Little Girl Lost Page 4

  Anneliese’s mother, who said Margriet should call her Mevrouw Lindegroen, would then come to fetch them home herself instead of sending a servant, and take Margriet to the top of Parliament Street where the girls would say goodbye and promise to meet the following day. But the strangest thing, Margriet thought, was that her mother didn’t seem to notice her absence, or even Anneliese’s presence, in the slightest.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Must you go, Papa?’ It was June and Frederik was about to sail again to Amsterdam. Margriet clung to his hand as he picked up his portmanteau. ‘When can I go with you?’

  ‘Not yet. I have a lot of work to do on this trip. When you are ten I’ll bring my mother over to stay and then you can travel back with her.’

  ‘That’s a long way off. Could my grandmother not come here to visit before then?’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ he said, bending towards her. ‘I might not have time to see her on this visit, though. Now, kiss me goodbye and be a good girl for your mama.’

  Later, when he had stowed his belongings in the small cabin, Frederik went back on deck and leaned on the rail as the ship prepared to sail out of the dock, through the lock, down the Humber and into the choppy German Sea. He was a good sailor and had been making this voyage for many years. Since his father’s death he had been running the family business alone, although his mother retained a keen interest in it. He had good managers both in Hull and in Amsterdam and he trusted them absolutely, but he still liked to keep his hand on the tiller, meeting clients and making sure that everything was running smoothly. His younger brother Bartel had settled for a quieter life and moved with his wife and daughters to Alkmaar, where he became a trader in the local cheese and other dairy products, shipping them to England through the business. Their sister Anna lived with her husband and children, in Amsterdam, near to their mother.

  Frederik’s thoughts drifted to his daughter, who, he was still convinced, was a lonely child. She was meditative, yet not shy or reserved; he laughed softly as he recalled the meeting with Hugh Webster and how she had behaved like a small adult, giving the lawyer her hand in greeting, just as Rosamund would have done.

  Rosamund. He remembered fondly how charmed he had been at his first introduction to her, not only by her fragile beauty, but also by her discreet and delicate manners, her refinement, her shyness. He had supposed then that it was the complete contrast with his own boisterous and noisy family that drew him to her, for his mother, a farmer’s daughter, believed that children should have not only freedom of expression, but freedom to get dirty if they wished, and as children he and his brother and sister had roamed the meadows near their childhood home, swum in the dykes in the summer and skated on them to school in the winter.

  His father, always involved with his business activities, had viewed his children with a mild and humorous eye, as if they belonged not to him but to someone else. Not until the boys reached fourteen and sixteen did he take a hand and introduce them to the business, where they were expected to start in humble positions so that they would realize just how lucky they were to have had such a privileged childhood. They hadn’t known until they were much older that they were more than fortunate; their father had had a shrewd head for investments during Amsterdam’s lean years; he had become a bondholder in railway companies, had invested in tobacco, coffee and diamonds, and then had sat tight until the economy improved. On his death they were astonished to learn just how wealthy they were, for their father had divided his fortune equally between his wife, his daughter and his sons, after making provision for his grandchildren when they came of age.

  Rosamund’s father was a gentleman of private means, and Frederik gathered that he had expected Rosamund to marry someone in a similar position. Her mother, a merchant’s daughter, however, having successfully married off three of her daughters, decided that although Frederik was not a gentleman as her husband understood the term he had a very successful father with a business that would one day belong to him. She thought him both charming and socially acceptable, and decided that if her youngest daughter would entertain his proposal her duty towards her girls would be fulfilled.

  After their second meeting, Rosamund thought that of all her suitors he was the most promising. He did not try to impress her with the superiority of his admirable self as some young men did, nor treat her as a suitable candidate to be the mother of his children; he did try to engage her in conversation, which she found a little disturbing, particularly when he asked her opinion on subjects of which she knew nothing. But he was an attractive man with a slight accent that she found appealing; and she was becoming rather fearful that as the only daughter left she might have to stay at home and look after her ageing parents. Knowing her mother as well as she did, she was aware that that would mean being at their constant beck and call: not a choice she would have accepted gladly.

  Frederik sighed, and moved away from the rail. Why had Rosamund accepted his proposal, he wondered. Had she just wanted to leave home, to remove herself from an overbearing mother? He had loved her then, or thought he did, but they had nothing in common, nothing to bind them together – except, of course, our beautiful daughter, he told himself now.

  He returned to his cabin as they left the Humber and the ship rose to the challenge of the open sea, and lay on his bunk thinking of Margriet. He would ask his mother if the child could stay with her for a while. She was an outgoing woman with many interests and often had her other grandchildren to stay.

  It would be good for Margriet to meet them, perhaps even learn their language; she’d like that, he thought. He didn’t want her to grow up knowing only people from Rosamund’s narrow social circle. He wanted her to be a well-rounded person, aware of other cultures and nations, able to know her own mind, express her own opinion. Lying on his bunk, feeling the swell of the ocean beneath him, he decided that he would definitely ask his mother to come back with him after his next visit. She and Margriet could get to know each other, and after that, perhaps next spring, Margriet could go and stay with her. Yes, he thought, that is definitely something we can do.

  The ship came in to Amsterdam by way of the New Holland Canal, built only twenty or so years before to shorten the long sea route, and Frederik booked in at his usual small hotel. He changed his clothes, ate breakfast and ordered a carriage to take him to the railway station. His first visit was to the head of a company in Gouda, who asked him if he knew that Nicolaas Jansen was ill. ‘I believe he’s a colleague of yours?’

  ‘More than a colleague,’ Frederik said. ‘A friend.’

  ‘Perhaps you should visit him,’ Beulen suggested. ‘I have heard it isn’t good news.’

  Frederik was shocked. Nicolaas hadn’t been well on his last visit but Frederik had hoped that he would have regained his health since then. He made one more call and then decided he would visit Nicolaas and continue with his business activities the following day.

  He took a carriage to the house on the outskirts of Gouda. A maid answered the door to him, but Cornelia was already hurrying down the stairs and through the hall to greet him, having seen him arrive from an upstairs window.

  ‘What a tonic,’ she exclaimed. ‘Nicolaas will be so delighted. We were only saying a few days ago that we hoped you would call soon. He wants to talk to you.’

  Her voice broke as she spoke and Frederik saw her eyes, suddenly full of grief, well up with tears. He caught her by the hand. ‘How is he?’ he asked anxiously.

  She shook her head, strands of thick auburn hair escaping from her cap. ‘Much better,’ she murmured. ‘Much better today,’ and he thought that she was saying it for the benefit of the maid rather than him. ‘Will you have coffee before you go up?’

  ‘He’s in bed?’

  ‘In his chair in the bedroom. He likes to stay up there for the view, he says.’ She lowered her voice as the maid slipped away down the hall. ‘But really it is because he finds the stairs so difficult. Come, I will make the coffee and you can have it u
p there with him. Can you stay? We would be so pleased if you could.’

  ‘Thank you, if it’s convenient. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘It is and you won’t,’ she said. ‘It will be a pleasure. Nicolaas must tire of my company sometimes, and – well, friends – people, they don’t always come when there is sickness.’

  The Jansens’ home had once been a farmhouse and although little had been changed structurally, the dimly lit rooms with their tall shuttered windows and mullioned glass were enlivened by brightly coloured cushions and patchwork covers on dark and heavy furniture and tapestry hangings on the walls. The kitchen where Cornelia now led him was tiled in blue and white, a deep-set inglenook with cooking accoutrements held a cheerful fire and a great oak lintel supported the chimney above it. In the centre of the room was a large table scattered with cups, plates and books.

  Cornelia invited him to sit whilst she put water on to heat, ground coffee beans, took a pewter jug from a tall cupboard and set a wooden tray with cups, saucers and plates. Lastly, she lifted a sweet cake from a tin and put it on the largest plate.

  He watched her admiringly. Nicolaas was able to afford servants, there was no doubt about that; the maid who had answered the door and then taken herself off to the other end of the hall would not have been the only help they employed, yet his wife clearly preferred to carry out some of the housewifely duties herself. He tried to imagine Rosamund doing anything of the kind but no image came to mind.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’ She smiled as she poured hot water on the coffee grains. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking why does she do this herself instead of asking one of the maids!’

  ‘I was indeed thinking that,’ he laughed. ‘You are a mind reader, ja, as well as a coffee maker?’

  ‘I make good coffee,’ she said simply and without conceit. ‘Much better than Miriam does.’ She turned to him. ‘Will you carry it upstairs?’

  He rose from the chair, took the tray from the table and followed her up the wide staircase. On the landing Cornelia went to an open doorway and in a cheerful voice proclaimed, ‘Look who we have here, liefje. A new manservant for you.’

  Frederik felt a sudden pang of envy. Never in their life together had Rosamund used a term of endearment and certainly never such a word of love – ‘sweetheart’ – as Cornelia did now to Nicolaas. What a lucky man his friend was, he thought, until he stepped into the room and saw him.

  Nicolaas sat by the window in a high-backed chair with a blanket over his knees and a shawl over his shoulders, even though the day wasn’t cold. He turned to greet his visitor, and Frederik saw the gauntness of his face, the skin stretched across the cheekbones, and the deep salt cellars in his neck. His hands on the chair arms were skeletal, like an old man’s.

  Frederik was shocked, unable to believe how quickly Nicolaas had deteriorated since his last visit. He placed the tray on a low table and covered his disquiet by saying with forced merriment, ‘Well, how are you, old fellow?’

  ‘Fine, fine. What about you?’ Nicolaas put out his hand to shake Frederik’s and Frederik held it gently, as if fearful of breaking the fragile bones. ‘Come and sit by me,’ he went on in a rasping voice. ‘Sorry I can’t get up. My knees are a little weak today.’

  Cornelia poured coffee for them both, giving Nicolaas only half a cup and then adding milk. ‘Look what I’ve come to,’ he joked. ‘Kinder coffee. I cannot stomach anything stronger.’

  She offered Frederik a slice of cake. ‘Coffee cake,’ she said. ‘I made it myself.’

  ‘What an amazing wife you have, Nicolaas,’ Frederik said. ‘Makes her own cakes, grinds her own coffee beans.’

  ‘I am a lucky man, ja? I know it,’ he smiled, looking up at Cornelia. ‘Of course I was a very good catch all those years ago, let’s not forget that.’

  ‘Indeed you were,’ Cornelia returned. ‘The prime of Holland, but it was my baking that settled it; he only decided on me because of my pancakes and appeltart.’

  Frederik smiled as he listened to them and thought how well they were coping with the shadow of sadness hanging over them. There was no apparent misery or woe, no sense of misfortune, and yet it was there, hidden beneath the thin skin of their laughter. He realized the teasing was for his benefit, to put him at his ease, to accustom him to the perception of what they had already accepted.

  They chatted of this and that, of people they knew, and when he had finished only half of his milky coffee Nicolaas said to his wife, ‘Cornelia, lieveling, I want to talk to Freddy about boring business things. Why don’t you take the opportunity to go out for an hour? It’s a nice afternoon – you could sit in the garden, or take a walk. You need some fresh air; always you are cooped up with me. Why not?’

  He smiled so sweetly and lovingly at her that it broke Frederik’s heart to see it.

  ‘Ah,’ she said scornfully. ‘You will talk of men’s secrets, I know it.’ She got to her feet. ‘Well, yes, I will escape for an hour. Frederik, will you stay with us tonight?’ She had already asked him, but this was for Nicolaas’s cognizance. ‘We would like that, wouldn’t we, Nicolaas?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Please do. Perhaps I’ll come down for supper.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ Frederik agreed. ‘Thank you. Where are the children?’

  ‘With my mother,’ Cornelia said. ‘She asked if they could stay and keep her company for a few days and of course they love to go, and it is easier for them to go to school from her house, so we can have a quiet supper, just the three of us. How lovely. I’ll think of what we shall eat whilst I am out.’

  Nicolaas gazed out of the window until he saw Cornelia go out of their gate and then look up, when he gave her a wave.

  He sighed. ‘I’m so pleased you have come, Frederik. It is as if you have answered my call. I wish to ask you something, my friend; a very great favour.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Forgive me, I haven’t asked,’ Nicolaas said. ‘How is your wife? And your daughter?’

  ‘Very well,’ Frederik replied. ‘I hope one day to bring Margriet over to meet my mother. She’s too young to come yet – but yes, I’m making plans. I will bring her to meet you.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Nicolaas said, and both were aware that that plan wouldn’t come to fruition. ‘And Cornelia would too, of course. She loves to have a houseful of children.’ He settled himself back in his chair and straightened his blanket. ‘You will perhaps realize, Freddy, that Cornelia and I have gone well past any pretence about my condition. The way we acted just now was entirely for your sake. But, good friend that you have been for so long … how long is it, do you think? We were students together in Amsterdam, and even when we went our separate ways we always kept in touch, did we not? I have always known that in any difficulty I could approach you, and I hope that you felt the same about me.’

  Frederik swallowed. ‘Indeed I did,’ he said with difficulty. ‘What times we had. Do you remember when you fell in the Herengracht canal?’

  Nicolaas laughed, and then broke into a fit of coughing. ‘Yes. And the night you were locked out of the Athenaeum and spent the night sleeping under an archway.’

  ‘And then my father found out and decided the time had come for me to join him in the business where he could keep an eye on me!’

  Nicolaas nodded. ‘It was good to have such friendship,’ he said quietly, ‘and I hope I do not break that bond with the question and favour I am about to ask you.’

  ‘I’m quite sure that you won’t,’ Frederik answered. ‘You may ask anything at all and I’ll do my best to comply with your wishes.’

  Nicolaas nodded his thanks. ‘I thought you would say that, but it is a great thing to ask, particularly as you live in England.’

  ‘But I come home often,’ Frederik demurred and was surprised to realize that he still regarded Netherlands as home, even though his life with his wife and child was firmly entrenched in England.

  ‘I have little ti
me left,’ Nicolaas murmured. ‘A month or two if I’m lucky, a few weeks if I am not.’ He sighed. ‘But the waiting – for Cornelia particularly it is very hard.’

  Frederik felt a quickening of his pulse. What was Nicolaas going to ask of him? Life, however long or short, was precious.

  ‘It is of Cornelia I speak,’ Nicolaas went on. ‘She is still a relatively young woman.’ He smiled fondly. ‘We were married when she was eighteen. She is a woman with a huge heart, a zest for life; she deserves happiness. She has been happy with me – we have been happy together – but it is wrong that she should be deprived of any contentment with someone else.’

  Frederik thought of Hugh Webster’s words and remembered that he still hadn’t been to see his lawyer about renewing his will. He made a mental note to do so when he returned to England. ‘But you are anxious that she might choose someone who will not take care of her as you have done?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, and no,’ Nicolaas answered. ‘I cannot rule her life from the grave and she may well choose someone that I wouldn’t care for, but I want her to find happiness with someone, not live the rest of her life alone. Nevertheless, she will be vulnerable for quite some time, and I would hate to think that anyone might take advantage of her. So what I am asking you, my friend, is will you watch over her, when you can, of course, and be her friend as you have been mine? Care for her, if you will, so that she can trust you and ask your advice if she should need to?’