by Betty Neels
‘There’s a tiny garden at the back,’ she told him. ‘But what about a garage?’
‘Being the last in the row, we have a double one at the side.’ He took her hand in his. ‘You’re sure?’
When she nodded, he said, ‘Then let us go to the agent’s office and settle the matter.’
As they went back downstairs he observed, ‘The place has been put in good order. I’ll have to have it surveyed, of course, but by the time we come back from Holland it should be ours and you can set about furnishing it.’
‘You too—it’s your home as well.’
‘A pleasant thought,’ he said, and smiled at her again.
The agent’s office was palatial, in a quiet street somewhere behind Harrods. She had had no idea that buying a house was so easy. She supposed that there would be no mortgage; it seemed to her the kind of place where one handed over a cheque with the minimum of fuss. Which was just what the professor was doing. If she had known the size of the deposit he was paying, let alone the price of the house, strong girl though she was, she would probably have fainted.
As it was, she speculated about Gijs’s income. It must be a good one, of course; he drove a Rolls-Royce, didn’t he? And his shoes were hand-made, his clothes discreetly elegant. She supposed she would get used to his lifestyle in time, but she had never been a girl to hanker after things she knew she could never have. It would be nice to be able to have some fashionable clothes...
The business dealt with, they went in search of tea. He took her to Brown’s Hotel where, she saw at once, he was known, and enjoyed a delicious tea—tiny sandwiches, mouth-watering cakes, and muffins in a covered dish. Drinking Earl Grey tea, she remembered the strong brew offered in a mug which he had drunk with every evidence of enjoyment at the vicarage.
He drove her back to Sunningfield then, but he didn’t stay for long. She hid her disappointment behind a bright smile and thanked him for her day, laughingly agreeing that the next time they saw each other it would be on their wedding day.
Seeing him off from Aunt Flo’s door, she speculated as to how he would be spending his evening. He had been in a carefully concealed hurry to go back to London. Perhaps he was dining with friends, or just one friend—a woman, perhaps. A final fling before he married.
Margo allowed her imagination to run riot; only Aunt Flo’s voice begging her to come in and shut the door brought her back to good sense again. Gijs, she told herself firmly, was entitled to do what he wanted without her poking her nose into his affairs. She joined her aunt in the sitting room and gave her a detailed account of her day.
She thought about him again, though, once she was in bed.
* * *
IT WAS A pity for her peace of mind that she didn’t know that the professor had driven straight to the hospital; there was a very ill child there, not yet diagnosed, and he had said that he would return that evening and do more tests. He remained at the hospital for some hours, forgetful of dinner, of the house he had just bought, and even forgetful—just for the time being—of Margo.
Chapter SIX
THE DAYS UNTIL the wedding flashed by in a dream. Sometimes Margo woke in the night convinced that she was making a dreadful mistake, that she must have been out of her mind to agree to marry Gijs. In the small hours the future loomed, fraught with pitfalls: his family, his friends—and he had many, he had told her—the prospect of entertaining them, of buying the right clothes, and that lovely little house which he expected her to furnish. She would fall asleep again eventually, and when she woke it would be morning and all that mattered was that she loved him...
* * *
THEY WERE TO be married at eleven o’clock. Gijs came to fetch them just before nine o’clock.
‘This is most unorthodox,’ observed Aunt Florence, majestic in a new hat. ‘The bridegroom should never see his bride before she comes to him in church.’
‘In Holland,’ the professor told her placidly, ‘the bridegroom goes to fetch his bride with a bouquet and they go to be married together. Where is Margo?’
‘I’m here.’ She came quietly downstairs, feeling shy, anxious that he should like her outfit.
He crossed the small hall and bent to kiss her. ‘What a charming outfit, and I do like the hat.’
She smiled up at him, reflecting sadly that he might have been a brother or a cousin, even an old friend from his manner—certainly not a man in love. Sitting beside him in the Rolls presently, she reminded herself that he wasn’t in love with anyone, so why shouldn’t he fall in love with her? First she must attract his attention—the right clothes, an elegant house, entertaining his friends, a good hairdresser and the discreet application of the beauty aids recommended in the glossy magazines. All this must be done slowly; first she must get to know his family and something of his life. It would probably take years, she reflected, but it would be worth it.
Gijs kept up a flow of small talk as he drove, with Aunt Florence chipping in from time to time, but presently he said, ‘You’re very quiet, Margo—cold feet?’
‘No.’ She turned to smile at him. ‘What about you?’
‘Certainly not. I have always understood that bridegrooms dread getting married—dozens of guests, satin and wedding veil, bridesmaids, wedding cakes and getting showered with confetti—but since none of these will bother us I’m looking forward to being married.’
‘When I married your uncle,’ said Aunt Flo from the back seat, ‘he shook like a leaf throughout the service and he trod on my train.’
At the church, Gijs parked the car, handed Margo over to Sir William and went with Aunt Flo. Two minutes later they followed them, and as the church door was opened Margo was surprised to hear the organ. It would be old Miss Twittchitt playing: Margo could hear the wrong notes. She had played for years and no one would have dreamt of suggesting a successor. The verger was just inside the door, beaming at her, handing her a small bouquet as Sir William began to march down the aisle, sweeping her along with him.
The church was full; every single person from the village was there, smiling and nodding as they went. She clutched Sir William’s sleeve and he patted her hand.
‘A surprise, eh? Well, we’ve all known you for years, my dear.’
She glanced at Gijs when she reached his side and he half smiled at her. She wanted to ask him if he had known about it, but knew it would hardly do with the new vicar standing by waiting to marry them.
He began the service and she gave him her full attention. Only when it was time for the ring to be placed on her finger did she realise that there was a man standing beside Gijs. A big man, about Gijs’s age, perhaps older, who handed over the ring without a fuss, smiling a little.
Presently, as they stood at the church door while people took photos, she asked who he was.
‘Gijs van der Eekerk. Beatrice is here too; you’ll meet her soon.’ He took her arm. ‘Come along; Sir William and his wife have laid on a reception—the entire village will be there.’
‘Oh—did you know?’
‘Yes. He rang me a couple of days ago, but I thought it would be best to surprise you.’ He smiled. ‘It isn’t quite the wedding we planned, is it? But they all love you, Margo.’
* * *
MARGO, CUTTING THE wedding cake with Gijs’s firm, cool hand over hers, said quietly, ‘Won’t we miss the ferry?’
‘We’re going on a later one. We shall get home for supper instead of tea.’
She met Beatrice and Gijs van der Eekerk; she liked them both and it was nice to think that she would see more of them in London as well as in Holland—it somehow made the future more solid. She and Gijs went from one group to the next in the Frosts’ vast drawing room, bidding people goodbye, exchanging plans to meet again at some time and finally thanking Sir William for their reception.
He beamed at th
em. ‘Well, what I mean to say is, Lady Frost said to me, “William, I insist on having Margo here with her husband. The village is sorry to see her go.” She is quite right too. Hope you’ll be very happy and all that.’
Aunt Florence, buoyed up by champagne, wished them a safe journey. ‘I know you’ll be happy,’ she told them. ‘Come and see me when you get back. I’ll look after Caesar and Plato.’
Her sharp nose, slightly pinkened by champagne, quivered. ‘I shall miss you both.’
Margo hugged her. ‘Of course we’ll come and see you when we get back. Have a happy Christmas with Lord Trueman’s family.’
Guests surged around them, showering them with confetti and shouting their good wishes as they drove away.
‘Comfortable?’ asked Gijs. ‘I don’t want to stop on the way unless we have to. I’m going to Southampton then onto the M3 and up to the ring road at Reigate. Dull driving, but fast. I’ve booked us on the seven o’clock hovercraft from Dover.’
There wasn’t much traffic until they reached the M25; he had kept up his speed and even with the conjested motorway here he slid effortlessly ahead. Margo sat quietly, content to watch his hands, which were relaxed on the wheel, exchanging the odd remark with him from time to time and reminding herself that she was married, that they were on their way to Holland and the future was an unopened book for her.
The wedding had been an unforgettable occasion. She thought wistfully that her mother and father would have enjoyed every minute of it—a happy finish to her old life. The new, she promised herself, would be happy too; she had so much and she loved Gijs—never mind if he felt only a mild affection for her.
It was dark by the time they reached Dover, and they were among the last of the passengers to go on board. Margo, glad to be out of the car for a while, assured Gijs that she saw no reason to feel seasick, accepted the coffee she was offered and looked around her.
There was plenty to see and Gijs, secretly amused at her interest, found himself enjoying her unself-conscious pleasure and laying himself out to entertain her. Once they had landed he took care to point out their route, finding a revived interest in a journey which he made so frequently that he usually scarcely noticed the country through which he drove. They would drive along the coast to Ostend, where he would turn off to Ghent, take the motorway to Antwerp, bypass that city and so go on to Breda.
They had had tea on board and he had told her then that there was a fairly long journey before them. ‘If you want to stop, you must just say so, Margo,’ he said now. ‘For we have all the time in the world.’
‘Just how far is it? Where are we going...?’
‘A few miles the other side of Utrecht. Less than an hour’s drive once we reach Breda. Breda is roughly a hundred and thirty miles from here.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s half past eight; we should be home in three hours—probably less.’
Probably less, reflected Margo as the Rolls raced along roads which Gijs evidently knew well. He was a splendid driver, and on a road frequently empty of traffic he gave the Rolls her head.
Presently Margo said, ‘Don’t think I’m criticising—I like going fast—but is there a speed limit in Belgium?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, but it’s largely ignored. You like driving?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘We must get you a car. There’s not much point in having one in London, but here we live in the country—close enough to Utrecht and Amsterdam, but I shall be away all day and you’ll want to be independent.’
Margo agreed. She had no wish to be independent—she would like to stick to him like a leech—but that was a thought she prudently kept to herself.
She had plenty to think about and she guessed that Gijs would dislike it if she chattered. Besides, she wasn’t much good at small talk. She mused over their day and then allowed her thoughts to dwell on her life at Thinbottom. They were sad thoughts; her grief for her parents was still something she hadn’t quite come to terms with.
When Gijs said suddenly, ‘Are you thinking about Thinbottom and your parents?’ she gave a gasp.
‘How did you know? Yes, I was.’
‘Well, it would be a natural sequence of thought at the end of the day which marks the end of an old life and the beginning of a new one. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Our new life? It will be strange—for me, at least. I shall have to learn Dutch, won’t I? Is your home here anything like the house you’ve bought in London?’
‘Er—no. For one thing it is in the country, on the edge of a small village near a lake. It is very convenient for me. I go to Utrecht as well as Leiden, and from time to time Amsterdam.’
‘Will we be coming back to Holland in a little while?’
‘Yes. I’ll be in London and travelling around the country for several weeks, and then we’ll be back here for several months—although I quite often go over to England for a few days if something turns up where I’m needed.’
‘Do you go to other countries?’
‘From time to time. The States and the Middle East—usually to see private patients—and occasionally to Germany and Italy.’
He glanced at her quiet profile. ‘It will be nice to have someone to come home to in future,’ he told her.
That warmed her heart.
Once they had crossed into Holland, Gijs picked up the carphone. ‘I’ll let them know we’re expecting supper when we arrive home,’ he told her. She wondered who ‘they’ were.
The motorways were good and there were no hills and almost no corners; there was nothing to hinder the car’s speed. They skirted Rotterdam and sped on to Utrecht to turn away from that city and go north towards Soest. There was a fitful moon, peering from time to time from billowing clouds, and Margo could see that they had left the flat grassland behind and that the country upon either side of the road was thick with trees and bushes.
‘Is this a forest?’
‘Not exactly—woods and undergrowth and heath. Hilversum is to the north and Amersfoot to the east—both quite large towns. We turn off here.’
He drove along a narrow country road, the woods on either side broken from time to time by great gateways, and presently slowed to enter a small village, its houses ringed around a church. ‘Arntzstein,’ said the professor quietly. ‘Our home is here.’
He swept through the village, past some elegant houses with lights streaming from their uncurtained windows, and into a narrow lane which ended in an open gateway flanked by stone pillars. The drive was short, curving in a semicircle to the wide sweep before the house at its end.
Margo, blinking at the lighted windows, began to count them and gave up.
‘You don’t live here?’ she asked in a worried voice.
‘We live here,’ he corrected her quietly. ‘Yes, this is our home, Margo.’
He got out and opened her door and she stood on the wide sweep, looking at the house.
It was four storeys high, with a gabled roof and a small round tower at each end. Its windows, tall and narrow on the ground floor, decreased in size at each level, the topmost of them being dormer windows set in the gable...
Margo took a deep breath. ‘Well—you might have told me, Gijs.’
He took her arm. ‘No. No—you would have rejected me instantly as being highly unsuitable. Come and have your supper. You must be tired—it’s been a long day.’
Not just a long day, she thought, climbing the double stone stairs to the massive front door, our wedding day.
It was opened as they reached it by a stout elderly man with a jolly face.
‘Wim.’ The professor spoke to the man in his own language, shaking his hand, and then said in English, ‘Margo, this is Wim, who runs this place. His wife is housekeeper; you will meet her presently. Wim speaks English.’
Margo shook hands and
smiled at the beaming face.
‘Welcome, mevrouw. It is with pleasure that we see you.’ He stood aside and waved an arm towards the entrance hall, where there were several people standing. ‘If it is permitted...’
The professor took her arm and they crossed the black and white tiled floor. Margo was led from one person to the next: Wim’s wife, Kieke, Jet, the housemaid, Diny and Mien, the cooks. There was also an elderly man, wizened and wrinkled with the weather, and the professor clapped him on the shoulder and wrung his hand. ‘Willem, who has looked after the gardens ever since I can remember.’
She shook each one by the hand and murmured greetings, glad of their friendly faces, and presently she was led away up a carved oak staircase to her room.
‘Don’t do more than take off your hat and coat,’ the professor called after her. ‘Supper’s waiting.’
She had no time to do more than glance at the room Kieke ushered her into. It was a lovely room, its tall windows draped in old rose brocade, with the same brocade covering the vast bed with its satinwood headboard. The dressing table was satinwood too, with a triple mirror on it and a padded stool, covered in tapestry, before it. There were two small easy chairs covered in a darker pink, and a chaise longue at the foot of the bed upholstered in ivory velvet.
Margo heaved a sigh of pure pleasure and at the same time thought how impractical the furnishings were; she would be afraid to sit on anything for fear of spoiling it. She poked at her hair, powdered her nose and went downstairs to find Gijs waiting for her in the hall.
‘Your room is all right?’ he wanted to know. ‘Do tell Wim if there is anything you want.’ He led the way across the hall into a panelled room hung with portraits. There was an oval table at its centre, ringed by mahogany chairs of the Chippendale period, and against a wall a sideboard of the same period. There was a corner cupboard, its door of marquetry, and a splendid fireplace with a marble surround in which a bright fire burned. Crimson velvet curtains were drawn across the windows and there were fine rugs on the polished wood floor.
