Eline Vere (30 page)

Madame Verstraeten and Mathilda had been very busy, notwithstanding the heat. The large table, covered with a rustic cloth of white cotton, was generously laden with bread rolls, bowls of
cherries and strawberries, as well as two golden, turban-shaped sponge cakes placed on either side of a large pitcher of cream. Sixteen chairs were ranged about the feast, while the Van Rijssel foursome, red-faced and bright-eyed from the heat, their hair sticking in strands to their moist brows, devoured everything with their eyes. Nico was already seated, rattling his glass and banging the table with his fork, and presently everyone was settled round the table while Madame and Mathilda pointed out the various foods.

‘De Woude, dear boy, do help yourself!' said Madame, and the air was filled with cheerful voices as they all fell to. The rolls and the sponge cakes vanished at an alarming rate, while the hens clucked busily about the table, especially near Nico, who kept treating them to entire slices of bread. Jan in the meantime found a fresh reason to needle the three young men about their laziness.

Behind the farm was a wide stream, with a small rowing boat moored along the bank. Jan and Cateau had been clamouring to use the craft, but Madame Verstraeten would not give her permission unless someone older and more responsible accompanied them. So after luncheon it was agreed that Paul and Etienne would take the oars, Jan would act as the steersman and Frédérique, Marie and Cateau would be the ‘freight of fair ladies', as Etienne put it.

‘Georges and Lili are as thick as thieves, aren't they?' said Paul, pushing the boat away from the bank with his oar.

‘Where have they got to? Oh, look, there they go, behind that hedge!' cried Frédérique. ‘Why, Marie, fancy you as an elder sister allowing such a thing!'

Marie smiled.

‘At least they're happy,' she said simply.

Etienne tried with all his might to conceal his lack of rowing skills by strenuous exertion, but Paul was not impressed.

‘Oh, Etienne,' he protested, ‘you're hopeless. Don't you know you must dip the oars cleanly, not make all those splashes!'

A shower of spray descended on them.

‘You're making me all wet!' complained Frédérique.

‘Come on now, are you saying I'm not a good oarsman?'

Etienne redoubled his efforts, to no avail, which Cateau and Jan found exceedingly funny. Soon they plucked up courage to ask Paul,
whom they regarded as the captain, if they might have a turn at the oars. Etienne was duly displaced from his seat, as a result of which the boat almost capsized, and Cateau triumphantly sat herself down beside Paul, eager to keep perfect time with his strokes. She gripped her oar tightly with both hands, unconcerned about blisters, and was enchanted when her stroke and Paul's were as one, slicing calmly through the green water.

‘Splendid, Cateau, you're doing awfully well!' said Marie. ‘Jan, why don't you steer us closer to those water lilies?'

Jan complied, and the boat veered slowly towards an expanse of duckweed with white and yellow water lilies surrounded by large, round lily pads. Marie leant over the side to catch hold of a lily and pulled hard on the tough, slimy stalk until it came loose and she was able to lift the flower from the water.

‘There are lots more over there!' said Jan, pointing to the far bank.

They glided on, past meadows bordered by willows trailing their silvery branches in the water, and Marie, with a distracted air, continued to pull muddy flowers from the depths. She appeared not to hear the jesting and laughter, nor the heated argument going on between Cateau and Etienne as to the correct manner of wielding an oar, so engrossed was she in pulling out one lily after another and throwing the stalks at her feet like slippery eels. She tugged so hard that she tore the skin of her fingers, feeling as though she were ripping out unwanted thoughts from her mind, for whose riddance it was worth shedding blood.

. . .

The Van Rijssel youngsters, whom their mama did not trust in the boat while Etienne was in it, consoled themselves with the seesaw and the swings. Tina pushed a remarkably solemn-looking Nico on one of the swings, while Johan rode the other one with Madeleine sitting between his feet. After a while Nico grew bored and surrendered his swing to Marie and Etienne, who had returned from the boat.

‘Higher, Etienne, I want to go as high as the sky!' cried Marie.

They would share the swing. Etienne planted his feet firmly on the wooden seat-board and flexed his knees to set the swing in motion.

‘Ah, I can see you're better on a swing than in a rowing boat!' said Marie, perched between his feet and thrusting herself forwards and backwards to help push the swing higher. Her skirts billowed and streamed, her hat flew away, and her hair fluttered about her cheeks. At the highest point, when she was suspended almost horizontally over Etienne, she gulped for breath before swinging down, then up again, and down . . . She had a sensation of flying over a fathomless abyss as she soared higher and higher into the blue sky, carried aloft by the wings of a great bird. Her eyes glittered with tears, her cheeks were on fire, and she imagined herself letting go of the ropes and hurtling into the gaping void.

Her eye caught the four children down below, staring up in awe at them daring to swing so very high, and she wanted to call out to them, but no sound came from her throat. Etienne seemed intoxicated by the momentum, and on they went, higher and higher.

‘Enough, Etienne – that's enough,' gasped Marie, shutting her eyes.

She felt quite dazed as the great bird reduced speed, gradually swinging lower and lower until it stopped altogether, and when her feet touched the ground again and she stood up she felt so giddy she almost lost her balance.

Etienne ran to retrieve her hat.

‘That was good, wasn't it?' he panted.

Marie nodded and gave a faint smile as she brushed her tousled hair from her face. Etienne dashed off, calling to his cousins that they would never catch him, at which the Van Rijssel foursome went in hot pursuit with little Nico bringing up the rear, running as fast as his short legs would carry him. Alone at last, Marie sank down on the grass by the swings in a flood of tears. She thought of Lili and Georges and how wrapped up in each other they had been that morning while she, Marie, had done nothing but sit and stare at the meadows and the cows until she saw stars before her eyes; and she thought of how they had stolen off together while she had sat in a boat tearing lilies out of the water until her hands ached.

‘Eline! Eline!' a voice called from the garden.

Eline had woken with a start at half-past seven – breakfast at De Horze was served at eight – and she had to hurry with her toilette. At the sound of her name she went, half dressed, to the window, which stood open. Looking outside, she saw Theodore's two eldest girls, Marianne and Henriette, sixteen and fourteen years old.

‘Good morning!' called Eline brightly.

‘What, are you up already? That's quick! Will you come soon?'

‘In a moment.'

‘Hello Eline, hello Eline!' shouted a new voice from outside. Eline looked again and saw Gustaaf, a handsome ten-year-old with bold blue eyes, ever-dirty hands and comic as a clown.

‘Hello there, Gus!' she called.

‘I say, Eline, remember what you promised?'

‘No, what?'

‘That you'd marry me instead of Uncle Otto! You promised, remember!'

‘All right then, I will! But Gus dear, I must get ready now or I'll be late for breakfast!' said Eline, returning to the mirror to do her hair.

From the sunlit garden rose more voices, among which she could now distinguish Theodore's bass tones as well as the excited cries of the Van Rijssel youngsters. She felt nervous, her eyes were still a little puffy with sleep and she could not get her hair to look as she wished.

‘Eline! Eline!' they chanted.

‘Yes, yes, I'm coming!' she called impatiently. Still tying her sash, she flew down the gloomy, oak-panelled corridor, down the grand staircase and out of the vestibule.

In the garden she saw Otto strolling with his sister, Catherine Howard. She was not beautiful, but had a pleasant, cheerful way with her, and a bright vivacity almost matching that of their younger brother Etienne.

‘Oh, Otto, I can so well imagine–' sighed Catherine, clasping his arm. ‘I think she's very sweet. In their letters Freddie and Mathilda gave the impression that she was a society girl, so I was rather expecting her to be one of those snooty young ladies from The Hague. I have only seen her once or twice before, you know, and that was quite a while ago. Wasn't she living with that elderly widow, her aunt Vere, at the time?'

‘Yes, she was,' said Otto.

‘Anyway, I think she's quite the sweetest thing! She talks in such a gentle, sweet way, not in the least affected, and yet she's so distinguished-looking, quite a lady. And as pretty as a picture. Beautiful, in fact.'

‘Do you think so?' asked Otto.

‘Yes. You must be very proud of her, not every young man has your good fortune. Oh, there goes the bell! They like to make an early start at De Horze.'

They made their way to the conservatory at the back of the house, where they found Madame van Erlevoort presiding over the long breakfast table. She looked up with a fond smile as they entered. Eline was talking to Theodore, noting how sturdy he was, broad-shouldered and even slightly stocky, with his thick beard trimmed short, so unlike his brothers Otto and Etienne, but in his loud, cheery voice the family resemblance was unmistakable. His wife, young Madame van Erlevoort, or Truus, as he called her, was still busy with the preparations for breakfast, assisted by Mathilda and Frédérique. Nurse Frantzen was settling the Van Rijssel foursome on their chairs and tying napkins under their chins. Etienne came in from the garden with Cor, Theodore's eighteen-year-old son, a midshipman on furlough. They were followed by the girls
and the boys, Willy and Gustaaf, full of fun at the expense of their Uncle Howard, whose English they did not understand and whom they were trying to teach Dutch.

‘Good morning, Nily,' said Otto, approaching Eline.

‘Morning, Otto,' answered Eline, offering her hand. She found herself enjoying the noisy bustle of a happy family. To her, who as a child had had no one but her sister to play with and had spent several years in quiet tedium with her elderly aunt, the joyous mêlée, so very far removed from the soirées and balls she was accustomed to in The Hague, was exhilarating. Everyone was so friendly, too; they all seemed to be growing quite fond of her, even Frédérique. She didn't mind when the little ones climbed onto her lap and patted her with their sticky fingers or disturbed her hair. She was seated between Otto and young Tina, on whom she doted and who kept hovering about her just as Cateau van der Stoor had done back in The Hague. That became her fixed place at table. Old Madame van Erlevoort was flanked by her two youngest grandchildren – Theodore's youngest, Edmée or Memée, and Kitty Howard, her English son-in-law's only child, and as she surveyed the long table alive with youthful gaiety she thought no one in the world could be happier than she, grey-haired but young at heart.

After breakfast Theodore proposed a visit to the Big Tree, which, he claimed, had one of the thickest trunks in Gelderland; he would go there on foot with Howard, Etienne and Cor. Eline and Otto would walk, too, they declared, and the three girls herded all the children, including Memée and Kitty, into the covered wagon.

The breakfast room was a shambles, the chairs in disarray and the table a chaos of platters and glasses while the floor was littered with napkins as well as Tina's hat, Nico's toy spade and Memée's ball.

‘Are you sure you don't mind all the commotion, Mama?' asked Truus, taking Madame van Erlevoort's hand. They were still seated at the breakfast table, surveying the ruins. ‘Really, I'm becoming rather worried. The children are so dreadfully noisy at times that it's a relief when they're absent.'

‘What a thing to say!' responded Madame. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself!'

‘Well, my foursome often drives me to despair, too, Truus!' Mathilda assured her.

‘Now don't you worry about me, dear,' said Madame. ‘I spent all winter looking forward to my summer visit to De Horze, and I am thrilled to be with you all. And it was sweet of you to invite Eline, too.'

‘I have invited them to London to join us for the season next year, once they are married,' said Catherine. ‘I rather like her.'

Truus looked away, reaching for a crumpled napkin which she proceeded to smooth and fold.

‘And you, Truus?' asked Madame van Erlevoort, noting her daughter-in-law's hesitation. ‘You like her too, don't you?'

‘Well, I don't know her very well yet. I do think it very nice of her to adapt so entirely to our ways and habits, so that we can dispense with ceremony – for which I wouldn't have time in any case; I'm far too busy. I appreciate that very much. But you know me, it takes me a while to form an opinion about people.'

‘That sounds remarkably diplomatic to my ears. As for me, I either like someone or I don't. It's as simple as that.'

‘Oh, I wasn't being diplomatic, all I meant was that I hardly know Eline since she's only been here a week. She seems very nice, but I'm not sure how I feel about her yet.'

It was on the tip of Mathilda's tongue to say that she wasn't sure how she felt about Eline either, despite having known her for years, but she kept silent.

‘Please don't take it amiss, Mama, but now that we're on the subject–'

‘Well?'

‘The thing is, there's something about Eline that makes me think she might not fit in very well with the rest of the family. She adapts herself, certainly, but I'm not sure she does so with all her heart. You don't mind my saying this, do you? There's nothing I'd like better than to find that I'm completely mistaken about her, which I probably will, once I get to know her properly.'