by Val Wood
Frederik pondered. Cornelia seemed to him to be a strong woman and not vulnerable at all, unlike his own wife, who he thought might possibly make some wrong choices. However, Cornelia would undoubtedly be well provided for by Nicolaas, and there was no question that a comely widow with a large fortune might well be targeted by a scheming seducer.
‘I want someone to love her as I have loved her,’ Nicolaas said simply. ‘To make her happy again.’
It would be easy enough for anyone to love her, Frederik mused as he sat downstairs by the window in their sitting room, waiting whilst Cornelia prepared food and Nicolaas took a rest. Presently he got up and went into the kitchen to find her, but she wasn’t alone. The maid and an older woman who was scrubbing potatoes in the sink were also there.
He thought of an excuse for his intrusion and asked, ‘Do you mind if I walk in your garden?’
‘Of course not.’ Cornelia looked up and smiled, but her smile was wistful, he thought, and the sadness was back in her eyes. ‘And whilst you’re there, will you pick me some herbs? Chives, mint, oregano, rosemary.’
‘I will, if I recognize them,’ he said wryly.
‘Chives look like thick-stemmed grass. You’ll know the mint and rosemary by the scent, and possibly the oregano too, for it has a distinctive smell, and like rosemary it has excellent healing properties.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘So they say.’
‘And what else is rosemary for? It sounds familiar.’
‘For remembrance,’ she said softly. ‘In Hamlet. Ophelia says, “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance”.’ She sighed. ‘It is believed to have medicinal qualities too.’
He couldn’t find any words, none that would comfort her anyway, and stepped out into the paved and gravelled garden, which had a dyke at the bottom of it.
The area was small but full of flowers and shrubs. Growing out of cracks in the paving were plants which smelled sweet and aromatic as he crushed them beneath his feet. He bent to draw in the fragrance of a white rose, its petals pure and unblemished perfection. He strode the few yards to the edge of the swiftly running water and gave a small smile as he remembered the dyke at the foot of their own garden when he was a boy. He wondered if the Jansen children played in the water as he once did. Nicolaas had told him that they both attended local schools and didn’t have tutors or a governess, like Margriet.
That was the answer, he thought suddenly. Margriet must go to school! To a local school, not a boarding school, so that she could come home every afternoon. There must be many private dame schools in Hull, and she would be with other children and not alone as she was now. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He would discuss it with Cornelia to gauge her opinion, and then he would put it to Rosamund, although he feared she would raise objections.
He found the herbs that Cornelia had asked for growing together in a sunny corner, and behind them a tall clump of white marguerites which made him smile and think of his daughter again. It was a pity they didn’t have a garden in Hull, he pondered, but only a yard where the servants emptied the slops and hung their dusters. He vaguely considered the possibility of moving somewhere with a garden, but he loved the house they were in and it was in a convenient position both for his business and for Rosamund’s shopping and social activities. Perhaps at some time in the future, when he was finished with business and had more leisure time on his hands, he might think of it again.
He wondered if Cornelia would stay in this house alone, but then berated himself for being morbid, even though Nicolaas’s life was hanging by a thread.
Frederik helped his friend downstairs for an early supper. Nicolaas’s bony frame was light and angular and he winced at every step, which he took one at a time. ‘Well done,’ Frederik murmured as they reached the bottom.
‘Ja,’ Nicolaas muttered breathlessly. ‘A small but significant success. I haven’t been downstairs for several weeks. I can’t ask Cornelia to help me, she isn’t strong enough.’
‘Indeed not,’ Frederik agreed, thinking that he would try to rework his appointments to give his friend the pleasure of coming downstairs to sit with his wife. ‘Could I make a suggestion?’ he asked as they entered the kitchen.
Cornelia smiled. ‘Please do.’ She placed a tureen of pale green soup on the table and hurried to settle Nicolaas in his chair.
‘How would it be, if it is agreeable to you, if I stayed here with you for this visit rather than at my hotel? Then, Nicolaas, when you feel up to it, I can assist you downstairs before I leave for work in the mornings so that you might spend all day with your lovely wife, and even perhaps see your friends when they call to enquire how you are?’
Nicolaas smiled. ‘Rather than greet them upstairs as an invalid! Ja, I would like that. Cornelia? What do you think? Would that be a nuisance to you?’
‘Of course it wouldn’t be a nuisance,’ she said warmly. ‘I would love you to be downstairs where I can talk to you. We can put your chair by the window where you can see the garden, and when it is sunny we can open it wide or even – perhaps – you could sit outside in the herb corner? Thank you, Frederik. That would be splendid.’
She began to serve the soup into bowls. ‘This is a spring broth,’ she said, ‘with chicken meatballs. It also has celery, carrot, onion and the chives that Frederik kindly picked.’ She gave a sudden laugh that lit up her face. ‘And grass!’
Frederik apologized profusely, thinking how very beautiful she looked when she laughed. She wore an open expression of merriment and he caught a glimpse of how she had been before sadness overtook her. He glanced at Nicolaas and saw that he was watching her as well, a small poignant smile hovering on his lips as if he too was remembering how she once had been.
As they ate the rest of their supper of tender duck breast with asparagus and salad, he understood why Nicolaas wanted her to be happy when he had gone. It was what any man would feel who truly loved his wife: he wished her to know the joy of loving, and being loved, again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frederik stayed with the Jansens until the end of the week but then reluctantly had to leave. Before he went to his last appointment he made sure that Nicolaas was safely back upstairs in his room, though he was a little disturbed that his friend asked to be helped into bed rather than into his chair.
‘I hope being downstairs so much hasn’t overtired you, Nicolaas?’ he said compassionately.
‘Not a bit.’ Nicolaas shifted about to make himself comfortable and then settled with a sigh. ‘But no matter, anyway. I shall be getting plenty of rest before long and would rather not welcome that respite too soon. I must make the most of the time I have left and I thank you most sincerely for helping me to do that. I have enjoyed our time together immensely, and I know that Cornelia has too.’
Frederik nodded. He and Cornelia had sat talking until midnight after Nicolaas had gone to bed, and he had heard so much about the family that he felt he knew them better than he ever had before.
‘I’ve cancelled my afternoon appointments so that I can see my mother before catching the ship home this evening,’ he said in as normal a tone as he could manage, reluctant to utter the words of farewell.
‘I’m sorry if we’ve curtailed some of your business.’
‘It’s of no consequence, none at all. I’ve done enough, and I’ve enjoyed the opportunity of being here with you and Cornelia.’ He laughed, although he felt not in the least merry. ‘Friendship is far more important than selling cheese and gin, after all.’
Nicolaas put his head back on his pillow. ‘Try telling that to the purveyors of cheese and gin,’ he said croakily. ‘I think you’ll find they have a different opinion.’
Frederik told him that he hoped to be back in Netherlands within three weeks and Nicolaas said he would look forward to it and he must stay with them again. He put out his hand. ‘Take great care, my good friend, and thank you for your friendship. I shall rest more easily now that I know you will watch over Cornelia, although I won’t hold you to a
ny commitment that you can’t easily accomplish.’
Frederik took the offered hand and tears fell unbidden down his cheeks. ‘Farewell,’ he said huskily. ‘Not goodbye, for I look forward to seeing you next time,’ and bent and kissed his boyhood friend tenderly on the forehead. ‘God zegene u.’ God bless you.
At the bottom of the stairs he held his fingers to his eyes to quell the tears before he went to say goodbye to Cornelia. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered as he took her hand. ‘I do not have your strength to withstand such anguish.’
‘It is a matter of taking one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time,’ she said softly. ‘And that way the whole day passes and you are through it and ready for the next one.’ She gently brushed his wet cheek with her fingertips. ‘We shall hope to see you again soon, and if anything should occur before then, perhaps I might write to you?’
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Do not hesitate. I can be here within a day.’
‘You have been a good friend,’ she said. ‘To both of us. It is appreciated; you have gone beyond the bond of friendship.’
He shook his head. ‘I have done nothing. I wish that I could have done more.’ He kissed her on both cheeks and then, without thinking, he put his arms around her. For a moment only, he held her close. He felt her take a sudden breath before he released her.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he began, but she gave a tremulous smile.
‘It is best not to be too kind to me, Frederik, or my questionable resolve to be strong will weaken,’ she whispered.
As the carriage bowled along the road to Amsterdam, he mused on the week just past. He’d felt like one of the family as they had sat and chatted after supper. Cornelia had found him a pair of slippers and a woollen jacket belonging to Nicolaas so that he could be more comfortable than dressed in his formal coat, and after Nicolaas had gone to bed she had taken off her white cap as she talked and unplaited her braids, running her fingers through her thick hair without a thought for the impropriety of such conduct in front of a man who wasn’t her husband. He had never seen Rosamund with her hair undressed except in bed, and more often than not she wore a bed cap. There was something, he reflected, quite pleasurable about such long, soft and luxurious tresses. With the undulating waves falling around her shoulders, Cornelia was not the usual image of a Dutch woman one might see in a painting, calm and peaceful, her passions and emotions controlled in much the same way as her hair was confined beneath a cap.
Lost in his musings, he barely noticed the familiar landscape of rich green fields interspersed with dykes and ditches and only vaguely glanced at the polder mills in the distance as their sails turned and the pumps drained the land. It was all so familiar and well loved, and although it seemed not to have changed since he was a boy he was aware that there was constant renewal as engineers worked to keep the low-lying land safe from the invading sea.
Making a quick decision, he asked the driver to take him to his mother’s house. After the time he had spent with Nicolaas and Cornelia, his conscience told him that he didn’t see enough of his family, and that business could wait.
She was delighted to see him even though she was entertaining guests. He greeted them all, then drew his mother aside to tell her that this was a fleeting visit only and he would come again next time he was over. ‘I didn’t want to leave Amsterdam without seeing you,’ he said. ‘But you know how it is when business calls.’
‘Of course I do. Your father was just the same, but you must make time for friends and family as well. They are important too.’
He told her about Nicolaas, whom she remembered well. She clasped her hands together and murmured ‘God zegene hem’, then patted her son’s arm. ‘Go, then. Next time I’ll ask your sister to come too.’
He travelled back to England on the evening tide and the following morning strode home the short distance from the dock. He ran up the steps, rang the doorbell and let himself in with his key just as Florrie came hurrying to the door, pushing her hair beneath her cap. He smiled, remembering Cornelia’s long tresses.
‘Oh, sir,’ she said. ‘You startled me. Mrs Vandergroene is still abed. I’ve taken her breakfast.’
‘And Margriet?’
‘She’s up and dressed, sir, and having her gruel. Shall I tell her you’re here?’
‘No. I’ll go up and surprise her, but perhaps you will tell my wife I’m home. She won’t like a surprise,’ he added jokingly.
‘No, sir, mebbe not.’ Florrie dipped her knee and ran up the stairs in front of him.
Frederik continued up the staircase to the top floor and was about to knock on Margriet’s door when he heard voices. He paused. Who was in there with her? Miss Ripley? But she didn’t usually come so early, and Florrie would surely have mentioned her. He put his ear to the door and listened. Margriet was saying, ‘What I think we should do, Anneliese, the next time we visit the garden, is to say quite emphatically’ – she pronounced the word firmly – ‘that we would like a little dog of our own to play with.’
Another voice replied, a child’s voice but shriller than Margriet’s. ‘Oh, but Margriet, we must ask emphatically for two little dogs so that we can have one each.’
Frederik frowned. Who was that? He tapped softly on the door and slowly opened it. Margriet was sitting at her table with her back to him, a dish of gruel in front of her, but there was no one else in the room. She hadn’t heard him come in, so he slowly backed out again, knocked briskly and entered once more.
Margriet jumped, startled, but on seeing her father pushed back her chair and ran into his arms.
‘Hello, lieveling.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Are you pleased to see your papa?’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘You’ve been gone such a long time.’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Only a week.’
‘It seems much longer,’ she pouted. ‘Miss Ripley has been sick and hasn’t been for our lessons, so I haven’t had much to do and the days were very long, even though Mama set me some work to do.’
‘Did she? Was it interesting?’
Margriet sighed. ‘Not really.’
‘When I came upstairs,’ Frederik said casually, ‘I thought I heard you talking to someone.’
Margriet’s mouth opened and then closed. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I thought that perhaps you had a friend here.’
She looked at him, her eyes wide, and then she licked her lips. ‘N-no.’
He made a pretence of looking round the room and under the table and then raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s disappeared! I must have frightened her away.’
She gave a nervous laugh, as if unsure how he was going to react, which bothered him. He wanted her to know that she could always confide in him.
‘I was thinking whilst I was away,’ he remarked, and sat down in the other chair at the table. He noticed that she watched him carefully, as if trying to anticipate what he was going to say. ‘I was thinking about you being taught on your own, without any other children to exchange ideas with.’ He thought she seemed to relax, although her eyes remained alert. ‘And I wondered if you’d like to go to school,’ he continued. ‘The children in Gouda I told you about go to a local school, and I understand they enjoy it. What do you think? I haven’t discussed it with your mama yet, but I’m sure we could find a good school in Hull.’
Her face brightened. ‘Oh, yes please, Papa. I would. I really would like that. When? When could I start?’
‘Perhaps next term. We must find somewhere suitable first and make sure there’s a place for you.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll speak to Mama later and ask her opinion.’
‘Will she mind, do you think?’ she asked anxiously. ‘She likes me to be at home.’
He patted her head. ‘I’ll persuade her.’ He smiled conspiratorially. ‘I know how.’
Closing the door behind him, he stood for a moment, pondering, and then heard Margriet saying eagerly, ‘What do you think about that, Anneliese? Won’t that be such spl
endid fun?’
And then the other piping voice, but undoubtedly Margriet’s own, saying, ‘But will I be able to come with you, Margriet? It won’t be fair if you leave me behind.’
‘I won’t do that,’ Margriet replied. ‘Not ever. You are my very best friend.’
CHAPTER NINE
Rosamund was dubious. ‘She might pick up bad habits at a dame school,’ she complained. ‘She will not be taught to be a lady.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But you are able to teach her those attributes. I’m more concerned that she’s always alone and doesn’t know any other children. She needs to be integrated with others.’ He didn’t tell Rosamund what he had overheard. He knew she would be concerned and would probably question Margriet about it.
But he told her about the Jansen children, and about Nicolaas. She was horrified. ‘But he is still young, is he not? Much too young to die. Your age, if you were at school together. That is so sad, so difficult to comprehend.’ He was heartened by her sympathy for his friend, although musing that it was unusual. ‘And his wife,’ she continued in the same dismayed and apprehensive tone. ‘How ever will she manage without her husband’s support? Is she young enough to marry again? Can she go back home to live with her parents?’
‘Her parents?’ He frowned. ‘Why would she do that? She’s not a young girl; she has a home and children to take care of. Nicolaas will have made provision for her and the children, but she will have to make a new life without him.’
‘But how can she?’ Rosamund said. ‘Who will make decisions for her?’
He shook his head in bemusement. ‘Women can make their own decisions,’ he said. ‘You make decisions. You will decide whether or not Margriet should attend dame school.’