The Promise of Happiness Read online

  ‘I’ll telephone Willem presently; he can fetch it.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘You look simply frightful, my dear, but you’re a very brave girl.’

  It wasn’t the kind of compliment a girl would appreciate, but it was better than nothing, she supposed. ‘Now get those wet things off,’ he ordered.

  ‘Yes—but Bertie…?’

  ‘He’ll do, I fancy. I’m going to clean him up and then send for the vet.’

  She took slacks and a sweater from the cupboard and presently, her hair still damp round her shoulders, joined him on the floor by Bertie.

  The Baron had done a good job on the old dog. He was clean and almost dry and his wounded leg was lying on what Becky recognised as one of Mevrouw Botte’s pillowcases. She asked urgently: ‘Shall I telephone now? And what about you?’

  His mouth twitched faintly. ‘No. I’ll telephone— the vet and Willem, he can bring me some clothes. I’ll ask Mevrouw Botte if I can use her shower. I’ll be back before the vet goes.’

  Left alone Becky hugged Bertie gently, fed an impatient Pooch and tidied up the mess the Baron had made. She had only just finished this when the vet arrived—a cheerful young man who introduced himself as de Viske and began work on Bertie without more ado. ‘Tiele around?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘He’s downstairs, changing his clothes—he came into the canal too, you see.’

  Mijnheer de Viske didn’t see at all; it wasn’t like Tiele to go grovelling around in canals, but he supposed there had been some good reason for it. He asked: ‘Did the dog fall in the water?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know—he was lost and then we found him caught up in a lot of flotsam under a bridge.’

  He would get the story out of Tiele later. In the meantime he examined Bertie, cleaned his injured leg, put a couple of stitches in and gave him an antibiotic. ‘He’ll do,’ he pronounced finally. ‘Keep him quiet for a day or two. I’ll come round and take another look in a day or two—Tiele’s got my telephone number if you should want me before then.’

  Becky thanked him, wondering if she should tell him that she wasn’t on those sort of terms with the Baron; she was wondering, too, how best to say so when that gentleman, in slacks and a sweater, came in, to engage Mijnheer de Viske in a brief conversation before he left. Becky, who had expected the Baron to go at the same time, was nonplussed when he sat himself down in a shabby, comfortable easy chair by the empty stove, lifted Pooch on to his knee and asked in the mildest of voices if there was any coffee.

  And when she said yes, she would make it straight away: ‘And I hope you can make it in the Dutch way—it’s mostly undrinkable in England.’

  She hurried to assure him that Mevrouw Botte had taught her exactly how to make it and went into her little kitchen, to pop out a minute later to answer the knock on the door. It was Willem bearing a tray loaded with bottle and glasses. He wished her good evening in a benign voice, expressed the hope that she was none the worse for her adventure and still speaking English informed his master that he was about to return to Huize Raukema; that he had found the raincoat, fetched the Rolls from the hospital where it had been parked, and added in an expressionless voice: ‘And Juffrouw van Doorn, Baron, is there any message for her?’

  The Baron gazed at his elderly friend and servant, looking remarkably put out. He said something which sounded like the worst kind of swear words in a forceful voice, and Becky was sorry that she couldn’t understand them. It was obvious that Willem did, though, from the shocked look on his face. But the Baron recovered quickly. He said blandly: ‘Ah, yes—I had forgotten, think up something for me, will you, Willem? If you could tell her that I have been unavoidably detained—and she had better go without me, and make my excuses.’

  ‘Very good, mijnheer.’ Willem’s face was as bland as his master’s as he poured the brandy, asked if there was anything else he could do and bade them both good evening.

  ‘He’s very nice,’ pronounced Becky. ‘Have you had him a very long time?’

  The Baron handed her a glass. ‘Legend has it that I sat on his knee as a baby.’

  Becky tried to imagine her companion as a baby and failed completely. ‘I’m sorry your evening has been spoilt; I hope Juffrouw van Doorn won’t be too upset.’

  ‘She will be livid,’ he observed with calm. ‘Drink your brandy, it will prevent you catching cold.’ He leant over Bertie for a moment and listened to the dog’s snores. ‘He’ll be all right now.’

  Becky sipped her brandy, wrinkling her nose. ‘This tastes very peculiar.’

  Not a muscle of the Baron’s face moved. He would hardly have described his best Napoleon brandy as peculiar. He said merely: ‘I think that it is a taste that one acquires.’ He got up from his chair, putting Pooch gently on the floor, and went to stand by the door. ‘You are still happy at the hospital? It has seemed to me that the work may be too heavy for you…’

  She felt herself grow pale; she hadn’t been satisfactory after all, and she had been trying so hard. ‘No, I don’t mean that you aren’t able to do the work—you seem to be getting on very nicely, I merely meant that the patients you heave up and down their beds seem to be at least three times your size. I thought that old Mevrouw Kats would have had you on the floor…’

  Becky went red where she had been white before. She hadn’t thought he had seen her and he had. ‘I’m very strong.’ She took another sip of the brandy, and then another. She didn’t like the taste, but it was deliciously warming. A pleasant cosy haze slowly enveloped her; she had tried very hard during the last few days to forget the Baron, but it had been of no use, of course, and the effort had given her a perpetual headache and kept her awake at night, but now she suddenly felt quite cheerful.

  ‘I haven’t thanked you yet,’ she said chattily. ‘I— we’re awfully grateful—it would have been quite a job prising Bertie loose on my own.’ She took another sip. ‘I didn’t know you walked…I mean, you always seem to be going or coming in your car.’ She added, to make it quite clear: ‘Sometimes I see you going back from the hospital, you often have Juffrouw van Doorn with you.’

  He stared at her, his eyes very blue. ‘Yes?’

  The brandy had gone to Becky’s head. ‘You really shouldn’t marry her, you know—she’s not the wife for you.’

  The Baron shifted his position slightly and took a drink. ‘Should I not?’ he queried softly. ‘Pray give me your advice, my dear girl.’

  His voice should have warned her, but she was now in a state of euphoria beyond heeding that. Her eyes had grown very dark and round and she spoke with careful deliberation. ‘Someone kind and loving who would take no notice of your bad temper; who’d look after you and make sure that you had enough sleep, and…’

  ‘My God!’ exploded the Baron. ‘And this paragon? Will she be as beautiful as she is good? Clever and amusing and exciting too, I suppose.’ He paused and went on bitingly, his eyes like blue ice: ‘Or should she be a skinny creature with no conversation—such as yourself, Rebecca?’

  It seemed as though all the blood in her body was rushing to her face. She felt her cheeks burn, but worse than that was the humiliation. Her ever-returning hopes that he might like her were buried under it. He didn’t like her, but did he have to be so cruel, even though she had been a fool to talk to him like that? It was entirely her own fault, she shouldn’t have drunk that brandy. She made herself meet his eyes without flinching.

  ‘Of course she would be beautiful and amusing because you—you never look at anyone less than that, do you? But she could be kind too.’ She drew a breath and put the empty glass down carefully on the crochet mat Mevrouw Botte considered correct to display on the table. She said miserably, wishing she could still her unruly tongue: ‘I’m sorry I said that, it was only because I like you so much that I did it. I’d like you to be happy…’ Her voice trailed away under his mocking look.

  ‘You’re drunk, my dear. A glass of brandy and probably no supper. Go to bed and sleep it off. I should keep to tea,
if I were you.’ He put his glass down beside hers, wished her goodnight and ran down the stairs, in such a hurry he didn’t shut the door behind him. Becky shut it slowly and then went and sat by the dozing Bertie. Presently Pooch came to sit with her and she stayed there a long while, so unhappy that she was quite beyond tears.

  She made tea later, saw to Bertie’s and Pooch’s needs and got ready for bed. She was on the point of putting out the light when Mevrouw Botte knocked on the door and when Becky opened it, handed her a note.

  ‘Willem,’ she said, and pointed downstairs. It was a brief missive, telling her, in the Baron’s careless unintelligible scrawl, that he had arranged with the hospital that she should take her days off on the next two days so that Bertie might have the necessary attention. It had no beginning and no end, just his initials.

  She told herself that she must be grateful for his thoughtfulness and went to bed, where she spent an almost sleepless night wondering how she would feel when she saw him again. Absolutely ghastly, she supposed.

  The two days went slowly. She tended Bertie, who was making a remarkable recovery, easing him up and down the stairs twice a day with Pooch under her arm, doing a little household shopping and trying out her Dutch, and working at her lessons. The weather had cleared after the storm, but it was cooler now, so that the little room under the roof was quite bearable, besides, she could take a chair on to the balcony when she felt inclined. But it was dull too and she couldn’t be bothered to cook, so that on the third day, when she went back to work, she had got thinner and there were dark shadows under her eyes because she hadn’t been sleeping. She tried not to think about meeting the Baron; she would have to sooner or later, she knew that, but it would be easier if it were during a ward round when he had no need to address her. Perhaps Fate would be kind, she thought hopefully, as she darted down the corridor on her way to the changing room.

  Fate was nothing of the sort. Coming towards her was the Baron. And why here? she thought wildly; it doesn’t lead anywhere but the cloakrooms and Nurses’ Home. She took a few deep breaths so that by the time he had reached her she was able to say good morning in a quiet voice. She had had every intention of not stopping, indeed, she had passed him when he caught her by the shoulder and brought her to a halt.

  ‘How is Bertie?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Very much better, thank you. Mr de Viske is coming this afternoon to see him.’ She wriggled a little under his hand. ‘I’m on duty…’

  ‘Not so fast. My mother has Tialda staying with her, and they would like you to go to tea. Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s my two to eight.’

  ‘In that case, make it lunch. Ulco shall fetch you at half past eleven—my mother will be lunching at noon. You will be taken back in good time so that you can look in on Bertie before you go on duty.’

  ‘I don’t think…’ began Becky weakly.

  ‘She will be delighted to see you again,’ said the Baron smoothly, ‘and Tialda is only here until tomorrow evening.’ He nodded briefly and was gone before she could say another word.

  She saw him later on the round, of course; he included her in his general good morning to the small group of people waiting to accompany him. It was a pity that several of the patients were even heavier than Mevrouw Kats and one of them stone deaf into the bargain. Becky was forced to raise her voice so that she might give instructions to the old dear, tying her tongue in knots over the grammar while the Baron stood at the foot of the bed, looking impassive and, she had no doubt, laughing his head off.

  She was ready in good time the next morning, although she wasn’t absolutely sure that the Baron had meant a word of his invitation. But Ulco arrived exactly at half past eleven, expressed his pleasure at seeing her again and ushered her into the Cadillac, as though she were royalty. Indeed, on the short journey to the Baroness’s house, he told her that she had been very much missed and that everyone would be glad to see her again.

  And the Baroness’s greeting bore this out. She declared that she didn’t see nearly enough of Becky and that something must be done about it, and when Tialda joined them presently she hugged Becky with real pleasure, declaring that she would have to pay her a visit in den Haag before the summer was out. So it was a cheerful little party which sat down to a delicious lunch presently, and Becky, after her un-inspired diet of fruit and bread and cheese and too many cups of tea, ate with appetite. Just at first she had been on tenterhooks, afraid that the Baron would join them, and it was a relief when Tialda mentioned that she had met Nina in town and been told that Tiele was taking her to lunch. ‘At least,’ went on Tialda, ‘she invited herself—she told me so. I wish Tiele would exert himself…she practically lives with him, and only because he’s too lazy to do anything about it. He won’t marry her, of course—he’s not quite such a fool, but I just wish he’d fall in love with someone else.’ She smiled at Becky. ‘Have you made any friends yet, Becky?’

  ‘Well, I’m getting to know some of the nurses— it’ll be better when I can speak Dutch properly.’

  ‘Oh, good—I must come and see your flat one day, but now Pieter’s back I don’t have much time.’

  Becky said she didn’t suppose that she had and asked the Baroness how she was getting on—an endless topic which lasted until it was time for her to leave. ‘If you don’t mind?’ she asked her hostess. ‘You see, I must just pop in and make sure Bertie is all right.’

  The Baroness kissed her. ‘And next time you must come for the day and bring Bertie and Pooch. Tialda, you must try and come too.’

  Ulco was waiting in the hall. So was the Baron, and when she stopped short: ‘Well, don’t look so surprised, Becky—I happened to be passing and it seemed good sense to pick you up.’ He ushered her through the door Ulco had opened for them and opened the door of the Rolls. Nina was in the front seat. She turned her head and nodded without speaking as Becky got in and when Tiele was beside her again, spoke to him in Dutch, making Becky well aware that she was being given a lift and nothing more. Although the Baron didn’t seem to consider that to be the case, because he asked her how she thought his mother was getting on, wanted to know if Bertie had quite recovered and even made one or two observations about the hospital, so that Nina had no chance to join in the conversation. At Mevrouw Botte’s door he stopped, remarking: ‘I’ll wait for you, Becky—is ten minutes enough?’

  She was already out of the car as he came round to her door. ‘Thank you, but I’ll walk.’ She was breathing rather fast and her colour was high; Nina hadn’t even bothered to turn her head when she had wished her goodbye.

  ‘Why?’ He smiled faintly. ‘You’ll be late on duty.’

  ‘I prefer to be that than—than…I suppose you think it’s funny to watch her snubbing me—I expect you think I deserve it, too. Probably I do. Thank you for the lift.’

  She couldn’t walk away because he had taken her by the arm. Now he turned and said something to Nina which made that young lady sizzle with temper. ‘I’ve told Nina that she can wait if she likes to. Let’s go up.’

  But before he did he took the ignition key out of the car and put it into a pocket, blandly ignoring both girls’ astonished faces.

  Inside the flat he sat down, watching Becky putting food out and opening the door on to the balcony. ‘And let me assure you, Becky, that I don’t find Nina’s behaviour towards you in the least funny. I’m not sure what I find it.’ He bent to lift an impatient Pooch on to his knee. ‘That’s not quite true, but there is no time to discuss it now. Are you ready?’

  Nina had gone by the time they reached the car. ‘Get in front,’ begged the Baron. ‘We can talk shop until we get to the hospital.’

  Which they did in a comfortable casual fashion, brought to an end when they were crossing the vast entrance hall together.

  ‘I should prefer it if you were to call me Tiele,’ said the Baron a` propos nothing.

  Becky would have stopped if he had given her the chance, but as he didn’t s
he contented herself with a long look at him. ‘Quite impossible—you’re a Baron and a doctor, and I worked for you…’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep throwing Baron at me in that inflexible fashion; I was Tiele first, you know. Besides, you told me that you liked me…’

  She marched on, not looking at him, her cheeks glowing. ‘I like you, too, Becky.’ His voice was beguiling.

  She said stonily: ‘Yes, I know. I heard you telling your mother that in Trondheim—you liked me, but I wasn’t your cup of tea.’

  ‘And I was quite right—but I do believe that you’re my glass of champagne, Becky.’

  They had come to a halt now, for she had to turn down a corridor leading to the back of the hospital and he was going, presumably, to the consultants’ room. In any case, a houseman was hovering, only kept at bay by the Baron’s dismissing wave of the hand.

  ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ declared Becky severely.

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand myself.’ He added sharply: ‘You’ve got thin again, are you eating enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I-I expect it’s the warm weather.’

  He nodded, thinking about something else. Then: ‘You have enough money?’

  Becky was vexed to feel her cheeks grow hot again. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘And yet you seem to have very few clothes. I thought girls spent a lot of money on clothes.’

  Her eye caught the clock; she had about three minutes in which to change and present herself on the ward. ‘Oh, we do, but I-I’m saving up for something.’ She gave a funny indecisive little nod, said goodbye and flew along the corridor. If he had asked what she was saving up for she would have had to tell a fib—she was normally an honest girl, but to look him in the eye and tell him that she was saving every cent so that she could get away from him just wasn’t on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BECKY SAW a good deal of the Baron during the next week; they seemed to be forever meeting on stairs and along corridors and he came to the ward frequently, often on his own, and twice he left when she did, offering her a lift home which she accepted, because although her head reminded her of her resolve not to see him unless she was forced to, her heart urged her to turn a deaf ear to such advice. And on the second occasion he had suggested, vaguely, she had to admit, that he would take her to dine at a famous castle hotel—Borg de Breedenburg, which was at Warffum, a village about fifteen miles north of Groningen. On the strength of his suggestion she had gone out the very next day and bought a dress, a pretty flowered cotton voile which cost a good deal more than she could afford, telling herself that she was a fool to have taken him seriously.