know. She had opened her mouth to ask the first question when he said: ‘Forgive me, I have an urgent appointment,’ and was gone, stalking up the drive to his own front door—from his back she thought it probable that he had forgotten all about her.
She spent the day cleaning her little house, tidying cupboards and polishing furniture. Some of it, she discovered upon closer inspection, was very old and probably valuable. There was a rosewood davenport in the sitting-room, and the dining table was a magnificent example of marquetry, and when she took the loose covers off the easy chairs it was to find that they were upholstered in a rich red velvet, as good as new. She left the covers off and brushed the velvet with care; the little room looked quite beautiful now—she would need flowers, though; she would go to Tilburg in the morning, see the bank manager and give him Mr Boggett’s letter and then do a little shopping. She wound the Friesian clock hanging on the dining-room wall and the small carriage clock on the sitting-room mantelpiece and, well satisfied with her work, went to make herself some belated coffee.
She had just finished it when there was a knock on the door; the neighbour, come to chop the wood; there was no doubt of that, for he swung a nasty-looking axe from a hamlike hand. They smiled and nodded in speechless friendliness as she ushered him out to the shed and went back to answer the door once more. One of the women who had been in the shop this time, smiling and pointing across the square where a van had parked. Henrietta remembered the butcher, put on her coat and walked with her guide across the cobbles and bought her meat. It was amazing how one could manage without speaking a word, she reflected, receiving change from the butcher, exchanging smiles and nods from the other customers as she went back across the square to find the greengrocer at the door. And this was even easier; all she had to do was walk round the van pointing to what she wanted and when she had made her choice he kicked off his klompen and carried her purchases through into the kitchen for her. Everyone was kind, and it surprised her a little, and Mr van Hessel had been the kindest of them all—which reminded her about Charlie. Perhaps she should give him a clean before he went into the garage Mr van Hessel had offered—and where would that be? she wondered looking about her. Probably through the big gates, but then where? And was she expected to go and find out? She was standing looking up at the grey sky, threatening sleet again, when a small elderly man with a wizened face came rapidly through the gates and stopped beside her. ‘Car, miss,’ he said, and grinned nicely so that she could have hugged him with relief.
‘Oh, good—and you speak English, too.’
He smiled again and nodded. ‘I take car, miss.’ He put out a hand and she cried: ‘Oh, yes, of course you want the key,’ and when she had fetched it: ‘Where are you taking it?’
But this was beyond him; he shook his head, still smiling, and then asked: ‘Tomorrow?’
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.
