by Betty Neels
‘I’ve enjoyed this walk,’ said Philip in a voice which implied that he hadn’t expected to. ‘You’re an easy person to talk to, Phylly. You don’t mind? Us splitting up, I mean.’
Just as though they hadn’t split up weeks ago, only he hadn’t accepted it then. ‘No, I don’t mind, Philip, truly I don’t—I hope you find a smashing girl and carve a splendid career for yourself, you’ve started that already.’
‘Yes, I haven’t done so badly,’ he answered her complacently, and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘No hard feelings, then?’
He bent to kiss her just as she became aware that the doctor was standing at the open door of the garden room, watching them.
She wriggled free of Philip, muttering that she must tidy herself for lunch and ran indoors, passing Pieter without looking at him, only to be halted by a large hand on her arm. ‘So sorry,’ he said softly and sikily, ‘I always turn up at the wrong moment, don’t I?’
She didn’t answer, only ducked her head and rushed across the room and out into the hall, to pound up the staircase as though the devil were after her, not stopping until she had reached her room and shut the door. But there was no time in which to have the good howl she ached to have. She did her face, combed her silky hair and went downstairs again, this time at a sedate pace, to find everyone in the drawing room drinking sherry.
Afterwards, she couldn’t remember what she had eaten at lunch, nor did she remember a single word she had spoken; presumably she had been quite normal, as no one had stared at her. And after lunch Philip had gone, but only after the doctor had wished him goodbye and then pointedly swept her mother and Willy out into the garden leaving her and Philip together in the hall. It was a pity that there had been no one there to see them shake hands.
There was just one day left now before they were to return home. She spent the night dithering between wishing that Pieter would spend the whole of it at home, and praying fervently that she wouldn’t have to see him again until they left. As a consequence she went downstairs to breakfast in the dark glasses again, with a splitting headache and in a frightful temper.
Pieter was at breakfast, although he left within a few minutes of her arrival at the table. During those few minutes he had been his usual placid self, touching only briefly on their journey and reminding them that they would all be dining with his parents that evening. ‘And I’m free for a couple of hours after lunch,’ he told Willy. ‘We might have a last try at catching a pike.’ With which he left them, looking so cheerful and normal that she could have thrown something at him.
She mooned about after breakfast, packing for herself and for Willy, strolling round the garden with her mother, and then at her brother’s request, walking down to the village for some last-minute trifles he simply had to have. It seemed an age until lunch time and even Lympke’s offer to show her the kitchens, semi-basement but still kitchens which a woman might dream of and never have, wasn’t sufficient to take her mind off her own troubles. All the same, she admired their size and old-world charm and all the well-concealed modern gadgets. She hoped that when Marena married Pieter, she would appreciate it all. Somehow she doubted that.
When she went into the drawing room, Pieter was already there although her mother and Willy were nowhere to be seen, which seemed strange because she had heard them go down earlier.
‘They’re down at the lake,’ his voice was disarmingly casual. ‘The swans are taking the cygnets for their first swim. What will you drink?’
‘Sherry, thank you. Have you had a busy morning?’
‘Yes, very. And what have you been doing?’ He shot her a glance from under his brows. ‘You must miss young Mount.’
She didn’t answer that. ‘I’ve been for a walk with Willy and then Lympke took me round the kitchens. They’re very—nice,’ she finished lamely.
His firm mouth twitched slightly. ‘Yes, aren’t they? Is there anything you would like to do this afternoon? Shopping? Aap can drive you into Leiden or den Haag.’
They were like two polite strangers and she thought with longing of their easy comradeship. ‘No, thank you—I think we’ve got everything. I expect Mother will want to go round the gardens just once more and I’ll go with her, I expect.’
He said carelessly: ‘Oh, by all means. Willy and I will be at the lake until tea-time, we don’t need to leave for den Haag until seven o’clock.’
He had arranged things very well; she would see almost nothing of him for the rest of the day.
And she didn’t, not until the evening, when clad in the jersey tunic, she went downstairs. Pieter and Willy had gone back to the lake after tea and she was reasonably sure that no one would be down yet, as they hadn’t returned until almost half past six.
She was wrong. As she reached the hall, Pieter’s study door was opened and he came out, dressed for the evening in one of his dark grey, beautifully cut suits; another man entirely from the rubber-booted, sweatered figure which had come hurrying in not half an hour earlier.
He greeted her smilingly and set her teeth on edge with the remark: ‘You shouldn’t waste that pretty dress on us, you know. What will you drink?’
Phyllida astonished herself and him by asking for whisky, a drink she loathed, but somehow the occasion called for something strong. She sipped it cautiously, trying not to pull a face, and didn’t see the amusement in his eyes.
‘Was Mount going back today?’ asked the doctor casually.
‘Yes—on the night ferry. Did you have a busy morning?’
He was kind enough not to remind her that she had asked him that already before lunch, but sketched in his activities at the hospital until Mrs Cresswell and Willy joined them.
The short ride to den Haag was fully taken up with lighthearted talk of the next day’s journey, and the other three didn’t appear to notice Phyllida’s silence. Between her ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ and ‘reallys’ she was wondering if Marena was going to be there too. Very likely, although it didn’t matter any more now. If only she could have had five minutes alone with Pieter while she explained about Philip and herself in the lucid language one always thought of in bed in the dead of night. At least it would clear the air and they could part friends, but he had given her no chance to talk—really talk— while they had been waiting for her mother and Willy, and even if he had, she thought mournfully, she would quite likely have burst into tears.
With an effort she stopped thinking about it and arranged her features into a suitable expression of pleasure at meeting Pieter’s parents again.
The evening lasted for ever, with leisurely drinks in the magnificent drawing room, preceding an equally leisurely dinner in the sombre Biedermeier dining room. Marena wasn’t there and her name wasn’t mentioned until very shortly before they left, when Mevrouw Sittardt asked her son: ‘And have you seen Marena, Pieter? She telephoned here earlier today, thinking you might be with us.’
‘I saw her this morning, Mama.’ Mother and son exchanged a long look and Mevrouw van Sittardt nodded her elegant head, smiling a little. Phyllida, her ears stretched to hear everything Pieter said, had heard the brief conversation but hadn’t seen the look. She gazed unseeingly at Pieter’s father, telling her a gently meandering tale about something or other, not hearing a word of it, wishing she were anywhere other than where she was; as far away from Pieter as possible, and wishing at the same time that she could stay for the rest of her life near him.
But the doctor appeared to have no such feeling of reluctance at the thought of seeing the last of her. He chatted amiably about her future prospects as he drove home at speed, saw them all safely indoors, bade them a cheerful goodnight and took himself off in the car again.
He got back at two o’clock exactly. Phyllida, who had been lying awake listening for his return, had heard the great Friesian wall clock in the hall boom twice in its majestic voice as Pieter’s quiet step mounted the stairs and crossed the corridor to his own room.
Of course he had been with Marena.
She stayed awake for another two hours, her imagination running riot, until sheer exhaustion sent her finally to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
THE RETURN TO England went smoothly. To Phyllida, sitting in the back of the Bentley with her mother, it went far too quickly too. Pieter had hardly spoken to her beyond polite enquiries as to her comfort, observations upon the weather and the remark that she looked tired. It wasn’t until they were speeding in the direction of Shaftesbury with the greater part of their journey behind them that she found herself sitting beside him. She wasn’t sure how this had happened; they had stopped because Willy had been thirsty and she had found herself propelled gently into the front seat without being able to do much about it. She sat silent, turning just a little sideways, so that she could watch his large capable hands on the wheel. They had covered quite a few miles before he spoke. ‘Will you be seeing young Mount?’
‘No.’ She added hastily: ‘Well, not straight away.’ It would never do for him to discover that she and Philip, although they had parted friends, were unlikely to meet again.
The doctor grunted. ‘It seems a long time since we first met.’
She was breathless. ‘Yes, ages.’
‘The de Meesters asked after you in their last letter— they would like you to visit them again.’
‘That’s very kind of them, but I don’t suppose I shall ever go back to Madeira.’
‘What’s happened to us, Phylly?’ he asked softly. ‘Or rather, what’s happened to you?’
It was difficult to get the words out. ‘Me? Nothing— what should have happened? I’ve had a lovely holiday and now I’ve got to find a job.’ She added for good measure: ‘I can hardly wait!’
His voice was casual. ‘And Philip—he won’t mind you working?’
‘It’s no busi… He won’t mind in the least.’
He slid the car past a coach load of tourists. ‘I must confess I’m puzzled, Phylly—I understood you to say that you weren’t going to marry young Mount. But of course when he turned up unexpectedly like that, you probably realised that you’d made a mistake.’
She muttered something or other, longing to tell him just how she felt, wondering what he would say if she told him that she loved him to distraction. He would be very nice about it, but it was hardly likely that it would alter his feelings for Marena. She sighed, a sad little sound which caused him to glance at her quickly and then again, a little smile lifting the corners of his mouth. When he spoke he sounded very matter-of-fact. ‘We shan’t be long now—half an hour, I would think.’
Home looked lovely as the car swooped gently down the hill and up the other side, and when they stopped before the door there was Beryl to welcome them and a moment later Doctor Cresswell. Everyone talked at once, unloading luggage, urging the travellers to go indoors, offering refreshment. They all surged into the sitting room finally, still talking and laughing, and Phyllida, watching her family clustered round Pieter, suddenly couldn’t bear it any longer. He would be gone soon; she had heard him say only a moment ago that although he had hoped to spend the night with them, he had discovered that it wouldn’t be possible after all. She slid out of the room and into the kitchen, where the kettle was boiling its head off beside the waiting teapot. She made the tea, put on the lid and then stood looking at it, willing herself not to cry. She didn’t hear Pieter come in and it wasn’t until he spoke that she whisked round to face him.
‘Well, I must be on my way, Phylly.’ He smiled at her and her heart rocked. ‘I had hoped…’ he paused and sighed gustily. She felt his hands on her shoulders and his light kiss on her cheek.
‘I’m not a great lover of poetry,’ he told her, ‘but there’s a verse by John Clare which seems appropriate to the occasion; it goes something like this: “Last April Fair, when I got bold with beer—I loved her long before, but had a fear to speak.” I don’t know how it ends, but I hope he was luckier than I.’
He had gone as quietly as he had come, out of the room, into the hall, out of the house. Out of her life.
She stood exactly as he had left her for the space of several seconds while the verse rang in her ears. Suddenly she gave a small scream, galloped out of the room in her turn and flung herself at the front door which she banged behind her, to slide to a shaky halt by the Bentley.
Pieter was behind the wheel and the engine was ticking over nicely.
‘Pieter—Pieter, don’t go. You can’t go!’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Can’t you see, it’s not me and Philip— you thought it was, didn’t you? and I pretended it was because I thought it was you and Marena, but it’s not, it’s you and me, Pieter. Pieter darling!’
He switched off the engine, got out of the car unhurriedly and opened his arms. They were gentle and strong around her, crushing her to his great chest so that it was hard for her to breathe.
‘My own dear darling, you’ve got it right at last.’ He smiled down at her and her heart, already doing overtime, leapt into her throat so that she couldn’t speak. Not that it mattered. He bent his head and kissed her, soundly and at length, and she kissed him back.
‘My darling girl, I love you,’ said Pieter in the kind of voice which left her in no doubt about it. And Mrs Cresswell, happening to glance out of her bedroom window at that moment, had no doubts either. She hurried downstairs to tell her husband, talking to herself as she went. ‘I thought they never would—at least, Pieter knew, but Phylly—dear child, so dense sometimes!’ Her thoughts kept pace with her hurrying feet. ‘I shall wear one of those large flowery hats—the bride’s mother always does…’ She broke off to say to Willy, coming upstairs towards her: ‘Wash your hands, dear. I think Pieter and Phylly have just got engaged.’
‘Oh, good—now I can go and stay with them and fish. Pieter will like that.’
It was hardly the moment in which to tell the boy that his future brother-in-law might not share his enthusiasm, at least not for the first few months. She said: ‘Yes, dear, won’t that be nice? Don’t forget your hands,’ and hurried on down to the study.
Phyllida, being kissed again, found the breath to mutter: ‘I thought you were in love with Marena. Oh, Pieter, I’m crazy about you,’ and then: ‘You were going away.’
She felt his chest heave with laughter. ‘No, my dearest girl, I wasn’t going away. I thought that if I came and sat in the car you might think that I was…’
She stared at him and then began to laugh. ‘Pieter, oh, Pieter!’ and then seriously: ‘You won’t do it again, will you?’
‘Leave you? No, my darling, I’ll never do that.’
They didn’t notice when the milkman stopped his float alongside the Bentley; they didn’t notice as he squeezed past them, nor did they hear his cheerful good morning. He left his bottle on the doorstep and wriggled past them once more.
‘All I can say is,’ said the milkman to no one in particular, ‘it’s a very good morning for some of us, and that’s a fact.’
ISBN: 978-1-4592-0517-8
LAST APRIL FAIR
Copyright © 1980 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 co
untries.
www.eHarlequin.com
