Tulips for Augusta

by Betty Neels

  ‘Yes, of course. Will tomorrow suit you—about this time? Stay in bed will you, it will be easier for both of us. And now, if you will forgive me—my partner is going away until Sunday evening and I must see him before he goes.’

  He got up and the three elder ladies bade him goodbye and at the same time urged Augusta to see him to the door.

  On the step: ‘You’ll be here tomorrow morning?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, yes, I expect so, though I suppose I shall do the shopping—the aunts consider it good for my Dutch.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said carelessly, ‘possibly I’ll see you,’ and went without another word. She stood behind the closed door, listening to the car’s almost soundless departure, a prey to disappointment; she had expected him to say more than that—it was annoying that whenever she had steeled herself to resist his blandishments, he made none.

  She was given the shopping to do in the morning, just as she had expected, but by being slow with her breakfast and then mislaying various articles, she contrived to be still in the house when he arrived, to be met with an offhand ‘Hullo, Augusta, still here? I thought you would have been out bargaining with the shopkeepers by now.’

  Augusta made a small cross sound, snatched up her basket and went, leaving a distinct impression of ill temper behind her, but her temper improved presently; it was a glorious morning even though the wind from the North Sea was blowing—as it always did blow, winter and summer alike; and the little town sparkled in the sunshine, its pavements crowded with tourists strolling along with time on their hands, while housewives, with no time at all, bustled in and out of the shops with their loaded baskets. On her way back, her shopping completed, Constantijn passed her—he was driving the Mini and she told herself that he couldn’t have stopped anyway, as he would be on his morning visits, and in any case, after his offhand greeting that morning, she couldn’t have cared less.

  The rest of the day was spent soberly. She was entertained to a detailed account of Tante Marijna’s condition—which was excellent—a good deal of local gossip, and the news that Constantijn’s brother had left with Johanna for Paris during the previous week. ‘So now Constantijn is alone once more,’ remarked Tante Marijna, ‘although I believe Susan is coming over in a week or so.’

  Her mother appeared to know all about Susan. She nodded understandingly and said, ‘How glad he’ll be when she’s decided where she wants it to be.’

  Augusta bent over the wool she was untangling for Tante Emma, longing to ask questions but afraid that if she did, it might look as though she was far too interested; she had seen her mother’s look in the car. Instead, she was forced to try and solve the mystery herself with such a lack of success that she was still pondering it when she went to bed that night.

  They went to church in the morning, slowly walking the short distance through a great ringing of bells from the variety of churches which surrounded them. They were about to go in the church door when Augusta saw Constantijn in his little car again, but he didn’t see her; for once he was driving slowly and she had time to see that he looked tired. Probably a baby case, she thought, which had kept him up most of the night. She hoped that his nice Jannie had a good breakfast waiting for him. His welfare occupied her thoughts, regrettably, during the entire morning service.

  After Koffietafel she sat in the drawing room, looking through some old albums of long-dead Van den Pols and listening to her mother’s amusing account of the Jumble Sale. Maartje had the afternoon off; at three o’clock precisely, Augusta brought up the tea tray, put the teapot on the little china box with the nightlight in it, and helped her mother pass round the fragile little cups; they were accompanied by a little dish of chocolates, because the aunts liked to keep their old-fashioned ways. It was warm in the drawing room; she would have liked to have gone for a walk, but their visit was a short one and she didn’t like to hurt the old ladies’ feelings by implying that she was bored. And so she was, she admitted to herself, and felt ashamed at the thought. To make up for it, she went down to the kitchen presently, having offered to get the evening meal ready. Maartje would cook it when she returned, but it would help her considerably if she put the chicken in the oven and prepared the salad. It was cooler in the kitchen, for she had opened the door as well as a window and stood in the cool breeze arranging lettuce and tomatoes and chicory in a cut glass bowl, she was standing back the better to admire her efforts when she heard the front door bang. That would be Maartje. She washed her hands, tidied the kitchen and went upstairs again. Constantijn was in the drawing room, leaning, very large, against the chimney-piece. As she went in her mother said:

  ‘There you are, Roly,’ and Augusta frowned. Of course she was there, and she really would have to remind her dear mother not to keep calling her by that stupid name. ‘Constantijn’s waiting to take you out,’ went on Mrs Brown, ignoring the frown, her voice backed by a gently chorused ‘Won’t that be nice?’ from the aunts. Very nice, she thought crossly, if she were asked. She shot him a smouldering look across the room and he left the mantelpiece, took her arm, said pleasantly to the room’s occupants: ‘Excuse us, won’t you?’ and pushed her gently out of the door again and closed it behind them. In the passage he said, ‘You’re quite an eyeful when you seethe, Augusta. I didn’t ask you before, because if I had you would have had time to think up some splendid excuses, and if I had known that you were in the kitchen I would have gone straight there and whisked you off, apron and all.’ He smiled suddenly at her and her treacherous heart took command. ‘Come out to dinner,’ he wheedled. ‘I’ve had a busy weekend.’

  She found herself smiling back at him, idiotically incapable of anything else. ‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ she promised—in which time she achieved a great deal; re-did her face, brushed her hair, changed her shoes and tights, sprayed her person discreetly with Houbigant’s Chantilly, and then, more or less satisfied with her appearance, ran downstairs to the drawing room to say goodbye.

  The Rolls was at the door, and as she got in beside him he asked, ‘You won’t mind if we go home first? Van den Post, my partner, intends to ring me back about something—it won’t take long.’

  Augusta didn’t mind in the least. Just being with him wherever it was was sufficient; she probably wouldn’t see him for a long time—perhaps never—once this weekend was over and they were back in London, and once there, she promised herself, she would allow her common sense to master the dream world she was living in at the moment. They went into his house, and Jannie came bustling to meet them, looking put out.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘the moment you’d gone, Doctor, that boy came knocking at the door and what could I do but let him in, poor lad. Such a nasty cut on his hand and bleeding all over my nice clean floors. He’s in the surgery and I hope I did right—he wasn’t in a fit state to be sent on to Dr van den Post and you said you’d be back.’ She smiled belatedly and warmly at Augusta and added, ‘Good day, Miss Brown, it is nice to see you again.’

  Augusta would have echoed her sentiments, but Constantijn gave her no time; with her hand fast held in his he crossed the hall to the door which led to the surgery. ‘Perhaps you’ll give me a hand,’ he remarked placidly. ‘What is it you say in English—Sing for your supper? You shall have the opportunity of doing just that.’

  The surgery, built unobtrusively on to the side of the old house, was a fair size and well equipped. The patient, a boy of twelve or so, was sitting on a wooden chair with his hand wrapped in a towel which bore ample testimony to the fact that his hand was badly cut indeed. ‘There’s an apron behind the door,’ said the doctor, and took off his coat.

  Augusta put the rubber apron on, taking a large reef in its length and wrapping it around her small waist; the result was bulky but adequate. While she did it her eyes were busy searching for the more obvious things they would need—instruments on the trolley, the dressings bin, a glass-fronted cupboard with its complement of first aid necessities. She flipped a paper towel from the
neat pile laid ready and put it on the examination couch as Constantijn sat the boy close to lay his arm upon it. The cut was deep, across the palm of his hand, and the hand was dirty. Augusta cleaned it up with swabs and Savlon solution and then stood back to watch while Constantijn stooped to examine it. ‘How did you do it?’ he inquired.

  ‘Billhook,’ the boy answered briefly.

  ‘Did you tell anyone at home?’ queried the doctor.

  The boy flushed. ‘No.’

  ‘What were you doing? Fooling about with friends?’ The boy nodded. ‘Well, you’ll have to tell your mother about it when you get home. I’m going to put some stitches in it now and give you an injection, and tomorrow you must come to morning surgery. You understand?’ He looked at Augusta. ‘There are needles in the covered dish on the trolley, and some skin sutures—take the lid off for me, will you? he’ll have to have ATS too, it’s in the corner cupboard and the needles and syringes are in the drawer below.’

  She pottered about happily enough under his placid directions, drawing up the local anaesthetic, handing things, clearing up, and when the boy, neatly strapped up, had been dispatched kitchenwards for a cup of coffee from the motherly Jannie, and she was disentangling herself from the apron, Constantijn came across the surgery to help her. ‘So, Miss Brown, you are as capable as you are pretty.’ He threw the apron into a corner and she went and picked it up and put it in the sink to be washed.

  ‘Look at you,’ she scolded, ‘and why will you call me Miss Brown?’

  He put his handsome head on one side and studied her. ‘Well, I think because you are old-fashioned in a charming way. Oh, I don’t mean clothes and make-up and such-like female nonsense. But I’ll not call you that if you dislike it. What shall it be? Augusta? Roly? Darling?’

  He was laughing at her, she went a furious pink and flounced to the door. ‘Augusta will do very well,’ she said stiffly. ‘Roly is a silly name and—and…’

  ‘Darling?’ he prompted from behind her. She put a hand out to open the door and had it gripped gently in one of his. She wasn’t sure if he turned her round to face him or whether she had done it of her own free will, all that she knew was that she was fast in his arms and he was going to kiss her. The sensible part of her mind warned her sternly not to encourage him; she nudged it on one side as she lifted her face to his.

  Presently, when she had her breath again and her heart had steadied its furious pounding, she said almost shyly, ‘Constantijn, we mustn’t—because of Susan.’

  He took her by the shoulders and held her back a little so that he could see her face. His own was faintly puzzled. ‘Susan? Now why on earth…?’

  ‘Well, you’re going to marry her,’ said Augusta in a stony little voice. She saw the twitch come and go at the corner of his mouth; if he were to laugh she wouldn’t be able to bear it. He didn’t laugh but said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘I can’t think where you got that from, my dear girl. Susan is my ward.’

  Augusta’s eyes became green saucers. ‘Your ward? But you’re too young!’

  He smiled. ‘It’s very simple—her father asked my father to be her guardian when and if he died—she was twelve when he did and my own father died a year later and passed her on to me. I was twenty-four then. Now she is almost twenty-one and I am thirty-three.’

  Augusta stared up into his face. ‘But did you never want to marry her? She’s so beautiful,’ and was shaken by his honesty when he said, ‘Oh yes—a year or so ago—but it never came to anything.’ She watched the twinkle come into his eyes. ‘Have I shocked you? But you did want to know, didn’t you, and I can’t think how that’s possible, for after all, you cast me for a villain right from the first moment we met, didn’t you?’

  Augusta pushed against his chest with one hand and he loosed her at once, which she discovered wasn’t at all what she wanted. ‘I didn’t cast you for anything,’ she remonstrated. ‘I didn’t know anything about you, only it seemed obvious…I mean you were always with Susan, and—and…’

  He took her in his arms again. There was a gleam in his eyes, but his voice was quiet and unhurried. ‘Dear Roly, empty your carroty head of the nonsense you’ve chosen to fill it with. You must know by now that I’ve fallen more than a little in love with you, but you’re not one to be hurried, are you, and I can wait for what I want. But this is to remind you.’

  He bent his head and kissed her again; a gentle kiss that cherished her and kept her safe and at the same time gave her a very good idea of how exciting it was to be kissed by the right man. He released her with the same gentleness, saying in a quite different voice:

  ‘I thought we’d go to Oegstgeest for dinner. There’s a rather good place there—de Beukenhof—it’s less than an hour’s run.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Van den Post should telephone at any moment.’

  Augusta, a little breathless still, said, ‘That sounds lovely—the dinner, I mean. I’ll go and wait somewhere, shall I?’

  He went with her across the hall and ushered her into the drawing room and went back to the surgery as the telephone began to ring. Left to herself, Augusta went, naturally enough, to the elegant mirror on one wall and studied herself closely. She looked the same, which was surprising as she felt quite different inside. She smiled at her reflected face, refurbished her lipstick, did things to her hair and, satisfied, began a slow tour of the room. When she had been there before she hadn’t been able to observe it closely, but now she was alone… She began with the portraits—rather severe family ones, she supposed, in heavy frames. Several of the gentlemen among them exhibited the same faintly hawk nose which Constantijn had undoubtedly inherited from them; the pale eyes too were disconcertingly like his. She studied the women next, none of them beauties, which was surprising, for these bygone men were surely handsome enough to be able to take their pick of contemporary lovelies. She stood staring at a brown mouse of a woman, richly dressed in the style of the Second Empire, and wearing splendid jewels, and wearing, as well, the satisfied appearance of a well-loved, well-cosseted wife. Perhaps they liked their women plain. Was that why Constantijn loved her? She chuckled happily and then jumped as he said from behind her, ‘Why do you smile at my Great-great-aunt Emma? She was a very charming woman, so I’ve been told.’

  Augusta turned round to look at him. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she observed, ‘and I wasn’t laughing at her—only at a thought. The men are all so handsome and the women are a little—well, plain.’

  He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to study it intently. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ he quoted softly, ‘and I could enlarge on that theme, but I won’t at the moment.’ He took his hand away and took her arm instead and walked her to the door. ‘I shall have to do a certain amount of work tomorrow, but I shall be free at midday for a couple of hours. Perhaps all of you will come here for lunch and I can show you the rest of the house.’

  Augusta turned a glowing face to his. ‘Oh, that would be super—I’m sure they’ll all love to come.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Shall we be back in time this evening to ask them?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded very positive about it. ‘But you could broach the subject in the morning—better still, I’ll write a note and you can let them have it.’

  This knotty problem solved, they went out to the car and a few minutes later were streaking down the main road, south to Leiden, Oegstgeest and dinner.

  Augusta, lying in bed much later, tried happily to remember every minute of the evening—it had been wonderful, although Constantijn had made no further reference to the future. They had talked a great deal, but not about themselves, and they had laughed a great deal too. The food had been delicious although she hadn’t much idea of what she had eaten, and afterwards they had driven back to Alkmaar and she had gone to his house with him while he wrote a note to the aunts.

  When they finally reached her aunts’ house it was very late indeed, but her mother, dressing-gowned and yawning, had opened the door to them, hoping, sl
eepily, that they had enjoyed their evening and inviting them to drink coffee in the kitchen if they had a mind to. She then wished them a drowsy goodnight and disappeared upstairs, and they had spent another half hour sitting by the Aga in the kitchen talking while their coffee cooled, and when, at last, they had wished each other goodnight at the door, Constantijn had kissed her once again—a quick friendly kiss, not at all like the others, but he had looked at her as though the kiss were something other than it was and she had gone to bed happy, knowing that there was still a great deal they had to know of each other but that it would be a delight to find out. She slept at length and didn’t wake until she heard Maartje going quietly downstairs in the early morning.

  The lunch party was everything it should have been. Augusta, who was beginning to know Constantijn, wasn’t surprised to find the food superb and the table appointments of great elegance, for he was a man who wasn’t prepared to settle for less than perfection if it were obtainable. The room they lunched in was of a fair size with a beautiful plaster ceiling and panelled walls of dark wood and furnished with period pieces of the William and Mary era. The sideboard displayed a good deal of silver of the same period and a glass-fronted cabinet along one wall housed a collection of engraved glass goblets. The portraits of even more van Lindemann ancestors, of whom there seemed to be a great number, stared at them from above the panelling as they ate their way through scrambled eggs with salmon, Mirabeau steak and a lemon cream which Augusta rightly deduced hadn’t come out of a packet. They drank a wine she didn’t recognize and she was too shy to ask, but it had the happy effect of allowing her to rise from the table feeling very slightly lightheaded, although she concluded that there might be other reasons for this pleasurable sensation.

  The aunts were escorted to the drawing room and left, at their own request, to digest the delicacies they had just eaten, while Constantijn escorted Augusta and her mother round the house. It took quite some time, for they didn’t hurry, but paused to examine a couple of small paintings by Avercamp which Augusta liked very much, and several pen and ink drawings by Jan Breugel the elder, as well as a flower study by Ambrosius Bosschaert. There was a great deal of porcelain to examine as well and a collection of silver. Augusta would have liked to have spent a great deal more time looking at everything, but she remembered that Constantijn had said that he had work to do in the afternoon, and they were due to leave that very evening so she said a little reluctantly,