by Betty Neels
‘I can’t think why you should want to spend a day with me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Coming from any other girl, I wouldn’t believe a word of that,’ he told her blandly, ‘but from you…’ His voice became friendly and warm. ‘I haven’t had a day out myself for a long time. I need a break.’
She said instantly: ‘You went to Cannes to see Imogen.’
He agreed affably, and then: ‘You’re a little old-fashioned, Eleanor.’
‘I’m very old-fashioned, if you want to know. We don’t move very fast with the times where I come from.’
‘So I realized. It may astonish you to know that the people around these parts don’t either—very behind the times, we are. Now, having settled that to our mutual satisfaction, will you spend the day with me tomorrow, Eleanor?’
She knew then that she had never intended doing anything else but that; let the absent Imogen look after herself; she had no one else to blame and she must be a very conceited girl if she didn’t imagine that Fulk might need a little female society from time to time. She said frankly: ‘I’d like to very much, thank you, Fulk.’
It was pouring with rain when she got up the next morning; cold heavy rain rattling down like a steel curtain from a uniformly grey sky. Eleanor stood looking at it from her bedroom window, resigned to the fact that there would be no day out. It didn’t look any better from Henry’s room either; she was finishing off a few small chores for him when Fulk walked in. His good morning was cheerful. ‘I hope you like rain,’ he observed cheerfully, ‘for we’re going to get plenty of it today—the wind’s cold too, so wear a thick coat, you can keep dry under my umbrella.’
She found herself smiling. ‘I didn’t think we’d be going…’
He looked surprised. ‘Why not? You don’t strike me as being one of those girls who fuss at getting a bit wet.’
She assured him happily that indeed she wasn’t fussy, and went down to breakfast in the best of spirits.
Looking back at the end of the day, she wasn’t sure which part of it she had enjoyed most; the great church had been wonderful—all that space and loftiness, so had the Municipal Museum, where she had spent a long time gazing at the regional costumes. They had had coffee afterwards in the Grand Hotel Frigge and then gone on to look at the university, which she found too modern for her taste, although the variety of coloured caps worn by the students intrigued her.
They had left Fulk’s car outside his rooms and walked through the rain, arm-in-arm under Fulk’s umbrella, for that was the only way in which to see the city properly, he told her. They went through the narrow streets between the two main squares, pausing to admire the variety of old houses lining the canals, peering down centuries-old alleys, looking down into the cold grey water from the small bridges as they crossed them. It was on one of these that Fulk had quite suddenly kissed her, one arm sweeping her close, the other still holding the umbrella and even in this rather awkward situation, he contrived to carry out the exercise with an expertise which took her breath. She had looked up at him, rain dripping down her pretty face, a little flushed now, uneasily aware that she had kissed him back, if not expertly, at least with enthusiasm.
‘You’re very pretty in the rain,’ Fulk had said, and taken her by the arm and walked her on through the almost empty little streets, pointing out anything of interest with an ease of manner which made her wonder if he made a habit of kissing girls on bridges whenever he felt like it. She wondered if she should make some lighthearted remark to that effect, but she had been unable to think of one; silence was probably the best thing, with of course, suitable observations about the house he was telling her about.
They went back to the car after a little while and drove up to the coast to Warffrum, where there was a castle converted into a hotel. They had lunched there, beginning with Erwten soup to warm them up and going on to sole Murat and Charlotte Russe, sitting over their coffee until the afternoon sky began to darken from grey to black and Fulk suggested that for the last hour or two she might like to look round the shops in Groningen, something she was very willing to do, although she had been very careful not to express admiration for any article which caught her fancy; she wasn’t sure, but if he could buy a crocodile handbag just because she had admired it, he could just as likely purchase any of the trifles which caught her eye, so she confined her admiration to the fabulously expensive jewellery, taking care to remark a cool ‘How nice,’ to anything she judged to be within his pocket.
She was quite unaware that her painstaking efforts were affording her companion a good deal of amusement, but she found it a relief when he suggested that they might have tea before they went back home, and she agreed readily enough when he had asked her if it would be a good idea to buy Henry a book about air pistols and guns. At the same time he had bought a box of chocolates for Margaret, pointing out gravely that children should be treated equally, an opinion which she shared and which occupied them pleasantly as they drove back.
They had rounded off the day with a hilarious game of Monopoly after dinner, and Henry, for a treat, had been allowed to stay up until nine o’clock. The rest of them had stayed up much longer than that and the great Friese wall clock in the hall was chiming midnight when they went to their beds. Eleanor, lingering to thank Fulk for her day, had been a little chilled by the cool courtesy of his reply, so that she had gone up to bed wondering if his apparent enjoyment of it had been nothing but good manners. But surely mere good manners didn’t necessitate kissing her in the middle of a bridge?
The week went very quickly after that; it was Friday evening again in no time at all, with her parents packed and ready to leave and Fulk, whom she had hardly seen during the last few days, wishing her goodbye with the unwelcome information that he wouldn’t be coming straight back this time. ‘There’s a seminar in Edinburgh on Monday,’ he told her, ‘and I hope to attend it; I shan’t be back until the middle of the week. You know what to do for Henry and if you are in the least worried you can telephone me. Have you any messages?’
She couldn’t think of one. She kissed her parents goodbye and wished them all a safe journey, wanting with all her heart to be free to go with them. The house was very quiet when they had gone; the children went to bed and she was left to roam round on her own, a prey to her thoughts, picturing Fulk at her home, driving down to Edinburgh, meeting people she didn’t know, living a life in which she had no share. She went to bed at last, feeling lost.
He came back on Wednesday evening and almost as soon as he had entered his front door the telephone rang, and Eleanor, who had heard the car arriving and had come into the hall, paused.
‘Yes, answer it, there’s a good girl,’ he begged her, ‘while I get out of this coat.’
She went into the study and lifted the receiver gingerly, hoping that whoever was on the other end wouldn’t break into a torrent of Dutch. She said: ‘Hullo?’ which could do no harm anyway and a girl’s voice answered, a sharp voice asking a sharp question.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Eleanor in English. ‘Professor van Hensum is just back, I’ll call him.’
The voice spoke English now. ‘You are Eleanor? You are still there…’ There was a tinkling laugh. ‘Fetch Fulk, tell him it is Imogen.’
He was strolling across the hall to take the receiver from her. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, ‘or is it someone speaking double dutch?’
‘It’s Imogen.’ She didn’t wait, but went out of the room, closing the door carefully behind her and going back to Henry and Margaret. She had often imagined Imogen’s voice, and now she had heard it; it merely served to confirm her opinion of the girl. She embarked on a game of spillikins with the children and when presently Fulk joined them, Imogen wasn’t mentioned.
She met him at breakfast the next morning; Henry still had his breakfast in bed and Margaret had taken Flan for a walk and beyond an exchange of good mornings they had nothing to say to each other, only as Fulk went from the room he told her: ‘I have no idea when
I shall be home, if you want me urgently, telephone the hospital.’ His smile was brief, although she heard him whistling cheerfully as he went out of the house.
It was almost tea time when Eleanor, leaving Margaret to entertain Henry, went down to the kitchen to fetch the tea tray; if Fulk wasn’t coming home there seemed no point in making a lot of extra work. She was crossing the hall when the front door bell rang and she went to see who it was. Juffrouw Witsma was in her room and Tekla would be busy in the kitchen. A girl stood outside and before Eleanor could utter a word had pushed past her into the hall. A quite beautiful girl, wrapped in a fur coat, her guinea-gold hair tucked up under a little fur cap, her legs encased in the kind of boots Eleanor had always wanted and never been able to afford. She walked into the centre of the hall before she said in English: ‘Where is Fulk?’
‘You’re Imogen,’ declared Eleanor, not answering. She got a cold look for her pains.
‘Naturally.’ She frowned. ‘This filthy weather, how I hate it, and this frightful barn of a house…’
‘It’s a very beautiful house,’ said Eleanor sharply, ‘and it can’t be summer all the year round.’
‘Oh, yes, it can.’ Imogen walked back to where Eleanor was standing and stared at her, rather as though she were a piece of furniture or something at a fair. ‘I came to see you. Mama said that you were pretty, and I suppose you are in a large way, but not in the least chic—I wonder what Fulk sees in you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Eleanor quickly, ‘nothing at all—he’s in love with you.’
Imogen smiled, her lovely mouth curling in a sneer. ‘Rubbish! You are—how do you say?—dim. Well, I have seen you for myself; I shall go.’ She walked to the door and actually had her hand on its handle when Eleanor cried: ‘But you can’t—Fulk won’t be long, at least I don’t think so; he usually comes home after tea. Couldn’t you telephone his rooms or the hospital and tell him you’re here?’
Imogen was pulling her coat collar close. ‘Why should I wish to see him?’
‘But you’re going to marry him—you love him,’ declared Eleanor, persevering.
‘No, I’m not, and I don’t.’ Imogen disappeared in a whirl of fur, only her expensive perfume lingering after her as she crashed the heavy door shut.
‘Well,’ said Eleanor on a long-drawn breath, ‘now what?’
It was at that precise moment that she turned her head and saw Fulk standing in the doorway of his study, his shoulders wedged comfortably against the door jamb, his hands in his pockets.
‘There you are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just in time—for heaven’s sake go after her. It’s Imogen—if you run…’
‘My dear Eleanor,’ said Fulk calmly, ‘I never run, and even if I went after her, what would I say?’
‘Why, that you love her, of course.’
‘But I don’t.’
Her brows drew together in a quite fierce frown. ‘But you’re going to marry her.’
He smiled a little. ‘I heard Imogen tell you in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to marry me.’
She gave him a scornful look. ‘Women always say things like that. I expect she’s walking down the road crying her eyes out.’
‘Not Imogen; she’ll have a taxi waiting.’
‘Don’t quibble—what does it matter, taxi or walking…’
‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ he agreed placidly. ‘I can’t think why you’re making such a business of the whole thing.’
She was bewildered, but she wasn’t going to give up. Later on, when she was alone again, she could nurse her broken heart. ‘But you’re…!’ she began again.
‘If you are going to tell me once more—erroneously—that I love Imogen, I shall do you a mischief.’ His voice was still unworried. ‘I haven’t been in love with her for quite some time—since, in fact, I climbed the ladder to the loft and saw you sitting there in your old clothes and your hair streaming… You looked—well, never mind that for the moment. And Imogen—she has never loved me, you know, I imagine that she was flattered at the idea of being mistress of this house and having all the money she wanted, but love—no, my dear. All the same, I had to be certain, didn’t I? That’s why I went to see her; I don’t think I was surprised and certainly not in the least upset to find that she was—er—consoling herself with an American millionaire—short and fat and going bald, but still a millionaire.’ He added almost apologetically: ‘An American millionaire is so much richer than a Dutch one, you know.’
‘You’re not a millionaire?’ Eleanor wanted to know.
‘Well, yes—at least, in Holland, I am.’ He strolled across the hall towards her. ‘I suppose if I were to offer you this house and my millions you would kick them right back at me, Eleanor?’
‘Yes.’ She had seen the look on his face, and although her heart begged her to stay just where she was, she took a prudent step backwards.
But he had seen that. ‘No, don’t move, my darling; it would not be of the least use, you know, I should only come after you.’ He smiled at her and her unhappy heart became whole once more.
‘If I offered you my heart and my love would you throw them back at me too?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper. There was no mistaking the look upon his face now. She took another step back and felt the stairs against her heel. She had reached the second tread when she was halted by his: ‘Come down off the staircase, dear Eleanor.’
She supposed she would always do what he wanted her to do from now on. She reached the floor once more and he took her hands in his.
‘Oh, my dear darling,’ he said, ‘come into the little sitting room,’ and he opened the door and drew her gently inside. The whole charming place smelled delicious; there was an enormous bunch of red roses lying on the table and Eleanor cried: ‘Oh, how glorious!’ and wrinkled her charming nose in delight.
‘Roses for Christmas,’ said Fulk, ‘just to prove that you do mean something to someone, my dear love.’ He pulled a tatty piece of paper from his pocket. ‘The last thing on your list, though I promise you they will be the first of many.’
He pulled her close. ‘It’s been you all the time, my darling. How strange it is that one can love someone and not know it.’ He bent to kiss her, not once, but several times and slowly. ‘Of course, boys of sixteen don’t always know these things.’
She looked at him enquiringly and he kissed her again. ‘You were almost five, sweetheart; I pulled your hair and you kicked my shins and fell over, do you remember? And when I picked you up you were warm and grubby and soft and you cried all over me; I lost my heart then, but never knew it.’
His arm tightened around her. ‘Will you marry me, Eleanor? And you had better say yes, for I shan’t let you go until you do.’
Eleanor heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, Fulk, of course I will—and don’t ever let me go.’ She leaned up to kiss him and sighed again; she had never been so happy. ‘I wonder…’ she began dreamily, and was interrupted by the opening of the door.
‘Juffrouw Witsma has made a cake,’ Henry informed them, ‘and I’m rather hungry. Do you suppose I might have a slice?’
Fulk still had tight hold of Eleanor. ‘Certainly you may—two slices if you wish, and give Margaret some too—and don’t hurry too much over eating it.’
‘Thank you.’ Henry looked at them with interest. ‘Are you kissing Eleanor, Fulk?’
‘Indeed I am.’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘We were discussing that when you came in.’
‘I can take a hint,’ said Henry in a tolerant voice. ‘I suppose you won’t mind if I just mention it to Margaret?’
‘By all means do so.’ Fulk’s voice gave no sign of impatience, but perhaps Henry saw something in his eye, for he turned to go. ‘There’s a bowl of fruit on the side-board,’ he informed them. ‘Might we have an apple too? If we have to wait while you talk, we may get hungry.’
‘Eat any of the fruit you fancy,’ Fulk told him, and when the doo
r had shut: ‘Now, where had I got to? I think perhaps, if you agree, my darling, I’ll begin again from the beginning; I rather enjoyed hearing you say that you would marry me.’
Eleanor lifted her head from his shoulder. There was really no need to say anything to that. She smiled and kissed him instead.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-3955-5
ROSES FOR CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 1975 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.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.eHarlequin.com
