Little Girl Lost Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Margriet grew up as a lonely child in the old town of Hull. Her adored father often travelled by sea to the Netherlands, leaving her with an unaffectionate mother and only her imagination of a little Dutch girl, Annelise, to keep her company. But when tragedy strikes and devastation ravages her tiny family, Annelise becomes the comforting friend Margriet needs for a long time to come.

  A few years later, Margriet is blossoming into a kind young lady. Keen to escape her mother and strike out on her own, she forms an unlikely friendship with some of the street children who roam the town. As Margriet acts upon her inspiration to help them, will the troubles of her past break her spirit, or will she be able to overcome them?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Sources

  About the Author

  Also by Val Wood

  Copyright

  For my family with love and for Peter as always

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My grateful thanks are due to Mr Christopher Evans of Haller Evans, Parliament Street, Hull, who kindly gave me a tour of his building from cellar to top floor, where I could then ‘see the view’ through my characters’ eyes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Parliament Street, Hull, May 1842

  Margriet pressed her nose against the first-floor casement window and turned her head both ways, the better to see along Parliament Street towards Whitefriargate where her mother liked to shop, and then towards Quay Street and the dock from where she hoped her father would come if his ship had berthed.

  ‘Margriet! Come away from the window.’ Her mother’s voice was impatient. ‘You’re smearing the glass.’ She pressed her finger to the bell on the wall to summon the housekeeper.

  ‘Sorry.’ Margriet rubbed the pane with the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I’m watching for Papa.’

  ‘He’ll be here when he’s here,’ her mother told her. ‘No sooner and no later.’ She rethreaded her needle with embroidery silk. ‘It might not even be today, or tomorrow either for that matter. It depends on business.’

  Margriet knew that, but Papa was already two days later than he had said he would be. Papa was fun, whereas Mama was no fun at all and only became animated when trying on a new gown or running a fine piece of muslin or velvet through her fingers at the draper’s. Margriet thought rebelliously that her mother didn’t really mind how long Papa stayed away.

  The housekeeper answered the bell and was asked to bring a cloth to clean the window. Margriet hung her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said again, and dropped her voice to a whisper to explain to Mrs Simmonds that she had been looking out for her father. The housekeeper gave her a complicit smile and told her mistress that she would send Florrie up to deal with the dirty window.

  Margriet’s father Frederik Vandergroene was Dutch, which made her half Dutch, he had told her, and he ran an import-export business. She hadn’t known what that meant when she was little, but now that she was six she thought she understood. It meant that his company bought and sold merchandise between England and Netherlands and other northern countries of Europe. They took lace from Nottingham, linen and wool from Yorkshire and cotton from Manchester across the German Sea, and brought back, amongst many other things, cheese, wine, and gin which he called Genever and was the finest spirit you could buy. He brought her mother gifts of trinket boxes in blue and white Delft ware and for Margriet pretty little dolls with porcelain faces and rag bodies that sat on a shelf in her bedroom. Her favourite dolly had a painted celluloid face with wide-open eyes and was dressed in an outdoor gown and bonnet; if she was tipped upside down there she was with another head and her eyes closed and dressed in her nightgown, with slippers on her soft little feet.

  He didn’t always bring presents, but Margriet didn’t mind; she just liked him to come home. The house seemed happier when he was there, the air charged with a joy that disappeared when he went away. Even the servants – Mrs Simmonds, Florrie, Cook and Lily the young maid who was so nervous she rarely spoke to Margriet – seemed much merrier once he was home, and Cook especially made lovely biscuits and cake for him that Mama never ate.

  Florrie brought up a cloth that smelled of vinegar and wiped the glass, then polished it with a clean duster. ‘I don’t think your papa’s ship will be here until tomorrow morning, Miss Margriet,’ she whispered. ‘Tide’s not right for it to come in now.’

  ‘Ah,’ Margriet said softly. She’d forgotten about the tides. ‘Thank you.’

  She was given a conspiratorial smile and Rosamund Vandergroene, who must have overheard, said, ‘That is all, Florence,’ dismissing her, and to her daughter, ‘Go to the schoolroom, Margriet, and prepare for your lessons. Miss Ripley will be here shortly.’

  Miss Ripley was tall and thin and sniffed constantly even when she didn’t have a cold. She also twitched her nose, and when she first came to teach Margriet the child was so fascinated by this habit that she began to do it too. It wasn’t until she was spoken to harshly by her mother and then more kindly by her father that she was able to stop, but only by avoiding looking at Miss Ripley. Someone, probably her mother, must have spoken to the governess, for she now kept a handkerchief permanently pressed to her nose.

  Margriet’s father had taught her to read, write and add up long before Miss Ripley came to teach her, which was just as well, Margriet thought, because the lessons were probably as boring to the governess as they were to her. However, she did bring Margriet some of her own books to read, which were much more interesting than the children’s books that her mother had ordered for her.

  When the governess joined her in the schoolroom Margriet asked, ‘Do you know about tides, Miss Ripley?’

  ‘Tides? What kinds of tides?’

  Margriet gazed at her and wondered how many kinds there were. ‘Sea tides,’ she said, ‘that bring ships into the harbour. It’s just that Papa’s ship should be coming in soon, but it will have to be on the tide.’

&
nbsp; ‘I see.’ Miss Ripley sniffed. ‘I know there’s a morning tide and an evening tide, so if your father’s ship has missed the morning tide …’ She pondered, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it won’t come in until tomorrow.’

  Margriet’s spirits slumped. Sighing, she wiped her slate clean with a cotton cloth and prepared to write answers to the questions that Miss Ripley was sure to ask about yesterday’s lessons. Then she heard the bang of the front door and her face became wreathed in smiles. It was a joyous sound, triumphant. No one else slammed the door as her father did. No one else was allowed to. She slid off her chair and looked rebelliously at the governess.

  ‘It’s Papa,’ she said jubilantly. ‘He didn’t miss the tide after all.’

  Miss Ripley closed her book. There would be no lessons for a while; she had neither the energy nor the spirit to counter the child’s devotion to her father, and why indeed should she? If she had had such a father, or indeed could have caught such a husband as Frederik Vandergroene, she too would have given him all her love and adoration. But she hadn’t, and with her plain looks, long nose and melancholia she was unlikely to get the chance. She thought of Mrs Vandergroene, who would later question her on how much her daughter had learned that day. I’ll just lie, she thought, following Margriet out of the nursery schoolroom and heading down the stairs to the kitchen, where Cook would be sure to offer her a cup of tea.

  ‘I thought you’d missed the tide, Papa!’ Margriet flung herself into her father’s arms as he bent to catch her.

  He kissed her cheek. ‘No, little Daisy, I did not. We docked very early this morning and I didn’t want to waken you or Mama, so I went to the office and caught up with some work.’

  ‘So have you finished now? Can I stay downstairs with you and not go back to lessons?’

  Her mother was still seated in her chair with her embroidery on her knee. ‘No, you cannot, Margriet,’ she said. ‘Otherwise why are we paying Miss Ripley?’

  Margriet looked up at her father as he let her down to the floor. He gazed whimsically back at her. ‘Ten minutes only,’ he said, giving a little wink. ‘Just whilst I have a little chat with your mama. Then I must go back to the office. You see? We all have to work.’

  ‘Mama doesn’t,’ Margriet pointed out.

  ‘Of course not,’ her father said, a slight reprimand in his voice. ‘But she has other things to do.’ Then he added, ‘I’ll try to come home early; perhaps we’ll have supper together?’ He looked at his wife for confirmation.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Seven o’clock is Margriet’s bedtime.’

  ‘A story, Papa. Will you tell me a bedtime story?’

  ‘I will,’ he agreed, ‘but hush now. I want to speak to your mama.’

  Margriet’s concentration drifted as she stood by her father’s side. She knew by looking at her mother’s face that she had not the slightest interest in anything he was saying, but she kept very quiet, otherwise she knew she would be sent upstairs again.

  ‘I had dinner with the Jansens when I was in Gouda. Do you recall meeting Nicolaas, Rosamund?’ her father was saying. ‘I brought him here for drinks a few years ago. We’ve known each other since we were boys.’ He looked pensive. ‘He doesn’t look well. Not at all his usual self.’ Then he smiled. ‘His son, Hans, is a fine boy. Very polite and very grown up for a ten-year-old.’ He glanced at Margriet. ‘They have a daughter, Klara, a little older than you. About eight, I think.’

  ‘Is she taller than me? Is she fair or dark?’

  ‘She’s taller than you, and fair,’ he said, ‘like you, and Hans’s hair is reddish brown, though he was blond when he was a child.’

  ‘Did you know them when they were little?’

  ‘I met them once or twice, but not often. I usually see their father in his office, but this time he invited me to supper at his house and they were allowed to stay up late to eat with us.’

  ‘I wish I could stay up late,’ Margriet pleaded. ‘When can I, Mama?’

  ‘Not yet. Perhaps when you’re older. The Dutch do things differently from us.’ She gave a resigned huff of breath. ‘Off you go now, Margriet. Miss Ripley will be waiting for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frederik continued after Margriet had left the room, ‘Nicolaas didn’t look at all well. I’m quite concerned about him. He’s very sallow, and doesn’t have much appetite even though the meal was delicious.’

  Rosamund wore a resigned expression. ‘Herring?’

  Frederik laughed. ‘Of course herring. And pea and ham soup, sauerkraut and waffles – not together, of course! Cornelia had arranged a buffet with many different dishes. And then there was apple cake and rye bread, and you know how I love my bread.’ He stood up. ‘I must go back to the office. There’s huge potential for business. Why don’t you come with me next time I go over? I shall be visiting Amsterdam: you could go shopping. We could take Margriet.’

  ‘I have things to do,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m on several committees, and besides, you know I don’t like to sail. I get very claustrophobic as well as seasick.’

  ‘But the weather is calm now. I wouldn’t ask you to come in winter as it can get very cold and the sea is rough, but it’s lovely at the moment and the tulips are in flower; they are such a wonderful sight.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see,’ she said, and he turned away, knowing that she wouldn’t come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Margriet ate her supper at a small table in the nursery schoolroom on the top floor of the house. She hated it to be called the nursery, for that implied that she was still a baby. The room was the schoolroom during the day and she sat at the table with Miss Ripley opposite her. After she had finished her lessons and Miss Ripley had gone home, Florrie came up to move the table and chair nearer the fire to make it into a nursery again. A fire-guard was placed in the hearth so that there was no fear of Margriet’s burning herself. An interconnecting door led into her bedroom, and apart from the twice-daily visits downstairs to see her parents, once after breakfast and once before bedtime, and being taken for a walk on a fine day, this was where she spent most of her life.

  Margriet was convinced that her father would have allowed her downstairs more often had he not spent his days at his office near the estuary, but in practice her mother was in total control of her daughter’s well-being, which encompassed the type of book she should read, the food she should eat, her religious instruction, her piano lessons and her health, which meant not going out if the weather was wet or cold in case of catching a chill, or if it was too hot in case of becoming overheated. All of these things Mrs Vandergroene had been taught by her own mother, and so must be right and proper.

  Her father was much more lenient. Margriet knew that the daughters of her mother’s friends rarely saw their fathers, and when they did it was only when they came downstairs in their dressing gowns before bedtime, and put up their clean and shiny little faces to receive a peck on the cheek. They were certainly not read to by their papas as Margriet was; whenever he was at home her father would sit in an easy chair by her bed and read her a story he had loved when he was a child. He had once quite memorably sat beside her on the bed and she had snuggled beneath his arm to follow the words in one of her favourite books, and both had fallen asleep halfway through it. When Florrie had come up to tuck Margriet in she had had to shake his arm gently and tell him that the supper bell had been rung.

  This evening he arrived home early, but not early enough for Margriet to join them for supper; that would have been a rare treat indeed and not an indulgence she expected. Her mother considered that her father spoiled her, and her behaviour today, running down the stairs to greet him, had been quite reprehensible, despite Frederik’s pleasure at receiving, as he called it, such a joyous welcome home.

  Frederik didn’t understand, Rosamund thought. When Miss Ripley had taught her pupil to the best of her ability she would leave, and it would become Rosamund’s task to teach their daughter to be an obedient, well-manner
ed young woman who knew her place in society. Rosamund alone must teach her the important things in life, such as running a household, in preparation for when she married and had her own establishment. She must teach her to respond intelligently to conversation but not to give an opinion lest she be thought forward, a failing which would reflect back upon her mother and not on her indulgent father.

  Rosamund’s friends constantly reminded her of how lucky she was to have such a tolerant husband, to be married to a man who didn’t spend every night at home. She could be invited out to dine or to make up a card party whilst he was away, knowing that Frederik wouldn’t object as some husbands might. But what they didn’t understand was that Frederik expected her to be interested in what he was doing, and even worse to discuss business or current affairs with him, when she had no interest in either.

  When Margriet came downstairs to say goodnight, her father beamed at her. ‘Tomorrow I am taking a day’s holiday,’ he announced, turning to his wife. ‘I thought we could take a walk about town and see what’s happening – buildings being pulled down and others going up. Margriet can see the ships in the dock and then perhaps we could walk down to the Corporation Pier and look at the Humber.’

  Margriet’s face lit up, but Rosamund’s lips turned down. ‘It’s very breezy down there,’ she said. ‘We might catch a chill.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Frederik said briskly. ‘You can take a warm shawl, and the weather is fine. It will do us good to walk. It will blow the cobwebs away.’

  ‘I wish we could go for a ride on the ferry,’ Margriet said. ‘Could we, Papa?’

  Frederik glanced at Rosamund. ‘Well, perhaps another day. Mama doesn’t like going on the water. You know that she has never been to my country, or even to Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Poor Mama,’ Margriet said.

  ‘I’m so sorry that I can’t, Frederik,’ Rosamund murmured. ‘And I regret only meeting your parents on our wedding day.’

  ‘Yes.’ He lowered his eyes. It was remiss of him too not to have taken Margriet to his homeland before his father died a year ago. His parents had never met their granddaughter, but he hoped that when his mother was out of mourning perhaps she would come back with him after one of his visits.