Never Too Late

by Neels, Betty

  Only when the last small patient had been wrapped up and sent home and the work of clearing up began did she begin to feel tired. It was bliss, when they were ready, to sit down and wait for Benedict to come from his office and walk her out to the Aston Martin. She sank back against the leather and wished the drive would last for hours instead of the ten minutes it took to get home. And once indoors, there was Ork ready with coffee and sandwiches arranged before the fire in the drawing room. When her three nights were done, she felt lost, watching Benedict leave the house, wishing she were going with him. As it was, she wasted her precious quiet evenings doing nothing, sitting in the lovely room following the evening’s work in her mind’s eye. Once on the first of these evenings she stayed up until he returned, only to be met by a look of irritation, quickly suppressed, and a demand as to why she hadn’t gone to bed. She had made some excuse and said goodnight at once, and had taken care to be in her room before he came home on subsequent nights. She had made various excuses to herself about it, but deep down she was hurt. She had wanted to show him that she was concerned, even if she hadn’t been working at the clinic, but she had merely annoyed him. She didn’t know why—and come to that, she reminded herself crossly, she wasn’t interested.

  It couldn’t last forever, of course. At the end of the third week Benedict told her that things were on the mend; there was no need for her to go to the clinic any more. ‘I shan’t need to go either,’ he added, ‘and Mevrouw Palk will be back at my rooms in three days’ time, so you’ll be able to return to normal life.’

  He told her over lunch, and Sibella, listening and understanding a good deal, piped up: ‘Now I may have my Prudence for me again. I do not like it when she is not with me.’

  Prudence beamed at the child, ‘Now isn’t that nice—I like being with you too. If your papa doesn’t object, we’ll think of something exciting to do together, just by way of a treat.’

  Sibella wrinkled her small brow and Benedict translated the last part, then added in English: ‘Aren’t I invited?’

  Sibella shrieked with joy. ‘Yes, yes, Papa, it will be geweldig!’

  ‘I think you mean splendid or something like that,’ said Prudence. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Sibella got out of her chair and climbed on to her father’s knee, put her arms round his neck and whispered. Benedict looked across to Prudence. ‘It’s a secret,’ he said blandly. ‘If you don’t mind missing your free Saturday morning, we’ll go then.’ He was silent for a moment. That is unless you’ve made any dates?’

  ‘Dates? Me? Mevrouw Penninck said she’d wait for a few weeks before making a date for lunch with her.’ She was annoyed to feel her cheeks grow warm. ‘And Everard Herrisma asked me to go to dinner, but I explained...’

  ‘No doubt he will phone again. Have any evening you want, Prudence, after this week.’

  ‘Are you going to marry Professor Herrisma?’ asked Sibella. She said it in Dutch, but the meaning was clear enough.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Prudence quickly, and added: ‘Anyway, he hasn’t asked me—you don’t marry anyone unless he asks you first.’

  All of which Benedict translated for Sibella, his face expressionless.

  It was nice to return to her homely little chores each day; have time to do the flowers and help with the delicate china and silver, take Henry for walks without having to rush back to get to the consulting rooms in time and type any letters for Benedict at a reasonable hour instead of dashing them off at any spare moment. And above all it was nice to have Benedict around the house more often. He didn’t look tired any more either, although she surprised a thoughtful look on his handsome features from time to time as though he was worried about something—not quite worried perhaps, preoccupied was a better word. There had been no sign of Myra during the last busy week or two. Perhaps she was away or they had quarrelled, or perhaps she just didn’t come to the house any more. Certainly Benedict had gone out in the evenings after dinner on one or two occasions since he no longer went to the clinic. Prudence told herself that she was becoming a nosey parker and turned her attention to the importance of what to wear on Saturday.

  They left directly after breakfast, driving into a grey blustery morning, and when Benedict had turned on to the Amsterdam motorway, Prudence asked: ‘Is that where we’re going? Amsterdam?’

  ‘How clever of you to guess. Sibella has decided that you must be shown the sights. We shall do the lot—museums, canal trip, royal palace, shops—in moderation, I hope—the Nieuwe Kerk, pausing from time to time for refreshment.’ He glanced at Prudence. ‘An unsophisticated day’s outing.’

  ‘It sounds super,’ said Prudence, and meant it.

  They had a hilarious day. Benedict parked the car, not an easy matter for the motorist in that city of canals and narrow streets, but since he was an honorary co sultant at the largest hospital there, it was only a question of parking the Aston Martin in its forecourt and taking a taxi to the first item in their programme— the canal trip.

  The day was a riotous success. Prudence was whisked from one thing to the other so that by the time they stopped for lunch she had a kind of kaleido scope whirling around inside her head. They went to the Cafe du Centre at Dikker en Thijs, very elegant and, Prudence suspected, very expensive. Fortified by lobster patties, ravioli and an enormous ice cream, she was only too willing to be taken on a lightning tour of the shops and a slightly longer tour of the Rijksmuseum, not long enough, she declared, being hurried along to Madame Tussaud’s Museum, a treat Sibella shrilly demanded Prudence should be allowed before they had tea.

  They took a taxi from the Museum to the Amstel Hotel and had tea on the covered terrace and then had another taxi ride back to the hospital where the car was parked. It was dusk before they were home, racing down the motorway with a speed that Prudence found exhilarating. It was a terrible let-down to discover when they got back that Benedict was going out to dinner.

  Perhaps it was because of her disappointment that she accepted Everard’s invitation to have dinner with him on the following Wednesday. He phoned after dinner, as she was drinking her coffee in the drawing room, and perhaps she had been more eager than she had intended. It would be nice to have an evening out, and Everard was a nice man, but that was all. The remarks Benedict had made rankled still, and Prudence went to bed wondering if she should have refused or at least sounded a bit doubtful.

  But Benedict showed no doubt at all when she told him. ‘Go by all means! You deserve some fun after these last weeks, and Everard is a good companion.’ He smiled at her with a casual good humour which for some reason annoyed her. ‘Take a house key if you like.’

  ‘I shan’t be late,’ she assured him stiffly.

  It would have to be the blouse and skirt again, pretty enough for dining out, but perhaps she should write and ask her mother to send her something else, although there was nothing to stop her buying a dress. After all, she had spent almost nothing of her salary; she hadn’t had the chance.

  Everard came to fetch her and spent ten minutes or so talking to Benedict before they left the house, Everard driving a Mercedes with a regard for the rules of the road which annoyed her. She imagined that he would never exceed the speed limit on any account, which from her brief experience of driving in Holland was an unusual thing. All the same, he was a pleasant companion. He took her to the Peppermill in the town, a quiet restau rant now that the tourist season was over, and they dined unhurriedly, talking about everything under the sun. It was almost eleven o’clock when he drove her back, and the house, except for the porch lights and a glimmer from the hall lamps, was quiet and dark.

  ‘Benedict out?’ asked Everard. ‘Well, it’s more than likely. I won’t come in. We must do this again, Prudence.’

  She thanked him nicely, shook his hand before she sensed that given half a chance he would kiss her, and slipped indoors as Ork, in answer to her ring, let her in. The house was warm and peaceful and lovely to come home to. She sighed and w
ished Ork a good evening, then started for the stairs. She had only taken a step or two when the study door was opened and Benedict came out.

  ‘Back already? I hope you enjoyed your evening?’ ‘Very much, thank you.’

  The first of many?’ Benedict’s voice was faintly mocking and she bristled.

  ‘I really don’t know. In any case, I hardly expect to be free to go out just whenever I please.’

  ‘Quite right. But of course, if you’re genuinely fond of Everard...’

  She goggled at him. ‘Me? Fond of him? I hardly know him! He’s a dear and I like him. You do jump to conclusions, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ His voice was cool and a little amused. ‘He’d make a very good husband.’

  ‘I daresay he would,’ she snapped back at him. ‘But it so happens that I don’t particularly want to marry. Once bitten, twice shy, you know. I’m going to be very cautious next time. I certainly shan’t do anything as silly as falling in love without very careful considera tion first.’

  His blue eyes danced with amusement, but he didn’t smile. ‘I agree with you; compatibility and friendship without heaving passion are much more likely to make a successful marriage, especially for us older ones.’ He ignored the indignant sound she made. He went on gently: ‘I think it might be a good idea if you and I married on those terms, Prudence.’ He turned back to the study. ‘Give it some thought, will you? Goodnight.’

  She felt she would explode with indignation. She had had proposals before, but never one like that, offered casually and without waiting to find out what she thought about it. The arrogant wretch! In the morning she would give him a piece of her mind, pack her bags and go home. Temper took her upstairs to her room, where she flung off her clothes and jumped into bed, still seething. Indeed she actually got out again and started to pack a case, to stop in the middle because Sibella’s little face danced before her eyes. She would leave, but not before she had concocted some suitable story to tell the little girl. They had grown fond of each other and it wasn’t going to be easy to leave. A pity she wasn’t fond of Benedict. She got back into bed, and went to sleep on a wave of indignation.

  Chapter 5

  Prudence woke in the small hours and remembered with the clarity of thought which comes with the dead of night every word Benedict had said.

  She sat up in bed, switched on her bedside light and pondered the matter. He had been joking; she dismissed the idea at once—Benedict wouldn’t make that kind of joke. And just suppose he had been serious? She liked him, she enjoyed his company, she admired his ability to work hard, she trusted him. On the other hand, he could be arrogant when it suited him and she suspected that under that calm face he controlled a temper. Not that that worried her; she had a temper herself which she didn’t always check...

  She curled up against her pillows and fell into supposition, unlikely but interesting. She liked living in the old house; life was pleasant even if it was busy, and surely if she married him Benedict would see to it that someone would come and take over her chores? She had liked his friends—well, most-of them, and she liked Appeldoorn and she had a genuine fondness for Sibella. Were those things enough to make a happy marriage? she wondered. He didn’t love her; what was it he had said: ‘Compatibility and friendship without heaving passion,’ and, ‘It would be a good idea if we married on those terms.’

  She was a romantic girl; no way could she see any romance in his suggestion. It might not have been a joke, but he couldn’t have been serious. She switched out the light and went back to sleep.

  She overslept, which meant that she had to hurry in order to go down to breakfast with Sibella, and that left no time for thinking. Even if she had had time to get shy at meeting Benedict again, it wouldn’t have mattered. There he was sitting at the breakfast table, looking as placid as he always did, wishing them good morning without a trace of awkwardness and then going back to his letters and newspaper. Presently he tossed some letters to her with the casual remark that she might answer them and have them ready for him to sign when he got home for lunch. ‘There’s nothing I need to dictate; I’ve scribbled a couple of dates down.’ He got up kissed his daughter, nodded casually to Prudence and went out of the house.

  He was home for lunch, came in for tea with them both and after a brief absence, back again for dinner, and not once did he attempt anything more than casual talk. It was on the tip of Prudence’s forthright tongue to ask him just exactly what he had meant, but somehow the right moment never occurred. The day ended with his usual placid goodnight after dinner, a polite way of telling her that he didn’t wish for her company.

  ‘The man’s mad!’ declared Prudence, sitting before her mirror, brushing her fiery hair and frowning fiercely at her delightful reflection. He could explain himself on Doomsday as far as she was concerned. All the same, she admitted reluctantly, he was really rather nice; the way he came for tea at home, for instance, declaring that he was famished, tossing Sibella into the air, tickling her until she shrieked with laughter, romping with Henry; she forgot then that he could be remote and preoccupied and even terse, he was just a man coming home to his family and happy to do so.

  She put the brush down slowly, still staring at her face. Would he come home to Myra in such a fashion? She doubted if that young woman would have her tea in the playroom or allow Henry to eat crumpets and loll in front of the fire. She would entertain elegantly in the drawing room and Benedict would be expected to join her and never mind Sibella. Myra would have an excellent governess for the little girl and see as little of her as possible.

  ‘All guesswork,’ Prudence informed her reflection, ‘especially as I hate the girl. All the same, Sibella deserves a loving stepmother.’

  She got up and wandered over to the bed and slid in. ‘Like me,’ she added at length, ‘only it’s an impossibility. I must have been having hallucinations or something.’

  She had to eat her words on the very next day. She and Sibella had come in from their walk, glowing, a bit noisy and a little damp from the drizzle blown in all directions by the gusty wind. They were in the hall peeling off coats and scarves, discussing the advantages of buttered toast over jam sandwiches, when Benedict came out of his study. He looked them over with a faint smile, submitted to Sibella’s hugs, begged her to take Henry to the kitchen to be dried, and only then turned to Prudence,

  ‘Come into the study, Prudence.’ He held the door open and after a moment’s hesitation, she went.

  ‘Is it urgent, Dr van Vinke?’ she asked in a cool voice. ‘Ork takes the tea tray up to the playroom,’ she added pettishly. ‘I don’t like being ordered about.’

  He didn’t answer at once, only smiled a little. ‘Sit down, will you? And I’ve asked Ork to take Sibella to the kitchen for a few minutes, so you need not worry about her—tea will keep.’

  He went and sat down behind the desk again, leaning back in Ms chair, his eyes on her face. ‘Not a very romantic place in which to propose, is it?’ he asked, and she could have sworn that he was laughing silently. ‘But I don’t think either of us feels that way. I thought if we had a sensible discussion and ironed out any differences...’

  ‘You meant it the other evening?’ She managed to keep her voice normal. ‘I’ve had proposals before, but never one like that.’

  ‘Ah, but the circumstances are rather different, aren’t they? We are not bogged down in sentiment, we are able to talk about marriage unhampered by the wearing of rose-coloured spectacles.’

  She glanced at him. He must be laughing, only he wasn’t. His face wore its usual calm friendliness. She said weakly: ‘What did you want to say?’

  ‘I am aware that this is all a little unusual, but taking into account our circumstances, you must agree that it is also most sensible. I need a wife to run my home, sew buttons on my shirts, keep an eye on my appointments and entertain our friends, Sibella needs a mother desperately, and she already has a very strong affection for you. I am no longer very young—I shall b
e thirty-eight in a few months—and you are old enough to regard marriage as something more than swanning off into the sunset...’

  Prudence gasped and muttered: ‘I’m not that old!’ He agreed pleasantly. ‘Indeed not, and when you’re racing around with Sibella you look ten years younger. Besides, you are a very pretty girl.’ He fixed her with a bright blue eye. ‘As I have already mentioned, we will leave the—er—romance out of it for the time being, such feelings have to grow without being urged. I think I am right in thinking that you’ve had your fill of falling in love for the time being. Time enough for that later on.’

  ‘And supposing we don’t ever—that is, if we just want to remain on a friendly basis?’

  ‘Shall we cross that bridge when we get to it?’ She said hesitantly: ‘I think marriage should be permanent, unless it’s hopeless...’

  ‘I agree.’ He smiled. ‘We agree about quite a lot of things, don’t we?’

  Prudence nodded, and then remembered something. ‘What about Myra? I thought she was—well, your girl-friend.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ His voice was silky. ‘I can assure you that I don’t have girl-friends. She happens to be someone whom I’ve known for some time—she was a friend of my wife’s, but I’ve never had any desire to do more than take her out occasionally by way of a little light relief. Indeed, she isn’t the only young woman I’ve dates with.’ His eyes held hers for a long moment. ‘If you will consent to be my wife you will be the only woman I shall date, Prudence.’ He smiled slowly. ‘Are there any more vexed questions?’

  She shook her head, then said a little stiffly: ‘I don’t know anything about you.’ She paused: ‘I mean, your family and your—your wife...’