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Henrietta's Own Castle
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. An Unexpected Inheritance!When Henrietta was left a house in a Dutch village, she decided to make her home there, and settled happily into her new abode. She thought she would like everything about Holland – except Marnix van Hessel.As "lord of the manor," he behaved as if it were still the Middle Ages! Why couldn't he just marry his fiancée and leave Henrietta in peace?


An unexpected inheritance!
When Henrietta was left a house in a Dutch village, she decided to make her home there, and settled happily into her new abode. She thought she would like everything about Holland—except Marnix van Hessel. As “lord of the manor,” he behaved as if it were still the Middle Ages! Why couldn’t he just marry his fiancée and leave Henrietta in peace?
“I have no idea who you are, but this is my house and I must ask you to leave it.”
He came right into the kitchen. “A very hoity-toity speech,” he remarked in an English as perfect as her own. “Quite wasted on me and useless to anyone else around here—they wouldn’t have understood a word of it.”
“Who are you?” She stood her ground, although the instinct to move back was strong, but she was annoyed at being called hoity-toity. So she lifted her pretty, determined chin and looked down her fine nose at him.
“Your landlord.” He laughed without amusement….
“You’re mistaken.This house is mine. My aunt, Miss Brodie, left it to me.”
He sighed loudly. “I have neither the time nor the patience to mull over the intricacies of leasehold property. Take my word for it that I own the lease on this house, Miss Henrietta Brodie.”

About the Author
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.
Henrietta’s Own Castle


Betty Neels



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u832186f3-deaa-500d-a1ec-c2a1e79c1038)
CHAPTER TWO (#u13f5c235-7ecd-5fd7-b87a-cc10ec8967c3)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9c72707f-7cdb-5c7e-9579-6fd6a7e07479)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
SISTER HENRIETTA BRODIE yawned as she climbed the last few treads of the staircase leading to Women’s Medical; she had stayed up late the night before, listening, with three other Ward Sisters, to Agnes Bent, who had Men’s Medical and was leaving to get married in a few weeks’ time and had still to solve the knotty problem of whether to wear a hat or a veil at her wedding. She was a girl of gentle nature, easily swayed by other opinions, and the argument had gone on until after midnight. Henrietta had rather enjoyed it; she liked Agnes, who was pretty enough to wear whatever she fancied and look lovely, but the others had been divided in their opinions, so that the discussion, prolonged with several pots of tea, had gone on for longer than she had bargained for, and when she had at last got to bed, it was to lie awake until the small hours.
Agnes’ happy chatter had reminded her that she was going to be twenty-nine in a week’s time, and what was worse, she had recently refused Roger Thorpe, the chief pharmacist at St Clement’s, for the second time, and she didn’t think that he would ask her again. If she had had any relatives to advise her, they would probably have told her that she had been silly to have given up the chance of marrying such a worthy man—her own age, steady and serious and hard-working. And so dull, added Henrietta to herself. Roger hadn’t been the first man to ask her to marry him, but he could possibly be the last.
She had sat up in bed at three o’clock in the morning, struck by the sobering thought that twenty-nine was only a year from thirty. Had she been foolish? Roger had all the makings of a good husband, and yet, she had reflected, he had accepted her refusal with a lukewarm regret; he might have been disappointed, but he hadn’t been heartbroken. Her tired mind registered that fact while it had wondered in a nebulous fashion if she would ever meet a man who was neither too worthy nor dull, and who, if she were fool enough to refuse him, would follow her ruthlessly until she changed her mind—he would have to be rich, because she was poor, and good-looking, and because she was tall and well built, he would have to be bigger than she was… She had slid back against the pillow, and slept on the idea.
She remembered it all very clearly now as she crossed the landing to her office, her ears registering the various ward sounds; the breakfast things being collected on to the trolleys, the swish of the curtains as the nurses started to draw them round the beds, the metallic clink of bedpans from the far end of the ward and Mrs Pim’s shrill old voice calling: ‘Nurse, Nurse!’ just as she always did after each and every breakfast. But nothing untoward—Henrietta nodded to herself and opened the office door.
The night nurses were waiting for her, and so was her staff nurse, Joan Legg. She wished them good morning in her quiet, pretty voice, and sat down at her desk. The Kardex was open at the first patient’s name, ready for her to read, but instead she asked: ‘Did you have a good night, Nurse Cutts? That new case—Miss Crow—was the sedation enough or do you want a bigger dose for tonight?’
She looked up and smiled at the student nurse she was talking to, and the smile lighted the whole of her lovely face. Henrietta might be eight or nine years older than her companions, but it was difficult to see that. She was a tall girl, built on generous lines without being plump, with a creamy skin and dark hair curling gently which she pinned up ruthlessly into a bun. Her mouth was kind as well as generously curved and her eyes were dark and thickly lashed. The student nurse, meeting their inquiring gaze and knowing all about the chief pharmacist, thought it a good thing that Sister Brodie had refused him. She was too dishy to be wasted on anyone so ordinary; she ought to marry someone dramatic—tall and dark and a little wicked…
‘Nurse?’ Henrietta’s voice was inquiring, and Cutts abandoned her ideas for her superior’s future happiness and plunged into a businesslike account of the night’s work.
When the night nurses had gone, Henrietta got up, rearranged her frilled muslin cap before the tiny mirror, tweaked the bow under her chin to a more dignified angle and went to look out of the window. ‘Now let’s see,’ she said, ‘there’s the barium meal at ten and three X-rays, and Mrs Pim to persuade to go down to Physio—get them started on the bed-baths, will you, Legg? I’ll be out in a minute.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘God won’t be here until half past ten, but we’d better be ready by ten if we can manage it.’
She was referring to the senior consultant, Sir Cuthbert Cornish, whose day it was to do a ward round. He was a peppery man, very tall and thin, with a booming voice which reduced the younger nurses to a state of mindless jelly; a bedside manner which charmed his patients and a confirmed opinion that he was always right. He nearly always was; Henrietta liked him, and not being afraid of his loud voice, treated him with a sangfroid which he enjoyed. She went and sat down again after Staff had gone and sorted through the patients’ notes and X-rays, refreshing her memory, for God, while permitting her to speak her mind when it concerned the patients or the ward, would brook no slipshod treatment; he expected the right answer when he asked a question.
Presently she got up once more and went into the ward, a little pile of letters and parcels in her hand; it killed two birds with one stone, giving out the post and having a short chat with each patient as she did her round. It took quite a long time, but she never tried to hurry it, some of the women had few visitors and almost no post; they needed to talk even if only for five minutes, the other, luckier ones, with large families to visit them and letters every day, took up only a few minutes of her time, but even so, with thirty patients the round took an hour and sometimes longer, with constant interruptions, small emergencies and the occasional early visit from a doctor. This morning, however, there were few interruptions to take up her time. She went from bed to bed, finding time to keep an eye on the running of the ward as she did so, and by the time she had reached old Mrs Pim in the last bed by the door, the morning’s routine was nicely started—even if God came early they would be ready for him. Henrietta dispatched the cases to X-Ray, sent a nurse down with the barium meal, who was a nervous woman and would probably be sick when she got there anyway, sent the first of the student nurses to their coffee break and went back into her office.
Legg knocked on the door a minute later. ‘Coffee, Sister?’ she asked. ‘Everything’s going nicely.’
Henrietta nodded. ‘Bring a cup for you,’ she invited as she picked up a letter addressed to herself from the desk. Sam, the porter, must have brought it up when he came for the stores list; he knew that on round days she had no chance to leave the ward to collect her post from the nurses’ home. She turned it over idly; it looked official and as it was typed, she had no idea from whom it might be, only that the postmark was London. She slipped it into her pocket, to be read later on when the round was over.
Sir Cuthbert Cornish arrived early; usually he was late but just now and again he turned up at least twenty minutes too soon, presumably in the hope that no one would be ready for him and he would be able to complain, but Henrietta had been Ward Sister for some years now and was up to his tricks; he was met, as always, by his registrar, his houseman, the social worker and the girl from Physio, with her a yard or so in front, so that he might be greeted in the correct way, and Staff lurking discreetly in the background, reinforced by a student nurse ready to do any of the odd jobs the great man might think up. Today, however, he was in a genial mood; the round went well with a few setbacks and a kind of interval half way up the ward while he told Henrietta a funny story. The round done at last, they parted on the best of terms at the ward door, and while his little procession made its way to Men’s Medical on the other side of the block, Henrietta went back into the ward, where the dinner trolley, concealed in the kitchen, had been rushed into place ready for her to serve the patients’ dinners. She doled out steamed fish, diabetic diets and stew for the well ones, while she and Staff conned over the round. She had made notes from time to time, but most of God’s instructions she held in her head; after their own dinner she and Legg would go to her office during the visiting hour and go over the notes together so that his orders—and they had been many—might be carried out to the letter.
Henrietta didn’t remember her letter until the visitors had gone and the patients were having tea. The ward was almost quiet, with only two nurses keeping an eye on its occupants while the rest of the staff went to their own tea. Legg had gone off duty at half past two and would be back at half past six to relieve her. She looked out of the window at the grey dreary January afternoon, trying to make up her mind if she would go out that evening or go to bed early—bed would be nice, she decided as she drew the Kardex towards her and began the bare bones of the day report so that Legg could fill it in later, but she pushed it aside when Florrie, the ward maid, came in with her tea; a good excuse to take a few minutes off, she told herself, and at the same time remembered her letter.
She opened it without much curiosity and paused to sip her tea before she read it. It was from a firm of solicitors, informing her that her aunt, Miss Henrietta Brodie, had died a week previously and that, by the terms of her will, she, her niece and sole surviving relative, was to inherit the property known as Dam 3 in the village of Gijzelmortel, situated in the province of North Brabant, Holland, together with its contents and such moneys as remained after the payment of certain legacies. The writer begged her to pay him a visit at the earliest opportunity and remained hers faithfully, Jeremy Boggett, of Messrs Boggett, Payne, Boggett and Boggett.
Henrietta read this exciting information through a second time, looked at the back and then the envelope to make sure that she had missed nothing and then laid it down on the desk and drank her tea. Her first reaction was that she was dreaming, to be quickly supplanted by the idea that it was a mistake. She had had an Aunt Henrietta, true enough, a vague relative she had never seen and whom her parents, when they had been alive, never mentioned. She had presumed her dead for years and had never known where she had lived or anything about her. She poured herself another cup of tea and lifted the telephone receiver; private calls were not allowed from the hospital, but this, she considered, justified breaking that rule. She dialled the number engraved on the letter, not quite believing that anyone would answer her—but they did; an efficient feminine voice, enquiring what might be done for her, and when she asked rather uncertainly if she might see Mr Jeremy Boggett the following morning and gave her name, the voice asked her to hold the line, and after a few minutes an elderly man’s voice, owned presumably by that gentleman, assured her that he would be glad to see her at her earliest convenience and would ten o’clock suit her?
Henrietta put the receiver down and reread the letter while a number of exciting ideas raced round inside her head. A house of her own—she could go and stay…and money too, perhaps enough to allow her to give up nursing for a while. After all, she could always get another job when the money had run out. The prospect was tempting; she would see what the solicitor had to say and then go and see Miss Brice, the Principal Nursing Officer. Meanwhile there was her work to get on with. She put the letter into her pocket and drew the Kardex towards her.
She wasn’t on until one o’clock the next day, time enough to go to the solicitor’s office, have a snack in a coffee shop somewhere and be on duty on time, and because it was a fine morning, though cold, and she had time on her hands, she walked for the half hour needed to get her from the hospital to Lincoln’s Inn. Messrs Boggett, Payne, Boggett and Boggett had an office on the top floor of a narrow Georgian house: Henrietta climbed the stairs, the letter clutched in her hand as a kind of talisman, still not quite believing it.
It was true, however. Mr Jeremy Boggett, surely the senior partner, she thought irrelevantly, for he was white-haired and whiskered and very, very old, offered a chair and applied himself to the task of reading her aunt’s will.
The house was indeed hers. ‘A snug little property, Miss Brodie, but small—furnished, of course, and extremely economical in upkeep.’ He peered at her over his glasses and smiled. ‘I believe, from your aunt’s letter sent to me just before her death, that you have no relatives, in which case it will be doubly pleasant for you to have a home of your own, although you are quite free to do what you wish with the property. Sell it, perhaps?’
Henrietta shook her head. ‘Oh, no—that’s the last thing I would wish to do. I haven’t had much time to think about it, but I like the idea of going there for a little while—to live, you know.’
He glanced down at the papers in his hand. ‘That is quite possible of course. I do not know how you are placed financially, Miss Brodie, but as far as we can calculate at the moment, your aunt left only a small sum of money—about six hundred pounds—which will be advanced to you should you require it.’
It sounded a great deal, even in these days; if she were careful she would be able to live there, if she liked it, for quite a long time; there would be no rent and if she were desperate at the end of that time she could always get herself a job and let the house besides. ‘Are there any extras to pay?’ she wanted to know. ‘Rates and things like that,’ she added vaguely.
Mr Boggett consulted his papers once more. ‘Certainly, but the village is rural and the rates are low, I imagine that an outlay of fifty pounds or so annually would cover them.’
Henrietta was doing rapid sums in her head. She had a little money saved, she was young and strong and could get a job whenever she needed one. She drew a breath and smiled at the old man. ‘You know, I think I’ll arrange to go over and stay there for a while—if I like it very much perhaps I could stay—you see, there’s nothing to keep me here.’
He nodded in agreement. ‘I believe your decision would have made your aunt very happy.’ He took off his glasses and polished them. ‘It is a long time since I last saw Miss Brodie, she went to live in Holland many years ago now, but she always wrote charming letters.’ He coughed. ‘I shall be happy to help you in any way, Miss Brodie. The estate is a small one and once we have arranged things with the Dutch authorities and so forth, it should be a simple matter to clear the matter up within a few weeks. Perhaps you will let me know when you wish to go and I will do my best to have everything in order by then. The money is in Holland, naturally. I take it that you would wish it to be left where it is, in the bank.’
‘Oh, please. I’ll be able to get it out?’
‘Yes, I will arrange for you to have a letter to present to the manager. You are unacquainted with the Dutch language?’
‘I daresay there’ll be someone there who speaks English? I expect I’ll pick up enough Dutch to get by once I’m there.’ She paused. ‘I suppose my aunt didn’t leave me a letter, or—or anything?’
‘I’m afraid not. She had seen you only once or twice, I believe, when you were a baby, but she seems to have retained an affection for you. Blood,’ observed Mr Boggett, ‘is thicker than water.’
Perhaps her aunt had been glad to have someone to whom she could leave her home; it struck Henrietta with some force that she herself had no one.
Too excited to drink more than a cup of coffee, she took an extravagant taxi back to St Clement’s and went at once to see Miss Brice. It was unusual for anyone to demand an interview at such short notice; the Admin. Sisters, sitting at their desks in the outer office, tried to fob her off with an appointment for the next day, but Henrietta, uplifted by the knowledge that she was now a woman of property, however small, and had means of her own, even smaller, refused to be put off. She walked into Miss Brice’s office, feeling a little topheavy with excitement and looking twice as pretty as she normally did because of it.
Miss Brice blinked at her Ward Sister’s blinding good looks, wishing to herself that she could look the same, and inquired as to the reason for Henrietta’s urgency. She listened while it was explained to her and only when it was finished did she say: ‘You appear to have made up your mind rather quickly, Sister. You are quite sure about it? You have a splendid job here with a good chance of promotion later on, and forgive me for saying so, but you tell me that you have no relatives, and in such circumstances surely it would be better for you to remain in secure employment?’
‘I’ve been in secure employment since I started nursing, ten years ago,’ Henrietta reminded her. ‘Ten years,’ she repeated with faint bitterness, ‘and I’ve not so much as gone on a day trip to Boulogne. I do not wish to be secure, Miss Brice.’
Miss Brice looked startled. ‘Well—I really don’t know what to say, Sister Brodie. I certainly can’t prevent you from doing something you wish to do. You say that you have two weeks’ holiday left from this year? Supposing you take those and let me know your decision during that period? You will, of course, have to forfeit your salary if you leave on those terms, and I hope that you will allow a reasonable time to elapse before taking your holiday.’
Henrietta was on her feet. ‘Would a month be long enough?’ she asked. ‘If I could have my holiday in one month’s time and then let you know about leaving—I shall know more about it by then.’
Miss Brice could lose gracefully when she had to. ‘That will suit me very well, Sister. If you do decide to give up your post you do realize that I shall fill it immediately? If you should, at some future date, apply for a post here, I shall always be pleased to consider you for it, though I must warn you that it might not be exactly what you wished for.’ She bowed her elegantly capped head in dismissal, and Henrietta, with a suitable murmur, almost danced from the room.
She went on duty looking much as usual. Certainly her manner was as calm and assured as it always was, only her fine eyes sparkled whenever she allowed herself to think of her changed future, but in the Sisters’ sitting room at tea time, she told her news to those of her friends who were sharing tea and buttered toast round the electric fire, and it was received with gratifying surprise and a good deal of speculation as well as instant requests to be invited to stay, and unlike Miss Brice, they agreed wholeheartedly that in her shoes they would have done exactly the same thing. ‘And probably,’ said a voice, ‘Miss Brice would have done the same if she’d been twenty years younger,’ a remark which gave rise to a short pause while everyone there thought how awful it must be to be as old as Miss Brice; fifty if she was a day.
‘How are you going, and when?’ asked some-one else.
‘Well, I haven’t a clue at the moment how to go,’ said Henrietta thoughtfully, ‘though I shall take Charlie.’ A very old Mini bought from one of the housemen three years previously, it had been second-hand then, and the man at the garage assured her each time she went for petrol that it was a miracle that Charlie went at all. ‘At least he’ll get me there,’ she added.
Whereupon they fell to discussing just what she would need to take with her and became so absorbed in this engrossing subject that they forgot the time and went back to the wards a little late.
The month went quickly; there was a lot to see to—passport, visits to Mr Boggett, Charlie to be overhauled, her few friends to be bidden a temporary farewell—and the ward was extra busy too, so that she was tired enough to sleep soundly each night and not lie awake wondering if she had been rash, exchanging a steady, safe life for an unknown one. True, she had read up a great deal about Holland, she knew exactly where the village of Gijzelmortel lay, even though she hadn’t an idea how to pronounce it, and she had bought a phrase book which she hoped would get her over the first few weeks. She had drawn some of her savings from the bank too, for it seemed logical that if she were going to change her life, she should change her wardrobe too. She bought a tweed suit in a pleasing shade of brown which went very well with her last year’s coat and she bought, amongst other things, a pair of sensible lined boots. They struck her as unfashionable, but if it were cold—and there was, after all, a good deal of winter left—she might be glad of them; the guide book had said that it could be cold in Holland and that skating was a national pastime, which led her to believe that there might be degrees of coldness, for it wasn’t a national pastime in England.
The guide book also advised the taking of cosmetics just in case one couldn’t buy that particular brand, so she stocked up lavishly and had her collection topped by a large bottle of Dioressence given to her by her friends. And being a practical girl she packed candles and matches and a powerful torch and enough food to keep her going for a day or so. Presumably there would be a village shop, and she would have Charlie, if he was still on his wheels, to take her to the neighbouring towns. She wondered uneasily about garages, but surely every village had one these days—anyway, she mustn’t start crossing her bridges until she came to them. She had never understood Charlie’s insides; the man at the garage had kept them working, and now it was too late for her to learn anything about them, but that was something she wasn’t going to worry about either—she wasn’t going to worry about anything, she was going to enjoy herself.
She began her journey on a cold, bleak morning whose sky promised snow before the day was out. She had booked on the Dover ferry and planned to arrive on the other side of the Channel in the early afternoon so that she would have several hours of daylight in which to travel. The ferry was almost empty and the sea was rough. Henrietta sat uneasily, hoping that she wouldn’t be sick, her eyes averted from the weather outside, and presently she slept for a little while and when she woke and staggered down below to tidy herself it was to hear that because of the rough weather they would be docking at least an hour late. She got herself a cup of tea and settled down to read, only to cast her book down and con her map once more, making sure that she knew the route she had to take. It looked an alarmingly long way, although she knew that once she landed at Zeebrugge it was barely forty miles to Breskens where she would have to take the ferry across the river Schold, and once at Vlissingen, it was only a little more than seventy miles. It would be well after two when they landed, she calculated, and it was dark by five o’clock, so provided she could get to Vlissingen by then it should be easy enough. It was towards her journey’s end that she would have to be careful not to miss the side road which would take her to Gijzelmortel. There was a landmark on the map, a castle, but in the dark she doubted if that would be of much use to her. She folded the map, determined not to get worried, aware that she would be glad when she was safely there.
It was sleeting when they docked, and bitter cold. Henrietta, one of the first away, drove carefully along the coast road which would lead her to the border town of Sluis and Holland. There was almost no traffic, something she was grateful for; the dark sky was closing in rapidly now and she could see that the hours of daylight she had reckoned on were to be considerably shortened. She ignored her desire to get as much out of Charlie as possible; the roads were treacherous and there were signposts to look out for as well as remembering to drive on the other side of the road.
She pressed on steadily, through the Customs post at Sluis and on to Breskens where the ferry was waiting. She breathed a sigh of relief as she got out of her little car and climbed the narrow iron stairs to the deck above. There was a brightly lit saloon there and a coffee bar at one end of it, doing a roaring trade. Henrietta pointed at what she wanted, handed over a note, received a handful of change and found herself a table where she drank her coffee, ate her cheese roll and examined the money. It seemed small, although when she looked at it carefully she could see that it was similar to the money at home, only the tiny silver coins were different. She stowed them away now that she had had something to eat. Her cheerful mood lasted as she drove off the ferry and took the N97, which would take her to Breda without any complications. She encouraged Charlie to a steady forty-five and kept doggedly on. Sleet was still falling, but the motorway was wide and well surfaced and she was a good driver, so in due time she found herself on the roundabout outside that city and heaved another sigh of relief. Not very far now and she would be there.
The motorway skirted Tilburg too. Henrietta left it soon after, and in another seven or eight miles saw what she was looking for—the signpost to Gijzelmortel. She turned into the exit point, swung the little car under a flyover and joined a narrow road on the other side, where presently another signpost directed her into a still narrower lane. After that there was no sign, no houses, no lights even, only her headlamps cutting into the sleety darkness. She should be there, she told herself, and discovered that she was, for there was the village sign on the side of the road and a few yards further she saw the first house. The road curved away to the left and she followed it, to discover that the village—and Mr Boggett had been quite right, it was very small—was a mere circle of houses round a cobbled square with a bandstand in its centre. There were one or two narrow lanes leading away from it, but he had told her that the house was in the centre of the village. She slowed the car to a crawl round the square, cheered by the sight of the lighted windows around her, and presently reached a massive gateway, with lanterns on its brick posts, and just a few yards further on a row of tiny houses. There was a wall plaque on the first one with Dam written on it. The third house along was number three. She was there!
CHAPTER TWO
HENRIETTA took the house key from her handbag and got out of the car, savouring the moment despite the sneering wind and sleet, so sluggish now that it was almost snow. Oblivious of these discomforts, she stood back to survey her property—a very little house in the middle of a row of six similar dwellings, all exactly alike, built of bricks with one large window beside a solid front door and another window above, crowded into its steeply gabled roof. She stood a little further back and by peering beyond the lights above the gateway was able to see another row, exactly similar beyond the further gate post. Possibly a park, she speculated, for the wrought iron gates were open. The sight of them triggered off a highly improbable daydream, in which she saw herself on a hot summer’s day, roaming its greenness, possibly with a dog… A nasty little flurry of snowy wind took her breath and brought the daydream to an abrupt end and she crossed the narrow flagged pavement and turned the key in the lock.
The hall was a tiny square from which the stairs ascended steeply, and there was a door on the right. Henrietta shone her torch and found the light switch and pressed it, but nothing happened—she had half expected that, although she had hoped that she wouldn’t need the candles which she had thoughtfully brought with her. She went back to Charlie and carried in her overnight bag and her case; to get to the candles was the first necessity.
The house seemed all at once warmer by reason of the small flame; she opened the door and with the candle held high, went inside. The dining-room, she judged, nicely furnished with an old-fashioned round table and pretty Victorian chairs; there was a small sideboard too and pictures on the walls, but she left these for the moment and went into the room beyond—without doubt the sitting room, as small as the dining-room and even in the chilly dimness, cosy, its armchairs with shabby covers drawn up on either side of an old-fashioned iron stove, a couple of small lamp tables, another chair or two and one wall almost entirely taken up by an upright piano. There was a window and door on the third wall; presumably the back garden was beyond, but she turned away from the bleak darkness outside and opened the door to the kitchen. Small, too, as was to be expected but as far as she could see by the light of the wavering candle flame, adequately equipped; a sink with a geyser above it, a small table with two gas rings and shelves of saucepans and cooking utensils. She put down her candle carefully and tried the geyser hopefully, but there was no gas, neither was there any water when she turned on the tap.
She went back to the hall, looking for the meters, retracing her steps slowly without success. She was kneeling in the kitchen again, peering hopefully under the sink, when she heard someone enter the house. She got to her feet slowly, her heart beating an uneasy tattoo, eyeing the man who was standing at the kitchen door, looking at her. She was a big girl, but he more than matched her for size—a head taller for a start and with broad shoulders, massive in a sheepskin jacket, and as far as she could see in the dim light, exceedingly handsome. She waited uncertainly; she had been a fool to have left the front door on the latch, but probably he was just a casual passer-by. She said coolly: ‘I have no idea who you are, but this is my house and I must ask you to leave it.’
He came right into the kitchen. ‘A very hoity-toity speech,’ he remarked in an English as perfect as her own, ‘quite wasted on me and useless to anyone else around here—they wouldn’t have understood a word of it.’
‘Who are you?’ She stood her ground although the instinct to move back was strong, but she was annoyed at being called hoity-toity, so that she lifted her pretty, determined chin and looked down her fine nose at him.
‘Your landlord.’ He laughed without amusement and she said at once:
‘You’re mistaken, this house is mine. My aunt, Miss Brodie, left it to me.’
He sighed loudly. ‘I have neither the time nor the patience to mull over the intricacies of leasehold property. Take my word for it that I own the lease of this house, Miss Henrietta Brodie.’
She gave him a startled glance. How had he known her name was Henrietta? she longed to ask, but instead, ‘You still haven’t told me who you are,’ she reminded him coldly.
For some reason this amused him. ‘Van Hessel—Marnix van Hessel.’
‘And how did you know that I was here?’
‘My dear good young woman, this is a very small village. Willemse the greengrocer was putting his van away when he saw you arrive—he came to tell my housekeeper, who told me. In a community of this size we all tend to mind each other’s business.’
She was annoyed again. ‘Or indulge your curiosity.’
His eyes—grey, she thought, but wasn’t sure—narrowed. ‘You have a nasty sharp tongue,’ he observed. ‘I am not in the least curious about you—why should I be? But since it was I who ordered the electricity and gas and water to be turned off, it seemed that the least I could do was to come and turn them on again.’
He stood quite still, staring at her, and after a moment or two she said awkwardly: ‘Well, thank you…I should be glad…it is a little chilly…’
He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s damned cold.’ He walked past her into the scullery and she was aware once more of his great size as he bent to go through the door. She stood still, holding the candle aloft while he opened a cupboard high up on the wall. ‘Try the lights,’ he advised her.
The little kitchen sprang into instant view and she looked around her with relief and a good deal of interest, but she was given no time in which to indulge her curiosity. ‘Turn on the gas,’ he commanded. That worked too, and so, presently, did the water. Tea, thought Henrietta, a hot water bottle and bed, while aloud she said civilly: ‘Thank you very much, I can…’ She was interrupted.
‘I’ll get the stove going, there should be coal and wood outside.’
She tried again. ‘Please don’t bother, I shall…’ and was silenced by his: ‘Of course it’s a bother, but I wouldn’t leave a dog to shiver to death on a night like this.’
She bristled, her dark eyes sparkling with temper. She said in a voice made high by her strong feelings: ‘I’m obliged to you for your help, Mr van Hessel, but I can manage very well—don’t let me keep you.’
He flung open the back door, his torch cutting a swathe through the blackness outside, the icy wind rushing in to set her shivering again. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said pleasantly as he went out. ‘Go upstairs and unpack.’
Over the years of being without a family she had achieved a fine independence, so it was all the more surprising to her to find herself climbing a miniature staircase with her overnight bag. There were two bedrooms, she discovered, with a large landing between them. They faced front and back and she chose the back room, pleased with the simplicity of its furnishings; a narrow bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror above it, a basket chair, well cushioned, and bright rugs on the polished floor. The curtains, she noted as she pulled them to, were shabby now, but the fabric had once been good. The other room was almost identical; she pulled the curtains here too and lingered to explore the landing. There was a cupboard built into one of its walls, full, she discovered to her delight, to its brim with bed linen, blankets and everything she could need for the house, there were even two old-fashioned eiderdowns, a little faded but whole. Henrietta sighed with deep satisfaction and went back downstairs.
Mr van Hessel might be an ill-tempered man, but he was handy at lighting a stove. It was crackling well and already its heat was taking the sharp chill off the room. There was a scuttle of coals too and as she entered he came in with an armful of small logs which he stacked tidily in a corner. When he had done this, he stood up, studying her in a cool way which annoyed her very much. ‘You look as though you could do with a good hot supper,’ he observed.
‘I stopped on my way here.’ She had spoken too quickly and he had seen that. He moved to the door. ‘And that’s a lie if ever I heard one,’ he told her, ‘but as it’s obviously intended to warn me off inviting you to a meal, I’ll take the hint. Good night.’
He had gone, and the room looked bare without him. She went into the kitchen, found the kettle and put it on to boil for a cup of tea while she considered her visitor—a large, domineering man, used to giving orders and getting his own way, and if he owned the lease of the house, why hadn’t Mr Boggett told her about him? She knew very little about ground rents and such things. She wondered now, a little uneasily, if she would be able to afford to pay it. Presumably she would have to ask Mr van Hessel how much it was. It seemed likely that she would see him again; he must live close by, for he had come—and gone—on foot. Perhaps he lived on the other side of the square where the houses, as she had passed them in the dark, had appeared larger, though it was hard to imagine him in a small village house.
She made the tea and rooted through her stores for a tin of baked beans and a packet of soup; a proper hot supper would have been nice, she thought wistfully, but he had offered it in much the same way as he might have offered a bone to a hungry dog. She ate her beans, drained the teapot and went upstairs to make her bed. It wasn’t late, but she was longing for sleep; she went downstairs again, made up the stove, had a shower in the tiny cubicle squeezed into the scullery, and went to her bed with both eiderdowns on top of her and a hot water bottle as well.
It wasn’t quite light when she woke, although her watch told her that it was eight o’clock. She got up and drew back the curtains to see what lay behind the house; a garden, small and brick-walled to a height of six feet, a mere plot of neglected grass with a tangle of rose bushes in one corner. The scullery roof was just below her window and beyond that there was a brick lean-to shed, where presumably her visitor of the night before had found the coal. But beyond that she could see very little; identical sized gardens on either side of her, incredibly neat, and a dense row of conifers, screening whatever lay beyond the back walls of the row of little houses. She would find out, she promised herself, dressing rapidly in sweater and slacks before going down to rake out the stove and make it up again and to the kitchen to get her breakfast. Tea and porridge and tinned milk; presently she would find the village shop. She washed up, made her bed, found her phrase book and, warmly wrapped against the weather, opened her front door. Charlie was still parked outside; she would have to find a garage for him very soon. She ran a woollen-mitted hand over his icy roof and jumped when Mr van Hessel said from behind her, ‘Yours, I presume.’ And when she wheeled round to face him: ‘I take it you believe in travelling on a prayer—your faith must be very strong if you pin it to this—er—car.’
‘Charlie is a splendid little car,’ she told him with dignity. ‘He may not look quite—well…’ she paused, unable to think of the right word. ‘He suits me,’ she finished with a snap.
Mr van Hessel was studying her once more, his magnificent head, with its dark silvered hair, on one side. ‘Charlie,’ he remarked reflectively. ‘You are a most extraordinary young woman.’ He allowed his gaze to ramble from her face down to her sensible boots and back again to meet her indignant eyes. ‘You’re still young—not yet thirty, I should imagine?’ He ignored her angry choke. ‘And even in your so suitable winter clothes you are quite unmistakably a woman.’
Her voice would have frozen anyone else. ‘I wish you would stop referring to me as a young woman!’
‘Ah, is young lady more to your liking?’
‘My name is Brodie,’ she pointed out.
‘Miss Henrietta Brodie—I had not forgotten. Have you a garage for this car?’
‘No, I’m just going to see about it.’
His eyes widened with laughter. ‘There is no garage in the village and those who have cars use outbuildings and sheds. I cannot think of anyone who could accommodate you. Perhaps you would allow me to house Charlie for the time being at least.’
He was a most extraordinary man, she thought crossly, being rude to her with every other breath and then being helpful—but she had to have a garage. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, ‘I’d be very obliged, just until I can find somewhere permanent.’ She gave him a questioning look. ‘You have got room?’
He inclined his head. ‘Indeed yes. I have also asked your neighbour to chop wood for you—I daresay he will come this afternoon. He speaks no English, but I expect you will be able to manage.’
‘Thank you—how much should I pay him?’
Her companion looked astounded. ‘Nothing. He’s a neighbour, he would feel insulted. Have you done your shopping?’
‘I’m on my way—there must be a shop…’
‘A general store, I believe you would call it in English. We will go together, unless of course you have sufficient knowledge of our language to make your purchases?’
She was being overwhelmed with kindness, and yet behind his bland face she thought there was laughter lurking. ‘I can’t speak a word,’ she told him.
They crossed the cobbles, skirted the bandstand and turned a corner into an exceedingly narrow street, crammed with little houses and paved with cobblestones, too. The shop was half way down its length and there were quite a number of women inside, having, from the sound of their voices, a pleasant gossip. They fell silent as Mr van Hessel opened the door and ushered her in, and she had the strange idea that in a bygone age they would have dropped him a curtsey; as it was they chorused with respectful voices and waited to hear what he had to say. Of course Henrietta couldn’t understand a word, but he smiled at them as he spoke, and they smiled back, but still with respect, and after a minute of talking he turned to ask: ‘How much milk do you want?’
‘Oh, a pint each day.’
‘You forget, my good…I beg your pardon—Miss Brodie, that we do not have your pints here, only litres. I suggest a litre every other day.’
She nodded. At least he had remembered not to call her his good girl!
‘Bread?’
‘Well, I thought I’d make my own, but just until I’m settled, yes, please. Can I buy it here?’
‘No. The baker comes three times a week, his van is parked in the square and you fetch it for yourself.’ He stopped to speak to the woman behind the counter. ‘He doesn’t come today, but Mevrouw Ros will let you have half a loaf. What else?’
‘Bacon…’
‘No, most people don’t eat your sort of bacon. What else?’
‘Eggs, cheese, butter…’
‘Butter? That is expensive in Holland, not many people eat it.’
‘Oh, well, margarine, I suppose. Where do I buy meat?’
He said something or other to the woman. ‘The butcher comes twice a week, he will be here in half an hour or so—in the square. I will tell Mevrouw Ros that somebody must help you with the money and so on.’
‘Don’t you mean ask?’ she wanted to know. ‘You sound like a feudal lord.’
His lips twitched. ‘Unpardonable of me,’ he murmured. ‘Vegetables? Willemse takes his van round every day except Sunday, he comes to the door and you can buy what you want from him. I should point out that we have not moved with the times here, we cling to our old habits. In the big towns and modern villages, the shopping is done much as it is in England—although I imagine that you have not had much experience of that—St Clement’s has a large nurses’ home, and very likely you lived in.’
She gaped at him. ‘However did you know?’ she began, to be halted by his impatient: ‘Oh, later, later, I have no time now. Do you wish to pay for these things now or will you have an account?’
‘I’ll pay now, please.’
She opened her purse and handed him the money he asked for and he paid it while she smiled round at the interested faces watching her. ‘I didn’t realize that it would be so foreign,’ she declared as they left the shop.
He had her basket, and from the surprised glances from the women they passed in the street, he wasn’t often seen with a shopping basket. They crossed the square together and at her door she took it from him. ‘I should like to see you about the ground rent,’ she began. ‘Mr Boggett didn’t tell me about it. Do I pay you, and how much is it?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he told her blandly. ‘We’ll look into it some other time.’
‘Very well, but I should like to know, so that I can…’ She stopped; she wasn’t going to tell him that she had to be careful with her money. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps I could come and see you about it.’
He took the basket from her once more and set it down on her doorstep, and without speaking took her arm and walked her to the big gates.
‘Here,’ he said, and stopped midway between the great pillars. Henrietta hadn’t gone that way until now, they had walked to the shop along the other side of the square. She stared before her at the short drive, leading straight as a ruler from the gates, and at its end a square-walled castle, surrounded by a moat. There was a bridge spanning it so that cars could reach its great wooden door exactly facing the open gates, and a sweep of gravel just sufficiently large to allow of them to turn. The castle’s whitewashed walls rose straight and solid from the steel-grey water and were capped by a tiled roof like a clown’s hat, and there were a great many small windows. On either side of it, half way round the moat and almost out of sight, she could see two smaller bridges, connecting the castle with the drive which encircled the outer edge of the moat. She could think of nothing to say; this then was the castle the guide book had mentioned and which she had mistakenly assumed was a ruin—but this was no ruin, it bore all the signs of care and money lavished upon it, and when she looked around her she saw the coat of arms engraved on each pillar. No wonder the women in the shop had been so polite to Mr van Hessel!
‘Are you the lord of the manor?’ she wanted to know.
‘Well, we don’t call it that.’ He was amused again.
‘But you do own these houses?’ She pointed to the neat row of houses on either side of the gates. ‘Almshouses, are they?’
‘My dear good…Miss Brodie, they are not almshouses—the leasehold is mine, certainly, but the houses are given as gifts, usually for the recipient’s lifetime. In your case your aunt’s house was given to her together with the right to leave it to any member of her family, should she wish to do so.’
Henrietta stared up at him, wishing she could read his face; there was a great deal she wanted to know. She had opened her mouth to ask the first question when he said: ‘Forgive me, I have an urgent appointment,’ and was gone, stalking up the drive to his own front door—from his back she thought it probable that he had forgotten all about her.
She spent the day cleaning her little house, tidying cupboards and polishing furniture. Some of it, she discovered upon closer inspection, was very old and probably valuable. There was a rosewood davenport in the sitting-room, and the dining table was a magnificent example of marquetry, and when she took the loose covers off the easy chairs it was to find that they were upholstered in a rich red velvet, as good as new. She left the covers off and brushed the velvet with care; the little room looked quite beautiful now—she would need flowers, though; she would go to Tilburg in the morning, see the bank manager and give him Mr Boggett’s letter and then do a little shopping. She wound the Friesian clock hanging on the dining-room wall and the small carriage clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece and, well satisfied with her work, went to make herself some belated coffee.
She had just finished it when there was a knock on the door; the neighbour, come to chop the wood; there was no doubt of that, for he swung a nasty-looking axe from a hamlike hand. They smiled and nodded in speechless friendliness as she ushered him out to the shed and went back to answer the door once more. One of the women who had been in the shop this time, smiling and pointing across the square where a van had parked. Henrietta remembered the butcher, put on her coat and walked with her guide across the cobbles and bought her meat. It was amazing how one could manage without speaking a word, she reflected, receiving change from the butcher, exchanging smiles and nods from the other customers as she went back across the square to find the greengrocer at the door. And this was even easier; all she had to do was walk round the van pointing to what she wanted and when she had made her choice he kicked off his klompen and carried her purchases through into the kitchen for her. Everyone was kind, and it surprised her a little, and Mr van Hessel had been the kindest of them all—which reminded her about Charlie. Perhaps she should give him a clean before he went into the garage Mr van Hessel had offered—and where would that be? she wondered looking about her. Probably through the big gates, but then where? And was she expected to go and find out? She was standing looking up at the grey sky, threatening sleet again, when a small elderly man with a wizened face came rapidly through the gates and stopped beside her. ‘Car, miss,’ he said, and grinned nicely so that she could have hugged him with relief.
‘Oh, good—and you speak English, too.’
He smiled again and nodded. ‘I take car, miss.’ He put out a hand and she cried: ‘Oh, yes, of course you want the key,’ and when she had fetched it: ‘Where are you taking it?’
But this was beyond him; he shook his head, still smiling, and then asked: ‘Tomorrow?’
She nodded urgently. ‘Here? Ten o’clock? Or shall I fetch it?’
He hadn’t understood, not that part anyway, for he held up two hands to show that he knew what ten meant, saluted her and got into Charlie, who rather surprisingly purred into life and was driven away through the gates and out of sight. Henrietta went back indoors; the arrangements would do for the moment, but once she had got her bearings she would find a shed or something—supposing she wanted Charlie in a hurry, how was she to get him? It was a pity, but she could see that there were a great many questions she would have to ask Mr van Hessel when she saw him again.
She made tea for the neighbour and had a cup herself, deciding to skip lunch, for there was still the linen cupboard to go through. She would get a stew going and eat it later round the stove. The man went presently and she went to see what he had done; the logs had been split and piled tidily, and besides that he had chopped a pile of kindling. She took some logs back with her, made up the stove and settled down to her task. It proved a more lengthy one than she had imagined; Aunt Harriet had had a remarkably well stocked linen cupboard, and everything was of the best quality. Henrietta, happily counting and checking, came to the conclusion that she would have no need to buy a single article for years to come.
She finished at last and went downstairs, well content, to sit in the lamplit room with a tray of tea and a book while the stew bubbled appetizingly. After supper she would make a few lists and try to get her finances planned, but after supper she found herself thinking of bed; she tidied away the remains of her meal, had a shower and made herself a cup of cocoa to drink by the stove. She had enjoyed her day, she thought sleepily, and tomorrow would be fun, too—besides, once she had been to the bank she would know exactly how much money she had.
She took her mug out to the sink and went yawning through the little house, to pause and straighten a picture on the dining-room wall. It had caught on something behind it and when she unhooked it she saw the small knob on the wall. She pulled it idly and a little cupboard door, papered over, opened. It was a little high for her, tall though she was, so she got a chair and climbed on it to peer inside. There were several rolls of green baize and a velvet-covered box. She carried them to the light and opened them—there was table silver, simple and old and she supposed valuable. There was a small silver coffee pot too with a cream jug and a sugar bowl, just as simple in design and very beautiful. Henrietta set them down beside the other silver and opened the box. There was a garnet necklace inside; a gold chain, very thick and solid, the garnets fashioned into a cascade of flowers; it shone and glowed in her hands and she wondered who had worn it. She would have to tell someone, she decided as she wrapped everything up again; it might make a difference to the estate, for they were valuable. And who was she to tell? Mr Boggett, perhaps, or the bank manager in Tilburg? She went slowly up to bed, wondering why Aunt Henrietta had hidden them away, and who had given her such a lovely necklace.
She was up early the next morning and although it was still only half light saw with a sinking heart that it had been snowing, and still was. The road to Tilburg was a good one; it was the few kilometres from the village to that road which worried her. True, there were no hills or S-bends and it had been dark when she had driven along it, but it was very narrow and the surface was bad. She ate her breakfast, tidied up the house, peeled potatoes to go with the rest of the stew and checked her small stock of tins for a pudding to go after it, then went upstairs to put on her outdoor clothes; the tweed coat, while not quite the height of fashion, was warm and so were the boots, she added a fur bonnet too—an extravagance she had permitted herself and was now thankful for; it framed her pretty face attractively and its dark fur was undoubtedly becoming.
It was almost ten o’clock as she opened her front door, but there was no sign of Charlie; indeed, there was no sign of anything or anyone, everyone who could was undoubtedly snug indoors on such a day. The Catholic church played its carillon for ten o’clock and the Protestant church, not to be outdone, chimed the hour with its deliberate, deep bell, and Henrietta peered round the door once more. A car was turning out of the castle gates, not her Mini, but a gleaming, silver-grey Rolls-Royce, moving silently and disdainfully through the snow. It drew up before her door and Mr van Hessel got out.
‘You can’t take your car out on a day like this,’ he greeted her, without as much as a ‘good day’ for politeness’ sake. ‘I have to go into Tilburg, you may come with me.’
He was standing in the snow, nattily dressed in what she recognized as town clothes of the finest quality, sober grey and exquisitely tailored.
‘How do I get back?’ she asked; if he wasn’t civil enough to wish her good morning she saw no reason to be polite herself.
‘Will four o’clock suit you?’ he asked carelessly. ‘I’ll show you where I’ll pick you up. Come along, I’m a little late already.’
She locked the door behind her and got in wordlessly; anyone would think, listening to him, that she was to blame for his lateness. She fastened her seat belt and pretended to herself that driving in a Rolls was something she did so often that it no longer gave her a thrill.
The big car made light of the slippery road and she was secretly thankful that she hadn’t had to drive Charlie. It wasn’t until they had joined the motorway to Tilburg that she spoke. ‘How did you know that I was going out at ten o’clock—and to Tilburg?’
‘Jan told me. He fetched your car yesterday and I supposed it would be Tilburg—it’s the nearest town and I daresay you have business there.’
‘With the bank—my aunt’s bank—I daresay you know that too,’ she said with a touch of temper. ‘You knew my aunt?’
‘Yes, very well.’
‘Then when you have the time to spare, I have a number of questions I should like to ask you about her.’
‘I seldom have time to spare, so you had better start now.’
‘Did you know that there’s a cupboard in the dining-room of my little house, with silver in it and a necklace?’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘Well—is it a secret? Why didn’t Mr Boggett tell me about it? Or you, for that matter.’
‘I imagine Mr Boggett didn’t know, and as for myself, I felt sure that you would find them sooner or later. They’re yours now, of course.’
‘But are they? Who gave them to Aunt Henrietta in the first place—and I want to know why she lived in Gijzelmortel for so many years and why my parents always allowed me to believe that she was dead—did she do something awful?’
His voice sounded patient enough, although she didn’t think he was. ‘My uncle gave them to her—no, my dear good girl, do not interrupt. He gave her the house too, to live in for the rest of her life and to leave to anyone she wished. You see, they loved each other; he met her when they were both quite young and was already married, and not happily. They didn’t have an affair in the usual sense of that word; it wasn’t until she was forty or so that he finally persuaded her to go and live near him. My aunt had become almost impossible to live with by then, leading her own life, not caring for anyone but herself; he desperately needed someone to love, so Henrietta gave in at last and made her home in Gijzelmortel. He furnished the house for her and bought her trifles, and although they loved each other very deeply they were never more than friends—the village loved her; so did anyone who met her. If my aunt had died, they would undoubtedly have married, but my uncle died first and my aunt went to Switzerland to live, but your aunt stayed in her little house because my uncle would have wished it. When my aunt died I came to the castle to live.’ He slowed the big car as they neared Tilburg. ‘Will you be all right at the bank?’
‘Yes, thank you. Do you want me to be there at four o’clock?’
‘Outside the bank? Yes. If I am late I will let them know, they can send someone out to tell you.’
Henrietta said ‘thank you’ meekly, bursting with questions about Aunt Henrietta and not daring to ask them. He had told her the story—just the facts with no trimmings—and supposed that she would be content with that; besides, he wanted to get to his work. She wondered what he did for a living, or perhaps he didn’t do anything, just lived in his splendid castle and dabbled on the Stock Exchange.
He slowed the Rolls to a halt and got out to open her door, something she hadn’t expected of him. ‘Four o’clock,’ he reminded her austerely, and had got back in and driven away before she could even thank him.
The visit to the bank was a leisurely business. Henrietta was given coffee while her affairs were explained to her and she left feeling on top of the world, for there was a little more money in her legacy than old Mr Boggett had thought; she would be able to stay in Holland for some time provided she was careful. And she wanted to stay; it was wonderful to have a little house and be independent. When the weather improved she would explore the country around the village, keeping Charlie for a weekly trip to Tilburg or Breda, and she would learn the language and take up piano playing once more; there were endless reasons why she should want to stay, but the main reason she didn’t admit to herself, although she was well aware of it lurking at the back of her mind; she wanted to get to know Mr van Hessel—not that she liked him, domineering and bad-tempered as he was, but he was interesting…
Her thoughts nicely occupied, she made her way to the shops, where she resisted the temptation to spend her money on some Italian shoes which caught her fancy, as well as some exquisite gloves and a quantity of delicate undies, which, while wildly expensive, were wholly to her taste. Instead she shopped for wool to knit more gloves, canvas and embroidery silks to occupy her of an evening, a tin of yeast in case the village shop didn’t stock it, and an English newspaper. She spent a long time looking in the florists’ windows too, but the delicate narcissi and the vivid tulips and hyacinths were too much for her pocket, so she consoled herself with the purchase of several packets of seeds, so that when summer came she would at least have something colourful growing in the garden. All this done, she found a small neat café in a side street and lunched, at the waiter’s suggestion, of erwtensoep, which she discovered was a tasty meal in itself, being a thick pea soup with pork and sausage in it. She eked this out with a roll and butter and a cup of coffee, and well fortified against the snowy cold, went back to her window-shopping, and when she was tempted to have tea at one of the fashionable tea-shops she passed, reminded herself that she would have to wait for a week or two before she splashed out too lavishly; she still didn’t know the price of everything and how much it would cost to live. She contented herself with another look at the shops and then, in the gathering gloom of the bleak day, went to meet Mr van Hessel.
He was punctual; the carillons had barely finished their tinkling reminder of the hour when the Rolls pulled up at the pavement’s edge and he opened the door for her to get in. It was deliciously warm inside and Henrietta sank back into the fragrant leather with a little sigh. The journey back to Gijzelmortel wouldn’t take long, but there would be time enough for her companion to answer a few more questions. But in this she was to be disappointed; Mr van Hessel didn’t want to talk, that was plain from the start; to her cheerful remarks about the shops she had seen he gave nothing more than a grunt, and after a minute or two, when she tried again about the weather, he didn’t even bother to grunt. A rude man, she told herself, and peeped at him. A tired man, too; she didn’t know how old he was—forty, perhaps—but his handsome face showed every line and his dark brows were a straight line above his eyes. She looked away, aware that she was drawn by his good looks, and annoyed with herself because of it, and made no further attempt to talk for the rest of their journey. Instead she occupied herself with trying to remember the prices of the various things she had seen, changing the guldens into pounds and back again and getting very muddled. Her thoughts ran on, seeking ways of being economical; a sewing machine would be a great help; she would be able to make some of her own clothes then; perhaps there was one somewhere in the house—there was still the big cupboard under the stairs to turn out.
Her companion stopped before her door and got out to open it for her and hand her her basket, a courtesy she hadn’t looked for. If she hadn’t been so sure that he would snub her, she would have asked him in for a cup of tea; as it was she thanked him for her lift very nicely and asked how she might get Charlie when she wanted him.
‘Turn right at the gates,’ he told her, ‘follow the drive round to the back of the castle, the garages are there. Go in and out as you please, if there is no one about, the doors are only locked at night.’ He turned to go, but at the door he paused. ‘Your business was satisfactory?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ She was longing to tell someone about it; that she would be able to live in this dear little house for months, that there was more money than she had expected. Instead she stood silent, waiting for him to go, trying not to notice the way he was staring at her. At length he said: ‘The dominee will be coming to visit you within the next day or two, his name is Rietveld, he speaks English. His daughter will probably come with him. She has just finished her studies at High School, her name is Loes.’
Something in his voice aroused her curiosity. Loes—a pretty name and probably a pretty girl in whom he was interested, perhaps more than interested; the idea dispirited her. She thanked him for the information in a level voice and added a polite ‘good evening’. She was, she warned herself, standing behind the closed door listening to the almost soundless departure of the Rolls, getting a little too interested in him herself, and that would be a foolish thing to do, since he disliked her. She sighed and went to put on the kettle; a cup of tea was supposed to cure most things; perhaps it would cure the peculiar sense of loneliness she was feeling.
CHAPTER THREE
HER visitors called the next day, just as she was settling down to an afternoon of knitting and reading. She had had a busy morning turning out the cupboard under the stairs and she had found a sewing machine—an out-of-date German model, which, as far as she could see, was still functioning perfectly. Its discovery set her head buzzing with plans to make new curtains for the bedrooms and loose covers for the chairs; there was, she was discovering happily, a great deal to do. She had expected to miss her busy hospital life and her friends, and perhaps she did miss them a little, but there was no time to sit and mope—her days, she could see, were going to be well filled.
Dominee Rietveld looked rather nice, tall and thin and stooping, with a kind face and an absent-minded manner. The girl with him was just as Henrietta had guessed; pretty small, and inclined to plumpness with big china blue eyes and a quantity of fair hair hanging around her shoulders. Henrietta disliked her on sight; she didn’t like her mouth—it had a selfish pout, and the blue eyes were sly despite the charming smile. She invited her guests in, installed them in the velvet chairs and drew up a more humble seat for herself. Mr van Hessel had been right, the dominee spoke very good English, and Loes spoke it well enough, making rather a fuss about pronunciation and taking care that she was the focal point of the conversation. His wife, Mijnheer Rietveld explained, had died some ten years previously; he depended on the company of his devoted daughter as well as on her housewifery. ‘So young,’ he pointed out gently, ‘to carry the heavy responsibility of a household, and it is such a waste for a pretty girl to have to remain at home here with her old father.’

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