Henrietta's Own Castle

She nodded urgently. ‘Here? Ten o’clock? Or shall I fetch it?’

He hadn’t understood, not that part anyway, for he held up two hands to show that he knew what ten meant, saluted her and got into Charlie, who rather surprisingly purred into life and was driven away through the gates and out of sight. Henrietta went back indoors; the arrangements would do for the moment, but once she had got her bearings she would find a shed or something—supposing she wanted Charlie in a hurry, how was she to get him? It was a pity, but she could see that there were a great many questions she would have to ask Mr van Hessel when she saw him again.

She made tea for the neighbour and had a cup herself, deciding to skip lunch, for there was still the linen cupboard to go through. She would get a stew going and eat it later round the stove. The man went presently and she went to see what he had done; the logs had been split and piled tidily, and besides that he had chopped a pile of kindling. She took some logs back with her, made up the stove and settled down to her task. It proved a more lengthy one than she had imagined; Aunt Harriet had had a remarkably well stocked linen cupboard, and everything was of the best quality. Henrietta, happily counting and checking, came to the conclusion that she would have no need to buy a single article for years to come.

She finished at last and went downstairs, well content, to sit in the lamplit room with a tray of tea and a book while the stew bubbled appetizingly. After supper she would make a few lists and try to get her finances planned, but after supper she found herself thinking of bed; she tidied away the remains of her meal, had a shower and made herself a cup of cocoa to drink by the stove. She had enjoyed her day, she thought sleepily, and tomorrow would be fun, too—besides, once she had been to the bank she would know exactly how much money she had.

She took her mug out to the sink and went yawning through the little house, to pause and straighten a picture on the dining-room wall. It had caught on something behind it and when she unhooked it she saw the small knob on the wall. She pulled it idly and a little cupboard door, papered over, opened. It was a little high for her, tall though she was, so she got a chair and climbed on it to peer inside. There were several rolls of green baize and a velvet-covered box. She carried them to the light and opened them—there was table silver, simple and old and she supposed valuable. There was a small silver coffee pot too with a cream jug and a sugar bowl, just as simple in design and very beautiful. Henrietta set them down beside the other silver and opened the box. There was a garnet necklace inside; a gold chain, very thick and solid, the garnets fashioned into a cascade of flowers; it shone and glowed in her hands and she wondered who had worn it. She would have to tell someone, she decided as she wrapped everything up again; it might make a difference to the estate, for they were valuable. And who was she to tell? Mr Boggett, perhaps, or the bank manager in Tilburg? She went slowly up to bed, wondering why Aunt Henrietta had hidden them away, and who had given her such a lovely necklace.

She was up early the next morning and although it was still only half light saw with a sinking heart that it had been snowing, and still was. The road to Tilburg was a good one; it was the few kilometres from the village to that road which worried her. True, there were no hills or S-bends and it had been dark when she had driven along it, but it was very narrow and the surface was bad. She ate her breakfast, tidied up the house, peeled potatoes to go with the rest of the stew and checked her small stock of tins for a pudding to go after it, then went upstairs to put on her outdoor clothes; the tweed coat, while not quite the height of fashion, was warm and so were the boots, she added a fur bonnet too—an extravagance she had permitted herself and was now thankful for; it framed her pretty face attractively and its dark fur was undoubtedly becoming.

It was almost ten o’clock as she opened her front door, but there was no sign of Charlie; indeed, there was no sign of anything or anyone, everyone who could was undoubtedly snug indoors on such a day. The Catholic church played its carillon for ten o’clock and the Protestant church, not to be outdone, chimed the hour with its deliberate, deep bell, and Henrietta peered round the door once more. A car was turning out of the castle gates, not her Mini, but a gleaming, silver-grey Rolls-Royce, moving silently and disdainfully through the snow. It drew up before her door and Mr van Hessel got out.

‘You can’t take your car out on a day like this,’ he greeted her, without as much as a ‘good day’ for politeness’ sake. ‘I have to go into Tilburg, you may come with me.’

He was standing in the snow, nattily dressed in what she recognized as town clothes of the finest quality, sober grey and exquisitely tailored.

‘How do I get back?’ she asked; if he wasn’t civil enough to wish her good morning she saw no reason to be polite herself.

‘Will four o’clock suit you?’ he asked carelessly. ‘I’ll show you where I’ll pick you up. Come along, I’m a little late already.’

She locked the door behind her and got in wordlessly; anyone would think, listening to him, that she was to blame for his lateness. She fastened her seat belt and pretended to herself that driving in a Rolls was something she did so often that it no longer gave her a thrill.

The big car made light of the slippery road and she was secretly thankful that she hadn’t had to drive Charlie. It wasn’t until they had joined the motorway to Tilburg that she spoke. ‘How did you know that I was going out at ten o’clock—and to Tilburg?’

‘Jan told me. He fetched your car yesterday and I supposed it would be Tilburg—it’s the nearest town and I daresay you have business there.’

‘With the bank—my aunt’s bank—I daresay you know that too,’ she said with a touch of temper. ‘You knew my aunt?’

‘Yes, very well.’

‘Then when you have the time to spare, I have a number of questions I should like to ask you about her.’

‘I seldom have time to spare, so you had better start now.’

‘Did you know that there’s a cupboard in the dining-room of my little house, with silver in it and a necklace?’

‘Yes, I knew.’

‘Well—is it a secret? Why didn’t Mr Boggett tell me about it? Or you, for that matter.’

‘I imagine Mr Boggett didn’t know, and as for myself, I felt sure that you would find them sooner or later. They’re yours now, of course.’

‘But are they? Who gave them to Aunt Henrietta in the first place—and I want to know why she lived in Gijzelmortel for so many years and why my parents always allowed me to believe that she was dead—did she do something awful?’

His voice sounded patient enough, although she didn’t think he was. ‘My uncle gave them to her—no, my dear good girl, do not interrupt. He gave her the house too, to live in for the rest of her life and to leave to anyone she wished. You see, they loved each other; he met her when they were both quite young and was already married, and not happily. They didn’t have an affair in the usual sense of that word; it wasn’t until she was forty or so that he finally persuaded her to go and live near him. My aunt had become almost impossible to live with by then, leading her own life, not caring for anyone but herself; he desperately needed someone to love, so Henrietta gave in at last and made her home in Gijzelmortel. He furnished the house for her and bought her trifles, and although they loved each other very deeply they were never more than friends—the village loved her; so did anyone who met her. If my aunt had died, they would undoubtedly have married, but my uncle died first and my aunt went to Switzerland to live, but your aunt stayed in her little house because my uncle would have wished it. When my aunt died I came to the castle to live.’ He slowed the big car as they neared Tilburg. ‘Will you be all right at the bank?’

‘Yes, thank you. Do you want me to be there at four o’clock?’

‘Outside the bank? Yes. If I am late I will let them know, they can send someone out to tell you.’

Henrietta said ‘thank you’ meekly, bursting with questions about Aunt Henrietta and not daring to ask them. He had told her the story—just the facts with no trimmings—and supposed that she would be content with that; besides, he wanted to get to his work. She wondered what he did for a living, or perhaps he didn’t do anything, just lived in his splendid castle and dabbled on the Stock Exchange.

He slowed the Rolls to a halt and got out to open her door, something she hadn’t expected of him. ‘Four o’clock,’ he reminded her austerely, and had got back in and driven away before she could even thank him.

The visit to the bank was a leisurely business. Henrietta was given coffee while her affairs were explained to her and she left feeling on top of the world, for there was a little more money in her legacy than old Mr Boggett had thought; she would be able to stay in Holland for some time provided she was careful. And she wanted to stay; it was wonderful to have a little house and be independent. When the weather improved she would explore the country around the village, keeping Charlie for a weekly trip to Tilburg or Breda, and she would learn the language and take up piano playing once more; there were endless reasons why she should want to stay, but the main reason she didn’t admit to herself, although she was well aware of it lurking at the back of her mind; she wanted to get to know Mr van Hessel—not that she liked him, domineering and bad-tempered as he was, but he was interesting…

Her thoughts nicely occupied, she made her way to the shops, where she resisted the temptation to spend her money on some Italian shoes which caught her fancy, as well as some exquisite gloves and a quantity of delicate undies, which, while wildly expensive, were wholly to her taste. Instead she shopped for wool to knit more gloves, canvas and embroidery silks to occupy her of an evening, a tin of yeast in case the village shop didn’t stock it, and an English newspaper. She spent a long time looking in the florists’ windows too, but the delicate narcissi and the vivid tulips and hyacinths were too much for her pocket, so she consoled herself with the purchase of several packets of seeds, so that when summer came she would at least have something colourful growing in the garden. All this done, she found a small neat café in a side street and lunched, at the waiter’s suggestion, of erwtensoep, which she discovered was a tasty meal in itself, being a thick pea soup with pork and sausage in it. She eked this out with a roll and butter and a cup of coffee, and well fortified against the snowy cold, went back to her window-shopping, and when she was tempted to have tea at one of the fashionable tea-shops she passed, reminded herself that she would have to wait for a week or two before she splashed out too lavishly; she still didn’t know the price of everything and how much it would cost to live. She contented herself with another look at the shops and then, in the gathering gloom of the bleak day, went to meet Mr van Hessel.

He was punctual; the carillons had barely finished their tinkling reminder of the hour when the Rolls pulled up at the pavement’s edge and he opened the door for her to get in. It was deliciously warm inside and Henrietta sank back into the fragrant leather with a little sigh. The journey back to Gijzelmortel wouldn’t take long, but there would be time enough for her companion to answer a few more questions. But in this she was to be disappointed; Mr van Hessel didn’t want to talk, that was plain from the start; to her cheerful remarks about the shops she had seen he gave nothing more than a grunt, and after a minute or two, when she tried again about the weather, he didn’t even bother to grunt. A rude man, she told herself, and peeped at him. A tired man, too; she didn’t know how old he was—forty, perhaps—but his handsome face showed every line and his dark brows were a straight line above his eyes. She looked away, aware that she was drawn by his good looks, and annoyed with herself because of it, and made no further attempt to talk for the rest of their journey. Instead she occupied herself with trying to remember the prices of the various things she had seen, changing the guldens into pounds and back again and getting very muddled. Her thoughts ran on, seeking ways of being economical; a sewing machine would be a great help; she would be able to make some of her own clothes then; perhaps there was one somewhere in the house—there was still the big cupboard under the stairs to turn out.

Her companion stopped before her door and got out to open it for her and hand her her basket, a courtesy she hadn’t looked for. If she hadn’t been so sure that he would snub her, she would have asked him in for a cup of tea; as it was she thanked him for her lift very nicely and asked how she might get Charlie when she wanted him.

‘Turn right at the gates,’ he told her, ‘follow the drive round to the back of the castle, the garages are there. Go in and out as you please, if there is no one about, the doors are only locked at night.’ He turned to go, but at the door he paused. ‘Your business was satisfactory?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ She was longing to tell someone about it; that she would be able to live in this dear little house for months, that there was more money than she had expected. Instead she stood silent, waiting for him to go, trying not to notice the way he was staring at her. At length he said: ‘The dominee will be coming to visit you within the next day or two, his name is Rietveld, he speaks English. His daughter will probably come with him. She has just finished her studies at High School, her name is Loes.’

Something in his voice aroused her curiosity. Loes—a pretty name and probably a pretty girl in whom he was interested, perhaps more than interested; the idea dispirited her. She thanked him for the information in a level voice and added a polite ‘good evening’. She was, she warned herself, standing behind the closed door listening to the almost soundless departure of the Rolls, getting a little too interested in him herself, and that would be a foolish thing to do, since he disliked her. She sighed and went to put on the kettle; a cup of tea was supposed to cure most things; perhaps it would cure the peculiar sense of loneliness she was feeling.

CHAPTER THREE

HER visitors called the next day, just as she was settling down to an afternoon of knitting and reading. She had had a busy morning turning out the cupboard under the stairs and she had found a sewing machine—an out-of-date German model, which, as far as she could see, was still functioning perfectly. Its discovery set her head buzzing with plans to make new curtains for the bedrooms and loose covers for the chairs; there was, she was discovering happily, a great deal to do. She had expected to miss her busy hospital life and her friends, and perhaps she did miss them a little, but there was no time to sit and mope—her days, she could see, were going to be well filled.

Dominee Rietveld looked rather nice, tall and thin and stooping, with a kind face and an absent-minded manner. The girl with him was just as Henrietta had guessed; pretty small, and inclined to plumpness with big china blue eyes and a quantity of fair hair hanging around her shoulders. Henrietta disliked her on sight; she didn’t like her mouth—it had a selfish pout, and the blue eyes were sly despite the charming smile. She invited her guests in, installed them in the velvet chairs and drew up a more humble seat for herself. Mr van Hessel had been right, the dominee spoke very good English, and Loes spoke it well enough, making rather a fuss about pronunciation and taking care that she was the focal point of the conversation. His wife, Mijnheer Rietveld explained, had died some ten years previously; he depended on the company of his devoted daughter as well as on her housewifery. ‘So young,’ he pointed out gently, ‘to carry the heavy responsibility of a household, and it is such a waste for a pretty girl to have to remain at home here with her old father.’