by Betty Neels
It was very dark by now, and, although the car was warm, she thought that it might be unpleasantly chilly outside. There was a glow in the sky ahead of them and the professor said, ‘Leiden—we’re almost there. We’ll go straight home...’
She murmured thankfully. She was tired, dying for a cup of tea and faintly scared. If he had suggested that he should call in at some hospital or other she would have been unable to prevent herself from screaming.
They were still on the motorway; the professor had ignored several turn-offs to Leiden and the cup of tea seemed further away than ever, but her spirits rose when he turned off on to a narrow brick road away from the city, driving into its darkness with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Presently she saw the faint gleam of water and then a scattering of small houses on either side of the road. It was still dark with barely a glimmer of light coming from their windows. He slowed through a small village with a looming church and turned into a smooth drive, past tall brick pillars. The drive wound through shrubs and trees to make a final twist before the house. Krijn slid to a smooth halt before its majestic door and got out to open Trixie’s door. ‘Home,’ he said briefly, took her arm and marched her across the sweep to the door now open. She barely had time to take in the solid grandeur of the house, four square, with its rows of large windows, most of them gleaming with light, before she was urged inside into a lobby, the inner door open on to the square hall beyond. There was a middle-aged, rather stout man holding the door, who replied with a dignified pleasure to the professor’s clap on the back, and, when introduced as Rabo the butler, shook her hand and bowed slightly, at the same time making a welcoming speech in heavily accented English. Trixie, much heartened by his obvious sincerity, beamed at him. ‘You speak English—oh, how glad I am—I was a bit worried, you know...’
‘It will be my pleasure to help you in any way possible, mevrouw,’ said Rabo. ‘You will find us all wishing to do all we can...’
The professor had thrown his coat on to a chair and turned to speak to a tall sturdy woman. ‘Wolke...’ He shook her hand and spoke in his own language before putting out an arm to draw Trixie to him. ‘Trixie, this is Wolke, my housekeeper and Rabo’s wife. She speaks a little English, but she understands quite a lot. She will take you upstairs to your room; you must want to tidy yourself.’ A remark which annoyed her very much, although she forgot the annoyance when he added, ‘Come down again as soon as you can. We will have coffee and sandwiches in the drawing-room while I tell you a little about my plans.’
So she followed Wolke’s imposing figure up the gracefully curving staircase at the back of the hall and crossed the gallery above it to enter the room the housekeeper was indicating. It was a beautiful room, furnished splendidly with a four-poster bed and delicate mahogany dressing-table, bedside tables and several extremely comfortable chairs. There was a day bed underneath the two long windows and several lamps here and there, shaded in peach-pink, casting a welcoming glow. Wolke crossed the room and opened a door, revealing a bathroom, nodding and smiling rather like a magician who had carried off a trick satisfactorily before sliding more doors open on to a vast expanse of cupboard, fitted with rails and drawers and shelves, which, Trixie decided, would take her a lifetime to fill.
Left alone, she inspected herself in the pier-glass; she didn’t need tidying at all. At the same time she washed her face and hands, powdered her small nose, combed her hair to even greater smoothness and went downstairs again. Rabo was hovering in the hall and led her to great double doors on one side of it which he flung open with something of a flourish.
She went past him with a little smile of thanks, concealing shyness at the prospect of sitting opposite Krijn in what was now her home. She was greeted by a low rumble as a Great Dane loped across the room to her; the rumble sounded welcoming when the professor got up from his chair by the fire with a quiet, ‘Your missus, Samson; say hello.’
Trixie stood still while the big dog offered a head for a gentle scratch and Krijn strolled over to her. ‘You like dogs? I should have asked...’
‘I like them very much—cats too. He’s a beauty,
isn’t he?’
‘Indeed, yes. Come over to the fire. Rabo is just bringing coffee. It’s late but you can sleep the clock round if you wish.’
She sat down opposite him and saw a pile of letters on the table beside his chair. ‘Please read your letters,’ she begged him. ‘I’m quite happy just to sit. I didn’t expect this.’ She waved a small, nicely kept hand around her. ‘It’s rather grand, isn’t it?’
He smiled a little. ‘It’s your home, Beatrice. You’re sure you don’t mind if I go through these?’
She sat quietly, exploring the room with her eyes. Later, she promised herself, when she was alone, she would go over it by the inch. It was beautiful, full of treasures and yet lived-in. Her slow survey was interrupted by Rabo’s entrance with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She poured from a gleaming silver coffee-pot, still in use after what she guessed might be a couple of hundred years. The coffee-cups must have been almost as old; biscuit china fluted and gilt-edged. The sandwiches were up-to-date: smoked salmon, ham cut wafer-thin, chicken and egg and cress. Trixie sank her excellent teeth into the salmon and Krijn put down his coffee-cup and said, ‘Ah, yes—we must have a little talk...’
The telephone on the table beside him rang in a muted way and he picked up the receiver. Whoever it was made him smile as he listened before answering in his own language. He glanced at his watch as he put the receiver down.
‘They knew that I would be here some time this evening,’ he told Trixie, ‘at the hospital in Leiden. There’s a case—they would like me to see it in the morning first thing. You’ll be all right here? Make yourself at home—unpack—Wolke will be delighted to take you round. I’ll come home for lunch.’ He smiled at her kindly. ‘You must be very tired?’
If that wasn’t a broad hint to take herself off to bed, she was a Dutchman—no, a Dutchwoman now that she was married—and unpacking would take her all of ten minutes. She would have liked another sandwich—several—but he was frowning over a letter. Hurriedly she got to her feet, and he glanced up and said, ‘Off to bed? I dare say you are tired.’ He went to the doors with her and opened them, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I hope you will be happy here, Beatrice. You have only to ask Rabo if you want anything.’ He smiled at her. ‘We must have a little talk...goodnight.’
She bade him goodnight and went up the staircase; he had a beautiful manner, but he had a letter in his hand she sensed he was wanting to read, so that she had refrained from any comment about the day. He had probably, she thought sadly, quite forgotten that they had got married that morning.
She undressed slowly, had a long, blissfully hot bath, and got into bed. She supposed that she wouldn’t see him until he returned at lunchtime when, hopefully, they could have the little talk. The bed was delightfully soft and warm and she had had an exciting day. She closed her eyes and sensibly went to sleep.
She woke to find a girl, very neat in a cotton dress, beaming at her from the side of the bed. She held a small tray of tea which she put down on a bedside table, nodding and smiling before going over to the window and drawing back the long silk curtains. It was raining from a grey sky but the girl waved an arm at the view, nodded several times and went away.
Trixie drank her tea and went to have a look out of the windows. She was at the front of the house, overlooking a stretch of lawn and flower-beds which in summer must present a glorious sight. The sweep before the door was directly below her and she could see the drive to one side of it.
There were trees everywhere and a glimpse of open country beyond. She had a sudden happy urge to explore, and, showered and dressed in Marks and Spencer, she went downstairs. Rabo must have been on the lookout for her, for he appeared at the foot of the stairs with a fatherly good morning
and the advice that breakfast was waiting for her.
She followed him into a small room behind the drawing-room, where a small round table had been laid before a bright fire, and sat down at it. The coffee smelled delicious, and there was toast and boiled eggs and honey. She breathed a sigh of pleasure; never mind the grey morning outside, inside was everything anyone could wish for...
Wolke, Rabo told her, would be honoured to take her round the house whenever she wished—she had only to say.
‘I’d like that, Rabo. Would after I’ve had breakfast suit Wolke?’
He inclined his head. ‘Of course, mevrouw. Is there anything else you would like?’
When she said no, he slid away, leaving her to make a good breakfast and wonder about the day ahead of her.
The inspection of the house took a good deal of the morning; as well as the drawing-room and the small room where she had had her breakfast there was a dining-room, very formal, with finely panelled walls and a massive table surrounded by a dozen chairs, a vast sideboard and a great many rather dark paintings arranged upon its dark red damask walls. On the other side of the hall there was a library, its walls lined with books, a few comfortable chairs arranged invitingly around small tables. Beyond that was the professor’s study. She didn’t go in there, only stood at the door, imagining him sitting at the solid desk, concentrating on his books...
Upstairs she lost count of the rooms leading from the gallery and on the flight above there were still more rooms, all furnished with great good taste, and on one side of the circular landing there was a baize door opening on to the nursery wing, which was light and airy with enough space to take half a dozen children. Trixie caught Wolke’s knowing eye and blushed under her motherly beam, and tried not to think of the small Krijns she was doubtful she would ever see there.
There was another floor where Rabo and Wolke and two maids had their rooms under the curved roof where there was a series of attics. They led on to the tiles, but when Trixie would have explored further Wolke said firmly, ‘It is time for your coffee, mevrouw,’ so they went back downstairs and she drank her coffee in the drawing-room in the company of a very ordinary cat. There was no sign of Samson and when she asked Rabo he told her that the dog went everywhere with his master and would return with him presently. He added with a benign smile, ‘If mevrouw wishes the cat to be removed...?’
‘Oh, no. I like cats. What is his name?’
‘Percy, mevrouw. He is company for Samson.’ Rabo took himself off with smooth silence and Trixie drank her coffee, and, since it had left off raining, went upstairs and got her sensible shoes and raincoat, tied her head in a scarf and went looking for a side-door. Rabo, she decided, must have second sight or something; he materialised beside her, offered to show her a small door at the end of a little passage beside the staircase and mentioned that the door from the conservatory at the back of the house was always open during the day. ‘Lunch is at half-past twelve,’ he told her, ‘and if I might suggest, mevrouw, you should remain within the grounds. The professor will take you walking and down to the village so that you may know your way around.’ He glanced out at the sodden landscape. ‘The country hereabouts is very pretty.’
The house stood in large grounds, sheltered by trees and surrounded by a high brick wall. Trixie was poking around a small summerhouse built into the wall some way from the house when she was startled by Krijn’s voice.
‘You are finding your way around?’ he wanted to know. ‘Not the best of days in which to see Holland for the first time. You have been round the house?’
‘Yes. It is beautiful and very large. Has it always been your home?’
He was leaning against a crooked apple tree. ‘Yes—I was born here. My parents moved to Friesland when my grandfather died—the house there goes from father to son, and the eldest son takes over here until such time as it is his turn to take his father’s place. You see, the family comes from Friesland but a long time ago an eldest son came to Leiden to study medicine and this house was built for him.’
‘Have all your ancestors been medical men?’
‘Yes—it must be a hereditary urge.’
They began to walk back to the house and Samson moved silently to join them from the trees.
‘Did the students do well?’ she asked.
‘On the whole, yes. I had to fail half a dozen. They’re qualified men wanting to specialise...’
‘Oh, I see. Will you be here this afternoon?’
‘I have a consultation at three o’clock. You can come into Leiden if you wish—you must want to do some shopping?’
He must have noticed her one suitcase and small overnight bag. ‘Well, I haven’t much with me—you said only bring enough for a few days...’
‘Indeed I did. Have you money, Beatrice?’
She did some quick reckoning. ‘Is there a Marks and Spencer in Leiden—or something similar?’
‘I think not. Wolke would know. There is a branch in Rotterdam. Why do you wish to go there?’ He stopped to look down at her. ‘How much money do you have, Beatrice?’
His eyebrows rose when she told him. ‘But my dear girl, that is barely sufficient to buy you a pair of shoes.’
There didn’t seem any point in telling him that she could have bought shoes and some sort of sensible coat or jacket and had enough over to look for a blouse.
‘You will, of course, have an allowance now that you are my wife,’ said the professor. ‘I’ll see about it this afternoon. In the meantime I suggest that I take you to the Hague tomorrow so that you can buy whatever you need.’
His rather sleepy eyes studied her sensible skirt and sweater. ‘You always look nice,’ he told her—a remark she didn’t quite believe but it was comforting to hear anyway, ‘but you will need the kind of clothes women wear in the evening—I have friends and colleagues here and their wives will want to meet you—tea parties and so forth.’
Trixie looked down at her sensible shoes, the warm colour flooding her cheeks. He was ashamed of her...she swallowed sudden rage.
‘Don’t be angry,’ said the professor, putting a finger unerringly on the crux of the matter. ‘You had no reason to wear haute couture when you were nursing but now you will have to dress the part, I’m afraid. I shall enjoy feeling proud of you.’
‘Don’t butter me up,’ she muttered crossly and glared up at him.
When he laughed gently she forgot her hurt feelings and laughed too, and he said, ‘That’s better. We shall have a splendid day shopping. It is not my forte, I’m afraid, and after tomorrow I dare say you will have to shop by yourself.’
‘You don’t need to come.’
‘Oh, but I do, otherwise I shall worry in case you have gone to Marks and Spencer in Rotterdam.’
They had reached the house and went indoors to eat their lunch in a pleasant comradeship. Trixie, sitting opposite him in the grandeur of the dining-room, eyed him lovingly and thought that he probably treated his four sisters exactly as he was treating her. It was a depressing thought, but the truth, she reminded herself, wasn’t always palatable.
They had their coffee at the table while he explained that he would fetch her the following day some time after one o’clock. ‘I’m examining in the morning, but I should be free by then. It is only a few miles to den Haag, so you will have three or four hours to shop. I’m sure you will need longer than that—my sisters have made that plain to me on several occasions—but I’ll show you where the best shops are and you may have time to get one or two things.’ He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘I shall be examining again on the following morning; if we leave a little earlier I can take you to den Haag before I start work.’ He frowned in thought. ‘I’ll arrange to pick you up about three o’clock. I’ll show you where tomorrow.’
She tried not to feel disappointment when he observed presently that he w
ould be in his study if she wanted him. ‘An excellent opportunity to correct some notes,’ he told her. She had no doubt at all that as he went through the door he had forgotten her, his brilliant brain already dealing with some tricky gland or other. Samson went with him, and, left alone, she wandered into the library, found a book and settled in one of the comfortable chairs, but she didn’t read—there was a pad on the table at her elbow and a pen beside it. She began to make a list of all the clothes she thought might be required by an eminent consultant’s wife. It was a long list but he had said that she would have to dress the part. She added a second jersey outfit and some sort of wrap for the evening. She would have liked one of those dramatic ones actresses in soap operas flung so negligently over one shoulder, but she wasn’t tall enough, and besides she wasn’t sure if she could fling with sufficient drama. A sensible mohair stole, perhaps, or a little velvet jacket? She brooded happily until Rabo came to tell her that he would be serving tea in the drawing-room.
Krijn was already there, reading a newspaper with Samson beside him. He got up as she went in, begged her to pour out and asked her if she had enjoyed her afternoon.
‘Oh, very much. I made a list of clothes. It’s a very long one...’
‘In that case two days’ shopping won’t suffice. When we come back from Friesland you must persevere until the list is dealt with.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ said Trixie in her sensible way, ‘don’t you mind how much I spend?’
‘No, within reasonable limits, of course.’
‘Yes, but I think that your reasonable limits and mine aren’t the same.’
‘Well, since you are so anxious, shall we say...?’ He mentioned a sum which made her gape.
‘You can’t mean that; it’s a fortune!’
‘Nevertheless that is the amount at your disposal, Beatrice.’ He spoke pleasantly, but she detected a trace of impatience in his voice and it was perhaps fortunate that the phone rang at that moment and he became absorbed in a long conversation. When he finally put the phone down it was to say that he was going to the hospital.