by Betty Neels
‘No—just right, I should say. That’s a pretty dress. What happened to the one you spoilt?’
‘It’s ruined. I showed it to Marijke—the stain has gone right through.’
‘I’m sorry. Buy yourself another one. I’ll pay for it.’
Deborah was standing with the casket clasped to her breast. ‘Oh, there’s no need, I’ve got heaps of money from my allowance.’
‘Nevertheless you will allow me to pay for another dress,’ he insisted blandly.
‘Well—all right, thank you. I’ll just put these away.’
When she came out of her room he had gone. There was nothing to do downstairs, she had seen to everything during the day and she knew that Marijke and Wim needed no prompting from her. She went and sat by the log fire Wim had lighted in the drawing room and Smith, moving with a kind of slow-motion stealth, insinuated himself on to her silken lap. But he got down again as Gerard joined them, pattering across the room when his master went to fetch the drinks and then pattering back again to arrange himself on Gerard’s shoes once he had sat down. A cosy family group, thought Deborah, eyeing Gerard covertly. He looked super in a black tie—he was a man who would never lose his good looks, even when he was old. She had seen photos of his father, who in his mid-seventies had been quite something—just like his son, sitting there, stroking Smith with the toe of his shoe and talking about nothing in particular. It was a relief when the doorbell signalled the arrival of the first of their guests, because she had discovered all at once that she could not bear to sit there looking at him and loving him so much.
The evening was a success, as it could hardly have failed to have been, for Deborah had planned it carefully; the food was delicious and the guests knew and liked each other. She had felt a little flustered when the Burgemeester had arrived, an imposing, youngish man with a small, plump wife with no looks to speak of but with a delightful smile and a charming voice. She greeted Deborah kindly, wished her happiness upon her recent marriage and in her rather schoolgirl English wanted to know if she spoke any Dutch. It was a chance to pay tribute to the professor’s teaching; Deborah made a few halting remarks, shocking as to grammar but faultless as to accent. There was a good deal of kindly laughter and when the Burgemeester boomed: ‘Your Dutch is a delight to my ear, dear lady,’ her evening was made.
She had had no time to do more than say hullo to Coenraad and Adelaide, but after dinner, with the company sitting around the drawing room, the two girls managed to get ten minutes together.
‘Very nice,’ said Adelaide at once, ‘I can see that you’re going to be a wonderful wife for Gerard—it’s a great drawback to a successful man if he hasn’t got a wife to see to the social side. When I first married I thought it all rather a waste of time, but I was wrong. They talk shop—oh, very discreetly, but they do—and arrange visits to seminars and who shall play host when so-and-so comes, and they ask each other’s advice… I like your dress, and the garnets are just the thing for it—another van Doorninck heir-loom, I expect? I’ve got some too, only I have to be careful—my hair, you know.’ She grinned engagingly. ‘Did you go to Friesland?’
Deborah nodded. ‘Yes, I loved the house, we had lunch there and then we went to see Dominic and Abigail. It’s lovely there by the lake.’
‘And what’s all this about an accident? The hospital was positively humming with it. Coenraad told me about it, but you know what men are.’
They spent five minutes more together before Deborah, with a promise to telephone Adelaide in a few days, moved across the room to engage her mother-in-law in conversation.
It was after everyone had gone, and Doctor de Joufferie, their guest for the night, had retired to his room, that Gerard, on his way to let Smith out into the garden, told her that Claude was back in Amsterdam after a visit to Nice. ‘I hear he’s sold his house here and intends to live in France permanently.’
‘Oh.’ She paused uncertainly on her way to bed. ‘He won’t come here?’
‘Most unlikely—if he does, would you mind?’
Deborah shook her head. ‘Not in the least,’ she assured her husband stoutly, minding very much.
Her answer was what he had expected, for he remarked casually. ‘No, you’re far too sensible for that and I have no doubt that you would deal with him should he have the temerity to call.’ He turned away. ‘That’s a pretty dress,’ he told her for the second time that evening.
She thanked him nicely, wishing that he had thought her pretty enough to remark upon that too; apparently he was satisfied enough that she was sensible.
She ruminated so deeply upon this unsatisfactory state of affairs that she hardly heard his thanks for the success of the evening, but she heard him out, murmured something inaudible about being tired, and went to bed.
Doctor de Joufferie joined them for breakfast in the morning, speaking an English almost as perfect as Gerard’s. The two men spent most of the time discussing the possibility of Gerard going to Paris for some conference or other: ‘And I hope very much that you will accompany your husband,’ their visitor interrupted himself to say. ‘My wife would be delighted to show you a little of Paris while we are at the various sessions.’
Deborah gave him a vague, gracious answer; she didn’t want to hurt the doctor’s feelings, but on the other hand she wasn’t sure whether Gerard would want her to go with him; he had never suggested, even remotely, such a possibility. She led the conversation carefully back to the safe ground of Paris and its delights, at the same time glancing at her husband to see how he was reacting. He wasn’t, his expression was politely attentive and nothing more, but then it nearly always was; even if he had no wish to take her, he would never dream of saying so.
The two men left together and she accompanied them to the door, to be pleasantly surprised at the admiration in the Frenchman’s eyes as he kissed her hand with the hope that they might meet again soon. She glowed pleasantly under his look, but the glow was damped immediately by Gerard’s brief, cool kiss which just brushed her cheek.
She spent an hour or so pottering round the house, getting in Wim’s way, and then went to sit with her Dutch lesson, but she was in no mood to learn. She flung the books pettishly from her and went out. Gerard had told her to buy a new dress—all right, so she would, and take good care not to look too closely at the price tag. She walked along the Keizersgracht until she came to that emporium of high fashion, Metz, and once inside, buoyed up by strong feelings which she didn’t bother to define, she went straight to the couture department. She had in mind another tweed outfit, or perhaps one of the thicker jersey suits. She examined one or two, a little shocked at their prices, although even after so short a time married to Gerard, she found that her shock was lessening.
It was while she was prowling through the thickly carpeted alcove which held the cream of the Autumn collection that she saw the dress—a Gina Fratini model for the evening—white silk, high-necked and long-sleeved, pin-tucked and gathered and edged with antique lace. Deborah examined it more closely; it wouldn’t be her size, of course, and even if it were, when would she wear it, and what astronomical price would it be? She circled round it once more; it would do very well for the big ball Gerard had casually mentioned would take place at the hospital before Christmas, and what about the Burgemeester’s reception? But the size? The saleswoman, who had been hovering discreetly, pounced delicately. She even remembered Deborah’s name, so that she felt like an old and valued customer, and what was more, her English was good.
‘A lovely gown, Mevrouw van Doorninck,’ she said persuasively, ‘and so right for you, and I fancy it is your size.’ She had it over her arm now, yards and yards of soft silk. ‘Would you care to try it on?’
‘Well,’ said Deborah weakly, ‘I really came in for something in tweed or jersey.’ She caught the woman’s eye and smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll try it on.’
It was a perfect fit and utterly lovely. She didn’t need the saleswoman’s flattering remarks to know it. The
dress did something for her, although she wasn’t sure what. She said quickly, before she should change her mind: ‘I’ll take it—will you charge it to my husband, please?’
It was when she was dressed again, watching it being lovingly packed, that she asked the price. She had expected it to be expensive, but the figure the saleswoman mentioned so casually almost took her breath. Deborah waited for a feeling of guilt to creep over her, and felt nothing; Gerard had insisted on paying for a dress, hadn’t he? Declining an offer to have it delivered, she carried her precious box home.
She would have tried it on then and there, but Wim met her in the hall with the news that Marijke had a delicious soufflé only waiting to be eaten within a few minutes. But eating lunch by herself was something quickly done with, so she flew upstairs to her room and unpacked the dress. It looked even more super than it had done in the shop. She put it on and went to turn and twist before the great mirror—she had put on the pearls and the earrings and a pair of satin slippers; excepting for the faint untidiness of the heavy chignon, she looked ready for a ball.
‘Cinderella, and more beautiful than ever,’ said Claude from the stairs.
Deborah turned round slowly, not quite believing that he was there, but he was, smiling and debonair, for all the world as though Gerard had never told him not to enter the house again.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, and tried to keep the angry shake from her voice.
‘Why, come to pay you a farewell visit. I’m leaving this city, thank heaven, surely you’ve heard that? But I couldn’t go until I had said goodbye to you, but don’t worry, I telephoned the hospital and they told me that Gerard was busy, so I knew that it was safe to come, and very glad I am that I did. A ball so early in the day? Or is the boy-friend coming?’
Her hand itched to slap his smiling face. ‘How silly you are,’ she remarked scathingly. ‘And you have no right to walk into the house as though it were your own. Why didn’t you ring the bell?’
‘Ah, I came in through the little door in the garden. You forget, my lovely Deborah, that I have known this house since many years; many a time I’ve used that door.’ He was lounging against the wall, laughing at her, so that her carefully held patience deserted her.
‘Well, you can go, and out of the front door this time. I’ve nothing to say to you, and I’m sure Gerard would be furious if he knew that you had come here.’
He snapped his fingers airily. ‘My dear good girl, let us be honest, you have no idea whether Gerard would be annoyed or not; you have no idea about anything he does or thinks or plans, have you? I don’t suppose he tells you anything. Shall I tell you what I think? Why, that you’re a figurehead to adorn his table, a hostess for his guests and a competent housekeeper to look after his home while he’s away—and where does he go, I wonder? Have you ever wondered? Hours in the Grotehof—little trips to Paris, Brussels, Vienna, operating here, lecturing there while you sit at home thinking what thoughts?’
He stopped speaking and stared at her pinched face. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? I have hit the nail on its English head, have I not? Poor beautiful Deborah.’ He laughed softly and came closer. ‘Leave him, my lovely, and come to Nice with me—why not? We could have a good time together.’
She wasn’t prepared for his sudden swoop; she was a strong girl, but he had hold of her tightly, and besides, at the back of her stunned mind was the thought that if she struggled too much her beautiful dress would be ruined. She turned her face away as he bent to kiss her and brought up a hand to box him soundly on the ear. But he laughed the more as she strained away from him, her head drawn back. So that she didn’t see or hear Gerard coming up the stairs, although Claude did. She felt his hold tighten as he spoke.
‘Gerard—hullo, jongen, I knew you wouldn’t mind me calling in to say goodbye to Deborah, and bless her heart, she wouldn’t let me go without one last kiss.’
She felt him plucked from her, heard, as in a dream, his apology, no doubt induced by the painful grip Gerard had upon him, and watched in a detached way as he was marched down the stairs across the hall to disappear in the direction of the front door, which presently shut with some force. Gerard wasn’t even breathing rapidly when he rejoined her, only his eyes blazed in his set face.
‘You knew he was coming?’ His tone was conversational but icy.
‘Of course not.’ She was furious to find that she was trembling.
‘How did he get in? Doesn’t Wim open the door?’
‘Of course he does—when the bell rings. He—he came in through the door in the garden. I had no idea that he was in the house until he spoke to me here.’ She essayed a smile which wavered a little. ‘I’m glad you came home.’
‘Yes?’ His eyebrows rose in faint mockery. ‘You didn’t appear to be resisting Claude with any great show of determination.’
She fired up at that. ‘He took me by surprise. I slapped his cheek.’
‘Did you call Wim?’
Deborah shook her head. Truth to tell, it hadn’t entered her head.
Her husband stared at her thoughtfully. ‘A great strapping girl like you,’ he commented nastily. ‘No kicking? No struggling?’
She hated him, mostly because he had called her a strapping girl. She wanted to cry too, but the tears were in a hard knot in her chest. She said sullenly: ‘I was trying on this dress—it’s new…’ He laughed then and she said desperately: ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You actually think that I would encourage him.’ Her voice rose with the strength of her feelings. ‘Well, if that’s what you want to believe, you may do so!’
She swept to her bedroom door and remembered something as she reached it. ‘I bought this dress because you told me to and I’ve charged it to you—it’s a model and it cost over a thousand gulden, and I’m glad!’ She stamped her foot. ‘I wish it had cost twice as much!’
She banged the door behind her and locked it, which was a silly action anyway, for when had he ever tried the door handle?
She took the dress off carefully and hung it away and put on a sober grey dress, then combed her hair and put on too much lipstick and went downstairs. She was crossing the hall when Gerard opened his study door and invited her to join him in a quiet voice which she felt would be wiser to obey. She went past him with her head in the air and didn’t sit down when he asked her to.
‘I came home to pack a bag,’ he told her mildly, all trace of ill-humour vanished. ‘There is an urgent case I have to see in Geneva and probably operate on. I intend to catch the five o’clock flight and I daresay I shall be away for two days. I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but there’s nothing important for a few days, is there?’
‘Nothing.’ Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged from her the information that it was her birthday in two days’ time. She had never mentioned it to him and he had never tried to find out.
He nodded. ‘Good—’ he broke off as Wim came in with a sheaf of flowers which he gave to Deborah. ‘Just delivered, Mevrouw,’ he told her happily, and went away, leaving a heavy silence behind him.
Deborah started to open the envelope pinned to its elaborate wrapping and then stopped; supposing it was from Claude? It was the sort of diabolical joke he would dream up…
She looked up and found Gerard watching her with a speculative eye and picked up the flowers and walked to the door. ‘I’ll pack you a case,’ she told him. ‘Will you want a black tie, or is it to be strictly work?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, strictly work,’ he assured her in a silky voice, ‘and even if it weren’t, a black tie isn’t always essential in order to—er—enjoy yourself.’
He gave her a look of such mockery that she winced under it; it was almost as if Claude’s poisoned remarks held a grain of truth.
Outside she tore open the little envelope and read the card; the flowers were from Doctor Joufferie. She suppressed her strong desire to run straight back to Gerard and show it to him, and went to pack his bag instead.
It
was quiet in the house after he had gone. Deborah spent the long evening working at her Dutch, playing with Smith and leafing through magazines, and went to bed at last with a bad headache. She had expected Gerard to telephone, but he didn’t, which made the headache worse. There was no call in the morning either; she hung around until lunchtime and then went out with Smith trotting beside her on his lead. She walked for a long time, and it was on her way back, close to the house, that she stopped to pick up a very small child who had fallen over, the last in a line of equally small uniformed children, walking ahead of her. She had seen them before, and supposed that they went to some nursery school or other in one of the narrow streets leading from the Keizersgracht. She comforted the little girl, mopped up a grazed knee and carried her towards the straggling line of her companions. She had almost reached it when a nun darted back towards them, breaking into voluble Dutch as she did so.
Deborah stood still. ‘So sorry,’ she managed, ‘my Dutch is bad.’
The nun smiled. ‘Then I will speak my bad English to you. Thank you for helping the little one—there are so many of them and my companion has gone on to the Weeshuis with a message.’
Deborah glanced across the road to where an old building stood under the shadow of the great Catholic church. ‘Oh,’ she said, and remembered that a Weeshuis was an orphanage. ‘They’re little orphans.’
The nun smiled again. ‘Yes. We have many of them. The older ones go to school, but these are still too small. We go now to play and sing a little after their walk. Once we had a lady who came each week and told them stories and played games with them. They liked that.’ She held out her arms for the child and said: ‘I thank you again, Mevrouw,’ and walked rapidly away to where the obedient line of children waited. Deborah watched them disappear inside the orphanage before she went home.
