Henrietta's Own Castle

She began her journey on a cold, bleak morning whose sky promised snow before the day was out. She had booked on the Dover ferry and planned to arrive on the other side of the Channel in the early afternoon so that she would have several hours of daylight in which to travel. The ferry was almost empty and the sea was rough. Henrietta sat uneasily, hoping that she wouldn’t be sick, her eyes averted from the weather outside, and presently she slept for a little while and when she woke and staggered down below to tidy herself it was to hear that because of the rough weather they would be docking at least an hour late. She got herself a cup of tea and settled down to read, only to cast her book down and con her map once more, making sure that she knew the route she had to take. It looked an alarmingly long way, although she knew that once she landed at Zeebrugge it was barely forty miles to Breskens where she would have to take the ferry across the river Schold, and once at Vlissingen, it was only a little more than seventy miles. It would be well after two when they landed, she calculated, and it was dark by five o’clock, so provided she could get to Vlissingen by then it should be easy enough. It was towards her journey’s end that she would have to be careful not to miss the side road which would take her to Gijzelmortel. There was a landmark on the map, a castle, but in the dark she doubted if that would be of much use to her. She folded the map, determined not to get worried, aware that she would be glad when she was safely there.

It was sleeting when they docked, and bitter cold. Henrietta, one of the first away, drove carefully along the coast road which would lead her to the border town of Sluis and Holland. There was almost no traffic, something she was grateful for; the dark sky was closing in rapidly now and she could see that the hours of daylight she had reckoned on were to be considerably shortened. She ignored her desire to get as much out of Charlie as possible; the roads were treacherous and there were signposts to look out for as well as remembering to drive on the other side of the road.

She pressed on steadily, through the Customs post at Sluis and on to Breskens where the ferry was waiting. She breathed a sigh of relief as she got out of her little car and climbed the narrow iron stairs to the deck above. There was a brightly lit saloon there and a coffee bar at one end of it, doing a roaring trade. Henrietta pointed at what she wanted, handed over a note, received a handful of change and found herself a table where she drank her coffee, ate her cheese roll and examined the money. It seemed small, although when she looked at it carefully she could see that it was similar to the money at home, only the tiny silver coins were different. She stowed them away now that she had had something to eat. Her cheerful mood lasted as she drove off the ferry and took the N97, which would take her to Breda without any complications. She encouraged Charlie to a steady forty-five and kept doggedly on. Sleet was still falling, but the motorway was wide and well surfaced and she was a good driver, so in due time she found herself on the roundabout outside that city and heaved another sigh of relief. Not very far now and she would be there.

The motorway skirted Tilburg too. Henrietta left it soon after, and in another seven or eight miles saw what she was looking for—the signpost to Gijzelmortel. She turned into the exit point, swung the little car under a flyover and joined a narrow road on the other side, where presently another signpost directed her into a still narrower lane. After that there was no sign, no houses, no lights even, only her headlamps cutting into the sleety darkness. She should be there, she told herself, and discovered that she was, for there was the village sign on the side of the road and a few yards further she saw the first house. The road curved away to the left and she followed it, to discover that the village—and Mr Boggett had been quite right, it was very small—was a mere circle of houses round a cobbled square with a bandstand in its centre. There were one or two narrow lanes leading away from it, but he had told her that the house was in the centre of the village. She slowed the car to a crawl round the square, cheered by the sight of the lighted windows around her, and presently reached a massive gateway, with lanterns on its brick posts, and just a few yards further on a row of tiny houses. There was a wall plaque on the first one with Dam written on it. The third house along was number three. She was there!

CHAPTER TWO

HENRIETTA took the house key from her handbag and got out of the car, savouring the moment despite the sneering wind and sleet, so sluggish now that it was almost snow. Oblivious of these discomforts, she stood back to survey her property—a very little house in the middle of a row of six similar dwellings, all exactly alike, built of bricks with one large window beside a solid front door and another window above, crowded into its steeply gabled roof. She stood a little further back and by peering beyond the lights above the gateway was able to see another row, exactly similar beyond the further gate post. Possibly a park, she speculated, for the wrought iron gates were open. The sight of them triggered off a highly improbable daydream, in which she saw herself on a hot summer’s day, roaming its greenness, possibly with a dog… A nasty little flurry of snowy wind took her breath and brought the daydream to an abrupt end and she crossed the narrow flagged pavement and turned the key in the lock.

The hall was a tiny square from which the stairs ascended steeply, and there was a door on the right. Henrietta shone her torch and found the light switch and pressed it, but nothing happened—she had half expected that, although she had hoped that she wouldn’t need the candles which she had thoughtfully brought with her. She went back to Charlie and carried in her overnight bag and her case; to get to the candles was the first necessity.

The house seemed all at once warmer by reason of the small flame; she opened the door and with the candle held high, went inside. The dining-room, she judged, nicely furnished with an old-fashioned round table and pretty Victorian chairs; there was a small sideboard too and pictures on the walls, but she left these for the moment and went into the room beyond—without doubt the sitting room, as small as the dining-room and even in the chilly dimness, cosy, its armchairs with shabby covers drawn up on either side of an old-fashioned iron stove, a couple of small lamp tables, another chair or two and one wall almost entirely taken up by an upright piano. There was a window and door on the third wall; presumably the back garden was beyond, but she turned away from the bleak darkness outside and opened the door to the kitchen. Small, too, as was to be expected but as far as she could see by the light of the wavering candle flame, adequately equipped; a sink with a geyser above it, a small table with two gas rings and shelves of saucepans and cooking utensils. She put down her candle carefully and tried the geyser hopefully, but there was no gas, neither was there any water when she turned on the tap.

She went back to the hall, looking for the meters, retracing her steps slowly without success. She was kneeling in the kitchen again, peering hopefully under the sink, when she heard someone enter the house. She got to her feet slowly, her heart beating an uneasy tattoo, eyeing the man who was standing at the kitchen door, looking at her. She was a big girl, but he more than matched her for size—a head taller for a start and with broad shoulders, massive in a sheepskin jacket, and as far as she could see in the dim light, exceedingly handsome. She waited uncertainly; she had been a fool to have left the front door on the latch, but probably he was just a casual passer-by. She said coolly: ‘I have no idea who you are, but this is my house and I must ask you to leave it.’

He came right into the kitchen. ‘A very hoity-toity speech,’ he remarked in an English as perfect as her own, ‘quite wasted on me and useless to anyone else around here—they wouldn’t have understood a word of it.’

‘Who are you?’ She stood her ground although the instinct to move back was strong, but she was annoyed at being called hoity-toity, so that she lifted her pretty, determined chin and looked down her fine nose at him.

‘Your landlord.’ He laughed without amusement and she said at once:

‘You’re mistaken, this house is mine. My aunt, Miss Brodie, left it to me.’

He sighed loudly. ‘I have neither the time nor the patience to mull over the intricacies of leasehold property. Take my word for it that I own the lease of this house, Miss Henrietta Brodie.’

She gave him a startled glance. How had he known her name was Henrietta? she longed to ask, but instead, ‘You still haven’t told me who you are,’ she reminded him coldly.

For some reason this amused him. ‘Van Hessel—Marnix van Hessel.’

‘And how did you know that I was here?’

‘My dear good young woman, this is a very small village. Willemse the greengrocer was putting his van away when he saw you arrive—he came to tell my housekeeper, who told me. In a community of this size we all tend to mind each other’s business.’

She was annoyed again. ‘Or indulge your curiosity.’

His eyes—grey, she thought, but wasn’t sure—narrowed. ‘You have a nasty sharp tongue,’ he observed. ‘I am not in the least curious about you—why should I be? But since it was I who ordered the electricity and gas and water to be turned off, it seemed that the least I could do was to come and turn them on again.’

He stood quite still, staring at her, and after a moment or two she said awkwardly: ‘Well, thank you…I should be glad…it is a little chilly…’

He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s damned cold.’ He walked past her into the scullery and she was aware once more of his great size as he bent to go through the door. She stood still, holding the candle aloft while he opened a cupboard high up on the wall. ‘Try the lights,’ he advised her.

The little kitchen sprang into instant view and she looked around her with relief and a good deal of interest, but she was given no time in which to indulge her curiosity. ‘Turn on the gas,’ he commanded. That worked too, and so, presently, did the water. Tea, thought Henrietta, a hot water bottle and bed, while aloud she said civilly: ‘Thank you very much, I can…’ She was interrupted.

‘I’ll get the stove going, there should be coal and wood outside.’

She tried again. ‘Please don’t bother, I shall…’ and was silenced by his: ‘Of course it’s a bother, but I wouldn’t leave a dog to shiver to death on a night like this.’

She bristled, her dark eyes sparkling with temper. She said in a voice made high by her strong feelings: ‘I’m obliged to you for your help, Mr van Hessel, but I can manage very well—don’t let me keep you.’

He flung open the back door, his torch cutting a swathe through the blackness outside, the icy wind rushing in to set her shivering again. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said pleasantly as he went out. ‘Go upstairs and unpack.’

Over the years of being without a family she had achieved a fine independence, so it was all the more surprising to her to find herself climbing a miniature staircase with her overnight bag. There were two bedrooms, she discovered, with a large landing between them. They faced front and back and she chose the back room, pleased with the simplicity of its furnishings; a narrow bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror above it, a basket chair, well cushioned, and bright rugs on the polished floor. The curtains, she noted as she pulled them to, were shabby now, but the fabric had once been good. The other room was almost identical; she pulled the curtains here too and lingered to explore the landing. There was a cupboard built into one of its walls, full, she discovered to her delight, to its brim with bed linen, blankets and everything she could need for the house, there were even two old-fashioned eiderdowns, a little faded but whole. Henrietta sighed with deep satisfaction and went back downstairs.

Mr van Hessel might be an ill-tempered man, but he was handy at lighting a stove. It was crackling well and already its heat was taking the sharp chill off the room. There was a scuttle of coals too and as she entered he came in with an armful of small logs which he stacked tidily in a corner. When he had done this, he stood up, studying her in a cool way which annoyed her very much. ‘You look as though you could do with a good hot supper,’ he observed.

‘I stopped on my way here.’ She had spoken too quickly and he had seen that. He moved to the door. ‘And that’s a lie if ever I heard one,’ he told her, ‘but as it’s obviously intended to warn me off inviting you to a meal, I’ll take the hint. Good night.’

He had gone, and the room looked bare without him. She went into the kitchen, found the kettle and put it on to boil for a cup of tea while she considered her visitor—a large, domineering man, used to giving orders and getting his own way, and if he owned the lease of the house, why hadn’t Mr Boggett told her about him? She knew very little about ground rents and such things. She wondered now, a little uneasily, if she would be able to afford to pay it. Presumably she would have to ask Mr van Hessel how much it was. It seemed likely that she would see him again; he must live close by, for he had come—and gone—on foot. Perhaps he lived on the other side of the square where the houses, as she had passed them in the dark, had appeared larger, though it was hard to imagine him in a small village house.

She made the tea and rooted through her stores for a tin of baked beans and a packet of soup; a proper hot supper would have been nice, she thought wistfully, but he had offered it in much the same way as he might have offered a bone to a hungry dog. She ate her beans, drained the teapot and went upstairs to make her bed. It wasn’t late, but she was longing for sleep; she went downstairs again, made up the stove, had a shower in the tiny cubicle squeezed into the scullery, and went to her bed with both eiderdowns on top of her and a hot water bottle as well.

It wasn’t quite light when she woke, although her watch told her that it was eight o’clock. She got up and drew back the curtains to see what lay behind the house; a garden, small and brick-walled to a height of six feet, a mere plot of neglected grass with a tangle of rose bushes in one corner. The scullery roof was just below her window and beyond that there was a brick lean-to shed, where presumably her visitor of the night before had found the coal. But beyond that she could see very little; identical sized gardens on either side of her, incredibly neat, and a dense row of conifers, screening whatever lay beyond the back walls of the row of little houses. She would find out, she promised herself, dressing rapidly in sweater and slacks before going down to rake out the stove and make it up again and to the kitchen to get her breakfast. Tea and porridge and tinned milk; presently she would find the village shop. She washed up, made her bed, found her phrase book and, warmly wrapped against the weather, opened her front door. Charlie was still parked outside; she would have to find a garage for him very soon. She ran a woollen-mitted hand over his icy roof and jumped when Mr van Hessel said from behind her, ‘Yours, I presume.’ And when she wheeled round to face him: ‘I take it you believe in travelling on a prayer—your faith must be very strong if you pin it to this—er—car.’

‘Charlie is a splendid little car,’ she told him with dignity. ‘He may not look quite—well…’ she paused, unable to think of the right word. ‘He suits me,’ she finished with a snap.

Mr van Hessel was studying her once more, his magnificent head, with its dark silvered hair, on one side. ‘Charlie,’ he remarked reflectively. ‘You are a most extraordinary young woman.’ He allowed his gaze to ramble from her face down to her sensible boots and back again to meet her indignant eyes. ‘You’re still young—not yet thirty, I should imagine?’ He ignored her angry choke. ‘And even in your so suitable winter clothes you are quite unmistakably a woman.’

Her voice would have frozen anyone else. ‘I wish you would stop referring to me as a young woman!’

‘Ah, is young lady more to your liking?’

‘My name is Brodie,’ she pointed out.

‘Miss Henrietta Brodie—I had not forgotten. Have you a garage for this car?’

‘No, I’m just going to see about it.’

His eyes widened with laughter. ‘There is no garage in the village and those who have cars use outbuildings and sheds. I cannot think of anyone who could accommodate you. Perhaps you would allow me to house Charlie for the time being at least.’

He was a most extraordinary man, she thought crossly, being rude to her with every other breath and then being helpful—but she had to have a garage. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, ‘I’d be very obliged, just until I can find somewhere permanent.’ She gave him a questioning look. ‘You have got room?’

He inclined his head. ‘Indeed yes. I have also asked your neighbour to chop wood for you—I daresay he will come this afternoon. He speaks no English, but I expect you will be able to manage.’

‘Thank you—how much should I pay him?’

Her companion looked astounded. ‘Nothing. He’s a neighbour, he would feel insulted. Have you done your shopping?’

‘I’m on my way—there must be a shop…’

‘A general store, I believe you would call it in English. We will go together, unless of course you have sufficient knowledge of our language to make your purchases?’

She was being overwhelmed with kindness, and yet behind his bland face she thought there was laughter lurking. ‘I can’t speak a word,’ she told him.

They crossed the cobbles, skirted the bandstand and turned a corner into an exceedingly narrow street, crammed with little houses and paved with cobblestones, too. The shop was half way down its length and there were quite a number of women inside, having, from the sound of their voices, a pleasant gossip. They fell silent as Mr van Hessel opened the door and ushered her in, and she had the strange idea that in a bygone age they would have dropped him a curtsey; as it was they chorused with respectful voices and waited to hear what he had to say. Of course Henrietta couldn’t understand a word, but he smiled at them as he spoke, and they smiled back, but still with respect, and after a minute of talking he turned to ask: ‘How much milk do you want?’

‘Oh, a pint each day.’

‘You forget, my good…I beg your pardon—Miss Brodie, that we do not have your pints here, only litres. I suggest a litre every other day.’

She nodded. At least he had remembered not to call her his good girl!

‘Bread?’

‘Well, I thought I’d make my own, but just until I’m settled, yes, please. Can I buy it here?’

‘No. The baker comes three times a week, his van is parked in the square and you fetch it for yourself.’ He stopped to speak to the woman behind the counter. ‘He doesn’t come today, but Mevrouw Ros will let you have half a loaf. What else?’

‘Bacon…’

‘No, most people don’t eat your sort of bacon. What else?’

‘Eggs, cheese, butter…’

‘Butter? That is expensive in Holland, not many people eat it.’

‘Oh, well, margarine, I suppose. Where do I buy meat?’

He said something or other to the woman. ‘The butcher comes twice a week, he will be here in half an hour or so—in the square. I will tell Mevrouw Ros that somebody must help you with the money and so on.’

‘Don’t you mean ask?’ she wanted to know. ‘You sound like a feudal lord.’

His lips twitched. ‘Unpardonable of me,’ he murmured. ‘Vegetables? Willemse takes his van round every day except Sunday, he comes to the door and you can buy what you want from him. I should point out that we have not moved with the times here, we cling to our old habits. In the big towns and modern villages, the shopping is done much as it is in England—although I imagine that you have not had much experience of that—St Clement’s has a large nurses’ home, and very likely you lived in.’

She gaped at him. ‘However did you know?’ she began, to be halted by his impatient: ‘Oh, later, later, I have no time now. Do you wish to pay for these things now or will you have an account?’

‘I’ll pay now, please.’

She opened her purse and handed him the money he asked for and he paid it while she smiled round at the interested faces watching her. ‘I didn’t realize that it would be so foreign,’ she declared as they left the shop.

He had her basket, and from the surprised glances from the women they passed in the street, he wasn’t often seen with a shopping basket. They crossed the square together and at her door she took it from him. ‘I should like to see you about the ground rent,’ she began. ‘Mr Boggett didn’t tell me about it. Do I pay you, and how much is it?’

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he told her blandly. ‘We’ll look into it some other time.’

‘Very well, but I should like to know, so that I can…’ She stopped; she wasn’t going to tell him that she had to be careful with her money. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps I could come and see you about it.’

He took the basket from her once more and set it down on her doorstep, and without speaking took her arm and walked her to the big gates.

‘Here,’ he said, and stopped midway between the great pillars. Henrietta hadn’t gone that way until now, they had walked to the shop along the other side of the square. She stared before her at the short drive, leading straight as a ruler from the gates, and at its end a square-walled castle, surrounded by a moat. There was a bridge spanning it so that cars could reach its great wooden door exactly facing the open gates, and a sweep of gravel just sufficiently large to allow of them to turn. The castle’s whitewashed walls rose straight and solid from the steel-grey water and were capped by a tiled roof like a clown’s hat, and there were a great many small windows. On either side of it, half way round the moat and almost out of sight, she could see two smaller bridges, connecting the castle with the drive which encircled the outer edge of the moat. She could think of nothing to say; this then was the castle the guide book had mentioned and which she had mistakenly assumed was a ruin—but this was no ruin, it bore all the signs of care and money lavished upon it, and when she looked around her she saw the coat of arms engraved on each pillar. No wonder the women in the shop had been so polite to Mr van Hessel!

‘Are you the lord of the manor?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, we don’t call it that.’ He was amused again.

‘But you do own these houses?’ She pointed to the neat row of houses on either side of the gates. ‘Almshouses, are they?’

‘My dear good…Miss Brodie, they are not almshouses—the leasehold is mine, certainly, but the houses are given as gifts, usually for the recipient’s lifetime. In your case your aunt’s house was given to her together with the right to leave it to any member of her family, should she wish to do so.’

Henrietta stared up at him, wishing she could read his face; there was a great deal she wanted to 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.