by Betty Neels
It was cold again, just like winter, as indeed it still was. A few snowflakes, blown by the sea wind, settled on the window ledges of the shop. Abigail watched the bus disappear into the empty countryside beyond the village and went back into the shop. She had been working hard all the morning, turning the little house upside down for the weekly clean Mevrouw Hagesma considered absolutely necessary, and today, for the first time, the old lady had helped a little and talked cheerfully about her future, so that Abigail felt heartened by her progress. There had been a letter from Mrs Macklin too, full of messages from Bollinger, who was a little puzzled but quite content to take Mrs Macklin’s word for it that Abigail was happy. She took the letter out of her pocket now and read it through as though she might have missed something in it—something, some news of Dominic, but he wasn’t mentioned.
She put the letter away with a little sigh, put on the white apron, much too large, which was Mevrouw Beeksma’s concession to hygiene in her shop, and got out the stepladder. The apron got terribly in the way and Abigail muttered rudely; it wasn’t as though it was necessary—the shop was cleaner than anything she had ever seen in her life, there couldn’t be a germ in the place; still, as her employer wished her to dress up in it, she supposed she should. She hitched it up round her pretty legs and climbed the steps.
She had been up there perhaps ten minutes, dusting bottles of pickles and gherkins and onions, when the door opened, allowing a draught of cold air, a few persistent snowflakes and the professor to enter.
Abigail put the pot of gherkins she was holding carefully back on the shelf, for her hands felt strangely incapable of holding anything. Her heart had leapt, stopped and then begun to hammer at her ribs in a most unnerving fashion. She had no breath; all she could do was to sit and stare down at the top of his head, until he looked up and saw her. They stared at each other for a timeless age before she asked idiotically, ‘Is there something you want?’ just as though he was a housewife come to buy tea or coffee or a few slices of cheese.
‘You,’ he said in a rough voice, and went on staring. ‘Come down, Abigail.’
Somewhere at some time she remembered she had read that one should always begin as one meant to go on, especially when it concerned matters of the heart. It seemed to her a sound idea. She stayed where she was.
After a silence which she found unendurable the professor said in quite a different voice, ‘Please come down, Abby, I want to talk to you,’ and when she still didn’t move because truth to tell she found herself incapable of doing so, he began again, but this time in a loud rough voice.
‘I can no longer sleep because of you, nor can I eat—presently I shall be unable to do my work. It is intolerable that a small mouse of a girl like you can reduce me to this miserable state. Each time that I have sent you away I have racked my brains for an excuse to get you back; I thought at first that I could hold out against you, but I find that there is nothing to hold out against, only gentleness and kindness and honesty and a smile to twist my heart, my dearest darling.’
‘You have behaved abominably,’ said Abigail severely, ‘and I will not be your dearest darling until I know why you did.’ She watched the rueful smile touch his mouth.
‘I came back from Brussels hell for leather, longing to see you again. I found you with Henk, laughing up at him—you are so pretty when you laugh, my darling—I listened to you talking and it seemed to me that it was I whom you were discussing. I wanted to hurt you then as I was hurt.’ He sighed, he went on humbly, ‘It has taken me all this while to swallow my pride, for I have to know …’
He was interrupted by the opening of the door. Old Mevrouw Henninga from one of the houses across the street shook the snow off her cap, bade them good day and asked for tea. Abigail had to descend her steps then. She found the tea, served her customer, gave her, for once, the right change and wished her a polite good day, while the professor, not to be outdone when it came to manners, opened the door and closed it after her.
When he spoke he forgot to be humble. ‘And why in the name of heaven are you serving behind a counter?’ His voice a snarl.
Abigail prudently climbed her ladder again; there was a distinct advantage in being a little above him. ‘I’m earning my living,’ she explained haughtily.
He glared at her under lowered brows. ‘Why here in this back-of-beyond place? Why aren’t you in England? I went after you and you weren’t there.’
Abigail’s heart began to beat its own happy little tune, spreading a tingle of excitement over her.
‘I’ll tell you why I wasn’t there,’ she said, and struggled to keep her voice cool and calm and slow. But it came out in an excited babble. ‘I had no money—no money to go back to England, and do you know why? Because you haven’t paid me—not for weeks,’ her voice rose a little. ‘You sent me away without references and didn’t even bother to ask if I had somewhere to go, just like a Victorian servant girl; for all you cared I might have gone on the streets!’
‘On the streets?’ he looked thunderstruck. ‘My dear little love, what a brute I have been! Can you ever forgive me? You see I could think of nothing else but you and Henk, laughing together—and you are so young …’ he was leaning on the counter now, looking up at her. ‘For years now I believed that I had built myself a new life, a nice safe life in which women didn’t matter, in which I could work without getting involved with anyone—any girl. And then I saw you and lost my heart, my lovely girl, but not without a fight. I told myself that you were clever and scheming with your quiet voice and your friendliness and kindness. I fought very hard, my darling, but then I discovered that I didn’t want to fight any more. I have used you very ill, haven’t I?’
Abigail smiled. ‘Indeed you have.’ She paused. ‘We weren’t talking about you at all, only about Henk’s latest girl-friend.’ She went on primly, ‘Listeners never hear any good of themselves.’ She frowned quite fiercely at the professor. ‘There is something else. I am considered quite old for my age.’
‘Abby …’ The door opened once more and a small boy sidled in and demanded bischuiten. The professor, curbing impatience with a visible effort, handed him a packet from the counter, took his money and put it in the till.
‘He wants three cents change,’ advised Abigail from her observation post, and watched while the professor rang up the till to the manner born and proffered the coins.
‘Give him a sweetie,’ and when the boy had gone, his cheek bulging with a toffee, she explained, ‘It’s good business to give the children sweeties when they come on an errand.’
She didn’t say any more because the professor was looking at her with such tenderness and love that her breath deserted her. He said now, very firmly, ‘Abigail, I have never proposed to a girl on top of a stepladder before, but that’s what I intend doing unless you come down.’
He held out his arms and she jumped straight into them; they held her so tightly that she could feel his heart beating under her cheek. Her voice a whisper, muffled by the thickness of his jacket, she said:
‘Only Mrs Macklin knew where I was, and I asked her not to tell.’
‘And she kept her word. Bollinger and I put our heads together when I got back from England and I went to see her, but all she would tell me was that an old friend of hers needed help until her daughter could go to her.’
She felt his kiss on her hair. ‘Abby, my darling girl, if you wish to tell me off I promise you that I will be very meek.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She looked up into his face, smiling, and he bent his head to kiss her.
‘Will you marry me, Abby?’
‘Yes, dear Dominic, of course I will.’ She would have said more, but the professor’s hold tightened so that she had no breath, or almost none, and when she at last essayed to speak, he kissed her silent. It was an enjoyable silence which at length Abigail broke.
‘Dominic—wait a minute, there’s something important—what about Bolly?’
The professor loose
ned his grasp very slightly so that he could see her face. ‘A useful addition to our household, wouldn’t you think, my darling? He’s terrific with animals and gardens and, I’ve no doubt, children too.’
‘Oh, he will be pleased—he’s splendid with them.’
‘Then we must do our utmost to give him every opportunity to be splendid, mustn’t we?’
She smiled, and the dimple came and went. ‘A bad-tempered little boy just like his father,’ she murmured.
‘And an adorable mousy little girl just like her beautiful mother.’
They stared at each other happily, contemplating a blissful future, and for good measure the professor kissed her again.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Abigail, feeling that one of them at least should be practical, but it seemed that Dominic had everything arranged.
‘You’re coming back with me to Amsterdam, my love. Arie’s sister is on her way over to take your place with Mevrouw Hagesma—Jan’s fetching her, I’m sure she’ll understand when we explain.’
‘About Amsterdam,’ said Abigail. ‘Where …?’
‘Bollinger and Mevrouw Boot will have everything ready for you—and before you protest, Mrs Macklin is already at my house. You will stay there until I can arrange our wedding, my dearest—in the church in the Begijnhof, don’t you agree?’
Abigail nodded, savouring the delight of being loved, indeed her ordinary face had become quite transformed by it so that the professor exclaimed,
‘How very pretty you are, Abby,’ and since it was obvious that he really believed it she smiled at him with delight and lifted her face for his kiss.
Presently: ‘How long do we have to play at shop?’ Dominic wanted to know.
‘Until the bus gets in at half past four—and it’s not playing at shop. I get paid—two gulden an hour.’
The horrified incredulity on the professor’s face would have satisfied any girl who might have considered herself to have been badly treated, but Abigail wasn’t any girl; she loved him. Looking into his stricken face she remembered that she hadn’t yet told him this indisputable fact, and did so there and then, and the professor, holding her with powerful gentleness, kissed her at great length until she reminded him that she should get behind the counter, ‘Just in case someone should come, dear Dominic.’
He glanced over her head at the snowflakes whirling past the shop window in a last wintry onslaught before spring made nonsense of them. ‘Anyone coming out on a day like this would be mad,’ he declared, ‘and if they do I will serve them for you, my dearest heart.’
‘Well,’ conceded Abigail, ‘you managed to sell the bischuiten very nicely. All the same I just can’t stand here …’
‘Oh, yes, you can,’ said Dominic in a voice which sounded so certain of this that she found no point in arguing with him about it, and it was, after all, quite delightful with her head on his shoulder and his arms around her.
‘If you say so, dear Dominic,’ she said meekly, and kissed him.
ISBN: 9781408982167
Saturday’s Child
© Betty Neels 2012
First Published in Great Britain in 2012
Harlequin (UK) Limited
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.
® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk