Little Girl Lost

by Val Wood

‘Yes,’ Hans croaked. ‘Of course. Will you excuse me, sir?’ and he dashed for the house door.

  Frederik wandered around the garden, bending to examine the roses and running his fingers through lavender and marjoram to release the pungent aroma. Cornelia came outside carrying a tray, and they sat at a small wrought-iron table where she poured them both coffee from a jug.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t you have servants, Cornelia?’

  ‘You know I do. But why would I interrupt their cleaning and polishing and scrubbing floors, work that I don’t like to do, just to do something simple like making coffee or baking cake? Besides,’ she laughed, ‘it keeps them on their toes. They see that I can manage some things and so do their utmost to show me how much better they are at the others than I am.’

  ‘I think they are also fond of you, Cornelia,’ he murmured, and thought, why wouldn’t they be? There would be no raised voices, no sharp or demanding words from the mistress of this household.

  She nodded. ‘They are. They idolized Nicolaas and they look after me and the children for his sake, especially now.’

  He sipped his coffee. ‘I’ve spoken to Hans. I don’t know if it’s done any good. It’s early yet – he’s sunk in misery and will take some time to heal. Adjustment to his father’s loss will be part of his growing up.’

  She turned to look at him. Her eyes were large, soft and grey. ‘I at least am grateful for your kindness,’ she murmured.

  His impulse was to reach out and touch her hand and he stopped himself just in time. What was he thinking of? Here was a woman recently widowed; how abhorrent it would be for her to feel another man’s hand on hers. He felt his pulses racing and a quickening sensation he hadn’t known in a long time. It wasn’t mere sympathy that had caused the impulsive instinct to reach out towards her. It was something much more, and he realized he must tread carefully or he would lose her trust and ruin the memory of the lifelong friendship he had shared with Nicolaas. There was only one word for what he was feeling. It was desire.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Frederik travelled back to Amsterdam that evening. He had kissed the back of Cornelia’s hand, shaken hands with Hans and given Klara a courteous bow. The little girl had dipped her knee in return.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Cornelia had said. ‘Please come to see us again.’

  He had said that he would, but as he was driven away from the house he determined that he would wait a few months before returning. He was still shocked by his earlier revelation, and told himself that it could only have been because his emotions were still in turmoil. Nicolaas, after all, had been his very good friend and was the first of his contemporaries to die. He was not invincible after all.

  He stayed overnight at his mother’s house; she had cooked supper for the two of them and as they ate they talked about Nicolaas. ‘You will miss him,’ she said, ‘but when you return home you will have much else to occupy your mind. His wife will take longer to recover.’

  ‘She’s strong,’ he said. ‘Just like you, Moe. You women are much stronger than men.’

  ‘So we are,’ she sighed. ‘Or appear to be.’

  He told her about his wish that she might accompany him to England after one of his trips and then bring Margriet back to Amsterdam. ‘I would like her to sample Dutch life,’ he said. ‘Perhaps learn the language, spend time with Bartel and Anna and their children.’

  His mother agreed. ‘It isn’t good that they don’t know each other, but you must wait a little while longer before I can travel. I am not yet strong enough to meet your wife again.’

  He gave a sharp gasp. ‘You’ve only seen her once, on our wedding day!’

  ‘I know. It is the thought that she might have grown to be like her moeder that worries me. She was a formidable woman. I believe she was expecting to see me wearing wooden clogs and an embroidered apron and carrying a bunch of tulips.’

  ‘Well, sometimes you do,’ he prevaricated.

  ‘Not at an English wedding! If you’d married here I might have done.’

  ‘Rosamund is not a good sailor,’ he began, but his mother tutted impatiently and he desisted. He had heard her opinion often enough to know that he couldn’t win that argument. ‘She is not like her mother,’ he said instead, ‘who by the way moved away from Hull quite some time ago. You wouldn’t have to meet her if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  His mother gazed cynically at him. ‘It is not. You should know me better than that, Frederik. Now,’ she said, changing the contentious subject of her daughter-in-law and her family, ‘tell me about my English kleindochter. Ask Margriet to write and tell me about herself. She is old enough now to do that, isn’t she?’

  ‘She is. She can read and write very well. Let me tell you about the school that she will be attending in the autumn. She’s really looking forward to that.’

  He travelled home two days later. He had spent the time reading reports and going over sales figures in his Amsterdam office, and was satisfied that the manager and his staff ran the Dutch side of the business as well as he could have done himself. He decided that he would look into the possibility of giving them shares in the company to keep them from moving elsewhere.

  He did not sleep well in his narrow bunk even though the sea was relatively calm; it was not the weather but his restless thoughts that kept him awake on this voyage. His mother had chastised him for not insisting that Rosamund should overcome her distaste for travel and bring Margriet to visit her. He thought too of young Hans, adrift without his father, trying so hard to be a man before his time. Did he have uncles to whom he might turn for guidance? Nicolaas had two sisters, he recalled, but no brother, but what of Cornelia? Had she mentioned siblings? Cornelia! The image of her arose sharp and strong: her perfect face and skin, the luxuriant hair, her soft lips.

  He sat up with a groan and reached for a warm jumper. When he was fully dressed he sat for a moment on his bunk with his head in his hands, confused and melancholy. He knew there was no need to return to the Dutch office for some time; even in Hull they could manage without him at present. Slowly, an idea took root in his mind. He, Rosamund and Margriet would take a holiday. They would hire a house in Scarborough or Bridlington for a month. Margriet would like that. Yes, that was what they would do.

  He stood up, and opening his cabin door made his way up the companionway and out on deck. The wind was fresh and strong, thundering in the sails and whistling through the rigging as the ship made good headway. He took several deep breaths to clear his head and gazed up at the dark sky with its millions of scintillating stars.

  We are nothing in the scheme of things, he thought as he sought to follow the path of a shooting star. We worry ourselves over the trivialities of a life which is so short, and there are few of us who make a mark to be remembered by. So why do we torment ourselves? He tipped his head back and gazed up at the firmament, feeling dizzy as the gremlin of desire came back to torment him and ruin his previous decisive conclusion. I want to see her. I must. I have never wanted anything more in my whole life.

  To avoid thinking about Cornelia he set about trying to find a suitable house for hire in one of the nearby seaside towns. Surprisingly, Rosamund had agreed to the suggestion, but had said she would prefer somewhere in the south, like Bournemouth, where the weather would be warmer. Frederik had demurred, saying he didn’t want to make such a long journey when there were other resorts within easy reach. ‘Scarborough is a spa town,’ he said. ‘You’ll know lots of people there.’

  ‘It’s very small,’ Rosamund said. ‘And I believe that taking the waters is not as popular as it once was, so of course it won’t attract the London crowd.’

  Her manner was so cutting that Frederik became more determined to find somewhere closer to home. He was sure that Rosamund had only mentioned Bournemouth because her sisters had always gone south for their vacations.

  He trawled the advertisements in his daily paper without success, and then resorted to his wife’s fashion
magazines, but there was nothing in there either, nor in the Illustrated London News, a recent quality publication to which he subscribed. In addition to topical news features it carried book reviews, crime reports and select advertising, but nothing on houses for hire in Scarborough or Bridlington.

  He was on the point of giving up when quite by chance he once again bumped into Hendrik Sanderson, and stopped to thank him for recommending Miss Barker’s school. Sanderson was delighted to hear about Margriet’s success.

  ‘She’ll love it there,’ he said. ‘My daughters do, and even George says he’ll be sorry to leave. But he’ll soon forget about it when we start to plan our holiday. We go to Scarborough, and take a maid to look after the children so that my wife and I can listen to the music at the Spa. We spent our honeymoon there, you know, and it’s a favourite place. Quiet and peaceful, and the children play on the sands all day.’

  ‘You’re just the man I need,’ Frederik said enthusiastically. ‘I’m looking for a house to rent in Scarborough.’

  Sanderson gave him the name and address of the agent he used and within the day, fired up by the idea of a month by the sea, Frederik had asked his clerk to write and enquire about a suitable house for a family, with a view of the sea and near the new promenade.

  Within the week came news of two cottages close to St Nicholas Cliff, one with three bedrooms and the other with four. Both were vacant for the month of August.

  ‘If we take the four-bedroomed house we could take one of the servants, Florrie perhaps,’ Frederik suggested, thinking of what Sanderson had said, ‘and use the spare as a dressing room.’

  ‘We’ll take Florence, if you are still determined on Scarborough,’ Rosamund said coldly. ‘I don’t suppose she’ll mind walking on the sands with Margriet.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she will,’ Frederik muttered, feeling deflated. ‘I must search out my cricket bat and balls. I’ll teach Margriet how to play.’

  Rosamund turned a horrified face towards him. ‘She’s a girl!’

  ‘And – what? My sister used to play games with Bartel and me when we were young.’

  ‘Well, you need more than two players.’

  ‘I’m sure that Florrie will know how to play,’ he snapped, irritated. He simulated an overarm throw just to torment her. ‘It’s only bat and ball, Rosamund, for heaven’s sake. It’s just a game.’

  Florrie was delighted to be asked to go with them, and as she said to Mrs Simmonds it wouldn’t be hard work as she surely wouldn’t be expected to do more than a little dusting if she were to be in charge of Miss Margriet. Cook too was looking forward to taking it easy for the month as there would be little cooking to do, but Mrs Simmonds said she was going to ask for another girl to come in and help whilst Florrie was away. They’d take the curtains down to wash and give the rugs and carpets a good beating.

  Margriet, of course, was thrilled. ‘We’ll be able to paddle in the sea, Florrie,’ she said animatedly. ‘Will you come in with me?’

  ‘I certainly will,’ Florrie enthused. ‘I’ve never been to ’seaside. I’m so excited. Your mama will probably go into the water from a bathing machine, but I don’t think we’ll have to.’

  When Margriet asked her mother if that were so, Rosamund seemed confused. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I believe there are rules. But there will be separate bathing machines for ladies and gentlemen, and we must be very careful not to stray into areas where gentlemen are bathing.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I know so little about it. My sisters and I only once went to the seaside and we were not allowed on the sands. My mother would never have considered it proper for us to bathe in public. I’m not even sure I will, though it is considered to be very beneficial to immerse oneself for five minutes twice a day.’

  When Margriet asked her father the same question and told him what her mother had said, he – rather strangely, she thought – simply raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes but didn’t give her an answer.

  Rosamund bought bathing costumes: a long tunic made from dark navy flannel trimmed with white with matching turban and pantaloons for herself, and a similar tunic for Margriet in pale blue; for Frederik she found a striped all-in-one costume which came down to his knees, the sight of which made him put his hand over his mouth to hide a grin; and as an afterthought a costume for Florrie, for, as she murmured to her husband, it wouldn’t do at all for their maidservant to be dressed inappropriately at the seaside whilst known to be in their employ.

  At last the day came for them to depart. Early in the morning a dog cart collected the trunks and carpetbags containing their clothes and the bed linen which Rosamund insisted they should take with them rather than use anyone else’s, and at ten o’clock the clarence rolled up to the door. The driver rang the bell and took the last few bags while Frederik handed his wife and Margriet into the carriage. It was a fine sunny day, so Florrie said she wouldn’t at all mind sitting up front next to the driver.

  Margriet was thrilled. She had a little fold-away seat opposite her parents, who settled themselves on to the cushioned leather upholstery. She waved to Mrs Simmonds and Cook, who had come to see them off, and even her mother smiled and gave them a nod. The driver cracked his whip, the two bay horses whinnied and they were off and away for a whole month in Scarborough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The cottage was tucked down a narrow lane behind the houses on St Nicholas Cliff. Rosamund said she would have preferred to be on the main street; she also proclaimed that the bedrooms were rather small.

  ‘Next year we’ll apply earlier,’ Frederik said. ‘Everyone wants to come to Scarborough for the music at the Spa. And of course the cottage is smaller than our house, but it’s delightful, isn’t it? Besides, we’re not going to be in very much, and when we are we can see the sea from the upstairs windows. In fact,’ he added, ‘I’ll take some chairs and that small table upstairs to the spare bedroom’ – he pointed to a small round table with barley sugar legs – ‘and we’ll sit there of an evening if we’re not out walking.’

  Margriet came rushing in. ‘Mama, Papa! That little garden at the front – Florrie has found some cane chairs and a little table that she can put out there and she said we could have tea or supper outside because it’s quite warm enough. Can we? Please?’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Frederik enthused. ‘A picnic. Excellent! But first of all we must unpack.’

  He glanced at Rosamund, who was inspecting cupboards and drawers. Without stopping what she was doing, she said at once, ‘Yes, Florence must certainly unpack and make up the beds before we think of picnics. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  Margriet’s face fell, and Frederik said quickly, ‘Whilst Florrie is unpacking, why don’t we go out for a short walk and get our bearings? We’ve been sitting in the carriage for a long time; we ought to stretch our legs.’

  ‘Why don’t you take Margriet?’ Rosamund said. ‘I’ll supervise Florence, and perhaps have a cup of tea if we can find the grocery basket.’

  Frederik and Margriet didn’t take any further persuading. Margriet put her bonnet on again and Frederik picked up his grey top hat and together they cut down the lane towards St Nicholas Cliff. Margriet clasped her father’s hand. ‘I’m so excited,’ she said. ‘Look, there it is!’ She waved her free arm as the sea came into view. ‘Oh, I can’t wait! Papa?’ She jumped up and down as they walked on. ‘Will you take me if Mama doesn’t want to bathe?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll persuade Mama to take a dip in the briny,’ he declared. ‘We’ll tell her that it’s very good for her health.’

  ‘And is it?’ Margriet asked astutely.

  ‘Mmm, not sure.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘But it can’t do any harm, can it?’

  Margriet giggled. ‘Of course not.’ Directly in front of them a cast-iron footbridge spanned a narrow valley, and they could see a terrace built out over the sea. ‘What’s that, Papa? Is that a private place? I think Mama would prefer to sit there than on the sands.�
��

  ‘I think you’re right, she would. It’s the Spa; you can take a glass of water from the wells, and in that rather splendid building there’s music to listen to, or you can just sit outside and enjoy the view.’

  Coming from the flatlands of Netherlands and living in low-lying Hull, Frederik had been totally entranced by the steep cliffs and woodlands as they dropped down steep ravines towards Scarborough on the journey. They had driven through Ramsdale valley, which was overhung by ancient trees and filled with birdsong, where streams of crystal-clear water ran down the hillside, burrowing into the earth and resurfacing in the cliffs to tumble down into the sea. He gazed now at the green cliff, where paths had been cut to make walking safer as the steep incline rolled almost to the sands. A small whitewashed cottage with a wooden bench and table outside the door stood halfway down and he guessed that someone had spotted the opportunity to sell refreshments. Here and there greenhouses and old cottages were being dismantled and surveyors stood with measuring sticks and plans making notes.

  Building is bound to happen, he thought. This is a beautiful area, and many people will want to come and share it. If it was true that the taking of the waters was not as popular as it had once been, he guessed that the town fathers would want to encourage visitors in other ways. The Spa itself had recently been rebuilt after a great storm had washed the original away, and there were plans for further developments.

  ‘We’ve lots of walking to do, Margriet. Are you fit for it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I am.’ She squeezed her father’s hand. ‘This is the best time of my whole life!’

  ‘Is it, lieveling?’ He smiled down at her bright eyes and animated expression. ‘I do believe it’s mine too.’ And he thought that it probably was, until unbidden another image stole into his consciousness: Cornelia sitting in her garden amidst the sweet-smelling herbs and roses. He tried to brush it away.

  Margriet couldn’t wait to paddle in the sea, but best of all was having her father to herself, just as she’d had when they’d walked in the streets of Hull. I wish that Anneliese could be here, she thought. I do so want a friend of my own to play with. Perhaps if I wish hard enough she will come.