by Betty Neels
She stared up into his face. ‘Gijs...’
‘No, let us say nothing more, my dear. You are unhappy and I love you too much to allow that.’
‘You love me? Oh, Gijs, what am I to do?’ She was suddenly distraught.
He smiled. ‘Why, surely that is obvious. I’m sure that young Colbert is waiting for you.’
He might be smiling, but he was in a cold rage, his eyes hard and stony. Unless she broke her promise to Corinne there was nothing more to be said, but a promise was a promise.
She went back to the little sitting room and sat there, icy cold despite the fire. Somehow she must put a brave face on things, make some excuse to Wim, get a seat on a plane and be well away before Gijs came back. He had made it clear that he didn’t want to see her again.
She had no idea how long she had been sitting there when Wim came to tell her that dinner had been served. She went to the dining room and ate her solitary meal, agreeing with Wim that it was a great pity that the professor had been called away. ‘I have to go back to London tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Will you see if you can get me a seat on an afternoon plane, Wim?’
Presently, in the kitchen, presiding over supper, Wim declared himself concerned. ‘Something’s not right,’ he told Kieke. ‘Mevrouw’s going back to London tomorrow almost as soon as she’s got here and the professor went out of the house on his own. It’s disturbing...’
* * *
THERE WAS NO hurry in the morning—after all, Gijs wasn’t coming back until the late evening. Margo went round the gardens exchanging talk with the gardener; neither of them could understand what the other was saying but that hardly mattered. She wanted to see everything before she left—the neat kitchen garden, the greenhouse, the swimming pool tucked away behind the shrubbery, the rose garden, bare now but surely a lovely sight in the summer. She went back indoors to be met with the news that her flight had been booked.
‘I’ve got you a seat in the late afternoon, mevrouw,’ said Wim. ‘Five o’clock—if we leave here at three o’clock that should be time enough. No need for you to wait too long at Schiphol.’
She had lunch and then wandered round the house, going in and out of the rooms, looking at everything, picking up ornaments and putting them down again. Then she made her way to the attic. It was cold there, and a bit dusty, and quite a lot of the furniture had gone to the London house, but there was plenty left for her to look at: stacks of pictures against one wall, a love-seat upholstered in faded velvet, a magnificent doll’s house and in one corner the cradle she had admired. All the van Kessels had been rocked in it, Gijs had said.
She sat down beside it, running a finger along its delicate woodwork, and started to cry.
* * *
THE PROFESSOR, WITH Punch beside him, had got into his car and driven himself to Friesland—a journey of just over a hundred miles.
He’d had time to think as he’d driven to the small farm he owned there, to be greeted with unsurprised pleasure by the old farmer and his wife who looked after it for him. They were accustomed to his erratic visits, if and when he could spare the time, and found it quite normal to prepare his room and give him supper. They had been equally unsurprised when he’d told them that he would leave early in the morning, since he had appointments at the hospital.
He’d eaten the simple meal they’d offered him and gone to his room with Punch at his heels, and presently he’d gone to bed to lie awake thinking of a future without Margo.
He was too old, he’d thought wearily, and Jerome Colbert was a past master at charming women. Margo wasn’t his usual type of woman, though—perhaps he really had reformed and loved her...
He’d driven back to Utrecht in the early morning, glad of Punch’s warm body beside him. When he had finished at the hospital he would go home and talk to Margo again...
He had dealt with his small patients and was having his coffee in Sister’s office when he was requested to go to his own office, where he had a visitor.
It wasn’t Margo; it was Corinne. He schooled his features into a welcoming smile and asked her what he could do for her. ‘You look worried,’ he added. ‘Have you come out without your purse?’
She shook her head. ‘Gijs, Julius said that I must come and tell you. You’ll be angry with me.’ She gave him a beseeching look. ‘It was all just for fun, you see. Only then he got nasty...’
Gijs sat down at his desk. ‘Go on.’
‘Jerome—you know, Jerome Colbert—you told Margo we weren’t to have anything to do with him. Well, he seemed such fun...’
It all came tumbling out then, until she said finally, ‘So, you see, it wasn’t anything to do with Margo, but I made her promise not to tell, and Julius says that it was wrong of me to ask her because she might want to tell you. So I thought that when you got back to London you could tell her first. She doesn’t like him, you know, but she went to see him instead of me because she knew that Julius loved me and that he might be very angry. She knows that I love Julius too, and I’m going to have a baby.’ She burst into tears and Gijs got up and took her in his arms.
‘What splendid news, my dear, and don’t worry about Margo; she’s at Arntzstein.’ He smiled thinly. ‘But don’t, I beg of you, liefje, ask her to make any more promises. Remember that she was brought up to keep them. At all costs.’
Corinne mopped her eyes, declared him to be the best brother any girl could wish for and went away, her spirits quite restored. As for the professor, he sat down at his desk and picked up the phone, rearranging his day so that he could go home at once. It was still early afternoon and Margo might still be there...
The house was quiet as he went in, but Wim came to him in the hall.
‘Mevrouw is still here?’ asked Gijs.
Wim nodded. ‘I shall be driving her to Schiphol at four o’clock, Professor.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Gijs. ‘Where is she, Wim?’
‘I am not sure, mijnheer. She went upstairs some time ago—perhaps she is in her room?’
The professor, with Punch at his heels, went up the staircase and knocked on Margo’s door. When there was no answer he went in. There was no one there, only her overnight bag standing ready packed.
He looked in the other rooms on that landing, and was standing at the head of the staircase deciding where to look next when he heard a faint sound. Somewhere on the floor above? He went up a second flight of stairs, found no one in any of the rooms, and then opened a door in the landing wall. The sound was louder now, and he went up the narrow, steep stairs two at a time and opened the attic door.
Margo was still by the cradle; the first few tears had turned into a torrent. She sniffed and sobbed and snuffled, oblivious of time or place, hopelessly unhappy.
The professor stood in the doorway, looking at her sitting there, clinging to the cradle, and when he made a slight movement and she looked up he thought she had never looked so beautiful, her white face streaked by grubby tears, her eyelids puffy, her hair in a fine tangle.
He was across the floor and she was in his arms before she had time to do more than gasp.
‘Don’t say a word, my darling. Corinne came to see me. Dear heart, could you not have told me? A promise is a promise, but surely there should be no secrets between man and wife?’
Margo gulped. ‘Oh, Gijs, I wish I’d thought of that.’ Her voice was thick with tears. ‘I nearly did tell you when you said you loved me...’
‘Forgive me, Margo. I have loved you for so long, have waited patiently for you to love me, and I thought that I had lost you.’
‘Lost me? But I love you, Gijs. I didn’t know until we were getting married.’ She peered up into his face and smiled at what she saw there. ‘Oh, Gijs, don’t leave me ever again.’
He kissed her then, which was actually a much more satisfactory answer than any wo
rds.
Punch’s polite yawn caused them to look round. He was sitting by the cradle, patiently waiting, so they walked to the door, turning to have a last look.
‘The cradle will need a good polish...’ said Margo, standing on tip-toe to reach her husband’s cheek.
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460321553
Copyright © 1996 by Betty Neels.
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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.
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