Little Girl Lost (21 page)

Rosamund was silent as she weighed up the consequences should anyone she knew recognize Margriet. Then she realized that none of her friends had met her daughter on more than one or two occasions, and rarely in the last twelve months or so. Only the Sandersons would be sure to recognize her, she thought, and they didn't count, for Mrs Sanderson didn't give tuppence for society.

‘I will consider it,' she said. ‘I will give it some thought. Is there a chill wind blowing today? I would hate Margriet to catch a cold, for then I should catch it too. I am very susceptible to colds.'

He smiled and closed up his bag. ‘It's a most beautiful day, but perhaps she might take a warm wrap as this is her first time out for a while.'

Margriet rose to her feet. ‘I'll see Dr Johnston to the door, Mama.'

Rosamund nodded and picked up her sewing. ‘Good day, doctor,' she said stiffly. ‘Thank you for your advice.'

He gave a small bow and followed Margriet into the hall and towards the front door.

‘Thank you, Dr Johnston,' she said politely. ‘I would like to go out. When do you think I can go back to school?'

‘If I could choose I'd say today,' he said softly, inwardly cursing society's intolerable rules, ‘but that is your mother's decision. A few steps at a time, Margriet. Going out into the fresh air will make you feel better, and although it won't take away your sadness, being healthier will help you to accept the loss of your father.'

Margriet's lips trembled. ‘I miss him such a lot,' she whispered. ‘He taught me so much. I just miss him not being here. I want to ask him so many things.'

He could see the grief in her face and hear it in her voice, and patted her shoulder. ‘It's very hard to lose someone you love, especially when you are so young. I'm sure, though, that your papa wanted you to grow up into a strong and resilient young woman, and although he isn't here to guide you any more you will always remember what he has taught you.'

‘When the parson came to see us he said Papa would be watching over me,' Margriet told him. ‘Do you think he will be? Only, if he went down with the ship, I don't understand how he can be.'

The doctor had some theories of his own about an afterlife, but he believed that people should find comfort in their own way following the death of someone they loved.

‘I expect the parson meant your papa would be watching from heaven,' he told her.

‘Yes, that's what he said, but only if he'd been a good man. And he was,' she added fiercely. ‘I know he was.'

‘Well, there you are then.' He smiled at her. ‘In that case you have nothing to worry about.'

When Margriet and her mother had finished their lunch and Florrie had come to clear away, Rosamund said, ‘I'm going to have my afternoon rest, Florence, but the doctor has recommended that Margriet should take the air to improve her constitution.'

Margriet looked at her mother in astonishment. Had he really said that? Constitution? What did that mean?

‘He suggested a short walk, so as it seems to be a nice day I'd like you to accompany her, as of course I can't venture out myself at present.' She sighed as if she were being deprived of a treat, and went on, ‘Margriet must wear a warm coat or cape and carry a scarf or shawl so as not to take a chill, and you should walk in the direction of Albion Street, because there is often a breeze blowing down by the river. You may come back down Prospect Street.' Then she added firmly, ‘But you must walk on the opposite side from the Infirmary in case there are any noxious diseases drifting from the building.'

Florrie stared open-mouthed at her mistress and then, recovering herself, bobbed her knee and mumbled, ‘Yes, ma'am. Of course. It's a lovely day and it'll do Miss Margriet 'world of good to go out.' She beamed at Margriet and thought that at last the poor bairn could get back to something like normality. ‘It'll put 'roses back in her cheeks, ma'am.'

They had all felt the master's loss, even Lily, who had cried so much that Cook had threatened to sack her as she was upsetting everybody, but their hearts had gone out to his daughter, who had adored her father so much.

That first night, after they had heard the dreadful news, Margriet had been unable to sleep, and after thinking only of how would she manage without her papa she had got out of bed and gone down the stairs and along the landing to her mother's room.

‘Mama,' she had whispered. ‘May I come in with you?'

There was no sound from her mother, who was lying so still that for a terrifying moment Margriet thought that she had died too, until she recalled that the doctor had given her mother some medicine that he said would help her sleep. He'd given Margriet a bottle of cordial that he said would settle her too, but she hadn't taken any.

She climbed into her mother's bed anyway, but her mother made no movement, and after lying there for some minutes she got out and padded back to her own room. The cordial bottle was on her bedside table and Florrie had told her that it wouldn't do her any harm if she took a dose. Margriet picked it up and looked at the label. There was a picture of a sleeping baby on it so she unscrewed the top and took a long drink from the bottle before getting back into bed.

Memories of her papa came pouring back, mingled with images of Anneliese. The young girl appeared at the bottom of her bed, looking at her kindly, and then climbed in with her and put her arms round her, murmuring that she would make things better. Then she brought her mother, Mevrouw Lindegroen, who picked Margriet up and put her on her knee and comforted her. Margriet thought she looked very much like her own grandmother. Then she slept until morning, when Florrie came up with her breakfast.

A memorial service for Frederik was held at St Mary's Church at Reynoldson's suggestion. He invited the manager of the Amsterdam office, and Aarden brought Mr Vandergroene's mother, brother and sister with him. Other members of the Amsterdam business community also came over to Hull as a mark of respect, for Frederik was as well known in Netherlands as his father had been before him.

As became a widow, Rosamund had chosen not to go to the memorial service and had said that Margriet shouldn't either, but Gerda was determined to see Margriet and had insisted on calling on Rosamund at home. It was upon seeing her grandmother and hearing her loving voice that Margriet had begun to cry as if her heart were truly broken.

She had agreed with her grandmother that one day she would come to visit her, explaining that she couldn't leave her mother alone just now. ‘It's because of our mourning, Oma,' she'd said quietly. ‘Mama can't leave the house at present.'

‘I know that,
lieveling
,' she'd answered. ‘But next year she can, and then you will be able to come. Perhaps Floris can bring you?' and she'd glanced at her daughter-in-law for confirmation. Rosamund had given a tight little smile and put her hand wearily to her forehead and said they would see what the year would bring.

‘I am too grieved now to think about what the future holds for us,' she'd said plaintively.

To which Gerda had replied robustly that life must go on. ‘You have Frederik's daughter to think of. She is the one who matters now. And,' she added decisively, ‘if Floris cannot bring her, Bartel or Anna will come to fetch her.'

Florrie, listening to their conversation as she cleared away the teacups on that sad day, thought that when the time was right she would try to find a way to persuade her mistress to let her take Margriet to Amsterdam alone. She was perfectly capable, she thought. There was no reason at all why she shouldn't, if only Mrs Vandergroene would allow it.

But several weeks had passed and still there had not been an appropriate moment. ‘I'll fetch Miss Margriet's warm cape down,' Florrie said now. ‘And mebbe a warm bonnet?'

‘Yes please, Florence,' Rosamund said, rising from her chair, ‘and I'll go up now for my rest. Don't keep Margriet out too long.'

‘No, ma'am.' Florrie dipped her knee. ‘I won't. We'll just have a brisk walk.'

Margriet discarded her bonnet as soon as they'd turned the corner of Parliament Street. It was a glorious day. She could smell the tang of the sea, and looking up she saw seabirds wheeling, screeching and soaring above them. It reminded her of their last holiday playing ball on the sands at Scarborough with her father and the Sanderson children, and although she had a great heaviness in her chest and a lump in her throat when she swallowed, she felt glad that she had been so happy then.

Florrie decided that walking down Whitefriargate was a better option than skirting the side of the dock, in case the sight of the ships' masts might remind Margriet of her father. Although they couldn't avoid Junction Dock, she led her charge briskly towards Savile Street and through short cuts, of which she knew many, down Bond Street and into Albion Street as Mrs Vandergroene had suggested. When they reached the street, Margriet gave a deep sobbing breath.

Florrie gently squeezed her hand. ‘You all right, ducky?' she said before remembering that she was speaking to her employer's daughter and not one of her many nieces.

Margriet gave a watery smile. ‘You are funny, Florrie.' The girl's request to be called Florence was long forgotten.

‘I am, aren't I?' Florrie grinned. ‘But I thought you seemed sad.'

‘I am sad,' Margriet agreed. ‘I was thinking about when I once came this way with Papa and we called on the Sandersons. I don't suppose we could do that now, could we?'

‘Your mama said nothing about calling on anybody.' Florrie considered; it didn't seem much to her, just calling on friends, but she thought Mrs Vandergroene might be displeased. She rather suspected that her mistress might not consider Mrs Sanderson a friend. She had been quite frosty towards her when they were in Scarborough. ‘I think I'd better ask your mama first,' she said. ‘We don't want to do the wrong thing and not be able to come again, now do we?'

‘I suppose not,' Margriet agreed reluctantly. ‘It must be very hard being a grown-up and having to obey so many rules.'

Florrie looked down at her charge. Poor little mite, she thought. ‘When you're grown up, Miss Margriet, I think you should make your own rules.'

Margriet nodded. ‘I think I'd like to,' she said. ‘It seems to me that it will be very difficult otherwise.' She thought for a moment. ‘But it's not so difficult for you, Florrie, is it? You can walk down the street on your own, and go shopping without anyone with you, but Mama can't.'

She looked up at the houses, searching for the one where the Sandersons lived, and then frowned. ‘But Mrs Sanderson doesn't always have a maid with her,' she said. ‘I've seen her sometimes; she goes to the library in Parliament Street. So how is it that she can do that and Mama can't?'

Florrie sighed. ‘It's a matter of choice, Miss Margriet. Mrs Sanderson doesn't care what society thinks about her. She's her own woman and is proud of it.'

Margriet listened. That's what she would like to be, she thought. But she wasn't sure how to go about it.

Lia sat in her small garden with her eyes closed. She could feel the sun on her face and hear the trickle and gurgle of the water in the dyke as it flowed down to the wider ditch. The dyke was very full this spring, as they had had a great deal of snow in the winter. They had been confined to the house during the worst blizzard she could ever recall, when Klara couldn't get to school and Hans had been unable to travel home from Amsterdam.

She opened her eyes and looked about her. The tulips and hyacinths in their pots were in full bloom in this sheltered sunny garden, but even their bright colours did nothing to cheer her as once they might have done. She could hear Miriam clattering in the kitchen; what a blessing she was, putting order into Lia's life when there would have been only chaos, making her meals and standing over her whilst she ate them.

She remembered that cold bleak day when she had answered a knock on her door and opened it to an older woman, older than her own mother, and beside her a younger one of about her own age. Although she didn't know them, she greeted them cordially, feeling an uneasy curiosity.

‘Mevrouw Jansen?' the older woman asked. ‘Lia?' the younger said, and as no one but Frederik had ever called her that she had felt a sinking feeling travelling down her body.

‘I am Frederik's
moeder
,' Mevrouw Vandergroene had said. ‘This is his sister Anna. May we come in?'

How had she known that something was wrong, she wondered now. They could have been here only to warn her not to break up Frederik's marriage, and yet she did know. Perhaps she'd always known that the happiness they'd shared wouldn't last for ever, that their dream of a mountaintop hideaway was only a figment of their imagination; that such dreams would never, could never come to fruition.

Anna had said that they hadn't come earlier because it was over a week before they had found out that Frederik's ship had gone down. The communication between Hull and Amsterdam had been poor because of the atrocious weather, and the manager of the Hull office had come over himself to tell the Dutch employees before taking the news to her mother. ‘We came as soon as we could,' she finished.

‘I am grateful that you came at all,' Lia said huskily. ‘I hadn't heard. I am … so …'

‘You don't need to say anything,' Gerda Vandergroene said softly. ‘We understand how you must feel, how we all feel when someone we love has been taken from us.'

Lia had looked at her. ‘You know that I loved your son?' she whispered. ‘Did Frederik tell you about me?'

Gerda nodded and her voice had broken. ‘Just before he took that last voyage he told me that he loved you – that you loved each other – and he wanted to be with you.'