, as if she didn’t quite understand the problem. Isn’t it parked outside? I thought he’d towed you here.

Beatrice shook her head. It’s back over the other side of the snow mountain, I’m afraid. Perhaps I could look up the number. It’s Langside Hall. I don’t think it’s too far from here.

That’s easy. Our land shares a boundary with theirs. No need to look it up. It’s written on that list by the phone. Our kids attend the local school with the two children from the Hall.

Great, thanks.

The phone took a while to be answered and Beatrice envisaged a substantial mansion with a huge entrance hall. That picture was reinforced when at last it connected.

Langside Hall, may I help you? The woman’s voice reverberating with echoes as though in a cavernous space.

Could you put me through to Lady Golding...Lady Eleanor, that is.

Beatrice was standing by the phone with her back to the room, but sensed Cindy was probably listening with interest. Having poured out the tea, she was no longer busying herself with anything else. According to Jane, country places were like that, thriving on gossip and the doings of neighbours. Beatrice only hoped she wasn’t breaking confidences here. Supposing her ladyship’s advertising for a secretary was not generally known? But then, she had put it in the paper, so it must be.

I’m sorry, madam, the voice said. She’d not available at present.

Oh...well perhaps you could pass on a message. This is Miss Stephenson—Beatrice. I was supposed to be meeting with her ladyship at two, but I’ve been somewhat delayed by the snow and am now without my car.

I’m not surprised. Where are you now, Miss Stephenson?

I’ll ask, she told the woman, as she turned to Cindy, who either had very good hearing or had guessed how the conversation was going.

Langside Farm, she told Beatrice, who repeated it to the lady.

I’ll arrange for someone to come and pick you up, the woman said. It’s only a few minutes. The lady before you was early, so is being seen now. You can use her slot.

Thank you. What a relief she hadn’t missed being interviewed, even though there was at least one rival for the position, if not several. She returned to her seat and gratefully sipped her tea.

They’re picking me up.

In that case, Cindy said, would you like to freshen up. There’s a downstairs cloakroom through there. She pointed to the corridor that led into the house. While you’re doing that, I’ll find you something to keep you a bit warmer.

Thank you. But first, might I make another call. I don’t want my aunt to be worried.

Help yourself.

At least she knew that number off by heart. At first, she thought she’d dialled it wrongly, but then she realised it must be cut off. She rang the operator to check and it was confirmed.

That often happens in this weather, Cindy said. There’ll be a cable down on the tops.

Beatrice sighed and went to use the cloakroom.

The plaid woollen coat and home knitted hat and gloves that Cindy found her were not exactly the height of fashion. However, they were a sensible choice, given that the ancient Land rover sent by the Hall turned out to have no heater, or at least not a functioning one. The rubber boots were a little on the large size, even with thick socks. She clutched her shoes in one hand and climbed in. The interior was dusty, with coatings of dried mud and a distinct pattern of doggy paw prints, not to mention a significant spattering of animal hairs. She was grateful for the old coat shielding her suit. Navy blue didn’t go with moulting animals.

Her driver was an older man in work overalls, called Fred. It was a short run to the Hall and Beatrice used what little time there was worrying how exactly she could retrieve her bag—not to mention the Mini. That was the least of it. How was she to get back to Aunt Jane’s? The road would surely be impassable by now. And how was she to contact Jane to explain the situation? She was close to panic. How on earth was she to cope with the interview on top of everything else?

Having tried to tell herself there was nothing she could do about it right now, Beatrice turned her mind to the coming ordeal, hoping all the preparation she’d done was still in her head, since the notes she’d made were in her bag. This was unlike any other application process she’d undertaken, and she’d experienced a few. There had been no precise job description or printed application form, but merely an advertisement in the local paper inviting applicants for the position of secretary to Lady Eleanor Golding to write in, stating their interest and the skills they would bring to the post. No references had been requested, at least not at this stage. That was a relief, since it had been a while since she’d been employed. Nor had there been any indication of salary.

The other thing there had not been was an equal opportunities form, on which she could confidentially indicate her age, gender, race and so on. This was supposed to enable recruiters to monitor even-handedness in terms of such characteristics without influencing the short-listing process, but in Beatrice’s experience it did not really work. She might get short-listed, but once she showed her face at an interview, it was quite clear that her origins were not entirely Caucasian. Despite her ten years’ experience as a secretary—well, more of a typist really—she suspected the fact of her mixed origins had put her in second place on more than one occasion. Neither did it help that she only had a basic school certificate in typing, not a secretarial diploma. She’d received no post-sixteen education at all. The typing qualification had easily got her into work, but she’d not made much progress in status or salary since then and had moved jobs quite a bit, largely on the basis of last-in, first-out—allegedly.

It was still snowing heavily when Fred pulled up at their destination.

You’re to go in round the side, miss, through the drying room, he told her. Lady Penelope don’t want the snow trudged into the hall.

Right, Beatrice said. She couldn’t see the building at all. Well, thank you very much for your trouble, Mr...er...Fred. She opened the vehicle door and slid down to the ground. He’d pulled up with her door away from the side entrance, so she had to negotiate the snow to walk round the vehicle—no fireman’s lift on offer this time. Thank goodness for the borrowed footwear. Opening the door, she found herself in a large square room full of hats and coats and boots, with a padlocked gun cupboard in one corner and a huge boiler in another. Despite being high-ceilinged, it was lovely and warm and a pair of clothes pulleys were laden with bed linen drying.

Then she saw the animals. Two lurcher dogs had been dozing on the rug near the boiler, but now sensed her presence. They got to their feet and, like a trained pair of hunters, positioned themselves one each side to hem her in by the door, with low growls emanating threateningly from both.

A woman stepped out from a corridor off to one side. Miss Stephenson? Don’t worry about them, she said and then pointed at the mat and ordered Lie down! They slunk back to the warmth of the boiler, whimpering their objection. They’re not usually kept in the main house, but it’s turned that cold, Lord Walter took pity on them. So...welcome to Langside Hall, Miss Stephenson. I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Sedgwick. We spoke on the phone.

Beatrice didn’t much care for dogs and edged her way along the other side of the room until she reached the housekeeper. She offered her hand How do you do?

"Glad you made it in the end. Would you like to leave your coat and things in here? You won’t

Reviews for Beatrice

[Vanithaa Mnogaran · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Completely enjoyed it, lovely characters, very realistic circumstances and emotions.