by Betty Neels
She stood uncertainly, studying his sleeping face. Very handsome, she conceded, and somehow rather endearing; she almost liked him. She corrected herself: she did like him. His ill-humour didn’t mean a thing to her; behind that bland mocking façade there was quite a nice man, she felt sure. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine why he had come back to London, but then she knew nothing of his life, did she? And a walk in Richmond Park would really be rather nice…
She slid away to her bedroom and got into the new jersey outfit.
CHAPTER FOUR
MR VAN BORSELE was wide awake when she went back into the sitting-room, with the cats on his knee and a rather smug look upon his handsome features. He got up as she went in, remarking that there she was, and that she had been rather a long time, in the manner of someone who had been waiting with impatience, his eye on the clock.
‘You were asleep,’ said Claribel, quick to point out the fact, ‘so don’t try and pretend that I’ve kept you waiting.’
‘My dear Claribel, you are the very last person I would pretend to. Are we ready?’
He arranged the cats on the chair he had just vacated and opened the door for her. The Rolls was outside, looking rather out of place in the shabby little road. She cast her eyes back at her windows and was pleased to see the pristine whiteness of the curtains and the tubs of flowers. He followed her look. ‘Very nice,’ he observed. ‘I like your outfit. Did you buy it to wear when you come out with me?’
This perfectly preposterous suggestion left her speechless. She allowed herself to be ushered into the car and the door closed, but she was still speechless when he got in beside her. She said, finally and coldly, ‘I bought it because I needed something to wear and I liked it. I had no idea that I should see you again.’
‘You hoped you would?’ He smiled at her slowly, his head a little on one side.
Claribel opened her handbag, looked inside and closed it up again. ‘Well, it’s always nice to renew acquaintance with people one has met.’ That sounded pompous and affected. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
Mr van Borsele let out a long sigh. ‘Oh good. Let’s have lunch.’ He took her to Boulestin’s where she ate a delicious lunch which she allowed him to choose for her: chicken mousseline for starters, brill with lobster sauce and chocolate ice-cream in a pastry case.
They didn’t linger over their coffee; the bright, sunny afternoon reminded them that they were to visit Richmond Park. On the best of terms, they got back into the car and drove the short distance to the park, left the car and started their walk. They had left the car at the southern edge of the park and were making for Richmond Hill when they paused to admire the view.
‘It’s nice here,’ observed Claribel. ‘London seems far away.’
‘You don’t like London?’ He was leaning on a rough wall beside her.
‘Well, I like theatres and going out, but only now and again. Life’s always such a rush. At home the days seem twice as long.’
She glanced at his face, half turned away from her. ‘Do you like London?’
‘Just as you do—not too often; but of course, I go where my work takes me.’
‘Surely you can choose. Miss Flute said that you were at the top of the tree.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not much use perching at the top if you’re wanted in the branches, is it?’
‘So you can’t live exactly as you would like?’
‘Perhaps not. My work is important to me, of course, but I dare say once I settle down I shall draw in my horns a little.’
They started back presently, and when they were within sight of the car Claribel asked, ‘Would you like to come back for tea? It’s been a lovely afternoon.’
‘Delightful, and yes, I’d like to have tea with you.’ He sounded casually friendly.
She offered him the easy chair again, fed the cats and laid the tea tray. A plate of very thin bread and butter, some of her mother’s homemade jam and a cake she had baked the previous evening. She carried the tray into the sitting-room and found him asleep again, and waited patiently for several minutes before he opened his eyes.
‘Didn’t you go to bed last night?’ she asked. ‘On the ferry, I mean.’
‘Oh, yes, for an hour or so. I’ve had several busy nights and they’ve caught up with me.’
She gave him tea and a plate and offered him the bread and butter.
‘You should have gone to bed and slept the moment you got to London,’ she told him severely. ‘Do you have to go to Jerome’s tomorrow?’ She frowned. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Certainly not. I’ve given myself the weekend off.’ He made short work of the bread and butter. ‘We’ll go out to dinner this evening and go dancing.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she cried. ‘You’re worn out—I must have been mad to agree to walking all those miles this afternoon. Mr van Borsele…’ She caught his dark gaze. ‘Marc, then—you must drive straight to your hotel and sleep the clock round.’
‘I haven’t a hotel, and if I sleep the clock round I won’t be able to go out this evening, and just now and again, dear girl, it’s good to be a little mad.’ He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. ‘Did you make that cake?’
‘Yes, of course I did. Why haven’t you a hotel to go to?’
‘I have a small flat I use when I come over here.’
She offered him a slice of cake, biting back the questions on her tongue; where was the flat and was it his or lent to him, and was there someone there to look after him? A housekeeper? A girl perhaps? But he had said that he was looking forward to being a family man…
His dark eyes were filled with amusement. ‘You should learn to disguise your thoughts, Claribel. This is excellent cake. May I call for you at eight o’clock?’
‘Well, all right.’ That sounded ungracious so she added, ‘Thank you, but somewhere quiet, and no dancing. You should have an early night.’
‘You’re a bossy young woman, Claribel; with a name like that you should be soft and clinging and agree with every word I utter.’
She nodded. ‘I told you that was the kind of wife you needed.’
He smiled a little and got to his feet. ‘I’ll be here at eight o’clock; we’ll dine at the Savoy and dance afterwards.’ The smile turned to a grin. ‘Perhaps it will be my last fling before I marry.’
He paused at the door. ‘A delicious tea. Many thanks, Claribel.’
He closed the door quietly behind him and she stood at her window, looking up into the street and watched the Rolls slide away. She began to tidy away the tea things, voicing her thoughts to the cats. ‘I can’t think why he came here—he must know heaps of girls. And why come to England when he’s got a perfectly good country of his own? And where’s this girl he’s going to marry?’
She began to wash up, stopping to think from time to time until a glance at the clock sent her scurrying to her wardrobe to find a suitable dress.
There was no time after that; Enoch and Toots wanted their suppers and she stood for ages trying to decide what to wear.
Finally she decided on the newest of her three long dresses, a pearly grey crêpe-de-Chine with a flowery pattern of palest pink and equally pale green. There was no time to wash her hair; she took a shower and dressed and then sat down before her dressing-table and put on her make-up very carefully. She didn’t use much. She had a lovely clear skin and thick dark brown lashes which everyone believed she had dyed; cream and powder and a pale pink lipstick were all that she needed. She spent much longer on her hair, arranging it in a coil at the nape of her neck. It added dignity to her appearance, or so she believed.
She was transferring her keys to her evening bag when Mr van Borsele thumped the door knocker. She padded across the room into the tiny hallway and opened the door, to be met by his frosty, ‘How many times must I tell you not to open the door unless you have put up the chain? And why are you not wearing any shoes?’
She eyed his magnificent person; she doubted if the inhabit
ants of Meadow Road had ever seen such dinner-jacketed elegance. She said kindly, ‘Goodness, you are cross—but it’s your own fault if you won’t go to bed and have a good sleep.’ She led the way into the living-room. ‘And I haven’t forgotten my slippers; I’m quite ready.’
She poked her feet into green slippers and picked up the short velvet evening coat, inherited from an aunt who no longer wore it—its old-fashioned cut had gone full circle and it was once again in the forefront of fashion. Mr van Borsele took it from her and helped her into it and then touched her hair lightly.
‘Nice hair,’ he commented; Claribel had the depressing feeling that he would have used such a tone of voice if he had been admiring a friend’s dog.
There was a good deal of curtain-twitching as they got into the Rolls, but Claribel wasn’t disturbed by that. On the whole, she was liked by her immediate neighbours; she was quiet, was meticulous about putting out the rubbish on a Monday morning and never stock-piled empty milk bottles. Nor did she complain when the noisy family across the road gave one of their frequent all-night parties, and when the old lady next door lost her cat it was Claribel who gave up her evening to search the nearby streets and find it. All the same, she found herself reflecting, there would be gossip; Mr van Borsele was becoming a frequent visitor.
The thought became a question. ‘Just why did you come to London? You said you had been busy and yet when you get a weekend free you waste half of it travelling.’
He turned to look at her, his eyebrows lifted, a faintly mocking smile on his firm mouth and she went a bright pink. ‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘it’s none of my business.’
‘No, it isn’t, Claribel.’ He started the car and they purred the length of the dreary road; he didn’t speak until they were on the other side of the river. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘do you begin to like me?’
She said crossly, ‘You do ask such awkward questions, but since you ask, yes, most of the time I like you.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Though why that matters I can’t think.’
‘Pretty girls like you shouldn’t think too much. Shall we agree to like each other just for this evening? Such a pity to come all this way…’ He left the rest of his remark in the air.
She smoothed her silken lap. ‘Why not?’ She felt bewildered. She was a level-headed girl, leading a well-ordered life, but now, suddenly, she felt reckless. ‘I—I think I’m going to enjoy my evening.’
‘I know I am.’ He ran the car down the entrance to the Savoy, handed it over to the doorman and ushered her inside.
The River Room was almost full, but their table was one of the best in the room, in one of the windows, overlooking the Embankment. Claribel, more than ready to enjoy herself, beamed at her companion. ‘This is simply super,’ she told him. ‘Have you got hotels like this in Holland?’
‘In the big cities, yes. Where I live there is very little night life, though Holland is a small country and it is possible to spend an evening out without having to drive too far.’
She chose smoked salmon, chicken cooked in a cream sauce and an omelette filled with strawberries and awash with a wine sauce and thick cream. Mr van Borsele ate his fillet steak and then suggested that they might dance.
Claribel was a good dancer, but then so was he; they suited each other perfectly and although the omelette was delicious she got to her feet at once when he suggested that they might dance again. He had contented himself with the cheeseboard, and when they got back to their table coffee was brought at once. Claribel poured out. ‘Oh, I am enjoying myself,’ she declared, and presently they danced again. They danced until late, but not too late to stop quite a few curtains twitching as he pushed open her door for her and bade her goodnight.
‘I’ll be here at ten o’clock tomorrow,’ he observed as she paused uncertainly in the doorway. ‘Goodnight, Claribel.’ He edged her gently inside, shut the door on her, got back into his car and drove away.
‘Well, whatever next?’ asked Claribel of the cats. ‘Ten o’clock indeed, and just what did that mean? For two pins I’ll be in bed… Anyone would suppose that he was anxious to be rid of me.’ She began to undress slowly. ‘I don’t have to go out with him again, do I?’ she wanted to know, but both cats had curled up at the end of the bed and took no notice.
A brilliantly sunny morning melted her stern resolutions of the night before. She was up early to feed the cats, eat her breakfast, tidy her small home, and dress with care in the new outfit once more. She was sitting, apparently doing nothing, when Mr van Borsele arrived, to bang on her door with his customary vigour. His ‘Hello—coffee?’ quite put her off her stroke. She had planned to be cool and casual and here he was demanding coffee the moment he poked his commanding nose around her door.
‘Do sit down,’ she begged him coldly, ‘while I make the coffee.’ She swept into the kitchen and filled the kettle with a good deal of noise and clattered the mugs on to the tray.
‘The peace of domesticity,’ he observed from the comfort of his chair. The cats were squashed on to either side of him and he had his eyes closed.
Claribel peered at him round the kitchen door. ‘Domesticity has two sides to it,’ she pointed out rather sharply. ‘You have overlooked the cooking and washing up and clearing away side of it.’
‘No, no.’ He opened an eye to look at her. ‘There is pleasure in the sight of some little woman bending over the kitchen sink.’
Claribel said ‘Huh!’ Had he noticed that she wasn’t a little woman and she loathed washing up? She retired to the kitchen before he could answer that.
She offered him his coffee and passed the sugar without speaking and went to sit on the little spinning-chair by the window.
‘The Cotswolds?’ He sounded almost humble, although she suspected him of being nothing of the sort.
‘Too far.’
‘Nonsense. We’ll go through Twyford and Didcot and through the White Horse Vale and have bread and cheese in Adlestrop…’
‘But that’s almost in Cheltenham—it’s miles away.’
‘A change of scene is good for one.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Drink up, Claribel. Feed your cats and bolt your windows and turn off the gas and do the hundred-and-one things women do before they go out.’
She rounded on him. ‘The first thing you said when you got here was “Coffee?” and now I’m expected to rush and tear around at the drop of a hat.’
He got up, his head almost towering to the ceiling. ‘I’ll see to these mugs and feed the cats; you go and comb your golden hair.’ And, when she put a hand up to her hair, ‘I speak metaphorically.’
There wasn’t a great deal of traffic once they had shaken off London and its suburbs, and Mr van Borsele kept to the secondary roads as far as possible, driving with a nonchalant ease which Claribel, a rather nervous driver herself, envied.
They talked comfortably and sometimes lapsed into companionable silences, while the Rolls sped effortlessly towards Adlestrop which when they reached it was quite delightful, with its houses of golden stone and the cottages lining the main street with dormer windows and weathered slate roofs. Mr van Borsele slid to a halt in the courtyard of the village pub and helped Claribel out of the car.
‘I’ve been here before,’ he told her. ‘I think you will like it.’
She did. The bar was long and rather dark, held together by crooked beams and yellowed plaster walls; there was a darts board at one end, but thankfully no fruit machines or taped music. There were a lot of people there; church was over and it wanted ten minutes before the one o’clock Sunday dinner would be dished up in almost every home in the village. She was settled at a table, asked what she would like to drink and given the menu card from the bar, unaware of the admiring glances sent her way. Mr van Borsele came back with her drink and a tankard of beer for himself and they discussed what they should eat. ‘You said bread and cheese,’ she glanced at him, smiling, ‘so I’ll have a ploughman’s lunch—with stilton.’
The food when it c
ame was delicious: homemade bread, a little pat of butter in a pot and a generous wedge of cheese with an array of pickles. They ate with appetite and finished with coffee before Mr van Borsele suggested that they might stroll through the village and take a look at the church.
They wandered round, looking at the numerous monuments to the Leigh family who had lived in the great house nearby for hundreds of years. Some of the inscriptions were very old and Mr van Borsele obligingly translated their Latin text. Claribel, listening to his deep voice, reflected that if he had been Frederick she would have been bored; as it was, she wished the day to last for twice its usual length.
A wish she was not granted. They had wandered out of the church into the sunshine again and Mr van Borsele said, ‘Ah, well, a delightful interlude—now for home.’
Claribel had allowed her thoughts to dwell on tea at some wayside cottage and perhaps dinner that evening, but she agreed at once; perhaps he had had enough of her company, even though he had made such a point of spending the day with her. The thought caused her conversation to become rather stiff and her companion smiled once or twice, remarking casually that they would go back through Chipping Norton and join the road to Oxford. ‘We can pick up the motorway there,’ he explained. ‘It’s barely an hour’s run from there to London. Will you give me tea when we get back?’
‘Of course.’ She spoke in her best hostess voice and his dark eyes gleamed with amusement.
It was just after five o’clock when he opened her door and she went into the living-room. The cats rushed to meet them as she opened the kitchen window to let them into the tiny back yard before she put on the kettle. There were the biscuits she had baked earlier in the week and the rest of the cake; she got the tray ready and carried it through and poured the tea.
‘Thank you for my lovely day,’ she said politely. ‘I really enjoyed it.’
‘But you are wondering why I have brought you back without so much as stopping for tea—you may even have wondered if I was going to ask you out to dinner?’ His voice was bland. ‘Unfortunately I have to go back to Holland this evening.’
