by Betty Neels
‘I’ll go upstairs and change and you can read it while I’m gone,’ he observed cheerfully.
They had got things sorted out at Jerome’s. She could transfer to a hospital in the north of the city until such time as a new physiotherapy department could be built and equipped, or, if she wished, she could be released from her contract with Jerome’s and find her own work.
It would have to be the latter, she decided immediately. For one thing the new hospital was too far away from her flat for her to be able to get to and fro within a reasonable time each day, and, far more importantly, she needed to be free to find a job wherever she wished. And that, she told herself decisively, was as far from Marc as possible.
She had pulled herself together by now and when he came back, elegant in one of his dark suits, she was able to tell him of the contents of the letter. ‘It couldn’t be better,’ she told him. ‘Just the chance I wanted to make a change.’
He nodded calmly. ‘Then this is splendid news for you. I shall be going back in four days’time. There will be no need for you to answer the letter; you will be able to see them in person.’
‘So I shall,’ said Claribel. With the upheaval her feelings had undergone she hadn’t given much thought to returning. The awful finality of it paled her cheeks, something which Marc noted with interest.
He said smoothly, ‘I shall miss my visits to Meadow Road—that is, unless you plan to stay there?’
‘I’ve no idea where I shall be,’ Claribel said with a snap. She added recklessly, ‘I’m told there are plenty of jobs in Australia and New Zealand.’
‘Must you go quite so far?’ asked Marc blandly. ‘One doesn’t need to run to the ends of the earth, you know.’
Oh, but one does, thought Claribel unhappily, and even that wouldn’t be far enough away for her to forget him. She said rather too effusively, ‘What a delightful day I have had; I liked your friends—and your aunt and uncle.’
‘Splendid. We had better go now or we will arrive too late at Grandmother’s. Have you any plans for your last few days here?’
She began at once on a recital, thought up on the spur of the moment, of the multitude of things she intended to do. ‘Your grandmother is taking me to Dokkum again and she has kindly offered the car so that we can go to Groningen, only it may be too far for her to go. And then I have to buy presents to take home and—and go up the Oldehove Tower…’
They were in the car driving back to Leeuwarden, the dogs sitting side by side on the back seat. She had wished Sieke and Warmolt goodbye and taken a last look at the little castle, wishing with all her heart that she could have explored it; it was so perfect. She had felt the warmth of the generations of van Borseles who have lived there; no sinister corners or creepy passages, just an abiding contentment and happiness.
She said dreamily, ‘It is a very beautiful castle; I’ll never forget it.’ She added quickly, in case he might think that she was too interested, ‘Leeuwarden is a delightful place, too…’
‘You like heights?’ asked Marc idly. ‘The Oldehove Tower is quite high. It leans a bit, too, although there is a lift. The view from the top is quite something.’
She hated heights and she disliked lifts but she had just told him with enthusiasm that she was going to the top of the tower. She said airily, ‘Oh, good, I’m looking forward to it.’
Back at Baroness van Borsele’s house, she went to her room to change her dress and shower. She chose to wear the dark blue crêpe-de-Chine, aware that it highlighted her hair and added sparkle to her eyes. She took great pains with her face and hair and was rewarded by a cursory glance from Marc which did nothing for her ego. And anyway, why was she bothering? she reflected, sipping her sherry with pleasure and listening to his grandmother’s very informed history of his castle; Marc had never once given her the impression that he had any interest in her other than as a useful dispenser of coffee and a means of getting rid of Irma.
‘And what did you think of the castle?’ enquired the baroness as they sat at dinner. ‘Is not the circular room in the central pepperpot tower quite charming? Marc’s mother used it as her own sitting-room.’
‘I didn’t see it,’ said Claribel flatly.
‘You didn’t take Claribel on a tour of inspection?’
‘No, Grandmother.’ He sounded pleasant enough but he wasn’t going to say more than that.
‘Quite a good thing,’ said Claribel chattily. ‘My head is crammed with so many museums and churches and farms, not to mention whole streets of lovely old gabled houses, I don’t suppose it will hold another thing.’
‘Ah, but you must make room for the Oldehove Tower. Remember to take your camera with you,’ Marc observed. ‘You should have some impressive photos to show around when you get back.’
She stole a look at him. She was reminded forcibly of the first time they had met; his face bore a similar expression of impatience and somehow his aggressive nose registered hauteur. He looked at her before she could turn her eyes away and she flushed under the gaze from the black eyes boring into hers.
He left shortly after dinner. ‘I’ve a list in the morning and a teaching round in the afternoon, but I dare say I’ll see you before we go.’ He kissed his grandmother and took Claribel’s arm. ‘Come and open the door for me,’ he suggested. ‘It will save Domus’s feet.’
But when they reached the great door and she put out a hand to lift the massive latch he lifted it off. ‘Have you any idea why I asked you to spend the day with me?’ he asked her.
She thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I expect you thought that I might like to meet some people—and I did enjoy that, really I did. And it was nice to see your home…’
He nodded. ‘I imagined that was what you might have thought. And you found my home, er, nice?’
She looked up at him. ‘I found it enchanting. Quite perfect inside—as far as I could see—and out. Anyone who is fortunate enough to live in such a heavenly place…’ She drew a long breath. ‘You must be very happy there.’
‘I am. And I intend to share my happiness with a wife and children.’
She went a little pale but she was composed enough. ‘I’m glad. I’ll think of you being happy there.’
He smiled a little. ‘And where will you be, Claribel?’
How easy it was to tell lies when one was desperate. ‘I’ve decided to go to New Zealand. Mother has cousins there.’
‘You will leave broken hearts behind you.’
She gave him a questioning look.
‘Enoch and Toots. You can hardly take them with you.’
She didn’t know what she had expected him to say, certainly not that. A faint forlorn hope buried deep inside her finally died. ‘They’ll be happy with my mother.’
She bent to pat the two dogs standing patiently at their master’s heels. ‘These two are awfully good—you must miss them when you’re away from home.’
He opened the door. ‘It occurs to me that we are having a quite inane conversation about nothing at all, Claribel. Goodnight. I’ll be in touch.’
A horrid end to a day which hadn’t been as wonderful as she had hoped.
She was a sensible girl, even if her heart was in a thousand pieces. She spent the next two days being driven around the surrounding country with her hostess; Sneek and Bolsward, with its lovely old churches and town hall, the lakes where they stopped to drink coffee or tea, and Hindeloopen where Claribel bought some of the famous painted wooden bowls and spoons. She left the baroness in the car here at that lady’s urging, and strolled along the sea wall to see the ‘Gossip Bench’ where the old men of the little town spent their leisure, looking out to sea and talking among themselves. On the third day they went to Groningen, where they had lunch at the CrémaillÈre Restaurant and took a slow stroll past the university.
During the last day of all she packed her things, spent the morning with the baroness and then, at her suggestion, decided to go out for a walk. There had been no word from Marc othe
r than a brief telephone conversation. They would leave on the following day, he told her, directly after breakfast, and get back to London some time during the late afternoon. ‘And be sure and let your people know,’ he warned her.
She sensed that he had no time to talk at length, so she agreed without quibbling and rang off. She had, she supposed, served her purpose, and then she chided herself for self-pity. She had had a lovely holiday and never for one single moment had he led her to suppose that he was even faintly interested in her.
It was a dull, warm afternoon, and she had bought her presents; there was still Oldehove Tower to visit. She told the baroness where she was going, promised to be back for four o’clock tea, and took herself off.
The tower was truly massive. She walked all round it and then, together with several other tourists, took the lift to the top. Now that she was actually doing it, she was sorry that she had been silly enough to show such enthusiasm about it. If it hadn’t been for Marc she would have backed out, but some misguided pride had made her go ahead with it. The lift was small and full of people and she stood in the centre which kept the awful feeling of being shut in at bay. She got out at the top with a feeling of enormous relief which turned at once to dry-mouthed panic.
The view was indeed magnificent; everybody else was hanging over the railings pointing out landmarks and taking photos. There were a number of children, too, dashing to and fro, and several well-meaning sightseers who, with the kindliest intentions, urged her to go to the rails and look over, too. To escape their puzzled glances when she shook her head, she walked cautiously to the other side, taking care not to look at the panorama below her. Thank heaven they would all go back presently and she with them. She wished there was some sort of seat but, since there wasn’t, put a hand on the wall and stared at the stones. They were comfortingly solid under her hand—like Marc, impatient, wanting his own way, annoyingly monosyllabic at times, able to live in luxury and choosing to work all hours in hospital theatres, but, just like the wall, solid and dependable.
She made the mistake of looking around her and closed her eyes again. She would have to rejoin the other tourists; she could hear them laughing and talking. Someone put a head round the corner and called out to her in a cheerful voice. She waved and actually smiled and the head disappeared. At least she would be able to tell Marc that she had been to the top of Oldehove Tower. She started back, careful not to look towards the railings, but when she reached the lift door she found it closed. What was more, when she pressed the knob at the side nothing happened. They had all gone; she would have to wait until they were on the ground floor and get the lift back. She would hate going down alone but perhaps there would be other people coming up… Nothing happened when she pressed the knob a second time and then, after a few moments, a third time. It struck her that perhaps the head which appeared round the corner had said something to her, had even been telling her something vital about the lift…
She waited for a few minutes before trying to open the lift doors and then she went to the head of the staircase. it snaked away from her into a gloomy pit into which the narrow steps disappeared. There was no rail and it wound, as so many staircases did, in a spiral round a central pillar.
She made a tentative movement to descend and then withdrew her foot, in the grip of quite illogical panic. She had always hated heights but now she realised that she was acrophobic, a condition which had nothing to do with being cowardly, something she couldn’t help. Clinging to the wall, she stepped back from the stairs, shaking with fright. Until somebody came back with the lift she was powerless to do anything. She edged herself up against the wall feeling sick.
The baroness looked up from her embroidery frame as Marc entered the drawing-room of her home. He greeted her with affection, refused tea and asked, ‘Where is Claribel? I managed to get finished earlier than I expected. I thought she might like to explore the castle before we have dinner with you.’
The old lady snipped a silk thread. ‘Well, dear, she went for a last walk through the city and intended to go to the top of Oldehove…’
‘Has she been gone long?’
‘Rather longer than I expected. She said that she would be sure and return for tea and it is now well past that hour.’
He stirred restlessly. ‘I think I’ll go and see if she is still there.’
‘Yes, my dear. Such a dear girl, and so right for you.’ She looked over her glasses at him. ‘She is, isn’t she? Or am I wrong?’
He smiled and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Grandmother, you are so right. I cannot imagine living a day longer than I must without her.’
‘Run along then, dear. Don’t bother to come back here until this evening—I’ll put dinner back half an hour; that will give you plenty of time.’ And, at his raised eyebrows, ‘To propose, dear.’
Claribel had retreated as far as possible from the edge of the tower, with her back to the central wall, leaning so hard against it that she might have been trying to bore her way into its thickness. She was cold and still literally scared stiff, so that moving even a hand was an effort of will. She had given up wondering what to do; surely sooner or later the lift would return and until then she could only remain still. It was a good thing that she didn’t know that the face which had addressed her had told her that the lift was out of order and that everyone was walking down…
She kept her eyes steadily on the wall and to keep up her very low spirits she began to recite all the poetry she could call to mind. Marc, climbing the stairs fast, was taken aback to hear her rather shaky voice: “‘It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute.’”
‘As I live and breath,’ muttered Marc, taking the last few stairs at a gallop, ‘she is reciting Tennyson.’
She had her eyes shut but she opened them at the sound of his feet. She stared at him wordlessly and he plucked her from the wall and held her fast.
It was too much. She burst into tears. ‘I’m the most frightful coward,’ she sobbed into his shoulder and tried very hard to stop weeping. Any moment now he would make one of his laconic remarks to deflate her, as though she wasn’t already deflated enough…
‘My poor darling girl.’ His voice was tender with a hint of laughter in it. ‘Never mind, I’m here now, you’re quite safe. Didn’t anyone tell you that the lift had broken down?’
She mumbled into his shirt front and he stroked her bright hair. ‘I can’t go down those awful stairs—I go all stiff. Oh, Marc…’
‘My darling love, of course you will go down them, behind me, and you will be quite safe, and you need never go higher than the pepperpot towers in the castle for the rest of your life.’ He put a gentle hand under her chin and kissed her very slowly. He said, ‘We’re going to be married, you know, and live happily ever after.’
‘But you don’t love me…’
‘Oh, yes, I do, have done for a long time now; I’ve been waiting for you to discover that you love me, too—and you have only just done that, haven’t you?’
She stared up at him. ‘Well, yes—the other day you know, when you asked me to lunch and all those people came too.’ She smiled shakily. ‘I don’t know what I would have done, trying to live without you.’
‘Well, you’re not going to live without me, my dearest, ever again. And now keep quiet while I kiss you.’
Presently Claribel drew away a little. ‘I—I promised I’d be back for tea.’
‘I called in and saw Grandmother; it was she who told me you were here. We’ll go there for dinner but now we’re going to my home—our home—so that you can poke that charming nose into every nook and cranny.’
He took her arm and started for the stairs. ‘Stand behind me and put your hands on my shoulders and keep your eyes on the back of my head. You’re quite safe, sweetheart.’
Love can be a very powerful feeling; if he had told her to jump over the railings she would probably have done so; as it was, she did as she was told, listening to his calm
voice planning their journey back to England and their future.
On the bottom step he turned and took her in his arms. ‘My brave girl. Stop shaking, darling, I have you safe and I don’t intend to let you go.’
Claribel took a grip on herself. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you really? You didn’t just say—the things you said—to coax me down?’ She looked up at him and saw the look in his eyes and added hastily, ‘No, you didn’t. I shouldn’t have said that.’ She reached up and kissed him and was kissed breathless in her turn.
‘Why were you reciting Tennyson?’ he asked, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
‘To take my mind off things.’
‘He wrote about you, too—did you know? “Where Claribel low-lieth, the breezes pause and die.” Only I’m not a breeze and I’m very much alive and in love with you.’
They smiled at one another and he kissed her once more, watched by a middle-aged couple who happened to be passing, a boy and the small dog with him. The couple sighed and linked arms, remembering their own youth, the dog barked, and the boy, in the manner of all boys, whistled rudely.
To Claribel, lost in bliss, he could have been a string orchestra playing ‘Moonlight and Roses’ under a perfect sky.
ISBN: 978-14592-3974-6
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE
Copyright © 1987 by Betty Neels
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
