Fate Is Remarkable

by Betty Neels

  Sarah stirred her coffee and observed with a faint choke in her voice:

  ‘How unfortunate you were in the choice of companions.’

  He nodded cheerfully. ‘Yes, wasn’t I? But third time lucky, as they say. Perfection, my dear Sarah—the right size, the right shape, beautiful, intelligent—a charming voice, a healthy appetite …’

  ‘How nice for you!’ Sarah spoke with asperity, giving him a smouldering look. He was lounging back in his chair, his gaze intent, his eyes puckered in a smile which brought the colour to her face. She said rather feebly, ‘Oh!’ and then, because she wasn’t much good at dissembling, ‘You mean me?’

  He said gently, ‘I mean you, Sarah. I suppose you cannot object to a husband, however rational, paying his wife a compliment?’

  Her heart was in her throat, she swallowed it back to its rightful place before replying. ‘Of course not. Thank you—I don’t deserve it after being so inquisitive.’

  Her heart was still being troublesome. It would perhaps be a good idea to change the conversation. She asked presently, ‘What time do we leave in the morning? Are we expected for lunch?’

  She didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry that he seemed quite willing to follow her lead.

  Before she went to sleep that night, Sarah had promised herself that she would never again give way to the childish impulse to know more about Hugo’s life before they met, for even when her curiosity was satisfied, her peace of mind suffered.

  Hugo’s home proved to be a fair-sized square house, with a pointed scalloped roof, cut square on top, standing in its own grounds well back from the quiet country road. The village was only a mile or so away—nearer, perhaps, but the thickly wooded country around it made it appear more isolated than it was. It had an iron railing fencing it in, a low stone balustrade enclosing a formal garden in the front of the house, and a pair of formidable gates which stood invitingly open.

  Hugo said nothing as they mounted the short double step to the front door, and Sarah was glad because she was a little disappointed with the house. From its exterior, she fancied it would be filled with late Victorian furniture of a particularly repulsive sort, and a good deal of red plush. They were admitted by an elderly maid, who exclaimed at some length over Hugo and would doubtless have done the same over Sarah if they could have understood each other. As it was, she uttered a terrifyingly long word in her own language and clasped Sarah’s hand. Hugo said gently, ‘Mien is congratulating us upon our marriage,’ then looked pleased at Sarah’s careful, ‘Dank je.’

  Mien looked pleased too as she threw the inner door of the entrance lobby with something of a flourish, so that they might enter. Sarah, completely taken by surprise, stopped short, and said, ‘Oh!’ She had been utterly mistaken. It wasn’t Victorian at all, but pure Old Dutch—there were the black and white tiles, the carved staircase, the white plaster walls above shoulder-high panelling, the great Delft plates separating groups of dim family portraits. There was a scattering of tables along the walls and one or two outsize William-and-Mary chairs and an enormous stone chimneypiece.

  ‘Rather unexpected?’ asked Hugo from behind her. ‘The ancestor who built this house owned a fleet of East Indiamen and made a fortune. He collected his furniture over the years, but refused to part with the furniture he had inherited, so the place is a kind of museum—a very comfortable one, mind you, and if one is born here, as I was, one loves it. I hope you will come to love it too.’

  They had crossed the hall as he was speaking and Mien opened the door into what Sarah rightly supposed was the drawing room. She had time to see that it was large and lofty, that its windows were vast and draped with floor-length curtains, and that the walls were white-painted wood picked out with gold leaf; then Hugo’s hand under her elbow urged her gently towards the marble fireplace, flanked by two enormous chesterfields and several comfortable easy-chairs, from two of which Mijnheer and Mevrouw van Elven rose to greet them with a warmth which put Sarah entirely at her ease within a couple of minutes.

  They lunched in comfortable state in a dining room which she judged to be furnished in the French Empire style; the chairs were heavy and leather-covered, the side table ornately elegant—she wasn’t sure if she liked it, but perhaps it would grow on her; in any case, she wasn’t going to let it spoil her appetite. She had been a little nervous of visiting Hugo’s family, but now she found that she was enjoying herself. It was strange and a little disturbing to see this new aspect of Hugo. In hospital he had seemed remote, all-sufficient—or so she had thought during the years she had worked for him. She had obeyed his requests there without question, and seldom thought of him as a person … and now, because she loved him, she could never learn enough about him.

  After lunch, Hugo and his father retired to the latter’s study to discuss what his mother called family matters, but which she informed Sarah as they started on a tour of the house, would be disposed of in so many minutes, so that they could enjoy a comfortable dissertation on their shared love of medicine. As they climbed the staircase together, her mother-in-law said kindly:

  ‘We are so glad to welcome you into the family, Sarah. You are so right for Hugo; you understand his work and will be such a help to him. He told us how you go with him to Rose Road. How pleased he must be about that, and how you must enjoy working together—such a worthwhile job, my dear. Of course, when the children come, it won’t be easy for you.’

  Sarah, behind her hostess, and thankful for it, murmured suitably, fiercely dispelling a pleasant vision of a bunch of children, all bearing a marked resemblance to Hugo, trooping upstairs in the wake of a loving Dutch Oma. It didn’t bear thinking about. She concentrated upon the portraits lining the walls of the corridor they were traversing and presently recovered her spirits sufficiently to take a real interest in the various rooms they inspected, wandering in and out in a leisurely way while Mevrouw van Elven kept up a gentle flow of small talk.

  ‘Next time you come, my dear,’ she said, ‘you must stay here with us. We quite understood when Hugo told us that he intended to show you something of Holland in the week or so that you are here, and it is easier for you to stay in hotels instead of coming back here each evening. But he usually comes over several times in the year even if it is only for a couple of days, so we hope to see you very soon.’

  Presently they went back to the drawing room and in a little while tea was brought in, followed by the men. They had finished tea and were preparing to go when Hugo’s father got up from his chair and came over to sit by Sarah. He gave her a half smiling look which made him look very like his son, and said:

  ‘Sarah, there is something we wish to give you—we were unable to bring it with us to your wedding, and you must forgive us for that, but now you shall have it, as Hugo can arrange things with the Customs.’ He put a small velvet box into her hand. ‘It is old, you understand, two hundred years old, and now that you are one of the family we wish you to have it. When Hugo inherits’—he waved an arm—’you will of course have what jewels there are, for then they will be yours by right. This little trifle is their forerunner.’

  Sarah opened the box. The ‘little trifle’ was a diamond crescent brooch of a splendour which would bear comparison with her ring and earrings.

  ‘It’s beautiful! Thank you both, and thank you for wanting to give it to me. I’ll treasure it, but I’ll wear it too, because it’s too lovely to keep hidden away.’

  She bent forward and kissed him on one cheek, then kissed her mother-in-law as well, feeling a little overcome. She was grateful to Hugo when he caught her hand and drew her to stand beside him. ‘We’ll go somewhere special so that you can wear it,’ he promised lightly. ‘And now fetch your things, my dear girl—I’ll take you out to dinner …’

  They were to go again within the week, and still again for the family dinner party Hugo’s mother had arranged. In the car she said:

  ‘How lucky I am! Your mother and father might have disliked me.’

>   Hugo was driving slowly, sitting relaxed behind the wheel. ‘Not very likely, I fancy. You’re my wife, Sarah, and as a family we share the same tastes and views about the more important things in life.’

  Her heartbeats deafened her. ‘Am I important?’ she asked. He glanced at her, his eyes sharp. ‘Of course; I’m old enough to regard a wife as a vital as well as a permanent part of a man’s life.’

  She swallowed; perhaps this would be the right moment to try and tell him. She drew a steadying breath, but before she could speak, he remarked, ‘It was a good day, don’t you think? You like my home?’

  She swallowed disappointment with resignation. ‘Very much, only I didn’t know it was going to be quite so—so grand.’

  He looked incredulous. ‘It doesn’t seem grand to any of us, and it won’t to you when you know it better. We shall come over quite often, you know. When my father dies, and I hope that won’t be for many years yet, and I inherit the house—could you consider living there?’

  Sarah didn’t need to think. She said at once, ‘Oh yes, of course! I should like it very much. Did you think I shouldn’t?’

  ‘No. I think I know your likes and dislikes, Sarah, but if you had set your face against it, then we would have dropped the whole idea.’

  She digested this in silence. ‘You consider me too much, Hugo. I don’t expect you to alter your whole life to please me.’

  She heard the laugh in his voice as he answered. ‘My dear Sarah, let me be the judge of that.’

  They did a great deal during the next week. They explored the Veluwe thoroughly; they dined, as Hugo had promised, at the Avifauna’s attractive restaurant; they visited Arnhem, where Sarah spent a couple of enthralled hours in the open-air museum and shopped for presents to take home; they went back to Amsterdam so that she might enjoy a trip along its canals, and a brief glimpse of its museums. He took her to lunch at the Hotel de Nederland near Hilversum, and to Alkmaar to see his aunts, three dear old ladies who lived in a house which must have rivalled any museum she had yet seen. They adored Hugo and were prepared to adore her too and made her promise, with a gentle persistence there was no gainsaying, to return soon and spend a few days. She heard Hugo agree to visit them again in the early spring, and bring her with him.

  They went to Hasselt too, to spend the day with his sister, Joanna. The September sun shone on the small, partly medieval town, lying, peaceful and old-fashioned, so unexpectedly near the main road. Joanna lived on the very edge of the town, with her husband—the local doctor—and her four children. The children fell upon their uncle once they had offered a polite hand to Sarah, and he had at once disappeared with them to examine a boat they had just acquired. Their father came in from his rounds presently—a rather silent man who obviously adored his wife. The three of them sat over coffee, and Sarah decided very quickly that she liked them both immensely. By the time Hugo had returned with the children, she was firm friends with Joanna, and from the shrewd look he gave them both as he entered the room, Sarah deduced that he had made himself scarce deliberately.

  He did the same thing at Wassenaar, romping with lazy good nature with his two small nephews while his sister Catherina and Sarah got to know each other. Catherina was younger than Joanna and pretty, with Hugo’s grey eyes and quiet manner. She took Sarah over the house—a large thatched cottage in one of the leafy lanes of Wassenaar. It was delightfully furnished; it must have taken time and thought and money too; but Hugo had said that her husband was a highly successful solicitor. Sarah met him at lunch, and was surprised to find him a quiet, unassuming man with the kind of face she could easily forget. She tried to get Hugo to talk about the children on their way back to the hotel, he was so obviously devoted to them, but he rebuffed her gently, and she went to her room thinking with something like panic that life was by no means the simple clear-cut affair she had imagined when they had married. But then she hadn’t been in love with him.

  They spent a day in the Noordoost Polder, because Hugo said it was a miracle of reclamation. Sarah found it flat and bleak, even though she could appreciate the magnitude of the task the Dutch had performed. She listened with interest while he explained what had been done.

  ‘We spend our lives keeping our country from slipping back into the sea,’ he remarked finally.

  Sarah stared at him. She said after a pause, ‘It’s strange, in England I never thought of you as anything but English—Oh, I know from time to time your accent betrays you, but here you’re all Dutch, even while you speak English to me.’

  He began to laugh. ‘You know, Sarah, I begin to wonder if you gave enough serious thought to marrying me.’ He was still laughing, but his eyes studied hers intently so that she flushed and said hastily:

  ‘Oh, but I did—at least I wasn’t quite sure at first. It was … that is …’ she faltered a little before his bright stare, and he caught her by the arm and said, with a return of his usual placid manner:

  ‘Poor Sarah! I’m only teasing. Let’s go to Kampen and have lunch and then go and see Mother.’

  The rest of the day was perfect. Hugo’s parents made much of her over a lively tea and the talk was of the Richmond house, and Scotland, and the possibility of a visit to London later on. ‘Come for Christmas,’ invited Hugo, ‘and perhaps we can persuade Sarah’s mother and father to come up at the same time. Would you like that, Sarah?’ He turned to smile at her, looking handsomer than ever, so that just looking at him sent her off into a daydream in which he suddenly and overwhelmingly fell in love with her. When he said ‘Darling?’ in a gentle questioning voice, it seemed, for one blissful moment, part of the dream which had somehow come true.

  She caught her mother-in-law’s smiling eye and went scarlet, saying hastily, ‘That would be marvellous, Hugo,’ and was relieved to feel the blush subsiding even though her heart was bouncing against her ribs. She would have to learn not to blush—it was too ridiculous. Apparently Mevrouw van Elven didn’t share her view; for she nodded approvingly and said, to no one in particular:

  ‘A lot of girls would give their eye teeth to colour up so prettily.’

  Sarah said miserably, ‘Would they? But I’m not a girl—I’m twenty-eight.’

  She heard her father-in-law chuckle from the depths of his chair.

  ‘I should have said that you are very much a girl, my dear. And if you’re still uncertain, why, you can ask Hugo when there’s no one else about.’

  This remark almost had the same effect of making Sarah blush all over again. She was saved by Hugo, making some trivial remark which turned the attention on to himself. She gave him a grateful look which he acknowledged with a faint smile and a twinkle which had a bad effect on her pulse again. She turned from him with resolution and applied herself to taking her mother-in-law’s advice about Dutch cooking.

  Two days later, they were back again—this time for the dinner party. Sarah dressed with care in the honey crêpe, because the diamonds needed something simple. She was standing with the pearls in her hands when Hugo came in. ‘Will I look gaudy?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I did want to wear everything.’

  He studied her carefully and at leisure. ‘That dress is very plain and a lovely colour; you won’t look in the least gaudy.’

  He took the necklace from her and fastened it, then turned her around to face him. ‘You look very beautiful, Sarah,’ he said. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he took his hands from her shoulders and said lightly, ‘Shall we go? We don’t want to be too late leaving Mother’s. If we get away by nine tomorrow we should make Nevers in time for dinner.’

  They were the last to arrive, although not late, and were immediately engulfed by the family. Sarah found herself talking to Catherina’s husband, Franz, and discovered that his nondescript face covered a quick wit and a sense of humour she hadn’t expected. She sat next to Huib, Joanna’s husband, at dinner, and he was nice too, although neither of them could hold a candle to Hugo. He was at the other end of the table on the opposite side,
and although he gave her an occasional smile they had no chance to speak, and when they all went into the drawing room he went and sat with his mother, apparently content to see Sarah talking to Joanna. She felt resentful and neglected, and although she knew she was being silly, she contrived to turn her back. Which was a pity, because he stared at her most of the evening.

  She had recovered her temper by the time they were ready to drive back to the hotel. They chatted about the evening and his family until she asked, ‘Hugo, I thought your sister was called Joanna, but Huib called her something quite different. It sounded like Shot.’

  She felt him laugh in the dimness beside her. ‘I think you mean Schat. It’s a term of endearment—er—treasure. It’s used a good deal between mothers and children and husbands and wives.’

  ‘Is that the only word—what do they say for darling?’

  ‘We don’t use darling as the English do—everyone is darling, are they not? Go to any party in London, and the air rings with the word. We say lieveling, but not very often in public—and liefje—little love. Perhaps we don’t use endearments as much—I don’t know. What I do know is that when we say them we mean them.’

  They had arrived back at the hotel, which Sarah found annoying, for the conversation was promising. She waited while he put the car away, hoping that he would continue. Evidently he considered there was no more to be said on the interesting subject. He reminded her kindly that she would have to be up early in the morning, and wished her a good night.

  They left on time. Sarah, who had spent some time looking at a map before breakfast, was secretly appalled at the distance Hugo intended to cover. The car was a fast one and supremely comfortable, but by her reckoning it was a distance of almost five hundred miles. Over their coffee she mentioned this fact to Hugo. He passed his cup to be filled again and enquired in an irritatingly bland voice: