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.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.