Roses for Christmas Read online

  Henry smiled. ‘Smashing—and will you read to me, too?’

  ‘Certainly. Are there any English books here?’

  ‘Dozens and dozens, they’re in the library downstairs. Fulk lets me go there whenever I want, just so long as I put the books back again. He bought some in Groningen for me, too.’

  ‘Splendid, we’ll go through them together later. Now you’re going to drink your milk, my dear.’

  Fulk came back a few minutes later. Immaculately dressed, freshly shaved, he showed no sign of tiredness. His manner was friendly as he checked his small patient’s pulse, gently examined him and pronounced himself satisfied. ‘Two more days of antibiotics,’ he stated, ‘and by then you will be feeling much better, but that won’t mean that you can get up, because you can’t—it’s important that you rest even if you think it a waste of time, so you will do exactly what Eleanor tells you—you understand that, old chap?’

  He glanced at Eleanor, who murmured agreement; antibiotics might bring about a wonderful improvement in rheumatic fever; they also caused the patient to feel so well that there was a danger of him getting up too soon and doing far too much, and that would do his heart no good at all.

  ‘Why?’ asked Henry.

  The big man eyed the small boy thoughtfully. ‘Since you are going to be a doctor one day, you are quite entitled to know the reasons for lying still and having everything done for you. I will explain them to you, but not now, for it would take quite a long time and I haven’t even five minutes—I’m due at the hospital.’ He grinned cheerfully at the white face on the pillow, barely glancing at Eleanor as he wished them tot ziens. She supposed that she had been included in his farewell, even if with such unflattering casualness, and her own ‘goodbye’ was cool. She took care not to watch him as he left the room too, so that it was all the more vexing when he popped his handsome head round the door again and found her gaze fixed upon it.

  ‘You’ll need some time off,’ he reminded her. ‘If you agree, Margaret could sit with Henry for an hour and certainly while you have your meals—she’s a sensible child, isn’t she?’ He smiled at her suddenly. ‘Why were you looking like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Disappointed—bewildered—wistful, I’m not sure which. Never mind, I’ll find out some time.’ He had gone, and this time he didn’t come back.

  The day passed slowly. There wasn’t a great deal for Eleanor to do, but Henry, normally the best-tempered child in the world, was rendered querulous by his illness, so that she was constantly occupied with him. It was only after he had fallen into an uneasy sleep in the early afternoon that she felt free to ring the bell and ask for Margaret to take her place while she ate her lunch; there would be no question of her taking time off; it wouldn’t be fair on Margaret to leave her for more than a short time with her brother. Eleanor whispered instructions to her young sister and slipped from the room, to make her way downstairs to where her belated lunch was to be served in a small room behind the dining room in which she had had her supper on the previous evening. It was a cheerful apartment, with an open fire, a circular table accommodating six chairs, a mahogany side-table, beautifully inlaid, and a bow-fronted cabinet with a fluted canopy, its panels delicately painted. There was a tapestry carpet on the polished floor and the white damask cloth and shining silver and glass made the table very inviting. She sat down, apologising in English for her lateness, an apology which Juffrouw Witsma waved aside with nods and smiles and a gentle flow of soothing words which, while making no sense at all to Eleanor, nevertheless conveyed the assurance that coming down late to lunch was a trifling matter which wasn’t of the least consequence.

  The fresh-faced girl, Tekla, served her with a thick, delicious soup and then bore the plate away to return with a tray laden with a covered dish, a nicely arranged assortment of breads, cheeses and cold meats and a pot of coffee. The covered dish, upon investigation, contained an omelette which Eleanor devoured with a healthy appetite before pouring her coffee from the beautiful old silver coffee pot, and while she sipped the delicious brew from a delicate porcelain cup, she couldn’t help but reflect upon the splendid style in which Fulk lived. Imogen was a lucky girl—that was, Eleanor reminded herself hastily, if she could put up with his occasional arrogance and his nasty habit of ignoring other people’s remarks when he wished, although it wasn’t likely that he would ignore Imogen. She switched her thoughts rather hastily, because for some reason or other she found that she didn’t want to think about her.

  She finished her meal quickly, not wanting to be away too long from Henry, and besides, she still had to go to the library and find a book so that when the invalid wakened presently she could read aloud to him.

  There were a number of doors and several passages leading from the hall. She ignored the sitting room and the archway beside the staircase because it obviously led to the kitchen, and tried the door across the hall—Fulk’s study; she cast an interested eye over the heavy masculine furniture, the enormous desk with its high-backed chair, the equally large wing chair drawn up to the old-fashioned stove, and the one or two rather sombre portraits on the panelled walls, and then shut the door again, wishing very much to stay and examine the room inch by inch.

  She tried the big arched double doors next, facing the sitting room. This, then, was the library; she sighed with pleasure at the sight of so many books ranged on the shelves, the gallery running round the upper walls, and the little spiral staircase leading to it. There were two solid tables too with well upholstered leather chairs drawn up to them and reading lamps conveniently placed. She wandered round, wanting to pull out a handful of books and sit there and browse through them, but that wouldn’t do at all; she glanced at her watch and quickened her steps, examining the shelves as she went. Henry had been right, there were quite a few children’s books; she selected two or three and hurried back upstairs.

  Henry was still asleep. Eleanor went over to where Margaret was perched anxiously by the bed and thanked her warmly. ‘Darling, what are you going to do now?’ she asked. ‘You’re not bored?’

  Her sister shook her head. ‘My goodness, no! Fulk telephoned someone he knew who has a daughter as old as I am, and she’s coming over to spend the afternoon. Her name’s Hermina and she speaks a little English.’ She added seriously: ‘Will you be all right if we go into the gardens for a walk?’

  Eleanor glanced outside. It was a grey afternoon, but dry. ‘Yes, love, but let me know when you come back, won’t you? Is Hermina staying for tea?’

  ‘Yes. Fulk said he’d be home for tea, too—but he’s got to go out this evening.’

  Evidently he preferred to share his plans with Margaret, thought Eleanor huffily, and then felt ashamed of the thought because he had been so kind to them all. She kissed her sister gently and took her place by the bed, and when she had gone, whiled away the time until he woke up, hot and cross and in a good deal of pain, by leafing through the books she had brought from the library: Moonfleet, Treasure Island and The Wind in the Willows. On the front page of each Fulk had written his name in a neat, childish hand, very much at variance with the fearful scrawl in which he had written Henry’s notes.

  She bathed Henry’s hot face and hands, gave him a cooling drink and coaxed him to take his medicine. His temperature was still far too high, she noted worriedly, but took comfort from the fact that the antibiotics still had two days to go. She sat down again, picked up The Wind in the Willows and began to read aloud, stopping after half an hour to turn on the lamp and glance at the clock. Henry was lying quietly, listening to her placid reading, feeling for the moment a little better. She read on, with short intervals for him to have a drink, aware of a longing for a cup of tea herself. She embarked on chapter three, telling herself that Margaret would be along at any moment now.

  But when the door eventually opened it was Fulk, not Margaret, who came in. He said hullo in a quiet voice and went at once to Henry, and only when he had satisfied himself that
the boy was no worse he said: ‘There is tea for you in the sitting room, Eleanor. The little girls are just finishing theirs, but Juffrouw Witsma will make you a fresh pot.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I? I shall sit here with Henry.’

  ‘Your tea?’

  His voice held faint impatience. ‘I had tea at the hospital.’ He went to the door and held it open for her, and she found herself going across the wide gallery and down the staircase without having said a single word.

  Margaret jumped up as she went into the sitting room. ‘I was just coming to you when Fulk came home,’ she explained, ‘and he said he was going to sit with Henry while you came down to tea—you don’t mind, Eleanor?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ Eleanor glanced at the girl standing beside her sister and smiled. ‘Is this Hermina?’ she wanted to know as she shook hands. The girl was pretty, with pale hair and blue eyes and a wide smile; excellent company for Margaret, and how thoughtful of Fulk… She frowned, remembering how impatient he had been with her only a few minutes ago.

  She poured herself a cup of tea from the little silver pot Juffrouw Witsma had set beside her and bit into a finger of toast. The two girls had wandered off to start a game of cards at the other end of the room, and she was left alone with her thoughts. But they were small comfort to her, what with Henry so poorly and Fulk treating her as though she were an evil necessity in his house—and yet upon occasion he had been rather nice… She poured herself another cup of tea, ate a piece of cake and went back upstairs.

  ‘There wasn’t all that hurry,’ observed Fulk from his chair. He closed a folder full of notes as he spoke and got to his feet. ‘Go and get your coat and take a brisk walk outside—the gardens are quite large.’

  ‘I don’t want…’ began Eleanor, and caught his eye. ‘Very well, but can you spare the time? Margaret could come…’

  He sighed. ‘I have the time,’ he told her in a patient voice which made her grit her teeth. ‘I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. I have asked Juffrouw Witsma to sit here while you have dinner this evening, otherwise arrange things to suit yourself, but you must have exercise.’ He picked up a book and sat down again. ‘I shall be out.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Henry unexpectedly.

  ‘That’s rude, Henry,’ Eleanor pointed out. ‘You mustn’t ask those sort of questions.’

  Fulk cast down his book and strolled over to the bed. ‘Hullo, boy—you’re better—not well, but better. All the same, you will go on lying here doing nothing until I say otherwise.’ He glanced quickly at Eleanor and addressed the boy. ‘I’m going out to dine.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Henry!’ said Eleanor, mildly admonishing.

  ‘Imogen’s parents.’

  ‘The lady you’re going to marry?’

  Fulk only smiled and the boy went on: ‘Are they nice? As nice as Mummy and Daddy?’

  Fulk thought for a moment. ‘They’re charming; their home is well ordered and they know all the right people.’

  ‘Is it a big house? As big as this one?’

  ‘Not quite as big.’

  ‘I like your house,’ his patient informed him seriously, ‘but I like my home too, though I expect you find it rather small. Does the lady you’re going to visit cook the dinner?’

  The big man’s mouth twitched as though he were enjoying a private joke. ‘No, never. Now, your mother is a splendid cook, and even though your home is small it’s one of the nicest houses I’ve been in.’

  Henry beamed at him rather tiredly. ‘Yes, isn’t it—though I expect you’d rather live here.’

  ‘Well, it is my home, isn’t it?’ He turned to Eleanor. ‘Supposing you telephone your mother and father before you settle down for the evening? Tell them that this young man is picking up nicely and if he’s as good tomorrow as he’s been today, we’ll bring the telephone up here and he can speak to them himself.’

  ‘Oh, you really are super!’ Henry declared, and fell instantly asleep.

  Fulk went back to his chair. ‘Well, run along, Eleanor.’ He glanced at the slim gold watch on his wrist and smiled in casual, friendly dismissal, so that she went to her room without saying anything, put on her coat, snatched up her headscarf and mitts and went crossly downstairs. As soon as Henry was fit to be moved, she promised herself rashly, she would take him home, not bothering to go into the difficulties of such an undertaking. Not for the first time, she wondered why Fulk had bothered to bring her over to his home; Henry’s persuasive powers, most likely, certainly not from his own wish.

  It was cold and almost dark outside, with a starry, frosty sky and a cold moon which lighted her path for her. She walked briskly right round the house along the gravel drive which surrounded it and then down to the gates and back again. The house, now that she had the time to look at it properly in the moonlight, was even bigger than she had at first thought; she stood still, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in it and have it for a home, and while she stood there she heard a dog barking and remembered that she hadn’t yet seen the dog Henry had mentioned, nor for that matter had she seen Moggy. She went indoors and poked her head round the sitting room door, where the girls were still playing cards.

  ‘Have you seen Fulk’s dog?’ she asked her sister.

  ‘Oh, yes—he’s an Irish wolfhound, his name’s Patrick O’Flanelly, but Fulk calls him Flan. Henry’s kitten is here too—he’s over here in the corner.’

  She led the way to the other end of the room where Moggy lay sleeping in an old shopping basket lined with a blanket. ‘Flan goes everywhere with Fulk, you know, he’s in the kitchen now, having his supper, do you want to see him?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to, but not now, I’m going back to sit with Henry.’

  Margaret slid a hand into hers. ‘Fulk says Henry’s better and that in a few days he’ll be able to sit up and play some games with me. Are you going to telephone home? The place you have to call is here by the telephone—Fulk left it for you.’

  He might get impatient with her, but he wasn’t to be faulted when it came to making things easy for her. She dialled the overseas exchange and a few minutes later heard her mother’s voice.

  ‘Henry’s better,’ she said at once because she knew that that was what her mother wanted to hear, and went on to reassure her before handing the telephone over to Margaret and hurrying back upstairs; it would never do for Fulk to be late for his dinner engagement.

  It seemed very quiet after he had told her what to do for Henry, said a brief goodnight and gone away without a backward glance, indeed, she had the impression that he was glad to be going. Her brother was drowsing and she sat tiredly, hardly thinking, waiting for him to wake up so that she could do the variety of chores necessary for his quiet night, and if his temperature was down, she promised herself, and he seemed really better, she would get ready for bed and then sit with him until he fell asleep and then go to bed herself. She yawned widely at the very thought, then got up to study her brother’s sleeping face; he did look better, and Fulk had said that he was, and she was quite sure that he would never have gone out for the evening unless he had felt easy in his mind about the boy.

  It struck her all at once that she had no idea where Fulk had gone; she would have to go downstairs and find out, she was actually on her way to the door when her eye lighted on a fold of paper tucked into The Wind in the Willows. It was a note, brief and to the point, telling her that should she need Fulk, he could be reached at a Groningen number. ‘The Atlanta Hotel,’ he had scrawled. ‘Don’t hesitate to let me know if you are worried. If I have left the hotel, try this number.’ He had printed it very clearly so that she could make no mistake. She read the businesslike missive through once more, wondering whose the second number was; not the hospital, she knew that already. She told herself sharply not to be nosey.

  It was past midnight before Henry finally fell into a quiet sleep. Margaret had tiptoed in to say goodnight hours before; Eleanor decided to have her ba
th and get ready for bed, something which she did speedily, with the door open so that she might hear the slightest sound, but Henry slept on, with none of the restless mutterings and tossing and turning of the previous night. She glanced at the small enamel clock on the dressing table, decided that she would read until one o’clock and went back to her chair once more; she should have chosen a book for herself while she had been in the library; now she would have to content herself with The Wind in the Willows, a book she had read many times already. She settled down to enjoy Toad’s activities.

  The clock’s silvery chimes recalled her to the time. She looked once more at Henry, sleeping peacefully, yawned widely and then gave a choking gasp as Fulk said from the door: ‘Still up? There’s no need tonight, you know—he’s better.’

  She peeped at him through the curtain of hair she hadn’t bothered to plait. He was leaning against the door jamb, his hands in the pockets of his exquisitely tailored dinner jacket; elegant and self-assured and not over-friendly. She wondered why. Perhaps dining with Imogen’s parents had filled his mind with thoughts of her, and coming back to herself, sitting untidily wrapped in a dressing gown and her hair anyhow, could be irritating to him. She said apologetically: ‘I know—I’m going to bed now; I’ve been reading and I forgot the time.’

  He came across the room and took the book from her knee. ‘Well, well,’ his eyebrows rose an inch, ‘bedtime stories. A little old for Toad, aren’t you, Eleanor?’

  ‘I’ve been reading it to Henry,’ she snapped, ‘and I don’t see what age has to do with it, anyway,’ she said pointedly: ‘It’s your book.’

  He was leafing through it. ‘Yes, but I fancy I’ve outgrown it.’

  ‘And that’s a pity, though from what I remember of you, you probably didn’t enjoy it when you were a little boy.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Meaning that even at an early age I had already formed my regrettable character?’