Emma's Wedding

by Betty Neels

  The visit to the village was a success; the children accepted Emma’s fragmented Dutch in the unsurprised way that children have, and even though she seldom managed to complete a whole articulate sentence no one laughed.

  No one laughed at the various coffee mornings she attended either, but then everyone spoke English to her. They were kind to her, these wives of Roele’s colleagues, introducing her to an ever-widening circle of acquaintances, concealing their well-bred curiosity about her, making sure that she went to the right shops, dropping hints as to what to wear at the various social functions. Emma took it all in good part, sensing that they wanted to be friends and had no intention of patronising her.

  But she didn’t allow the social round to swallow her up. She was beginning to understand the running of Roele’s house, under Katje’s tuition: the ordering of food, the everyday routine, the careful examination of its lovely old furniture, checking for anything that needed expert attention, the checking of the vast linen cupboard. All things which needed to be done without disturbing Roele’s busy day.

  Besides that, there was the village. She went at least once a week, always with the dogs—to have coffee at the dominee’s house, to talk to the middle-aged school teacher at the primary school, and join the committee engaged in organising first Sint Nikolaas and then Christmas. Her days were full and she was happy. Though not perfectly happy, for she saw so little of Roele.

  It sometimes seemed to her that he was avoiding her. True, they went to a number of dinner parties, and he once took her to the theatre to see a sombre play in Dutch. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but sitting by him had made her happy; she saw so little of him…

  There was to be a drinks party at the hospital. ‘Black tie and those slippery bits and pieces to eat,’ Roele had told her. ‘Wear something pretty. That green thing with the short skirt. It won’t only be hospital staff; there will be the city dignitaries there as well.’ He had smiled at her. ‘Mother and Father will be there, and quite a few people who know you quite well by now.’

  On the evening of the party she went downstairs to the small sitting room and found him already there, immaculate in black tie, standing at the open door into the garden where the dogs were romping.

  As she went in he whistled them indoors and closed the French windows, shutting out the cold dark evening.

  ‘Charming,’ he said, and crossed the room to her. ‘And it’s about time we got engaged.’

  ‘But we’re already married,’ said Emma.

  ‘Ah, yes, but I have always fancied a long engagement, buying the ring and so on.’

  Emma laughed. ‘Don’t be absurd, Roele. You do all that before you marry!’

  ‘So we must do it after, must we not? I cannot offer to buy you a ring, but perhaps you will wear this one? A family heirloom which gets handed down to each successive bride.’

  He had a ring in his hand, a glowing sapphire surrounded by diamonds set in a plain gold band. He slipped it onto her finger above her wedding ring.

  ‘There, they go well together.’

  Emma held up her hand to admire it. ‘It’s very beautiful—and it fits.’

  ‘I remembered the size of your wedding ring and had this one altered.’

  He was matter-of-fact, rather like someone who was aware of something which had to be done and did it with as little fuss as possible.

  I have no reason to feel unhappy, thought Emma. He had given me a gorgeous ring and I’m a very lucky girl. So she thanked him with just the right amount of pleasure, careful not to gush. Sentiment seemed to have no part in his gift.

  The party was a grand and dignified affair, with champagne being offered on silver trays by correctly dressed waiters and sedate women in black dresses and white aprons proffering canapés from wide dishes. It wasn’t long before Emma became separated from Roele and taken under the wing of the director’s wife, handed from one guest to the next. They were all kind to her, and the younger men were flatteringly attentive while the younger women bombarded her with questions about the wedding.

  She would have liked Roele to be with her but he was at the far end of the large room, deep in conversation with a group of other men, so she did her best to give light-hearted replies without saying much. Roele was a reserved man and wouldn’t want the circumstances of their marriage broadcast. She felt a wave of pleasure, remembering his obvious admiration in the drawing room, and earlier, just before they had gone to greet their host and hostess, he had said softly, ‘I’m proud of my wife, Emma.’

  The evening was half over when she found herself standing beside an older woman, elegantly dressed and discreetly made up. She had a beaky nose and rather small dark eyes. Emma didn’t think she liked her, but since she had made some trivial remark it needed to be answered politely.

  ‘So you are Roele’s wife. I am surprised that he has married at last, and to an English girl. I wish you both a happy future. You will find everything strange, no doubt.’

  ‘Well, not really,’ said Emma, being polite again but wishing the lady would go away. ‘Life here is very much as it is in England, you know.’

  ‘It is perhaps a good thing that he has chosen someone not from his own country. I—we all—thought he was a confirmed bachelor. After all, he was devoted to Veronique. He was a changed man when she went to America. But of course he needs a wife, a domestic background. For a man in his profession that is necessary. I am sure that he has made a very good choice in you.’

  The woman was being spiteful and gossipy, thought Emma to herself. She said sweetly, ‘I suppose it is natural for people to be curious about our marriage. But everyone I have met so far has been so kind and friendly. I feel quite at home. And I never listen to gossip…’

  She was saved from saying more by one of the younger doctors coming to ask her if she would be coming to the hospital ball.

  ‘You must come. Now that Dr van Dyke has you for a partner I don’t see how he can make an excuse. He comes and dances once with the director’s wife and then goes away again, but now he can dance all night with you. Although he won’t get the chance; we shall all want to dance with you!’

  ‘A ball? How lovely. Of course we shall come. When is it to be?’

  The beaky-nosed woman said sourly, ‘It is an annual event—Roele hasn’t done more than put in a token appearance since Veronique went to America.’

  ‘Then we shall have to change that,’ said Emma brightly, and was thankful when the young doctor suggested that she might like to go to the buffet with him and have something to eat.

  ‘Mevrouw Weesp is a little—how shall I say?—sour. She is the widow of a former director and now I think she is lonely and not much liked.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ said Emma, and forgot her for the moment, for Roele was coming towards her.

  ‘Oh, I’ll make myself scarce,’ said the young doctor cheerfully.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ Roele was piling a plate for her with smoked salmon and tiny cheese tartlets. ‘You’ve scored another triumph, Emma.’

  ‘It must be this dress.’

  They were joined by some of his friends and their wives and she had no chance to speak to him again.

  ‘A pleasant evening,’ observed the doctor later, ushering her into the house and the welcoming flurry of dogs. ‘The ball is the next event to which we have to go.’

  ‘That young man I was talking to said you don’t stay—only for one dance.’ Which reminded her of something.

  They had gone to the small sitting room, where Katje had laid out coffee and sandwiches, and she cast down her wrap and kicked off her shoes.

  ‘Someone called Mevrouw Weesp talked to me. Roele, who was Veronique?’

  She watched his face become still. ‘A girl I once knew. Why do you ask?’

  Emma said crossly, ‘May I not ask? I’m your wife, aren’t I? Husbands and wives don’t have secrets from each other.’

  ‘Since you ask, I will tell you. She was—still is—a beautiful woman, and I fell in
love with her—oh, ten years ago. She went to America and married there and is now divorced. I met her again last year when I was over there at a seminar.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t marry you and you made do with second best. Me.’

  ‘If you think that of me, then perhaps we should discuss the matter when you aren’t so uptight.’

  ‘Me? Uptight?’ said Emma in a voice which didn’t sound quite like her own. ‘Of course I’m not. I asked a perfectly civil question about someone you should have told me about ages ago.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked slowly. ‘It isn’t as if you are in love with me, so my past can be of little interest to you. Just as your affair with Derek is of no interest to me.’

  Emma exploded. ‘Affair with Derek! You know it wasn’t an affair… I couldn’t bear the sight of him.’ She drew a shaky breath, ‘But you met her again last year, and she’s divorced.’

  He was staring at her rather hard. ‘Do you mind so much, Emma?’

  She was grovelling around for her shoes. ‘I don’t mind in the least. I’m going to bed.’

  In her room she flung her clothes off, got into bed and cried herself to sleep. Even then she didn’t realise that she was in love with Roele.

  But Roele knew. He knew too that he would have to handle the situation very carefully, and say nothing for a day or so while she realised her feelings for him. He had been patient; he would continue being patient for as long as need be.

  Emma went down to breakfast the next morning, half hoping that Roele would have already left the house. But he was there, wishing her good morning in his calm, friendly fashion, passing her the toast, remarking on the mild weather.

  ‘I shall be at the hospital for a good deal of today, but I’ll be free to go with you for the St Nikolaas party in the village tomorrow afternoon. Have they got all they want for the children?’

  Emma replied suitably, wondering if they were to forget about last night. Well, he might, but I shan’t, she reflected, and to make matters worse as he picked up his post, ready to leave, she saw that the top letter bore a USA stamp.

  He put a hand on her shoulder as he went, but he didn’t give her the light kiss she had come to expect.

  She took herself and the dogs for a long walk that morning, and after lunch wrote a long letter to Miss Johnson and a still longer one to Phoebe. After tea Emma went to her room and examined her clothes, finding that it gave her no satisfaction at all; she might just as well wear an old skirt and jumper, for there was no one to see the lovely things she had bought with such pleasure. Wallowing in self-pity, she went downstairs.

  Roele was in the small sitting room, stretched out on one of the comfortable armchairs. He was asleep, his tired face relaxed, the lines in it very marked.

  Emma, standing there looking at him, knew then.

  Her bad temper, uncertainty and bewilderment and self-pity were swept away. She was in love with him—and why hadn’t she realised it sooner? She had always loved him, from that first meeting in the bakery shop at Salcombe.

  Now they were in a pretty pickle, weren’t they? This woman in America, now free to marry him, and he was tied to a wife he had married for all the wrong reasons. She had been feeling sorry for herself when in fact she should be sorry for Roele. He would do nothing about it even if he had given his heart to this other woman, for that was the kind of man he was. So she would have to do something about it. For him to be happy was the one thing which mattered.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. ‘Hello, I got home earlier than I expected. Have you had a pleasant day?’

  ‘Yes, I took the dogs through the village and along the road by the canal. Would you like tea? Or coffee? Dinner won’t be for an hour or so…’

  He got to his feet. ‘Just time for me to go and see the dominee about the Christmas trees…’

  So she was alone again, and even if she had wanted to talk to him he hadn’t given her the chance.

  They talked over dinner, of course, trivialities which didn’t give her an opening to say what she wanted to say, and after the meal he told her that he had work to do and went away to his study. He was still there when she opened the door and wished him goodnight. Perhaps that would have been a good moment, but he was engrossed in a sheaf of papers, and although he got to his feet he had the papers in his hand, obviously waiting to get back to them.

  Perhaps tomorrow, thought Emma before she slept.

  True, he was home early, and went with her to the village, where she helped distribute plates of food and mugs of lemonade. She was aware that he was having a word with everyone there, listening gravely to the elderlies who had come to have a look, laughing with the younger women, admiring their babies, and then finally handing out the prizes. She could see that he was enjoying himself among people that he had known for most of his life, and that they accepted him as one of themselves. Just as they accepted her, she discovered with pleasure and surprise.

  There was an hour or more before dinner when they got home. Emma went into the small sitting room and Roele followed her. He shut the door and said quietly, ‘I think that we might have a talk, Emma…’

  ‘Yes, but before you start, did you know that Veronique was free to marry again when you married me?’

  The doctor hadn’t expected that. He answered quietly, ‘No, Emma.’

  Emma sat down and Percy climbed onto her lap. ‘You see,’ she observed, ‘that is important…’

  He said, suddenly harsh, ‘It is not of the slightest importance—’ The phone stopped him. He picked it up, said savagely, ‘Van Dyke,’ and listened. ‘I’ll take the car to Schipol—give me an hour,’ he said finally.

  He put the phone down. ‘I’m going to Vienna. I’m not sure how long I’ll be away.’ He was halfway to the door. ‘Get Kulk to pack a bag, will you?’

  He went into his study and shut the door and she went to find Kulk and ask Katje to have sandwiches and coffee ready.

  Fifteen minutes later he had gone.

  The next day she was to go to a coffee morning one of the doctor’s wives was giving. Since it was being held for charity, she knew that she would have to go.

  There were familiar faces there, and several of them knew that Roele had gone to Vienna.

  ‘An emergency,’ one of the older women told her. ‘All a bit hush-hush—a political VIP shot in the chest, and of course Roele’s splendid with chests.’ She smiled kindly at Emma. ‘But you know that already. You’ve not heard from him yet?’

  ‘No, he left in a tremendous hurry. He’ll ring just as soon as he can spare a minute.’

  Her companion laid a kindly hand on her arm. ‘I know just how anxious you feel, my dear. Even now, after years of being married to a medical man, I still fuss privately if he goes off somewhere. We are all fond of Roele, we older wives. He is still so young, and brilliantly good at his job. We were so relieved when that woman Veronique—you know about her, of course?’ Emma nodded. ‘When she went off to America. A most beautiful woman, but with a cold, calculating heart, greedy and selfish.’

  Emma said lightly, ‘Roele tells me that she is divorced now…’

  ‘Well, thank heaven that he found you. We all think that you are exactly the right wife for him.’

  She was, she knew now that she was, but did he know it? She had fitted in very nicely to his life but there was more to it than that…

  She was to meet Kulk with the car at the consulting rooms, and she made her way there, passing Juffrouw Smit’s house on the way. On impulse, she rang the old-fashioned bell. Juffrouw Smit opened the door, her severe expression softening to a smile.

  ‘Emma, come in. I don’t need to go to the consulting rooms until two o’clock and I’ve just made coffee. You’ll have a cup?’

  It was more of a command than a query. Emma, awash with coffee already, meekly said that she would love that.

  They sat each side of the old-fashioned stove and talked. One didn’t gossip with Juffrouw Smit; the weather was discussed, the government
torn to shreds, the high price of everything in the shops condemned, and all in a very refined manner, until at last, these subjects exhausted, Emma said, ‘May I ask you something, Juffrouw Smit? In the last day or so I have twice been told about someone called Veronique—someone the doctor knew some years ago. I have no wish to pry into his past life, and I know that he would tell me about her, but each time he is about to do so he has to go away in a hurry. If I knew a little more about her it would be easier for me when people talk to me about her.’ She looked hopefully at her companion’s severe face. ‘You do see that, don’t you? And you would know about her, because Roele regards you as his right hand.’

  Juffrouw Smit’s face remained severe, and Emma said in a rather sad voice, ‘I dare say you don’t wish to talk about it, and I quite understand. I know it isn’t important, but I might say the wrong thing. Everyone takes it for granted that I know about her…’

  Juffrouw Smit sniffed delicately. ‘There is always gossip, and you have probably got the wrong impression from it. I do not feel that it is any business of mine to discuss it with you, Emma. All I will say is that this woman went to America a long time ago and that if the doctor sees fit to tell you about her then he will do so. There is always gossip at these social gatherings, some of it quite unfounded.’

  Emma swallowed disappointment. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she agreed politely. ‘I don’t really enjoy coffee mornings and tea parties, but Roele told me to meet as many people as I could so that I would feel at home quickly.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I must go. Kulk will be waiting for me. I do hope that I haven’t hindered you.’

  ‘No. I’m always glad to see you, Emma. I hope the doctor will be back home soon. You will be going to Wassenaar for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes. All the family will be there. And you? You spend it with family, too?’

  ‘My brother in Utrecht, just for two days, but I shall go again for the New Year.’

  At the door she put a hand on Emma’s arm. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ she said.

  Which was a useless bit of advice, for there was another letter with an American stamp on top of the pile waiting for Roele’s return, and, as if that wasn’t enough, that evening there was a phone call. It had gone to the consulting rooms and the porter had switched it through to the house, as he always did.