by Betty Neels
Supper was hardly the meal she had expected. One end of the table had been set with lace mats, silver and crystal, gleaming under the light from a chiselled bronze chandelier. She sat down opposite Gijs.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ she observed. ‘I had no idea...it’s like being married to a millionaire...’ She smiled at him, and then took a quick breath at the look on his face. ‘Oh, you’re not, are you?’
‘Well, yes, I am. But don’t let it worry you, Margo. I have never allowed it to worry me. Perhaps I should have told you...’
‘If you had, I don’t think I would have married you.’
‘In that case I’m glad I kept silent.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Well, of course—and I dare say I’ll get used to it in time.’ She spooned her soup. ‘I can hear a dog barking...’
‘Punch. He was out when we arrived. He knows we are here.’
‘Is he allowed in here? What breed is he?’
‘He goes all over the house. He’s a bloodhound.’
The professor said something to Wim, who went away and presently returned with Punch, who lolloped across the room to greet his master and, when bidden to do so, offered his noble head to be scratched by Margo.
‘He’s lovely—how you must miss him.’
‘Indeed I do.’ The professor began to talk about his dog, also mentioning that Kieke had two cats. ‘And there are rabbits here, of course, and hares and squirrels...’ He talked easily as they ate turbot and winter salad and a Dutch apple tart and cream. ‘And since it is an occasion,’ said Gijs smoothly, ‘we will drink champagne...’
* * *
IT WAS LATE by the time they rose from the table and crossed the hall again to enter the drawing room. This was a splendid apartment, with a massive fireplace in front of which Punch instantly settled himself. There were two chandeliers here, one at each end of the room, but the only lighting came from wall-lights and table-lamps so that the room was dimly lit.
Margo, by now too sleepy to examine her surroundings, drank her coffee and looked across at Gijs with owl-like eyes.
‘You’re tired,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘Stay in bed tomorrow morning if you would like that—Diny will bring your breakfast.’
‘I’d rather come down, if you don’t mind. It’s just that it has been a busy sort of day.’
She waited for him to say something—something about being married and liking it, or what a pleasant wedding it had been. He didn’t—only wished her goodnight with the hope that she would sleep well.
At the door, which he opened for her, he bent and kissed her cheek. A brotherly peck, reflected Margo peevishly, and was instantly sorry for the thought. What else had she expected?
In her room she prowled around, looking at everything—someone had unpacked and hung her few clothes in the big mirror-lined closet, the bed had been turned down and there was a light on in the bathroom. There was everything here that a girl could wish for: fluffy towels, creams and lotions and bath salts. She opened the door in the far wall and poked a cautious head round. This was Gijs’s room, she supposed. Quite small and comfortably furnished. She closed the door again and went to take another look at her own room. There were books by the bed and a tin of biscuits, as well as a handsome carafe of water. Tomorrow, she decided, she would write Aunt Flo a long letter and tell her all about it.
Presently she undressed, had a bath and got into bed, and, despite the thoughts tumbling around in her tired head, slept at once.
* * *
AS SHE WENT down the staircase the following morning she was delighted to see a Christmas tree in one corner of the hall, and as she reached the last stair Gijs and Punch came in through the front door, bringing a breath of icy air with them.
His good morning was cheerful. ‘You slept well? Good. Come and have breakfast. It’s cold but fine outside.’
‘The tree...’ said Margo.
‘We will decorate it when we get back this afternoon. The children expect it, you know.’
‘Children?’
‘My sisters will be coming tomorrow, with their husbands and children. The family always hold Christmas here.’
He had her arm and was urging her into a small room at the back of the hall. A small table was laid there and the fire burned cheerfully. He pulled out a chair for her and Wim came in with the coffee-pot.
‘I thought we might go into Utrecht this morning,’ said the professor placidly. ‘Christmas presents—we’ve left it a bit late, but you will know what to buy.’
Margo was still finding her tongue. She said now, rather coldly, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what I am to buy. I—I didn’t expect all this...’ she waved a hand around the room ‘...this magnificence. I thought you were just a surgeon.’
‘I am just a surgeon. If you can’t bear to live here we’ll close the place up and go and live in a very small cottage.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Margo, and felt laughter bubbling up inside her. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Just over two hundred years.’
‘Well...’ She did laugh then. ‘I feel as though I’ve walked into a fairy tale.’ She added, serious now, ‘But I don’t know anything about the presents you want me to buy.’
He said soothingly, ‘No, no, of course you don’t. But if I tell you for whom each one is you might choose them. I never know what to buy for my sisters.’
‘Oh, well, is Utrecht far? Perhaps I could help.’
‘Five or six miles away. There is a large shopping centre there. We can have lunch out and be back here in the afternoon in time to decorate the tree.’ He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘Have you phoned Aunt Florence?’
‘I got up and dressed and came downstairs and now I’m eating my breakfast. I’ve not been given the chance to do anything else.’
‘Am I rushing you? I don’t mean to, but to tell the truth you have accepted everything in such a matter-of-fact manner that I forget that it is all strange to you.’ He smiled at her across the table. ‘This evening after dinner we will sit quietly together and I will answer all your questions and explain anything you want me to.’
‘Yes, I’d like that. Have I time to ring Aunt Flo before we go to Utrecht?’
‘Of course.’ He glanced at the long-case clock against the wall. ‘Twenty minutes.’ He got up with her. ‘There’s a phone in the library; no one will disturb you there.’
He led the way through the hall and opened a door. It was a beautiful room, with a plastered ceiling, shelves of books on its walls and several small tables with comfortable chairs beside them, and at one end of the room was a vast desk. He picked up the phone on it and dialled Aunt Florence’s number, handed it to her and went away, leaving her to give her aunt a garbled version of their journey and the house.
‘I can’t stop to tell you everything,’ said Margo. ‘We’re just off to Utrecht to buy presents. But, Aunt Flo, it’s all so magnificent. I’ll phone you this evening and tell you all about it.’
‘You’re happy, Margo?’
‘Yes, Aunt Flo...’
‘Run along, then, and tell me the rest this evening.’
Margo got into her winter coat, feeling doubtful about wearing it. Her wedding outfit would be too thin, though, and besides, she hadn’t time to change from her skirt and sweater and she had no hat. She went downstairs, very conscious that her clothes were not at all right for the wife of a well-known surgeon.
The professor thought the same thing, but nothing of the thought showed on his face. In any case, it was something which could be put right quite easily. They went out to the car with Punch and drove away, with Wim watching them benignly from the porch.
Utrecht looked magnificent, decided Margo presently, staring out of the car window as Gijs drove through a
bewildering succession of streets to park. Then, accompanied by Punch on his lead, he led her down a narrow alley and into an enormous shopping precinct.
‘Have you brought a list with you?’ asked Margo, pausing to look in the window of an elegant jeweller. ‘What heavenly shops...’
‘Presently.’ He took her arm and ushered her into the kind of boutique she had so often looked into and never dared to enter.
‘Why—?’ began Margo. Surely she wasn’t supposed to choose clothes for his sisters?
It seemed that she was to choose clothes for herself. She listened, speechless, while he spoke to the haughty-looking woman who came to meet them. The haughtiness vanished when she saw him. They shook hands, then she patted Punch’s noble head and said in excellent English, ‘It will be a pleasure to dress you, Mevrouw van Kessel. What did you have in mind?’
Her sharp eyes had taken in the elderly coat and the sensible shoes—fit, in her opinion, for the dustbin.
Margo gave the professor a thoughtful look and he said placidly, ‘My Christmas present to you, my dear. Shall we start with something warm—a dress, perhaps?’
It was no sooner said than done. Dresses were produced—fine wool, jersey, cashmere... Margo, still speechless, tried them on and couldn’t decide which one she liked best. She showed herself to Gijs in each of them, and when she asked which he preferred he said carelessly, ‘The brown jersey and the blue cashmere; have them both.’
‘Thank you, Gijs...’
Before she could say more he went on, ‘A winter coat and a tweed suit?’
He lifted an eyebrow at the saleslady, who said, ‘I have just the thing. Brown cashmere—so warm and light—and there is a suit in greens and blues which will become her very well.’
She disappeared into an enormous closet at the back of the shop and Margo hissed, ‘Gijs, you can’t—everything’s frightfully expensive; you have no idea.’
‘Ah, but it is Christmas, Margo. Try them on to please me.’
The coat fitted and so did the suit. ‘Mevrouw has an exact size ten and a charming figure. If I might suggest a hat...’
The professor nodded. ‘Very nice. I’m going to take Punch for a quick walk, and while I am gone you are to choose dresses for the evening. We are very festive at Christmas, so something pretty for the afternoon and a couple of dresses for the evening—we have friends in and I intend you to be the belle of the ball.’
Margo found her tongue. ‘I can’t think what to say...’
‘Then don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘And don’t dare ask the price. Remember this is my Christmas present to you.’
He went away then, and she was led away to the cubicle once again. And, since Gijs wished her to look as elegant as possible, she spent a long time choosing between a dark green velvet dress with a wide sweeping skirt and what she considered to be a very immodest neckline and a wine-red taffeta dress with a tucked bodice and long, tight sleeves.
‘I think Professor van Kessel intended you to have two dresses, mevrouw,’ suggested the saleslady.
Margo remembered that he had said ‘a couple’. She nodded cheerful agreement and turned her attention to something pretty for the afternoon. Turning this way and that, to examine the excellent fit of a Paisley-patterned silk dress, she observed that she already had the other dresses. Surely they would do?
The saleslady shook her head. ‘I have the pleasure of dressing the professor’s sisters from time to time—you will wish to look as elegantly dressed as they will be, mevrouw. Also, he wished it.’
An irrefutable argument. Margo handed the dress over to be wrapped up and got back into her skirt and woolly.
‘Perhaps mevrouw would like to wear the coat?’ suggested the saleslady. ‘So much easier than packing it—and of course the hat.’
Studying her reflection in the cubicle’s enormous mirror, Margo had to admit that clothes did make a difference. She adjusted the hat just so and went back into the shop.
Gijs was there, sitting with Punch like a statue beside him. He got up as she crossed the thick carpet. ‘You found what you liked, I hope? Good. We’ll have coffee, and when we’ve done our shopping we’ll collect the parcels from here.’
He turned to speak to the saleslady, who smiled and nodded and shook hands again. ‘I hope that I shall see you again, mevrouw.’
Margo beamed at her. ‘I’m most grateful for your help and advice. I like everything, and I know I shall enjoy wearing the dresses.’
They had coffee then, in a bustling café with a giant Christmas tree. It was crowded with customers, several of whom came over to their table to greet the professor—large, self-assured men with their wives and sometimes children whom he introduced to her, uttering names she instantly forgot. They all spoke English and her shyness melted before their kind smiles.
They would meet again, they all assured her, when next Gijs came to Holland. She felt a glow of pleasure at the thought.
They bought the presents next, from a long list. No one was forgotten: Willem had a box of cigars and a corduroy waistcoat; Diny had a vividly patterned sweater. And when Margo asked doubtfully if she would like it Gijs told her that Kieke had been shopping with Diny and she had admired it. His sisters, he mentioned, wore earrings, so they spent time in the jeweller’s spending what Margo secretly feared was a small fortune.
When they finally got to the end of the list, he took her to the Café de Paris where they had roast pheasant and an almond tart with lashings of cream while Punch sat silent beside his master, accepting the odd morsel with quiet dignity.
Somehow, and Margo wasn’t sure how it happened, she then found herself in a luxurious shoe shop, trying on soft leather boots, shoes so soft and supple that she hardly knew she had them on her feet and evening shoes, high-heeled and strappy.
She emerged rather pink in the face, and, on the way to the car stopped suddenly to say, ‘Thank you very much, Gijs. You have bought me so many lovely things. I have enough clothes for several years.’
He stood looking down at her, smiling a little. ‘I had no idea that dressing my wife would be such fun; you must allow me the pleasure of doing it as often as I like. I can hardly wait to get to Harrods when we get back to London.’
The pink deepened, and it struck him that she wasn’t a plain girl at all.
‘Well,’ said Margo, rather at a loss for words, ‘I must say it’s lovely to have so many clothes all at once.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Gijs, will you change some money for me? I mean, I’ve got some English pounds with me but I want some gulden.’
‘Of course. How much would you like?’ His matter-of-fact manner made it easy for her.
‘About twenty-five pounds.’
He took some notes out of his wallet. ‘You can give me twenty-five pounds when we get home. That’s the equivalent in gulden.’
‘Thank you—would you mind waiting here? They’ll understand English?’
‘Oh, yes. We’ll be here.’
She hurried across the complex to a small shop they had stopped to look at. Gijs had admired a folding leather photo frame, remarking how useful it would be for anyone who travelled a good deal. It was a paltry gift compared with those which he had lavished upon her, but at least it was something he might use. She entered the shop, bought it and rejoined him, flushed with success.
The parcels and packages collected and stowed in the boot, they drove back to Arntzstein to tea round the fire and then the pleasurable task of decorating the tree.
Because she felt happy and the house was so beautiful, Margo changed into the velvet skirt and blouse and trod downstairs in Aunt Flo’s slippers.
Gijs had changed too, into one of his sober dark grey suits. He was waiting for her in the drawing room with Punch beside him.
Margo said awkwardly, ‘I’m saving my new dresses for
tomorrow and Christmas Day. Will your sisters be here early tomorrow?’
‘Teatime—there will be friends coming in for drinks and we shall dine late, I expect.’ He crossed the room and took her hand. ‘You are the mistress of our home now, Margo, but it hardly seems fair to expect you to organise everything. Wim and Kieke have been here for years and know the whole set-up. I think that she would be flattered if you went to the kitchen tomorrow morning and have a talk—she will expect you to take over when you’re ready. Wim will be there to translate.’
She said gravely, ‘Yes, of course. I’d like to get to know her and find out how the house is run. I hope I won’t be a disappointment to you, Gijs.’
‘I am quite certain that you will never be that, my dear. Now come and have a drink, and after dinner we’ll go round the house together.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘I have thrown you in at the deep end, haven’t I?’ He laughed a little. ‘I know you will cope admirably, though.’
‘Because I am the vicar’s daughter...?’
‘Why, yes.’
If that’s a compliment, reflected Margo, I must be thankful for it.
Chapter SEVEN
FEELING SELF-CONSCIOUS, Margo went down to breakfast in the new tweed suit, and was instantly reassured by Gijs’s look of approval. They breakfasted then, talking about the preparations for the following day.
‘I must go down to the village this morning,’ he told her, ‘but you will be discussing things with Kieke, no doubt, and I’ll be back in time for us to take Punch for a walk before lunch.’
She agreed happily. He had told her a great deal about his family on the previous evening, and taken her on a tour of the house, lingering in each room so that she could examine it to her heart’s content. She had loved every moment—going through the beautiful old house, looking at the furniture with which Gijs had grown up, examining photos of his parents and family, listening to the snippets of information he’d told her. She had the feeling now, facing him over the breakfast table, that they had become a little closer to each other. Even the house didn’t seem strange—it was as though it had accepted her as its new mistress...!