by Val Wood
It was the month the Hull Fair came, but this time Margriet asked her mother if it was all right for her to visit it with her friends. Rosamund considered that Margriet’s behaviour had changed for the better, for she spent a good deal of time reading in her room and sometimes sewed with her mother in the afternoon, so she agreed that she could, providing she went early in the evening and returned no later than eight o’clock.
Rosamund had not met Margriet’s friends; she had suggested that they might be invited to tea one afternoon but Margriet had refused on their behalf. ‘They are working people, Mama,’ she had said in excuse. ‘They don’t have time for tea.’
That hadn’t been the right response, as her mother had then asked what kind of work they did and Margriet was flummoxed. She could hardly say that the girls ran errands or that Billy and the other boys asked for odd jobs in the wood yards or the stables because her mother would then declare that they were not suitable companions for her.
In the week running up to Christmas, Rosamund asked Margriet to walk with her to the bank as she wanted to draw out some money. Frederik had always given the servants a cash bonus at Christmas, but she, unused to handling money, had forgotten about it, and although she had increased their annual wage they hadn’t received a bonus since Frederik’s death. Now she decided that she should show her appreciation for their faithful service.
Frederik had used Samuel Smith’s bank in Whitefriargate for many years. It was very busy, and they sat down to wait for the queue of businessmen and tradesmen to conclude their transactions. When a teller became free Rosamund asked to make a withdrawal. He took out a ledger and ran his finger down a list, cleared his throat, said, ‘If you would excuse me for just a moment, Mrs Ramsey?’ and disappeared through a door behind his desk.
She waited, tapping her foot, and gave a little shrug at Margriet at her side. The teller came back all smiles, and asked if she would kindly wait a few more minutes as Mr Blackstone would like a word.
‘Mr Blackstone?’
‘The manager, madam.’ The clerk lowered his voice. ‘He won’t keep you long.’
They sat down again. ‘Why does he want a word, do you think?’ Rosamund murmured, more to herself than Margriet. ‘Is that usual? Perhaps he is new and wishes to introduce himself.’
Margriet shook her head. She had no idea.
A few minutes later another door behind the teller’s desk opened and a man in a black frock coat and pinstriped trousers came towards them. He gave a courtly bow and said, ‘Mrs Ramsey? Good morning. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you. I knew your late husband Mr Vandergroene very well. Such a loss, such a loss.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘This is our daughter, Margriet Vandergroene. You wished to see me?’
‘Indeed, indeed. If you would kindly step into my office? Nothing untoward, ma’am, just a little misunderstanding I’m sure.’
Rosamund looked sharply at him, but didn’t say anything. Margriet followed her into the office.
‘Will you be content to have your daughter with you?’ Mr Blackstone asked when he’d closed the door behind them. ‘There are one or two – erm – financial matters to discuss. Ideally Mr Ramsey should be here, but as you are a longstanding customer we can make an exception.’
‘He’s away. On business,’ she said coldly. ‘What is this about? I simply came in to make a withdrawal to pay my servants a Christmas bonus.’
‘Most commendable,’ he said suavely. ‘But please, won’t you be seated? Was it a large amount, Mrs Ramsey, for if not, I’m sure we can accommodate—’
‘Not large,’ she said, sitting down on one of the two chairs opposite him. ‘Why do you ask?’
He seated himself behind his desk and clasped his fingers together, looking from her to Margriet and back. ‘The hard fact, Mrs Ramsey, is that there is nothing in the account to withdraw. It is quite empty.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘But that’s ridiculous! How can it be empty? It is not so long since we sold some shares – surely the money from those went into the account?’
He looked down at the ledger in front of him; there were two separate columns of figures, one column much longer than the other. He shook his head. ‘There are no recent deposits, Mrs Ramsey, only withdrawals, promissory notes and bills of exchange, some of them on demand. The account is overdrawn.’
Rosamund leaned forward and whispered, ‘What are they for, these promissory notes and bills of exchange?’
‘Some payments go back over a year,’ he said. ‘The first, which took rather a large slice of the capital, was for a—’ He peered down at the ledger. ‘A curricle, would it be? And pair. Accommodation and wedding feast; racing expenses at York, Doncaster and Beverley; a gold watch and chain; many other items.’ He looked up sympathetically. ‘A gold necklace!’
Rosamund touched her throat; the necklace had not yet been returned. William had said the jeweller still had it. Blackstone saw the gesture and murmured, ‘Perhaps it could be sold to offset some of the expenses?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got it any longer,’ she said throatily, and felt Margriet’s hand creep into hers. ‘Has everything gone? Is there nothing left?’
‘Nothing with this bank,’ he said softly. ‘Whether there are accounts with other banks I couldn’t say. Mr Vandergroene banked with us for many years; to my knowledge he didn’t bank elsewhere.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Ramsey, I might be out of order in saying this and of course I know nothing of your present husband’s circumstances, but if this lapse is not just a matter of careless accounting might I suggest …’
Rosamund felt faint. Accounting? Mr Clayton had asked to see her but William had insisted on dealing with him himself. And William had told him that his services were no longer required.
‘Mrs Ramsey?’ Mr Blackstone was saying as if from a great distance. ‘Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?’
Rosamund shook her head but one was brought anyway. Margriet held the glass to her lips whilst she sipped and she heard him saying, ‘And so, if you have any concerns at all, I would suggest that you speak to your lawyer, who will be able to advise you. If, as seems likely, your assets have been eroded, your husband is obliged to maintain you, although not your daughter as she is not his. It is usual for a married woman to have control of any household contents, but other than that, well …’ He lifted his hands in a gesture of negation.
‘Speak to your lawyer, Mrs Ramsey, if indeed he will allow you to consult him without the presence of your husband. Speak to your lawyer immediately.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Ask Jane to bring a tray of tea to my room, will you, Margriet?’ Rosamund asked as they mounted the steps to the front door. ‘I need to sit quietly and think.’
Margriet did as she asked and then went up to her own room and stood gazing out of the window. Her mother was shaking as they left the bank and had had to take Margriet’s arm. The account was empty, the manager had said. What did it mean? Could they not afford the next meal? How would they pay the servants? Expenditure had never been discussed, so she had no idea how matters stood. Had her father left money for them and Mr Ramsey had spent it?
Mr Blackstone had read out a list of items and they had all been purchased by Mr Ramsey. Her bracelet hadn’t been mentioned. She never wore it; it was still in its box in a drawer. She turned away from the window and went to the chest of drawers, but the box wasn’t there. It had been in the same place since it was first given to her, and now it had gone.
She moved the guard from the fire and sat down. Were they destitute, like Billy and the other children who roamed the streets? But they had the house, they had somewhere to live, and surely they must receive something from Papa’s business? But then she was struck by what her mother had said: they had recently sold some shares. Did that mean that they could no longer rely on an income from the company?
The clatter of wheels and a whinnying down in the street alerted her a
nd she rushed back to the window. Ramsey’s curricle, the one he said he’d bought for her mother, was outside and he was jumping down and hailing a boy to come and hold the reins. It was Billy. She stood back so as not to be seen, but saw Ramsey shaking a finger at Billy, who touched his cap. Ramsey took the steps at a run, opened the door with his key, and slamming it behind him roared, ‘Rosamund! Rosamund! Where are you? I want to speak to you.’
Margriet opened her door a crack and peered over the banister. Her mother’s door on the landing below opened and Margriet saw only her back as she came out and stood at the top of the stairs.
‘And I want to speak to you too, William,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Most urgently.’
Margriet opened her door wider and, slipping out, knelt on the landing to see but not be seen.
‘I need some ready money,’ Ramsey said abruptly. ‘I need it now. How much have you got in the house?’
Margriet watched her mother descend the stairs. ‘Ready money?’ she heard her say. ‘What does that mean? You told me that what was mine was yours; well, it seems that what I had you have spent.’
Margriet could see Ramsey’s face quite clearly and saw a flush burn his cheeks. ‘What?’ He frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been to the bank.’ Her mother continued slowly down the stairs until she was just two steps above him. ‘I went to get some ready money to give to the servants as a Christmas bonus, but it seems that there is nothing left. The account is overdrawn.’
‘Hah,’ he scoffed. ‘What have you been spending it on, Rosie? You naughty girl.’
‘Please don’t speak to me in that manner.’ Her voice was icy. ‘I am not a servant girl. My name is Rosamund and I have not spent my money!’
‘Oh, hoity toity,’ he sneered. ‘May I remind you, madam, that it isn’t your money, but mine to do with whatever I like. I have had a few expenses, it is true.’
‘But the shares that you sold?’ she interrupted. ‘Where is the money from those? It is not in the bank account.’
‘No. Not in that bank account. I’ve decided not to use Smith’s bank. They are not very accommodating.’ He looked at his fingernails. ‘So, you haven’t any cash lying around?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said sharply.
He put his foot on the first step. ‘You would tell me if you had, wouldn’t you, Rosamund? You wouldn’t hide them from me? No?’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. Mmm, well, pity. Oh, by the way, we’ll have to sell the house. I was hoping to avoid it, but it can’t be helped. We’ll get a good price for it, though, and get you something smaller. Or you could rent somewhere; that would be a better idea, less capital expenditure. In the meantime we can get a loan on the strength of it.’
Margriet put her hand to her mouth. Sell the house! She saw her mother sink down on the step and whisper something that she couldn’t hear. Ramsey was looking down at her. Then he said, ‘Sorry, Rosamund. I’m not cut out to be a husband. But you were quite a catch.’ He pursed his mouth. ‘I was attracted to you, don’t think I wasn’t, but it helped that you were well provided for. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re all right, but we’ll have to sell, you do realize that, don’t you? You wouldn’t want the disgrace of a bankrupt husband. I’ll see my lawyer tomorrow and instruct him.’ He paused. ‘I won’t stay now; you probably don’t want me to in any case. But when this is all sorted out I’ll take you off somewhere for a few days, perhaps in the spring, back to that hotel near Bridlington. You liked that, didn’t you?’
Margriet slipped back into her room and a minute later the front door banged. She looked out of the window and saw Ramsey run down the steps. He fingered his waistcoat pocket, brought out a coin and tossed it to the waiting Billy, who caught it, looked at it and then at the man who had given it, muttered something, and tossed it in turn to a young lad who was waiting on the opposite side of the street.
She watched Ramsey climb into the driving seat, and as he raised his whip he looked up at the house and must have seen her face at the window. He grinned, cracked the whip and drove away.
Rosamund said she didn’t want anything to eat that evening, and stayed in her room. Margriet told Jane that her mother was unwell and asked her to take a bowl of soup and a slice of bread and butter up to her. She herself would also eat in her room, so there was no need to make a fire in the dining room.
Later, she went to Rosamund’s room to say goodnight and found her mother already in bed, her hair loose about her shoulders. She looked sad and vulnerable.
‘I don’t know what we shall do, Margriet,’ she said tearfully. ‘Where will we get an income if all the shares are gone? If the house is sold, I fear we won’t see a penny of the money. I don’t know which way to turn.’
‘Would Grandmother Vandergroene help us?’ Margriet suggested. She knew that her mother hadn’t seen her own parents since Frederik’s death; when she had written to tell them of it, Rosamund’s mother had replied to say that they hoped Frederik had provided for her and her child as they were unable to assist them.
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ her mother said wearily. ‘My fault, for I haven’t kept in touch with her.’
‘But I have, Mama. I write every month. She wouldn’t want us to be destitute.’ The word keeps cropping up, Margriet thought. I think that destitution is in front of us.
‘Do you?’ Her mother seemed surprised. ‘I didn’t know.’ Since her marriage she had failed to notice that Margriet and her Dutch grandmother had been corresponding regularly. Oma was the one person who seemed to understand how much she missed her father, Margriet thought, and she always closed her letters with the wish or promise that they would meet again soon. If they did have to sell the house, she would write and tell her and ask her advice.
She decided that she too would go to bed and read. She was absorbed in the history books of old Hull and had found a section on Whitefriargate and why it was so called. She snuggled down beneath her blankets, intent on thinking of something other than the predicament in which she and her mother found themselves. Reading would take her mind off it. If she had to find employment, perhaps she could be a governess like Miss Ripley, she thought, and she could only do that if she absorbed knowledge.
She turned a page; there was an illustration of monks with tonsured heads and dressed in flowing white robes. They were Carmelite friars but often called White Friars because of the colour of their robes. ‘We practically live on Whitefriargate,’ she murmured to herself, ‘and I never thought to question why.’
Sleep was beginning to overtake her but she kept on reading, blinking her eyes to keep awake. Her thoughts began to wander. She pictured the old monks and wondered where their monastery had been; she thought of Miss Ripley and whether she could ask her advice about obtaining a position. But not yet, her common sense told her; you are not old enough. So where would they live if Mr Ramsey sold the house? Who would take them in? She closed her eyes. Who did they know?
A voice whispered in her ear and at first she couldn’t understand the words; then it became clearer. ‘Come and live with us, Margriet, and bring your moeder too.’
She sat up. ‘Anneliese?’ she whispered. ‘Is it you?’ The room was dim but firelight shadows danced on the walls and she could see the girl quite clearly sitting in the chair by the fire. She was older now and had lost her round childish features. Beneath a white winged cap, two long fair plaits hung over her embroidered bodice and she wore a white apron over her black skirt. Plain wooden clogs were on her feet.
‘Anneliese,’ Margriet whispered. ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time. Where have you been?’
Anneliese turned to her. ‘I’ve been here all the time,’ she said softly. ‘Growing up just like you. I’m sorry you lost your papa, but you must be strong. I have spoken to mijn moeder en vader and they say you can come and help me in the garden and your moeder can help in the kitchen. Will you come?’
Margriet saw again in her mind
the king’s garden they had walked in when she was so much younger; the small circular lawns and the neat box hedges that surrounded them, the trees heavy with blossom and the bright patches of flowers. She heard the birdsong and the voices of the ladies and gentlemen of the court as they strolled in the sun.
‘Where is the king?’ she asked. ‘Should we ask permission to visit his garden again?’
‘No.’ The room seemed to be getting darker and Anneliese was diminishing and becoming difficult to see. ‘We are too old now to play in his garden, Margriet. You can help me in our garden.’
‘But what shall I do? Anneliese,’ she pleaded, ‘don’t go! What shall I do in your garden?’
Anneliese smiled as she gradually faded from sight. ‘Why, grow things! That’s what you do in a garden; we’ll plant flowers and shrubs, and tulip bulbs and ginger!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Christmas passed quietly. William Ramsey didn’t come and Margriet and her mother dined alone; they ate sparingly as Rosamund was nervous about owing money to the butcher, but neither did she want to alert the servants to their predicament. It was January when Ramsey came again. For some reason he couldn’t get his key into the lock and he had to ring the bell. Mrs Simmonds answered the door and he strode past her into the hallway, bellowing, ‘What’s going on? Rosamund! Rosamund! I need to speak to you.’ Plainly he had been drinking; his face was flushed and there was the smell of strong ale on him.
Mrs Simmonds calmly folded her hands in front of her. ‘Good day, Mr Ramsey. Please follow me, sir; ’mistress is in ’sitting room. She has a visitor, but asked that you be shown through if you called.’
‘Called? What’s that supposed to mean? Get out of my way.’