Little Girl Lost (4 page)

They walked away from the pier with their backs to the estuary, and Margriet felt the cool wind at her neck. Soon they came to Market Place, where the gleaming statue of William of Orange, or King Billy as he was affectionately known in the town, sat astride his horse.

‘What you have to imagine, Margriet,' her father said, ‘is that in the olden times, before these buildings were here, this was open land. When King Henry came on a visit he liked what he saw and took Suffolk Palace for himself, renaming it the King's Manor House and laying out elaborate gardens with fish ponds, flowering bushes and trees that stretched all the way down here.'

‘And did the king walk in the gardens?' she asked, her voice rising in wonder. ‘Did he come down here where we are now?'

‘I expect he did, along with his advisers and noblemen, and perhaps noblewomen too.'

‘I expect the ladies liked the gardens more than the gentlemen did,' she said. ‘Mama would have liked them.'

‘Mmm,' her father said. ‘Perhaps so.' He was thinking that Rosamund had never shown any interest in visiting the tulip fields of his home country. Entertaining or being entertained was what she liked most of all.

‘Can you see them in your mind's eye?' he asked her. ‘The gentlemen dressed in doublets made of the finest material, and linen shirts with wide sleeves, with gold chains round their necks and rings on their fingers to indicate their wealth, and the noblewomen wearing so many layers of petticoats under their velvet gowns that it would have taken them hours to get ready before being seen in public.'

‘Oh,' she murmured, ‘I wouldn't have liked that. It takes Florrie a long time to dress me before I go out with Mama. I have to wear three petticoats. I much prefer it when I stay in for lessons and only need to wear one. And I expect those ladies wouldn't have wanted to get their lovely gowns dirty if the weather was wet, but how uncomfortable they would have been if the days were hot!'

They continued along Market Place, past the stalls near Holy Trinity Church where the traders were calling out their wares, their voices mingling with the squawks of caged hens and the bleating of goats and the rattle and rumbling of wheels on the cobbles, until Margriet said abruptly, ‘But what about the poor people?'

‘The poor people?' Frederik's thoughts had turned away from the past to the present day and his conversation with Webster. He had made a will in Rosamund's favour, with provision for Margriet and any other children they might have – although he considered that highly unlikely – but he hadn't given any thought to Rosamund's position if by chance he should die suddenly and she should marry again.

He recalled the sinking of a passenger ship only the previous year, when a sudden storm had blown up in the German Sea and many people had drowned. He spent a considerable time travelling overseas, he thought, and the worst could happen. Rosamund was not yet thirty, and she was not wise enough to look after her own interests. Just like poor Mrs Smithson and her daughters, she and Margriet could be in a very precarious position if she should marry a bounder.

Margriet was pulling at his sleeve. ‘Papa! What about them? Were there any, or was everyone rich?'

He gazed vaguely at her. ‘Ah, the poor who are always with us. They would rub along as usual, I suppose,' he said thoughtfully. ‘They would try to keep alive by whatever means possible. Work, if they could find it.' He wondered whether there were workhouses in those far-off days, and considered it unlikely. ‘In order to buy their bread and lodgings,' he added.

‘Well, that would be very unfair,' Margriet said indignantly, ‘especially if there were rich people who could have helped them.'

Frederik sighed. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘But it was always so. It is an unfair world.' He looked down at her sweet little face, which was wearing an unaccustomed scowl. ‘So how do you know about poor people, my dear Daisy? Who has told you?'

‘I've seen them from my window. They come to the workhouse at the end of the street and wait outside the gate to be let in; and when Mama goes shopping they hold out their hands to her.'

But, she thought, Mama says, ‘Don't look at them. Come away, come away, don't look at them,' and never gives them a single copper, unlike Florrie when she comes with us to carry the parcels. She slips a coin into their hands, especially the old beggar women who are dressed in rags and can barely walk in their torn boots. Mama says I mustn't touch them as they are probably diseased, and Florrie nips her mouth up very tight when she hears that. She doesn't say anything in front of Mama – she's afraid to, I expect – but she tells me afterwards that they are to be pitied for having fallen on hard times.

‘I have one more place to show you,' her father was saying, ‘but if you're tired we can cut across in front of the church and go home.'

‘I'm not tired,' she said quickly, even though she was, but she didn't want the outing to end. ‘I'd like to see it.'

He led her on until they reached the top of Silver Street once again and were looking down the length of Whitefriargate, within minutes of home.

‘Down here is a street that you might have passed without noticing,' he said, ‘and there are many stories of how it came to be named.'

Margriet looked up at him quizzically. ‘Mama says we must hurry past all the little streets – entries, she calls them – for fear of robbers and ne'er-do-wells hiding in them. I can see one of them from a window at the back of our house. Florrie says it's called Winter's Alley. I hadn't been down the passage to Duncan's Entry before, but sometimes if I go on an errand with Florrie we cut through some of the others.'

She hesitated, fearing she had been indiscreet and might have got Florrie into trouble, but her father simply smiled and said that he was quite sure Florrie would not let her run into danger. A moment later he pulled her to a halt. ‘Now, do you know where we are?'

Margriet looked round. ‘I do know this street,' she said, ‘but not its name.'

‘Then look up and find it, and then tell me what you think of it.'

Margriet gazed up at the high walls on either side. It was an unremarkable street with an inn on the corner, and it was not as elegant as their own Parliament Street; most of the buildings had tall doorways leading straight off the street, and she saw that what she had thought was a small lane led into a courtyard and the narrow passage they had come down earlier. She spun round and saw Bowlalley Lane behind her, then lifted her gaze again and saw the name he was referring to.

She drew in a breath and mouthed, ‘Oh.' On a grimy metal plaque, too high for her to have noticed before, she read,
Land of Green Ginger
.

The stories might not be true, her father told her as he led her up the short street, but no one could dispute them, for there wasn't anyone left alive who could remember how it had come by its name.

Margriet nodded her head and listened as he told her that there had been a street here for hundreds of years, and it was marked on old maps as Old Beverley Street. He said that he had become interested in the name when he was a young man just arrived from Amsterdam, and had been told that a Dutch family named Lindegroen had once lived here. ‘Some people think the street name is a corruption of theirs, but there are others who say that ginger was once grown here, so—'

‘In the king's gardens?' Margriet asked eagerly.

‘Possibly so,' he agreed, ‘for the street was very close to the palace. Other people say that the ginger was preserved here and stored in jars and the name came from that.'

Margriet tugged on his hand and looked about her. ‘Could there have been a shop here and it sold ginger? Because I think this is the place where the little girl lives.'

‘Which little girl?'

‘The little Dutch girl, from the family that you said. Lindegroen. Green lime trees.'

‘How do you know it means green lime trees?' he asked, astonished. ‘
Spreek je Nederlands?
'

She shook her head and gave a little hop. ‘
Nee!
But the little girl does.'

‘Does she?' Frederik raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you know?'

‘She's Dutch.' Margriet looked up at the roofline of one of the buildings and pointed. ‘She said this is Lindegroen Walk.'

Frederik followed her gaze. The building she was indicating seemed unused; the door had a bar across it and the upstairs windows were dirty. He was startled when Margriet gave a sudden smile and a wave of her hand before turning back to him. ‘She's gone now. Perhaps I'll see her again another day.'

He felt he should mention this encounter to Rosamund once they were home. Margriet had gone upstairs to her room, where Florrie brought her a meal of soup made from yesterday's chicken and a small bowl of rice pudding, and then suggested she had a lie down on her bed for an hour after her long walk. ‘Perhaps read a book?' she said, but Margriet shook her head and said, ‘No thank you, Florrie, I have some thinking to do.'

Frederik preferred to eat their main meal at seven o'clock, so he and Rosamund were just served cold chicken and bread and butter, followed by coffee and cake.

‘How is your headache?' he asked solicitously. ‘Has it gone?'

‘Just about,' she said wearily, drawing her hand over her forehead. ‘I rested in my room and did a little sewing.'

‘Margriet and I had a good walk,' he told her. ‘Right down to the pier.'

‘Oh!' She gave a slight exclamation. ‘Then I'm so pleased I didn't come. That would have been much too far.'

‘Margriet enjoyed it. I gave her a history lesson.' He told Rosamund about showing Margriet Land of Green Ginger. ‘She took to heart what I said about the Lindegroen family, and said she knew their little girl.'

‘Who are they? I don't know them. Are they new to the area?'

He laughed. ‘Don't tell me you haven't heard of the myth that surrounds the street name?'

She clearly hadn't, and he explained again. But she frowned and he saw that she was displeased and not in the least amused. ‘You are filling her head with foolishness,' she said.

‘Not at all,' he said brusquely. ‘I want her to be interested in what is around her, otherwise she will be unaware of the history of her birthplace.' Much as you are, he thought, but didn't say, and wondered how anyone could live in a town all their life and only be interested in who said what, who gave the best supper parties and where they bought their fashionable clothes.

‘And I still believe she's lonely,' he went on in the same tone. ‘Why else would she make up a story about a little Dutch girl? Some of your friends have children; could you not take her with you when you visit?'

‘Sometimes I do,' she countered. ‘But it is not always convenient.'

‘Then they could come here,' he said impatiently. ‘Perhaps share lessons together?'

‘That would hardly be fair to Miss Ripley.'

He leaned across and touched her hand. ‘Rosamund,' he said softly, ‘perhaps we should have another child? There would be a big gap, of course, but Margriet would love to have the companionship of a younger sibling.'

She stiffened, and her expression froze. ‘You have forgotten, Frederik,' her voice was tight and cold, ‘just how much I suffered in giving birth to Margriet. I have tried to be a good wife and I hope I have not been neglectful of my wifely duties, and of course if you insist it is not my place to refuse, but—'

He pulled his hand away, spreading his fingers in dissent, almost as a shield against her suggestion that she would agree in spite of her dread. It was true that she never refused him, but any loving advance he made towards her was, he knew, quite abhorrent to her. It was enough, he thought, to drive a man into another woman's arms.

Margriet was indeed thinking as she lay on top of her coverlet; she was considering how she could persuade her mother to allow the little Dutch girl to visit her. She had called down her name but Margriet couldn't recall what it was. Was it Klara, like the daughter of Papa's friend? Anika or Liesel? It was something like that, she was sure. Margriet closed her eyes, the better to think; her own name in English was Marguerite, which was why her father sometimes called her Daisy. She liked that, but she preferred Margriet to Marguerite because it was easier to spell.

Anneliese.
The name came suddenly as she had known it would if she didn't think too hard about it. If only I could go out alone I could knock on their door and ask if I might speak to her, or perhaps we could take a walk in the gardens? Surely the king wouldn't mind if two little girls walked in his shrubbery. She turned her head on the pillow and sighed. But how to find the gardens again? Then she smiled to herself; of course, Anneliese would know the way. She lived in the Land of Green Ginger, after all. She'd be sure to know.

She thought about it for a while and then made a decision. Papa and Mama were downstairs in the sitting room. Florrie and Mrs Simmonds would be busy with chores and Cook hardly ever stirred out of the kitchen. She slipped off the bed and put on her shoes. The weather was nice so she wouldn't need a coat, and she could be out of the house and down the street before she was missed. She wouldn't be long, could be there and back quite quickly, only needed time enough to introduce herself and arrange a meeting for another afternoon.

She was quite sure that Mrs Lindegroen wouldn't mind her calling without an appointment. The Dutch were very liberal, she had heard her mother say so. Margriet wasn't quite sure what liberal meant, but it sounded comforting, she thought. She had a picture in her head of Mrs Lindegroen, plump and kind, wearing a skirt of dark material and a pretty white blouse, her fair hair tucked under a white cap with small white wings, like the pictures she had seen of Dutch ladies. Anneliese had long golden hair dressed in plaits just like the miller's daughter in
Rumpelstiltskin
, the story Papa had read to her.