by Val Wood
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be inquisitive.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I assumed …’ Her mouth formed a moue as if the idea that anyone might not have a good marriage hadn’t occurred to her, but he dismissed her apology with a shrug as if the discussion was of no account.
She offered to make them a light supper, so he followed her down to the kitchen and sat on a stool whilst she sliced up cold meat, boiled eggs and took rye bread out of the crock and pickled herrings from the larder. She put the food on to a tray and gave him a bottle of red wine to open. As he did so she put her hand over her mouth and Frederik saw her eyes fill up with tears again.
‘What?’ he said softly.
‘I’m so very pleased you came,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘I was at rock bottom and feeling so sorry for myself, when really I have no need to be. I have so much – my beautiful children, a lovely home and such good friends. Thank you, Frederik. Thank you.’
He longed to take her in his arms, to kiss her cheeks and stroke her hair, but he had to be content with reaching for her hand and gently squeezing it.
They ate at the small table by the stove upstairs in the soft glow of lamplight. He couldn’t recall a time when he had felt so content. When they had finished eating and talking the evening had lengthened, and the clock ticking on the wall told him that it was almost half past ten.
‘I should be going,’ he said.
‘You won’t get a cab tonight.’
‘I was going to walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a local guesthouse, won’t I?’
Cornelia gazed at him for a moment, and then turned her gaze to the flickering fire. Then she sighed and turned back to him.
‘Won’t you stay, Frederik? I’d like you to.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Within the second’s pause before he answered, he wondered whether or not she had already been compromised by his visit. She had been alone when he arrived and he had been here for several hours, so what difference would it make if he stayed until morning? What was more, the idea of venturing out into the cavernous blackness to look for accommodation was hardly appealing on such a wintry night.
‘There is a guest bed ready,’ she added, as if assuring him that it wouldn’t be inconvenient. ‘It is a habit I have always had in case of unexpected guests.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘I admit that I’m not keen on walking out into a blizzard, so, if you’re sure, yes, thank you, I’d be pleased to stay.’
She seemed happy, giving him a sunny smile, and half rose from her chair. ‘I’ll find you a robe and run the warming pan over the sheets.’
‘The robe, yes, but I’ll be quite warm enough, thank you. But there’s no hurry, unless of course you are tired, which I’m sure you must be.’
Suddenly they were polite to each other, embarrassed perhaps because he was staying the night.
‘I’m not in the least tired,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘I have really enjoyed talking to you, Frederik, but I am talked out and you must be bored with my moaning, so now it’s your turn. Tell me about you and your family, and your business too. It’s good that you still have so many ties with Netherlands. How is your mother in Amsterdam?’
He assured her that he wasn’t in the least bored, and discussed his business interests in both England and Netherlands. He told her about his plans to give shares to the people who worked for him in Amsterdam. ‘It’s important that they feel included in a business for which they work very hard and enthusiastically, and it seems the right thing to do. My lawyer agrees, and we are in the process of setting up the detail.’ He realized as he spoke that although he had mentioned the idea to Rosamund, she hadn’t made any comment. It was refreshing, he thought, to discuss it with someone who seemed interested.
Eventually they agreed that it was time to prepare for bed. Frederik carried the tray downstairs, Cornelia took the wine glasses and the empty wine bottle and they stacked everything by the deep sink in the kitchen. He smiled when he thought of how he and his siblings had done things like this when they were children.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Cornelia asked.
‘Just thinking of the past,’ he said. ‘We were all expected to help when we were children – not a lot, but to know how to. Rosamund was brought up in a household where they had servants to do everything for them, and so it continues at home now. Margriet has never moved a dish or a piece of cutlery in her life.’
‘Oh, but that’s dreadful,’ Cornelia exclaimed. ‘She should be taught how a home is run, or how will she know what to expect from the servants?’
He agreed, but knew that Rosamund would never countenance such a concept.
Cornelia showed him into the guest room and lit a bedside lamp, and then pointed out the robe hanging behind the door and the towels on the wash stand. She offered to bring up a jug of hot water but he reassured her there was no need as he could wash as easily in cold, and awkwardly they stood in the small room and said goodnight. She thanked him for his company and he gently kissed her hand and closed the door behind her.
He sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to be with her, yet he could ruin her life just by being here, and ruin his marriage into the bargain if Rosamund discovered that he had spent the night with her, however innocently. On the other hand, would she even care? Did she expect him to remain celibate all his life? Sighing, he climbed into bed and turned down the lamp so that there was just a small glow that threw flickering shadows on the walls. Then he put his hands behind his head and wondered how to make sense of his difficulties.
Sleep must have overtaken him at some point, for he awoke to the sound of Cornelia softly calling his name. ‘Frederik? Are you awake?’
He sat up. ‘Yes,’ he said throatily. ‘Yes. Are you all right?’ The lamp was still burning and he saw her standing just inside the open door. She seemed almost ghostlike in a light-coloured robe, that glorious hair hanging loosely over her shoulders.
‘I woke you,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
He reached for the dressing robe that he’d thrown on the bed and slipped his arms into it, covering his nakedness as he stood up. ‘What is it? Are you unwell?’
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘But I’m – I can’t sleep, and I keep thinking of all the things we spoke of …’ She turned away. ‘I’m being foolish – I’m sorry for disturbing you.’
‘No, wait.’ He went towards her and took hold of her hand. ‘Shall I sit with you? Are you nervous?’
‘Nervous? No. But I’m very lonely. Will you – would you sit with me until I go to sleep?’
Frederik’s heart hammered; how difficult that would be. ‘Do you trust me, Cornelia?’
‘I do,’ she said, and began to weep.
He put his arm round her and led her back to her room. A low lamp burned there, and he saw how tumbled the bed sheets were, as if she had tossed and turned for hours. Somewhere in the house he heard a clock strike two. ‘Shall I make you a hot drink?’ he suggested, almost as if she were a child.
She shook her head. ‘No. No, thank you. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep.’
He straightened the sheets and the blanket and the eiderdown and plumped up the pillows. ‘Come on; back to bed.’
She took off her robe, revealing her long white cotton nightdress, and Frederik suppressed an inward breath as she climbed into bed. He tucked her in, smiling. ‘I should tell you a bedtime story.’
Cornelia gave a weepy laugh. ‘I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but will you sit with me?’
There wasn’t a chair in the room, but it was a double bed and after a brief hesitation he went to the vacant side and swung his legs on to it. It was a very comfortable feather mattress, and he thought that this must have been where Nicolaas slept before his illness forced him to move into the other room.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply; she was half propped up on the pillow and gazing at him. ‘I didn’t want to be by my
self. I should never have sent the children away.’
‘You did it for them, which was the right thing to do. Come here,’ he murmured. Easing her up, he put his arm round her so that her head rested within the crook of his shoulder. ‘How’s that?’
She sighed. ‘So comforting. What a good man you are, Frederik.’
If she knew what it was costing him, he thought, she would think him a very good man indeed. Her hair was tickling his face and he could smell her skin, an aroma of soap and something else, of flowers and lavender, and he inhaled deeply. ‘You smell nice,’ he said softly, wanting desperately to kiss her cheek, but not daring to in case he frightened her. She’d said that she trusted him; he had to be satisfied with putting his head lightly against hers and saying, ‘Try to sleep now, Cornelia. Think of all the good things you have in life.’ And he should do the same, he thought, and this was one of them.
He lay still, not daring to move, as Cornelia’s breathing became steadier and he felt her relax against him. When he turned his head towards her he saw her eyelids were closed, and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. She made a small sound and snuggled closer, and then to his dismay she put one arm across him, her skin touching his where his robe didn’t fasten. He was trapped, and to extricate himself he gently moved her.
Sound asleep, she turned over so that her back was facing him. He eased himself out of the bed, then lifted the blanket and crept back under it, keeping the top sheet between them. For heaven’s sake, he thought, what am I doing? He could feel the warmth of her, and in the half-light of the lamp saw her long hair draped across the round curve of her shoulder, more than was proper to see of a woman who was neither wife nor lover. He wanted to turn towards her, but dared not – if she should wake! It was almost more than any man could bear.
Eventually he dropped into a light slumber, and dreamt that Cornelia held him in her arms and was giving him soft kisses while he kissed her cheek and her lips and ran his hands through her hair. He woke to find that they had turned to each other and she had her arm round him in a close embrace. Gently, he rolled away from her and buried his face in the pillow, breathing hard. The lamp had spluttered out and faint streaks of dawn were coming through the window before he silently left Cornelia’s bed and tiptoed back to his own.
He awoke several hours later. He hadn’t closed the curtains the night before, and a harsh bright light reflected from the snow streamed through the window. He wondered what time it was. He could hear the murmur of voices downstairs and guessed that the maid had come in to work. Presently he heard footsteps on the stairs and a knock on his door. It was Miriam, who had brought up a jug of hot water for shaving.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please tell Mevrouw Jansen I will be down in ten minutes.’
She seemed not at all put out that a gentleman visitor had stayed the night. ‘Pardon, meneer, but there is coffee ready when you are, and poffertjes.’
He groaned. Was there nothing Cornelia couldn’t do? Baby pancakes, such as his mother used to make: an absolute favourite.
Miriam beamed. ‘Zeer goed!’
Quickly he washed, shaved and dressed, repacked his overnight bag and went downstairs, where a delicious smell of coffee and pancakes greeted him. Cornelia looked up from setting places at the table and gave him a hesitant smile.
‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘I did, thank you. And you?’
She murmured that she had, keeping her eyes lowered, and poured him coffee, thick, black and aromatic, and as they sat down Miriam turned from the stove with a dish piled high with pancakes, a jug of syrup and a dish of apple butter to spread on them.
‘Cornelia, are you going to tell me that you made these?’ he said teasingly.
‘Well, actually, no, Miriam made them. But I can.’ She laughed. ‘They are a favourite with Hans and Klara.’ She passed him the plate to help himself and dropped her voice when Miriam left the room. ‘Frederik! Whatever do you think of me? I behaved so stupidly last night. Please forgive me. I am mortified.’
He reached for her hand. ‘There’s no need. You were unhappy, and needed comfort.’ Gently he squeezed her fingers. ‘There’s no harm done.’
‘You could have taken advantage of me.’ Her voice broke. ‘And yet you didn’t.’
He smiled and, lifting her hand to his lips, whispered, ‘Believe me, Cornelia, I was very tempted. I wanted to.’
‘Don’t joke,’ she said, drawing her hand away, but it broke the tension. ‘Eat your pancakes.’
Miriam put her head round the door when they had almost finished eating and told Cornelia she was leaving and would see her the next day. Frederik stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and thanked her for the lovely breakfast.
‘I told her she needn’t stay, as there’s nothing much to do,’ Cornelia said as she heard the front door close. ‘The children will be home tomorrow and we’ll be back to normal.’ She took a deep breath. ‘As I was saying, I’m so embarrassed. So ashamed of what I asked of you. I cannot believe that I was so weak.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said firmly. ‘I am honoured that you trusted me. I’m glad I was here.’ He couldn’t tell her that he wasn’t joking when he said that he was tempted, and really did want her. It was too soon, far too soon to say that he had fallen in love with her. She wasn’t ready to hear it – might not ever be ready.
She helped him on with his greatcoat and handed him his hat, then said, ‘Thank you again for coming, Frederik.’ She smiled up at him. ‘You arrived in my hour of need, and …’ she hesitated, ‘you exceeded the bonds of friendship.’
Silently he gazed at her, remembering the warmth of her body next to his, seeing now the pale flush of her cheeks, her soulful grey eyes, her soft lips curved in a half-smile, and without thinking of the consequences he bent his head and kissed her tenderly on the mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Back at school at last, Margriet proudly told Miss Barker and the other pupils that she was being allowed to visit her Dutch grandmother at Easter because she was now old enough to travel without her mother. ‘I’m quite grown up now,’ she proclaimed.
Julia said that she was very jealous as she could barely remember her own Dutch grandmother, but added that she didn’t mind too much now they had a new baby brother. She and Imogen had been allowed to help bathe him, and could talk of little else.
‘I wish I could have one. Where did he come from?’ Margriet asked during morning break as they drank their milk. ‘I mean, how did your mama get him?’
Imogen looked at her and said solemnly, ‘He was sleeping inside Mama until it was time for him to come out.’
‘Inside her!’ Margriet was astonished. ‘But how did he get in there? Wasn’t he too big?’ She had seen the new baby, Hugh, in his perambulator when Mrs Sanderson and a nursemaid had come to collect her daughters from school.
Julia wiped her mouth free of milk with the back of her hand. ‘He wasn’t as big then as he is now. He was only a little seed when he first went in.’
Margriet opened her mouth to ask further questions but Miss Barker called them to attention and they went back to their desks. Margriet’s mind was working hard. Who could she ask about this mystery? Not her mother; she had made her feelings plain when Margriet had told her that Mrs Sanderson was going to have another baby and Margriet had gathered that it wasn’t something to be talked about. It was a big secret, she decided, but perhaps her grandmother would tell her when she went to visit.
Miss Barker, after much thought, had decided that the time had come for her well-off charges to be told about children who were less fortunate than they were; those whose parents could barely afford to buy bread for their tables or shoes for their feet, let alone pay for their children to sit in a comfortable schoolroom, learn their tables and go home afterwards to a good meal and a warm bed. It was time her privileged pupils were taught about real life.
After learning about the many difficulties that the poor faced every
day, the children were subdued. Margriet put up her hand for permission to speak. ‘Miss Barker, I’m going to ask my papa if he has any spare money they could have, and ask Mama if I could give away a pair of boots that are too small for me now.’
‘Very commendable, Margriet.’ Miss Barker smiled. Catch children whilst they were open to suggestion and teach them about humility and humanity before they became caught up in the complacent world of adulthood, and perhaps they wouldn’t turn into copies of their parents. On the other hand, she did not want them to think that handing out money or a pair of old boots would solve the problems of a society where some people were starving and others feasting on roast pheasant and syllabub.
She knew there were exceptions: the Sandersons, for instance. Mrs Sanderson was an educated and articulate woman, who with her husband’s support funded food kitchens in the winter and took young girls from the workhouse into her employ, and no one but a few knew of it. She did not advertise her philanthropy as some did.
When Florrie came to collect Margriet at four o’clock the child was buzzing with ideas about helping the poor and needed a ready ear. Florrie listened and nodded or pursed her lips as her charge suggested asking Cook to make extra bread every day, and collecting clothes that they didn’t often wear to give away. And as soon as Papa returned from Amsterdam she would ask if he had some money to spare.
Florrie hid a grin. She didn’t have any money to give away, and her only decent clothes were the ones her employer provided, which she certainly wasn’t going to hand out to all and sundry. Besides, she was beginning to form ideas of her own about bettering herself, once she had been to Amsterdam.
‘Well,’ she said, as Margriet took a breath. ‘If you want to ask your papa for something, Miss Margriet, look ahead of you, and here’s your chance.’
Margriet lifted her eyes and there striding towards them was her father. He was smiling, she was pleased to see, for he had seemed rather sad lately, and he was waving to her. With a squeak of joy, she dropped Florrie’s hand and ran to meet him.
