The Course of True Love

by Betty Neels

  The old lady has been sitting quietly listening to Marc and chuckling silently; the girl was delightful, and capable of managing her much-loved grandson, and yet, she was sure, unaware of his real purpose in bringing her to stay with her. He had always had his own way, never arrogant about it, just silently going ahead with what he intended to do, listening politely to advice and ignoring it for the most part, looking after his sisters in an unobtrusive manner until they married, ignoring their hints that he should get himself a wife. But here was someone he would listen to… She smiled kindly at Claribel. ‘My dear, I believe that we are going to have a most enjoyable time together. There is a great deal to see in Leeuwarden and we can drive out to the surrounding country, too. Domus shall drive us.’

  Claribel smiled with suitable enthusiasm and reflected that she would much prefer Marc to drive her, and then felt mean at the thought. Sensibly she applied herself to giving civil answers to the baroness’s questions while Mr van Borsele sat back in his chair looking amused.

  Domus came in presently, addressing himself to the lady of the house and then he turned to say something to Marc. When he had gone, Claribel said diffidently, ‘Why did he call you Baron? Aren’t you just mister?’

  ‘Er, no, but I don’t bother with that in England. Domus is rather a stickler for titles and so on. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mind? Why should I mind?’ She had gone rather pink and both grandmother and grandson studied her appreciatively; she looked quite lovely when she was put out about something. ‘I mean,’ she added with chilly politeness, anxious not to be rude, ‘it really doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  Domus came in again and murmured briefly and the baroness said briskly, ‘Lunch is ready. I arranged for it to be served early, Marc, for I know you are anxious to get back to your own home.’

  A remark which gave Claribel a distinctly forlorn feeling.

  They lunched in a room at the back of the house, overlooking a surprisingly large garden laid out with shrubs and trees and with a small fountain at its centre. The table was covered by a thick white damask cloth and the silver was heavy and old. Claribel, eating soufflé off Delft china, wondered briefly what Marc had thought of the Woolworth’s mugs from which he had drunk his coffee at her flat. Besides the soufflé there were cold meats on a big silver dish and side dishes of salad, and more coffee afterwards.

  Marc got up to go very shortly after they had finished their meal, kissed his grandmother, patted Claribel on a shoulder in a casual manner, saying carelessly that he would doubtless see her at some time or other, and took himself off.

  ‘Such a dear boy,’ said his grandmother as they stood at the window watching the car disappear down the drive. Claribel didn’t say anything; she was struggling with an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

  Any qualms she might have had about being welcome in the baroness’s house were quickly dispelled; she was cosseted from the moment she woke each morning until she went to bed at night. Her hostess, despite her eighty-one years, carried her age lightly; the pair of them went sightseeing each day, driving at a stately pace with Domus at the wheel. Claribel and her kind hostess visited Franeker, Dokkum and the northern coast, taking narrow country roads so that she could see the villages and the prosperous farms, all built to the same pattern, the house in front, connected to a large barn by a narrow neck, the whole mostly thatched over red tiles. She had the dykes explained to her, too: the dead dykes, no longer needed because the land had been reclaimed from the sea; the sleepers, the dreamers and, nearest the sea, the watchers. In time, the baroness explained, as more and more land was reclaimed, a sleeper became dead, and they all moved back one. The villages, few and small near the coast, were mostly built along the dykes, small neat houses, too, with tiled roofs with strings of washing in their back gardens. So different from her own home but, in its way, just as peaceful and charming.

  She explored the city, too, while her hostess rested after their lunch: strolling round the shops, gazing at the Weigh House, poking her pretty nose down narrow streets and going to the museums. The Frisian Museum was, to her mind, easily the best with its lovely old costumes and jewellery and the colossal sword of Grote Pier who had driven away the Saxons four hundred years earlier. Frisians, she had discovered, were large people, both men and women, but he must have been a giant among them.

  It was on her fourth morning there that the baroness suggested that she might like to go off on her own. ‘I have business to attend to,’ she explained, ‘and it is too nice weather for you to stay indoors.’

  So Claribel wandered off into the centre of the city, not sure what she wanted to do. The days so far had been delightful, for there had been various friends and relations calling at the house, as well as their daily excursions, but right at the back of her mind was the thought that Marc had made no effort to see her. He had phoned, so his grandmother told her, but to all intents and purposes he had removed himself to the other side of the world. She told herself that she didn’t mind in the least; he was a tiresome man, always wanting his own way and getting it, too. All the same, she missed him.

  She went and leaned on the railings by the Weigh House, staring at nothing, wondering why she felt so dispirited. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, but then Irma might have made herself troublesome.

  ‘Hello, Claribel,’ said Marc from behind her, and she spun round to face him, suddenly alight with happiness—a lovely feeling, she thought bemusedly, like going out of doors very early on a summer morning or going home after a hard week’s work and opening the kitchen door and seeing her mother—a lovely complete feeling in which content and delight and joy were nicely mixed.

  He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Pleased to see me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, oh, yes.’ And then, aware of his intent gaze, ‘I’m having a simply lovely time with your grandmother.’

  ‘Good. I’ve given myself a day off. Would you like to see my home? We’ll go back and have coffee if you will with Grandmother first, and then go on home for lunch.’

  She nodded her head slowly, her hair golden in the sunshine. She wanted very much to go to his home for lunch; she knew with a suddenness she didn’t try to understand that she wanted to go to his home and stay there. How could she not have known all these weeks that she loved him?

  He stood quietly before her, smiling a little, his hands in his pockets, impeccably dressed as always only this time slacks and a tweed jacket replaced his more sober suits. His dark eyes were intent, watching her face. He must have found his scrutiny satisfactory for he observed softly, ‘Well, well,’ and then, ‘Shall we go?’

  They had their coffee on the veranda at the back of the house, and the regimented rows of flowers glowed in the sunlight.

  ‘Charming, isn’t it?’ observed the baroness, ‘but of course I’m old-fashioned enough to like a formal garden.’ She glanced at Marc. ‘Will you dine here, my dear?’

  ‘Thank you, Grandmother, yes.’ He looked across at Claribel. ‘Ready? Shall we go?’

  She had said very little while they had been sitting there, doing her best to breath normally so that her heart would stop its frantic thumping against her ribs, but she was finding it difficult. She had tried not to look at Marc, either, but once or twice his dark eyes had caught and held hers and she had had difficulty in looking away. She would have to do better than this, she told herself; the very idea of him discovering that she was in love with him made her feel quite ill. After all the fuss she had made about helping him in the first place…

  They said goodbye and she got into the car beside him and, intent on being exactly as usual, embarked on a flow of small talk, something so unlike her usual manner that Marc, agreeing to her platitudes with every sign of interest, hid his amusement.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THEIR way lay through the city and then, once free of the suburbs, Marc left the main road south for a narrow country road running between water meadows
, each with its quota of cows. Claribel admired the cows, the flat meadows and the occasional farm, keeping up a steady stream of small talk which really needed no answer, hardly pausing between one topic and the next for fear that there would be silence between them. Her tongue was in danger of cleaving to the roof of her mouth by the time Marc turned on to a narrow bricked road on top of a dead dyke. There were trees ahead and the glimpse of red roofs. Seeing them, she asked, ‘Are we nearly there?’ and heaved such a sigh of relief that Marc smothered a laugh.

  ‘The village is behind those trees; I live just beyond. In a moment you will see the lake. There are a series of them; this particular one is at the end.’

  He sounded just as usual and she decided that she had panicked for no reason; she would have to get a hold of herself. It wouldn’t be for long now; soon she would be going back home and as soon as she could she would get another job. Somewhere where she would never see him again… She sighed again and Marc allowed himself a quick smile.

  The village was small but compact, encircling a red brick church, very severe in appearance, but there were trees and pretty little gardens before the small houses and a shop or two. There were people about, too, housewives, and children playing in the street, and solid men going about their business. They saluted Marc as he drove by and he lifted a hand in reply.

  ‘They all know you,’ observed Claribel brightly.

  ‘Well, we were all born here.’ He had turned a corner by the church and slowed into a lane leading away from the village towards the lake. The trees were thicker here and presently there was a high iron railing with a vast lawn behind it and, in the centre, a castle. A small castle, but a castle nevertheless, complete with pepperpot towers, and a big double door, flanked by tall narrow windows.

  ‘Oh, look,’ cried Claribel, ‘what a darling little castle. Does someone live there? I wonder…’ She paused. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He swept the car between high wrought-iron gates and up the drive, straight as a ruler, to his front door.

  I don’t know the first thing about him, thought Claribel miserably. He was just a consultant surgeon with a short temper and a liking for coffee in London, but here he’s something quite different… She got out of the car reluctantly when he opened her door. ‘You might have told me,’ she said.

  ‘Why? What difference would it have made? Don’t be a silly girl and come inside.’

  He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the massive double doors and propelled her forward into a lobby which in turn opened on to a square hall, across the floor of which came a thin, elderly man with a solemn face. As he reached them he spoke to Marc in a reproachful way and shook his head. Marc laughed and clapped him on the shoulders. When he spoke it was in English.

  ‘Warmolt, this is Miss Claribel Brown, from England.’

  He bowed his elderly head and, when she put out a hand, shook it. ‘Welcome, Miss Brown. We are pleased that you come.’ He smiled widely and didn’t look solemn at all. ‘I’ll fetch Sieke.’

  ‘His wife and my housekeeper. Do come into the drawing-room meanwhile.’

  She had a quick look round her as she went. The floor was paved with black and white marble and had a lovely old carpet down its centre. The walls were white plaster, hung with paintings, and the staircase was at the back of the hall, solid oak with a carved balustrade and dividing halfway up into two wings leading to a gallery above the hall.

  Marc had opened an arched door and was waiting patiently for her. She went past him into a very large room with french windows opening on to a veranda at the side of the house and a row of small windows at the front. Its high ceiling was plaster with pendant bosses and the chimneypiece was an elaborate two-tier dome, ornately carved. There were a number of handsome cabinets against its walls, displaying a vast quantity of silver, glass and porcelain, and there was a beautiful console table under the windows, which was curtained with old rose brocade, held back by great tasselled ropes. The chimney-piece was flanked by two William and Mary settees and on each side of the console table were a pair of eighteenth-century armchairs of gilded wood and covered with tapestry. But there were more modern pieces as well: wing-back armchairs, a ladies’ worktable with its silk bag, lamp tables with a handsome commode with a serpentine front bearing a Delft bowl filled with flowers.

  ‘Oh, how very beautiful,’ exclaimed Claribel, rotating slowly so that she wouldn’t miss anything. ‘And lived in, too.’

  ‘Hence the mixture of its furnishings—each generation adds something. And it’s certainly lived in.’

  As if to underline his words the door was pushed open and two bull terriers came darting in, going first to Marc and then to Claribel, to stand politely while she admired them and stroked their smooth heads.

  She said shyly, ‘I liked your flat in London, but this is your real home, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was born here, and I hope I shall die here. Here is Sieke; she will take you upstairs. When you come down we’ll have a drink.’

  Following the housekeeper, a stout woman with a nice friendly face, Claribel was led out of the room and up the staircase, to be shown into a charming room at the front of the house. Castle or no, it lacked none of the comforts and luxuries of the twentieth century; there was a bed of some pale wood, covered by a quilted spread, its rose-covered satin made to match the curtains at the two windows, between which was a sofa table with a triple mirror upon it. There were easy chairs, too, and a table or two and a roomy mirrored wall closet. And the bathroom adjoining it was just as luxurious. Claribel sat down before the mirror and tidied her hair and powdered her pretty nose and made a mental list of topics she could talk about with Marc; she must remember to be friendly but not too eager—a few well-chosen questions about the castle and its history, but she mustn’t get too interested either. She went back downstairs, well primed, dreading and at the same time longing to be with Marc; the day stretched before her, probably full of pitfalls, but, after all, she had been alone with him on a number of occasions during the past few weeks… She would have to pretend that nothing had altered.

  Only when she got to the bottom of the staircase did she become aware of voices in the drawing-room, and when she went in it was to find that she need not have got into such a fidget; the room was full of people. Well, not full, but there were seven people standing around Marc with drinks in their hands. He came to meet her.

  ‘There you are, Claribel. I thought you would like to meet some of my friends at lunch. Come and be introduced.’

  Four men about Marc’s age and three younger women; they had strange-sounding Friese names like Sjamke, and Waltsjer, and they at once enveloped her in warm friendliness, laughingly pronouncing their names for her, explaining who was married to whom and who were merely engaged, asking her how she was enjoying herself. At lunch she sat between Marc and a slightly older man called Wobberen who it seemed, was a doctor with a practice in Dokkum and who knew London well, so that there was a great deal to talk about.

  The table was large and round, gleaming with silver and glasses and everyone talked to everyone else while they ate cold salmon and a salad which looked too good to eat and then a Dutch apple tart with lashings of whipped cream. They had their coffee at the table, served by Warmolt, grave as a judge, going silently about the room; he suited his surroundings very well, Claribel decided, for the dining-room was as grand in its way as the drawing-room, with panelled walls and a great deal of strapwork on the ceiling.

  It was well past three o’clock when Marc’s guests went their various ways. He stood on his doorstep with Claribel beside him, seeing them off, and when the last car had gone to took her arm.

  ‘Like to look round the grounds?’ Not waiting for an answer, he walked her round the side of the castle along a narrow path with the castle walls on one side and a gentle grass slope on the other. ‘There was a moat a very long time ago,’ he explained.

  There were sweeping lawns at the back of the cast
le and a knot garden, as well as a lily pond with goldfish, but there were no formal flower beds here. Instead there were flowering shrubs, great banks of roses and a lavender hedge bordering a grey flagged path which led them to a circular bed of colourful annuals. And, beyond that, trees and an expanse of parkland.

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ cried Claribel. ‘How can you bear to leave it?’

  ‘Ah, but I come back to it, you see. It has been here for a very long time; it is ageless and timeless.’

  He tucked her hand under his arm as they strolled along, and Claribel suffered a succession of what felt like electric shocks and tried not to notice them.

  ‘I’ve a letter for you,’ he went on, ‘from Jerome’s. Remind me to let you have it when we get back indoors.’ Sooner than she had wished.

  Warmolt, pacing in a stately fashion towards them, caused them to stop and wait for him. He bowed politely to Claribel, who felt that she should bow back, and addressed himself to Marc.

  Whatever it was engendered a brief conversation before Marc observed, ‘An aunt and uncle have called. We had better go back.’ He said something to Warmolt who quickened his pace ahead of them. ‘Tea,’ said Marc, ‘and light conversation.’

  The two people waiting for them in the drawing-room were middle-aged, tall and inclined to stoutness; the man had the aggressive nose Claribel had rightly associated with the van Borseles. They greeted her kindly, made small talk over tea and biscuits and, in due course, went away. Claribel liked them both but although they were van Borseles she had been unable to pronounce their names. Not that it mattered; she wasn’t likely to meet them again. The thought saddened her and at the same time reminded her that Marc had a letter from the hospital. He gave it to her when she asked.