Little Girl Lost Page 2

  ‘Come, give Mama a kiss goodnight.’ Rosamund held out her hand to Margriet. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mama,’ Margriet said dutifully and offered her cheek, glancing at her father. He nodded.

  ‘I’ll be up in five minutes,’ he told her, ‘and we’ll have a story.’

  ‘A short one,’ Rosamund reminded him. ‘Supper will be almost ready.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said irritably, bending to give Margriet a kiss. ‘I know.’

  After Margriet had gone up, he said, rather testily, which was unlike him, ‘Please do not begrudge the child an extra ten minutes of my time, Rosamund. She must get lonely with only the company of servants, for she has little of yours!’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean, Frederik,’ she said primly, which didn’t delude him in the least. She knew very well what he meant and how irritated he was that she spent so little time with their daughter. ‘I cannot indulge or cosset her in the way that you do or she will grow up to be outspoken and unconventional, which will ruin her chances of making a suitable marriage.’

  He said nothing more. Rosamund was inflexible, entrenched in traditional rules of what women should and shouldn’t do. For eight years he had offered her the opportunity to speak her mind and enjoy the equality and companionship of a good marriage, and she had chosen not to accept. Well, he would not in future pander to her; she could go to the devil, he thought resentfully. In a few more years, when Margriet was old enough to travel with a maid, he would take her to visit his mother and siblings and show her what family life could be like.

  After giving Margriet time to get into bed, he went upstairs and pulled an easy chair closer to her bedside. ‘Your mama thinks it too cold to walk out tomorrow.’ He saw her expression close up. ‘But you and I will still go.’ He smiled at her obvious delight. ‘You can ask Florrie to give you a warm scarf to wear with your coat in case you need it, though I don’t think you will. It’s May, after all, and quite warm.’

  Margriet nodded. ‘I’d like to wear my grey bonnet, because Florrie has put a new blue ribbon on it. She said it needed prettying up and that blue would match my eyes. It’s not as pretty as Mama’s new hat with the flowers and feathers, but I’ll have to wait until I’m grown up to wear one of those.’

  ‘I’m sure your bonnet will look lovely,’ he said, ‘and so will you. Now, what shall we read tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m a little tired of the ones we always read. You can choose, Papa.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking that maybe I’ll tell you something about history, about the old days, or perhaps Miss Ripley does that?’

  She nodded and sighed. ‘She tells me about kings and queens, but it’s a bit boring because all she wants me to learn are the dates when they were on the throne.’

  ‘Mmm. And has Miss Ripley told you about our young queen, or of the time when King Henry had a palace in Hull?’

  Margriet considered. ‘I know when Victoria came to the throne. It was in June 1837, after her uncle William died. I don’t remember it because I was only a baby, but I think I remember seeing all the flags in the streets when she married Prince Albert and we went to parties to celebrate, didn’t we, Papa?’ Her eyes widened. ‘But Miss Ripley never said that King Henry came to live in Hull. Where is his palace? Can we go and see it?’

  Frederik smiled. ‘I’m not sure if he ever lived in Hull, but monarchs had houses and palaces all over the country, so that they could stay in them if they were visiting the area.’

  ‘Could they not have stayed with friends?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure people would have loved to have them visit. Mama would be very pleased to have the queen here to stay if ever she came to Hull, and her friends would be very jealous, but …’ She frowned and contemplated. ‘I’m not sure which bedroom she would have. I wouldn’t mind if she had mine, but of course she would bring lots of servants, so perhaps we wouldn’t have room – maybe that’s why they have their own palaces to stay in.’

  ‘I think you have worked that out very well, Margriet. So where do you think she would stay if she did come to Hull?’

  Margriet shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think there is anywhere that would be suitable. Perhaps someone should build a palace for her, just in case.’

  He saw that she was getting sleepy, so he tucked her blankets around her. ‘I think that tomorrow we’ll look at all the buildings and think about where she might like to stay, and about what went before.’ He smiled. ‘Do you know the name of the street that was here before Parliament Street?’

  ‘No,’ she murmured, her eyelids drooping. ‘It’s always been called Parliament Street.’

  ‘It was called Mug-House Entry!’

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ she chided sleepily. ‘You are joking of me!’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I am not joking of you. Sleep well, mijn lieveling. And tomorrow we will go and look for King Henry’s palace.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following morning was bright and sunny. Margriet had an early breakfast and was dressed and ready for their walk when her mother came into her bedroom.

  ‘Why do you have your coat on, Margriet? Where are you going?’

  Margriet licked her lips. ‘For a walk, Mama. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ her mother admonished her. ‘Of course I remember, but I don’t recall that we agreed that you should miss your lessons with Miss Ripley. You must do at least an hour’s work before you go out.’

  Margriet’s mouth trembled. ‘I’m so sorry, Mama,’ she mumbled. ‘I – I didn’t realize – I thought Papa meant after breakfast.’ She began to unbutton her coat and take off her bonnet. She looked up at her mother. ‘Will you be coming too?’

  ‘Of course I will. Why not?’

  Margriet managed a smile, though she would rather have had just her father’s company. ‘Oh, good,’ she murmured. ‘That will be very nice. We’re going to look for King Henry’s palace.’

  ‘What?’ Her mother frowned. ‘A palace?’

  ‘Papa said. He said that King Henry had a palace in Hull.’

  ‘Your father fills your head with stuff and nonsense. I have never heard of such a thing and I have lived here all my life. Miss Ripley!’ Rosamund called as she heard the governess come into the adjoining schoolroom. ‘Have you ever heard of a king’s palace in Hull?’

  Miss Ripley patted her mouth. ‘Erm, I vaguely recall something,’ she offered hesitantly, not knowing whether yes or no would please her pupil’s mother.

  ‘Well, have you or haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘I believe King Henry commandeered a manor house in medieval times. It – erm – isn’t here now.’

  ‘So there you are, Margriet. What did I say? Miss Ripley,’ Rosamund continued, ‘Mr Vandergroene wishes to take Margriet out this morning, but first she must have an hour’s lesson. You may then take the rest of the morning off, but I will expect you to make up the lost time on another day.’

  Miss Ripley dipped her knee. ‘Of course, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Well,’ she said to Margriet, ‘we’d better get started and then you can go off and enjoy the sunshine.’

  ‘I expect there’s a chill wind, isn’t there?’ Rosamund asked.

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am,’ Miss Ripley smiled, unable to believe her luck at being given the morning off on such a lovely day. ‘It’s warm and sunny. Just perfect for a walk.’

  Rosamund left the room and met Frederik coming up the stairs. ‘Miss Ripley has arrived,’ she told him. ‘She’s going to give Margriet an hour’s lesson before we go out.’

  ‘Oh, is she?’ He seemed astonished. ‘I would have thought she would have jumped at the chance of having a day off. Well, I suppose I could have another cup of coffee whilst we wait.’

  ‘I’ll ring for Florence,’ Rosamund said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Frederik, I must take a powder before I get ready. I have a beastly headache s
tarting and I want to nip it in the bud if I can.’ She gave a stoical sigh. ‘I don’t want to spoil our walk by making us all come home again.’

  ‘No indeed,’ Frederik agreed. ‘But the fresh air will do you good.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ his wife murmured. ‘There are so many infections lurking about, with that dreadful workhouse at the bottom of the street. Something should be done about it. It isn’t right to have it situated so close to where decent people live.’

  Frederik nodded. He had heard this opinion often; it seemed to be the only topic that Rosamund discussed.

  By the time Margriet met him in the hall wearing her coat and her newly trimmed bonnet, he was waiting with increasing impatience for Rosamund to come down and say she was ready. Half the morning had been wasted, and he wished he had gone into the office. Then Florrie came hurrying downstairs, followed by Miss Ripley.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir.’ Florrie dipped her knee. ‘The mistress isn’t well and asks to be excused from coming out – her headache … She says that Miss Ripley could go with you instead.’

  ‘I see,’ Frederik murmured. ‘And what does Miss Ripley say about that?’

  Florrie glanced at the governess and the three of them waited for her to speak. Her nose twitched and she uttered something that could have been a hesitant stammering excuse or an apologetic erm.

  ‘You don’t have to come, Miss Ripley,’ Margriet said kindly, giving her an option to refuse. ‘You might prefer to go home.’

  ‘Of course you’d like to go home,’ Frederik said firmly, ‘or indeed anywhere you please. You can have the rest of the morning off, and goodness me,’ he glanced at his pocket watch, ‘how the day is flying by. Off you go.’

  As Miss Ripley rushed out of the door as if worried he might have a change of heart, Florrie asked, ‘Shall I tell Mrs Vandergroene of the new arrangements, sir?’

  Frederik stood for a moment as if considering, then said, ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s better resting, don’t you agree? Best not to disturb her in the slightest.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Florrie seemed relieved. She smiled at Margriet. ‘Don’t you go losing that pretty bonnet, Miss Margriet,’ she said, ‘for you’d never get it back again.’

  Margriet put her hand into her father’s. ‘I won’t, Florrie,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll take great care of it.’

  When father and daughter had left the house, Florrie heaved a sigh and went into the kitchen. Cook was rolling pastry and Mrs Simmonds was drinking a cup of coffee.

  ‘Mistress is in bed,’ she said, ‘and ’master has tekken Miss Margriet out. We might get a bit o’ peace for an hour or so.’ Cutting a slice of bread and smearing it with marmalade, she said, ‘I think that this is not a very happy household.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t concern us,’ Mrs Simmonds said sharply. ‘Though I feel sorry for ’little lass in ’middle of it.’

  ‘She’s happy today.’ Florrie took a bite from her bread and munched appreciatively. ‘And who wouldn’t be with such a papa? She told me when I was dressing her this morning that they were going to look at ’king’s palace and when I said I’d never heard of such a place she told me that King Henry used to live here.’

  ‘He’s teaching her history, then,’ Mrs Simmonds said. ‘But I can’t think it’ll be of much use to her. She’ll be married off to somebody when she’s old enough and be in ’same role as her mother.’ She curled her lip. ‘And live a most useful life.’

  Margriet and her father walked along Parliament Street and crossed into Quay Street, where they stood looking at the busy dock in front of them. It was packed tightly with sailing ships, steamers and schooners, barges and tug boats with barely any space between them.

  ‘Hull is a great shipping town,’ he told her, ‘and when this dock was built it was the largest in the country. That was when they made Parliament Street, to give access to it from Whitefriargate. The ships come in to the River Hull from the sea and the Humber and unload here. You know where the Humber Dock and the Junction Dock are, don’t you?’

  Margriet shook her head.

  ‘The Junction Dock is at the top of Whitefriargate, a mere two-minute walk from our house. How is it that you don’t know? It links together the other two. It’s a ring of docks.’ He shook his head; it was remiss of him not to have shown her before. Had she been a son and not a daughter he would have done so.

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ she said, looking crestfallen. ‘I didn’t know. But please, when are we going to see the king’s palace?’

  He laughed. She was still a child and believed in fairy stories, so he would take her. ‘First of all we will go back into Parliament Street,’ he said, ‘and I will show you a secret place.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You have probably passed it with your mama or Florrie and not even noticed it, although I’m sure Florrie must know it.’

  They walked back a few yards and Frederik paused by a narrow opening between the buildings. ‘This is a short cut, a passageway through to another part of the town.’ He gazed down at her. ‘Shall we take a look?’

  Margriet peered down the entrance and clutched her father’s hand. ‘I don’t know. It’s very dark.’

  ‘It’s dark because the buildings are high and no sunlight can get in, that’s all. Shall we try?’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘but I don’t think that Mama would have liked it.’

  ‘I’m quite sure she wouldn’t, but there’s nothing to fear, Margriet, or I wouldn’t bring you.’

  She knew that was true; Papa would never let her come to any harm. She followed him trustfully, holding on to the hand he held out behind him. It was too narrow for them to walk side by side so she kept as close as possible without treading on his heels.

  There were doorways along the passage, leading into houses, she supposed, and as Papa had said the buildings were very high, but some had windows at the very top to catch what little light there was. They turned a corner that brought them into a slightly wider area, where the buildings had yards and washing hanging out and children playing in the dirt; her father said it was called Duncan’s Entry. A few moments later she could see an opening ahead of them leading out into a sunny, busy street.

  ‘Once upon an ancient time,’ her father began, ‘by the confluence of the River Hull and the Humber estuary, the monks of Meaux owned a piece of land and on it a hamlet they named Wyke. The people of Wyke lived in wooden houses and there were no paved or cobbled streets such as we have today, but only the rough earth. Then one day King Edward I realized that Wyke was well protected from any enemies coming from across the sea and bought it from the monks. He called it King’s Town upon Hull, but everyone came to know it as Hull.’

  ‘Oh,’ Margriet said, disappointed. ‘So it wasn’t King Henry after all? And what about the palace?’

  Frederik took firm hold of her hand as they walked on; the road was busy with carriages and traps and carters’ vans. ‘The reason that the king wanted it was because of its position,’ he went on. ‘He enclosed the town with boundary walls, gates and a moat, and where there was no wall there was the barrier of the estuary and the River Hull to keep the people safe from any invaders.’ He looked down to see if she was listening, and she appeared to be. ‘And over the centuries,’ he continued, ‘inside these walls, various royal personages came and made improvements. Rich merchants and ship owners lived in High Street, and there were craftsmen, wood carvers and silversmiths, and warehouses full of goods to trade with other countries. Most important of all was Holy Trinity Church in Market Place, where shopkeepers and stallholders clustered around it selling their wares, much as they do today.’

  ‘I sometimes go there with Florrie,’ she said eagerly, as if wanting to be included in this rich tapestry of life.

  Her father nodded. ‘It became a bustling medieval town, and,’ he paused dramatically, ‘many important people lived here.’

  ‘Like the king!’ Margriet piped up as they came to t
he top of Silver Street.

  He stopped and pointed out the old church of St Mary’s and now she knew they had walked in a circle and were not far from home. Here were shops selling silver and gold jewellery and regalia where her mother liked to linger.

  ‘Noble families like the De la Poles served under many kings, and one of them, the earl of Suffolk, built a mansion which he called Suffolk Palace.’

  ‘For the kings to stay in when they visited!’ Margriet exclaimed. ‘So where is it, Papa?’

  ‘It was right here where we are standing,’ he said, ‘and it was a splendid building with a great gateway and a fine tower.’

  Margriet looked about her, but there was no splendid palace, only some commercial buildings that she had seen before and hardly noticed. She turned a disappointed face to her father.

  ‘I think that’s enough history for the time being,’ he said, smiling. ‘Let’s take a walk down High Street by the Old Harbour and look at the ships, and then we’ll go to the pier to see the Humber. Perhaps we might stop for a dish of ice cream, ja?’

  ‘Ja,’ she agreed, and thought how she loved being out with him.

  From High Street he led her down one of the staiths to look at the congested River Hull, clogged with barges and cobles and fishing vessels. The wharf was stacked with wooden crates and coils of ropes and all the paraphernalia of shipping, too dangerous, Frederik considered, for Margriet to walk along, so they cut back into High Street again, heading for the Vittoria Hotel and the promised ice cream.

  They were sitting at a window table overlooking the estuary, Frederik sipping coffee and Margriet scraping her dish for the last of the ice cream, when a figure loomed beside them.

  ‘Vandergroene!’ The man was stocky and rather portly, as if he lived well, and was holding out his hand. Frederik stood up to greet him and shake it.

  ‘Webster! How are you? Won’t you join us? This is my daughter Margriet. Margriet, this is my lawyer, Mr Hugh Webster.’