by Betty Neels
‘Apple pie for afters?’ went on the doctor, still hopeful, ‘with thick cream?’ He sighed in a dramatic way. ‘I’m hungry.’ He leaned over and picked up a pastry crumb and ate it. ‘Of course it wouldn’t do for you to invite me to lunch, would it? Not until we’re on speaking terms again, and if I apologise now, you, being you, my dear, will probably think that I have done so merely in order to get a good wholesome meal.’
Araminta giggled; she hadn’t meant to, it sent her dignity crumbling as she peeped at him sideways. ‘Oh, Crispin,’ she uttered, torn between exasperation and amusement, ‘you’re incorrigible!’ She might have said a good deal more, only he had taken the rolling pin from her hand and put his arms around her, floury hands and all.
‘I was abominable to you,’ he said quietly, not smiling now. ‘I had no right to speak to you like that, and none of it was true. But there you were, apparently on the point of spending a cosy evening with another man—a young man, too, and I’d come hell for leather to see you.’
She glowed at the words, although she answered him soberly enough. ‘I was going to James’ engagement party, he was giving me a lift.’ She went on slowly: ‘I spent a miserable evening—I hope you did, too.’
‘Vixen—of course I did.’ He swooped and kissed her lingeringly. ‘You looked so young, my dearest girl, and I felt so very middle-aged. Just for a little while I made up my mind that I would never see you again, and then I found that I couldn’t do it—you are so exactly what I want—have always wanted.’ He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. ‘But am I right for you, I wonder? Set in my ways and used to doing exactly what I like with my life, and ill-tempered to boot.’
‘I don’t care…’ began Araminta, but he stopped her.
‘No, don’t say it, not yet, my dear. Do you know why I came?’
‘To see me?’ she asked anxiously.
‘That, yes, but also to ask you to come back with me and stay in my house, so that you may get to know me.’
‘But I know you already,’ she protested strongly. ‘Crispin, I’m not a child…’
His smile was tender. ‘No, perhaps not, only a green girl. Will you do as I ask? No ties, no strings, I promise you. Tante Maybella will love to have your company and we will be together as often as I can arrange it. And when you are sure that you can be happy with me, I shall ask you to marry me, and if you aren’t sure, then you shall come home again and everything will be as it was before we met.’ He let her go and the smile changed to a grin. ‘May I stay to lunch?’ he asked.
She said: ‘Yes, of course,’ in what she hoped was a normal voice, while she swallowed disappointment. A cleverer girl than she would have known how to make him marry her out of hand. She had done her best to tell him that she loved him, but he hadn’t let her say it. Perhaps he didn’t want her to, and he hadn’t said that he loved her. She said steadily: ‘I’d like to come very much. I expect you know that I’ve given up my job at St Katherine’s— I was going to have a few weeks here and then look for something else.’
She finished rolling the pastry and laid it neatly over the apples lying in the dish, and the doctor went to sit on the edge of the table beside her. ‘Well, you can spend a few weeks with us instead,’ he assured her comfortably. His voice was very placid; he could have been an old family friend, having a chat about the weather.
It was all arranged very easily. To Araminta’s surprise neither her father nor her aunt raised even the faintest of objections, but then it would have been difficult for them to have done so, for Crispin, when she had introduced him, had said calmly: ‘It is delightful to meet you again. You must wonder why I am here, Mr Shaw. I have asked Araminta to come back to Amsterdam with me and stay with us—my aunt and myself. I want to marry her, but she has had very little opportunity of knowing me. I should like her to have that opportunity before I ask her.’
He had taken her hand in his while he had been speaking and held it fast, and she had stifled the thought that he still hadn’t told her that he loved her. Perhaps he took it for granted that if he said that he wanted to marry her, it would mean that he loved her too.
Later on, when they were alone together, she had wanted to ask him that, but in the face of his placid friendliness, she had found it impossible.
They went, all four of them, to the Luttrell Arms for dinner that evening, and it was obvious before the evening was out that Aunt Martha was as wax in Crispin’s hands, and that Mr Shaw, while saying little, took it for granted that they would marry. Indeed, when they were back home again and Crispin had left them to return to the hotel, he made the observation that Crispin was a man of intellect and good sense and one whom he would gladly welcome as a son-in-law. It was a pity, he added, that more young couples didn’t get to know each other in such a sensible fashion before marrying—a view to which Araminta couldn’t subscribe. Surely, her heart argued, if you loved someone, that was all that mattered? Crispin had called her a green girl, but she was twenty-five, a grown woman, and if he imagined that she was just infatuated, he was quite mistaken. She thought about it, upstairs in her bedroom, getting ready for bed; she had never been more sure of anything in her life before—it was a pity that Crispin couldn’t be made to see that. Perhaps things would be easier once she was staying in the house in Amsterdam—there might be opportunities. She lay in bed, sleepily thinking up a few.
Crispin came after breakfast, wished her good morning and accepted her father’s invitation to glance at some interesting documents concerning the history of the village. Araminta watched the two men disappear with mixed feelings. True, Crispin had kissed her, but it had been a very ordinary, quick kiss which meant nothing; perhaps he was a man who didn’t like to be demonstrative. It struck her that he had been quite right, she really knew very little about him.
She made the beds, dusted the sitting room and went to make the coffee, while her aunt arranged the best cups and saucers and rubbed up the silver spoons—proof, if further proof were needed, that she entirely approved of Crispin.
Mr Shaw continued to discourse on local history while they drank their coffee, to the exclusion of all else, so that his daughter viewed him with a jaundiced eye and wished that he would stop, and her humour was hardly improved by the sight of Crispin, apparently enjoying every word of it. It was Aunt Martha who broke in firmly, reminding her brother that if Araminta didn’t go to the shops there would be no lunch that day, and since Crispin was interested in the village, what better opportunity of his seeing it for himself while accompanying Araminta.
This sensible remark had the desired effect. Araminta whipped up to her room to put on her coat, and when she got down again, Crispin had his coat on too and was in the hall, holding the shopping basket.
She felt a little shy at first, going in and out of the butcher’s and the baker’s; choosing cauliflowers and apples and grapes at the greengrocers, but her companion appeared perfectly at home in his new role and when they had delivered the basket to Aunt Martha, suggested that a walk might be pleasant. It was a splendid morning, cold and windy, but the sun was shining as they bent their steps towards the church, where they wandered round while Araminta called to mind all she knew of the Luttrell family and the monks who had lived in Dunster so long ago. ‘They were in the hotel, you know,’ she told him. ‘It’s really very old. The village is lovely, isn’t it, and so is the church.’
He took her hand and slowed her walk to a halt. ‘Would you wish to marry here, Araminta?’
She had had her dreams like any other girl. ‘Well, yes, though I don’t think it matters where you marry, as long as you love each other.’
He only smiled faintly. ‘I expect you’re right. Where do we go next?’
He wasn’t going to let her say that she loved him; she wondered fleetingly if he was afraid that she might regret it. With an effort she kept her voice friendly and nothing more. ‘We can go through the castle grounds, if you like—they’re not open to the public, but no one minds if the vill
age people take the short cut through the wood to the main road.’
It was pretty amongst the trees. Far in front of them they could hear the traffic on the main road between Minehead and Bridgewater, but here it was quiet except for the wind whistling and moaning between the leafless branches. The path was narrow, and Araminta, who knew it like the palm of her hand, went in front, pausing every now and again to explain some part of the terrain when it came into view, but when they reached the edge of the wood and paused to look beyond the road to the grey, wind-tossed water of the Bristol Channel, Crispin put an arm across her shoulders and drew her close.
‘Will you be ready to come back with me tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow?’ She turned to look up into his face. ‘But Father might…’
‘He assured me that he could see no possible objection; it is for you to say, my dear.’
She smiled at him. ‘It was just that I’m surprised—everything’s happening so quickly. What time do you want to leave?’
‘In the early afternoon—we’ll go from Harwich.’ He turned her round to face him. ‘Your second visit to Amsterdam will be quite different from your first,’ he promised, and kissed her with a gentleness which sent the tears to her eyes, so that she had to look away quickly in case he should see. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she told him quietly, and then: ‘We’ve time to go down to the water, we only have to cross the road at the bottom of the hill and go down that lane.’
They walked fast, arm-in-arm into the wind, talking about a great many things, and Araminta was glad to discover that they agreed about most of them. They got back to the house just in time to drink their sherry before lunch, and when it was eaten, Crispin washed up in the manner of someone who did so every day of his life, something which Araminta doubted very much, before saying that he had one or two matters to attend to and might he come back for tea? She had no idea what the matters might be and he didn’t enlighten her, but he looked remarkably pleased with himself when he returned.
He took her out to dinner again that evening and she wore the dress she had most fortuitously seen in the smart little boutique in the main street. It was very pretty; of crêpe, its colour a shade darker than her hair. It fell in tiny pleats from a high-necked yoke and its wide belt made her slim waist seem even slimmer.
‘Very pretty,’ observed Crispin when she joined him, and she wasn’t sure if he meant her person or her dress, but it was a good beginning to an evening which became better and better as its hours slipped away. They took their time over dinner, for at this time of year there were few guests at the hotel. The food was superb and the dining room warm and softly lighted, and when they had finished they crossed the narrow, flagstoned hall to the coffee lounge, happily empty, and had coffee before the blazing log fire while they talked comfortably about nothing in particular. It seemed to Araminta that she was discovering a number of aspects of Crispin’s character she had never considered before. She had, until now, thought of him as a doctor first and as a man—a rather remote, ill-tempered man—second; now he was letting her catch glimpses of the man and she had liked what she had seen very much—and that, she reminded herself, had nothing to do with loving him.
They set off the next day, with one of Aunt Martha’s excellent lunches inside them and Araminta’s largest case in the boot. She hadn’t been sure what to pack, so in the end she had taken an armful of sweaters, some slacks, her newish tweed suit, her thick coat and the jersey dress, and naturally she had added the new crêpe; anything else she would have to buy while she was in Amsterdam; she had sufficient money for that.
She settled into the comfort of the Rolls’ front seat with a sigh of pleasure and only the faintest twinge of anxiety that things might not work out right, after all. She buoyed herself up with the promise that it wouldn’t be her fault if they didn’t and decided wisely not to allow her mind to dwell on it too much. She waved to her family, gave Crispin a small, loving smile and gave herself over to the pleasure of a long journey in his company.
By the time they had reached Harwich and were safely on board, she felt as though she had known him all her life. She told him so before going below to her cabin and his answering smile had been charming, although he had given her a searching look. ‘That’s the object of the exercise,’ he reminded her blandly. ‘Sleep well.’
Surprisingly, she did, and even the darkness of the six o’clock morning couldn’t damp her good spirits. It was only just getting light by the time they reached Amsterdam, fifty miles away, but there were already lights shining from the windows of Crispin’s home, and Jos, with Rikki beside him, was there to welcome them.
‘Breakfast,’ said the doctor. ‘Can we have it in ten minutes, Jos? I expect Miss Shaw would like to go to her room first.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Will that suit you, Araminta?’
She said shyly that it would, and followed Frone upstairs to the same room as she had had before. There were fresh flowers there, even English magazines and a newspaper, and everything she could possibly need in the bathroom. She looked at everything in a happy daze, tidied her hair in a perfunctory fashion and went downstairs again and found Crispin waiting for her in the hall. As they went into the pleasant little room where they had breakfasted together before, she asked: ‘Do you have to go to the hospital today?’
‘Not until the afternoon, but I’ve some patients to see privately this morning.’ She handed him his coffee and he asked: ‘Forgive me if I run through my letters?’
She sat like a mouse, drinking cup after cup of delicious coffee and eating her croissant while she watched him. He looked as though he had slept the night through and had had all the leisure in the world to achieve the impeccable appearance he now presented. Araminta suspected that he had what Aunt Martha would call an iron constitution, able to do without sleep and food and still present a calm, elegant front to the world; a resourceful man too, but once roused, of a very nasty temper. She loved every inch of him.
He looked up suddenly and caught her staring. ‘I’m abominably rude,’ he told her, and stacked his letters neatly. ‘I’ll be back about six o’clock this evening. If you’re not too tired, shall we go out after dinner? The shops will be shut, but they’ll be lighted, and you might enjoy looking at them.’
‘Oh, I’d love that—but wouldn’t it bore you?’
He answered her gravely: ‘When I’m with you I’m never bored, Araminta. Tante Maybella will be down at about half past ten—get her to show you the house, there’s nothing she enjoys more, and you might find it interesting.’
Araminta beamed at him. ‘Crispin, you’re such a nice man!’ She added worriedly: ‘I do hope I fit in…’
He got out of his chair and came round the table and bent to kiss her cheek as he said laughingly: ‘You fit in quite perfectly.’ He dropped a second kiss on top of her head, said ’Tot ziens,’ and was gone.
She unpacked first and then had a bath, made fragrant by Madame Rochas, put on a skirt and sweater, did her hair and face very carefully, then went downstairs. She was crossing the hall slowly, wondering where she should go, when Jos appeared.
‘There is a fire in the small sitting room,’ he informed her, and ushered her into a room—not small at all, according to her standards, with a large bow window overlooking the garden at the back of the house. It was furnished very comfortably with a number of armchairs and sofas, a richly piled carpet upon the floor, and a profusion of paintings upon its walls. Araminta rather liked it, and so apparently did Rikki, who in company with the tabby cat was stretched out before the fire.
‘Shall I take the dog, miss?’ asked Jos.
‘Oh, no—please don’t, she’s such good company.’ She smiled and received an answering smile from the craggy face.
‘Then I’ll bring you some coffee, miss; Mevrouw van Sibbelt will be down any minute now.’
The old lady arrived with the coffee tray. She was still wearing black, but this morning her dress was of a fine wool, with a litt
le white pleated frill round the high collar. She was wearing her gold chains, though, and a small enamelled watch fastened by a brooch to the tucked bodice. She looked like a small porcelain doll with her beautifully dressed hair and pink and white complexion.
Araminta was a little surprised at the warmth of her welcome, for she still had some fleeting doubts as to her hostess’s true feelings towards her, but now she began to think that she must have imagined them, for the morning was passed delightfully, chatting over coffee, and then by an inspection of the house. Mevrouw van Sibbelt, surprisingly nimble for her eighty-odd years, led the way in and out of rooms which Araminta found surprisingly beautiful; they were seldom used, explained her guide, only when Crispin gave a party, or invited his numerous cousins, aunts and uncles to visit him on the Feast of Sint Nicolaas, or to stay over Christmas and the New Year. ‘New Year is the most enjoyable,’ declared Mevrouw van Sibbelt, ‘for the house looks so splendid and every room is in use, there are so many people…’
‘You act as hostess?’ asked Araminta gently.
‘Indeed I do—a task I thoroughly enjoy.’ The old lady paused to enjoy a reverie of her own and then said brightly: ‘You will like the ballroom, it is along there—if you would open those double doors, Araminta…’
It was a splendid apartment, very formal, with its gilded pillars and silk-panelled walls. It was at the back of the house, reached by a short passage over-looking one side of the garden. Araminta twirled on its polished floor, imagining herself in a really super dress, dancing with Crispin—apricot chiffon would do very nicely, with some really beautiful embroidery. She gave a final twirl and came to a laughing halt in front of her companion, and was shocked by the expression she surprised on the old face—not hate, exactly, not even dislike, but a look of speculation tinged with fear, and what could Mevrouw van Sibbelt, living in the lap of luxury in her nephew’s house, have to be afraid of? Araminta stopped in mid-twirl and asked anxiously: ‘Is anything the matter, Mevrouw?’