The Edge of Winter Page 9

  The washing out of the way, she poured coffee for them both and sat down to drink it. Bertram was sulking. She suspected that he had had things very much his own way while Thelma had been ill, and looking at him now, she could see no sign of grief on his face.

  ‘Will you mind having a housekeeper here?’ she asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘What do I care who comes? Anyway, Father says you’ll stay.’

  Her fine eyes sparkled. ‘Did he now? But you see, Bertram, I’m not going to stay, only until the funeral.’

  ‘I’m not going!’ he told her loudly.

  ‘Well, I hardly thought you would,’ she agreed, and added gently: ‘Will you miss your mother very much, Bertram?’

  ‘Miss her? No—she was always ill. Father says she didn’t think about us, only thought about herself.’

  Araminta felt the tears prick her eyelids. ‘That’s not true! Your mother thought about you both—she was ill, and it seems to me that neither of you cared.’ And when he shrugged: ‘You’d better go to your friend’s house, Bertram.’

  She got up and walked out of the kitchen, anxious to be free of his company. It was better when he had gone. She dusted and mopped and got herself some lunch which she didn’t eat after all, then went to the kitchen to get the supper ready. Thomas would be home, presumably about six. There were pork chops in the fridge and a carton of custard. If she got the vegetables done now she would have the afternoon to herself. But that wasn’t very satisfactory, as it turned out, for she sat doing nothing, tired from all the washing, allowing her mind to wander. Which it did, but always back to Crispin. Such a waste of time, she told herself crossly, and went to see if the clothes were dry.

  She had supper almost ready when Thomas came in. He had Bertram with him and it was obvious that the boy had been telling tales, for his father, greeting him with his usual pomposity, added: ‘I’m told that you made Bertram do a great many chores this morning—I don’t care for your attitude towards him, Araminta.’

  ‘Well, you expect me to do a great many chores, don’t you, Thomas? And I don’t care for your attitude towards me, either.’ Araminta’s pretty face went pink. ‘And if you think I came back because I wanted to,’ she snapped, ‘you’re very much mistaken. I came back because of Thelma.’

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable, but only for a moment. ‘I shall work for half an hour in my study,’ he announced, ‘and supper promptly at seven o’clock.’ He gave her a frowning glance. ‘I’ve had a busy day, arranging for the funeral and so on, and of course my normal work must be done at all costs.’

  She wished he wouldn’t talk as though the world would crumble unless he did a day’s work in the office. She muttered something and went back to the kitchen.

  At five to the hour the front door bell rang, and at its second peal, knowing that no one would answer it unless she did, Araminta went, not in the best of tempers, to open it. Crispin was leaning against the wall outside.

  ‘You took your time,’ he observed. ‘You look as though you’ve been slaving over a hot stove, too.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ she told him testily, aware that the apron she had put on did nothing for her at all and that her hair was no longer neat. She had been thinking about him all day, and now that he was here, he was making unkind remarks! Self-pity tied itself in a knot in her throat as she glared at him, to be instantly disarmed by his placid:

  ‘Well, it suits you—there’s nothing like an apron to give a girl that little extra something.’

  She laughed then and he said cheerfully: ‘That’s better! Now do take it off, there’s a dear girl, and put on a coat. We’re going out to dinner.’

  ‘But the chops—’ she told him worriedly.

  He peered past her into the gloomy hall. ‘Anyone home? Yes? Surely they don’t need your help in dishing them up and eating them?’ He edged past her, took the door handle out of her hand and closed the door behind him, and said: ‘Ten minutes?’

  Her self-pity and bad temper had disappeared. She nodded happily and skipped down the hall to her room, she had the door open when Thomas came out of his study. ‘Who…?’ he began, and stopped as his eyes fell on the doctor, who wished him good evening in a frosty voice and added:

  ‘I’m taking Araminta out to dinner.’ Thomas made a gobbling noise and the doctor walked past him to where Araminta was still standing, pushed her gently into the room and closed the door. ‘You have no objection?’ he wanted to know silkily.

  ‘Going out to dinner and Thelma dead barely a day?’ said Thomas in a righteous voice.

  Doctor van Sibbelt smiled nastily, his dark face quite menacing. ‘Will you be going without your dinner?’ he asked. ‘I should be careful what you say, Mr Shaw.’ His voice was as nasty as his smile, so that Thomas subsided, his face very red, and muttering that he supposed he would have to see to the supper himself, went loftily to the kitchen.

  Araminta, happily unaware of this brief conversation, whipped out of her slacks and sweater and took a doubtful look at her scanty wardrobe. She had worn the suit yesterday, which left her with the jersey dress and her winter coat. She changed rapidly, did her face, put up her golden hair, snatched up handbag and gloves and went back into the hall, where she found the doctor standing gazing at nothing. But his abstracted air left him when he saw her. ‘Do you still have a key?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Thomas left me one this morning—so that I could do the shopping.’ She went along to the kitchen to say good night to Thomas and found him dishing up the chops. He threw her a sulky look.

  ‘You’re a poor housekeeper,’ he observed in a patronising tone which led her to suggest that he got himself a good one at the earliest possible moment. ‘I shall advertise tomorrow,’ he assured her. ‘After a year of Thelma’s slapdash ways and now you…a man needs to be looked after.’

  Araminta didn’t trust herself to reply, for her pent-up emotions were almost choking her, so that when she rejoined the doctor he observed mildly: ‘You’ve had your feathers ruffled again, I see. We had better go quickly before I do your cousin some injury.’

  On the stairs she said uncertainly: ‘I feel mean—I ought to feel sorry for Thomas and Bertram…’

  Crispin caught her by the arm so that she was forced to stand still and look at him. ‘Was he sorry for his wife?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t believe in an eye for an eye, but can’t you see that pity is quite wasted on a man like that?’ He kept his hand on her arm and hurried her down the rest of the stairs and out to where the Jensen was parked.

  He took her to Dikker and Thijs in the Leidsestraat, where they were shown to a discreet corner table. Araminta couldn’t help but notice that her companion was well-known at the restaurant, and she found herself speculating as to who he brought there. The sharp prick of jealousy confused her so much that he had to ask her twice what she would like to drink.

  Thinking about it later, she wasn’t quite sure what she had had to eat, only that everything tasted delicious, served in elegant peace and quiet, and that her companion had been an amusing and thoughtful host. There were so many facets to his character; the ill-tempered yachtsman, the suave doctor, and now the perfect host. She found herself wondering which was the real Crispin. Not that it mattered, she loved him whatever he chose to be.

  He hadn’t taken her back to the flat after their leisurely meal, but had driven to his home, where Jos had quite obviously been glad to see her, and just as obviously Tante Maybella hadn’t. The old lady had had friends to dinner, but they had been gone some time before Araminta and the doctor returned, and she complained in her high, sweet little voice that she had been lonely and had given Araminta a look which gave her plainly to understand that she had been the cause of it. Which was probably why she remained in the drawing room talking animatedly until Crispin had suggested that it was long past her usual bedtime, when she observed gently: ‘But, my dears, I have been waiting up so that I might wish Araminta good-bye.’ Which seemed such a strong hint to Ara
minta that she said at once that she hadn’t realised that it was so late and got up to go.

  Crispin had said nothing at all, only smiled faintly and the hope that he would protest died almost before she was aware of it. Araminta said her goodbyes nicely, quite understanding that the old lady was jealous of her, although she wasn’t sure why—surely Mevrouw van Sibbelt wasn’t jealous of all the doctor’s friends? and surely he entertained them when he chose? After all, it was his house.

  He had driven her back to the flat without any attempt to dally on the way, and she wished him good night and thanked him quickly as he drew up outside the entrance. The evening, she felt, hadn’t been all that satisfactory. Dinner had been delightful, she had relaxed and enjoyed every minute of it, but sitting between him and his aged aunt in his magnificent drawing room hadn’t been very successful. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for the restrained opulence in which he lived.

  She got out of the car and found that he had got out too, to walk upstairs with her, not hurrying at all, talking of their evening just as though it had been a smash hit. Outside Thomas’s door he put his hands on her shoulders and said: ‘You found Tante Maybella hard going, didn’t you? Have patience with her, dear girl. She can’t help but love you in time, but she has to get used to you—the idea of you.’

  He caught her close and kissed her, a gentle, tender kiss, and then had taken the key from her hand and opened the door for her. ‘Good night, dear Araminta!’ She had closed the door on her own whispered good night.

  She had ample time to think about it all the next day, once she had got Thomas off to the office and Bertram away to his friend’s house. In the light of a cold November day it seemed clear to her that she was allowing her own feelings to run away with her. Just because she was in love with Crispin there was no good reason for supposing that he was in love with her—on the contrary, he was being kind, in the same way as he would be kind to a lost puppy who had thrown itself on his mercy, or an old lady who had lost her purse. For he was a kind man, despite his mocking manner upon occasion and his black looks. She allowed her thoughts to become daydreams while she did the housework.

  Crispin had said nothing about seeing her again. There was a chicken in the fridge, so she prepared it for the evening meal, peeled potatoes, opened a can of peas and found another carton of custard, chocolate this time. An uninspired meal, but shopping was still something of a closed book to her and Thomas hadn’t even bothered to tell her where the nearest food shops were. She filled in the afternoon with the ironing, put the chicken in the oven and went to lay the table. One more day, she promised herself, and she would be able to go home with an easy conscience; Thomas would just have to find himself a housekeeper. When he got home she would have a talk with him and ask at the same time what arrangements had been made for the following day. The funeral was to be in the morning, and as Thelma had no relatives and very few friends, presumably no one would come back to the flat.

  Araminta went to baste the bird and then answer the telephone. It was Crispin. ‘I’ll be round about eight o’clock,’ he told her, for all the world as though he had already told her he would be coming. ‘We’ll have dinner at home, shall we?’ he asked her. ‘I’m going to be held up this evening, but I won’t be later than that.’

  ‘I’ve a chicken in the oven,’ Araminta told him.

  ‘What a busy little housewife you are! Thomas and Bertram will enjoy it. Tot ziens.’

  Thomas wasn’t too pleased when she told him, but he had really nothing to complain about, for the meal was ready for him to eat, and what was more, there was ample time for her to wash up before she went to get ready. She would have had even more time if one or other of them had helped her, but all the same, she was ready and waiting when the doctor arrived. They left the flat together after the most casual of greetings on Crispin’s part, and Araminta kept quiet during their brief drive, for he looked tired and preoccupied, so much so that before they entered the house she asked hastily: ‘You are sure you want me to come? I’ll quite understand…you’ve been busy, haven’t you? I daresay all you want to do is sit down by the fire with a drink and the papers.’

  ‘I’ll settle for you instead of the papers,’ he said, half laughing. ‘I’ve had a heavy day, but I would rather be with you than with anyone else, Araminta.’ He opened the door and ushered her inside. ‘You seem to have grown on me.’

  Such an awkward observation to answer, she decided, and said nothing at all, concluding that he wasn’t expecting one. Jos, advancing upon them from the back of the hall, took his master’s coat, wished them both a good evening, indicated that Araminta might wish to go upstairs to tidy herself, and retired again.

  ‘Do you really need to go upstairs?’ asked the doctor. ‘You look perfectly all right to me. There’s a mirror if you want to look at your face—women usually do.’

  ‘Just for that, I shan’t look,’ said Araminta crisply, and was whirled round to be kissed swiftly.

  ‘Such a lovely girl,’ declared Crispin thoughtfully. ‘She never minces her words, cooks chickens to a turn, knows what to do when a bomb goes off, and always looks dishy. I shall have to do something about it.’

  Araminta longed to ask what, but didn’t. For one thing she felt sure that he was teasing her, and as she couldn’t think of anything gay or clever to say, it seemed wise to remain silent. She smiled rather uncertainly at him and watched his features become placid again.

  ‘Drinks,’ he suggested cheerfully, and led the way to the drawing room where Tante Maybella was awaiting them.

  The old lady greeted her warmly, so that Araminta decided that she had been quite mistaken on the previous evening and enjoyed her dinner very much in consequence, with Mevrouw van Sibbelt regaling her companions with tales of her youth and the people she had known. Her gaiety had tired her, though, for shortly after they returned to the drawing room, she declared that she would go to bed and wished Araminta as warm a good night as her welcome had been before trotting off with Crispin to escort her to the stairs.

  He was back in a very short time to ask her: ‘Would you like to see something of the house? There are some rather nice pictures and some silver and porcelain.’

  They were housed in the library, a vast apartment, its walls lined with books, its polished floor covered with a Persian carpet. There were comfortable chairs arranged in groups round mahogany tables, and a bright fire burning below the magnificently carved chimney piece. They went slowly from one display cabinet to the next, while the doctor explained about Tiger ware, of which he had several specimens, and then pointed out the beauties of the nef which took pride of place in his collection—it was a salt, made in the shape of a ship, and was, he declared, early sixteenth century. Araminta admired it dutifully, although she very much preferred a George the Second shell pattern sugar box, which, while neither so old nor so rare, she considered to be a great deal prettier.

  The glass was exquisite, too, housed in a great bow-fronted cabinet lined with blue velvet, and she pored long minutes over a goblet by Verzelini before enquiring how it came into the doctor’s hands. ‘Elizabethan, isn’t it?’ she essayed. ‘Were the English and Dutch friendly then?’

  ‘On and off. One of my ancestors married an Englishwoman and that was part of her dowry. One of the daughters of the marriage married an Englishman in her turn and their son gave my family the diamond-pinched roemer, just behind the goblet. Personally, I like the Beilby goblets—and there’s that truly priceless doppelpokal on the top shelf. I feel guilty every time I see it because I dislike it so much.’

  Araminta laughed. ‘You ought to be bloated with the pride of possession,’ she told him as they crossed the room to a smaller cabinet housing a collection of dainty china—a hand-painted tea-set, violets on the thinnest of porcelain. Araminta exclaimed: ‘I like this best of all…’

  ‘My father gave it to my mother when they were first married. He had it specially made for her because she loved violets. I like it too.’ He g
ave her a brief glance. ‘She died when I was thirty, almost ten years ago, and my father died two years before her; he was a good deal older. They were devoted.’

  ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A young brother in Canada and two sisters, both married. One lives in Groningen, the other travels a good deal; her husband builds bridges.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘All I have left is Tante Maybella.’

  ‘Oh, you really must do something about it,’ cried Araminta, quite carried away by pity for his loneliness and not stopping to think what she was saying.

  Crispin had come to stand very close to her and now he took her hands in his and asked unexpectedly: When do you return to St Katherine’s?’

  She was quite unable to answer immediately; surprise had her tongue, and a half-felt disappointment, too. She stared up at him, her dark blue eyes wide. The day after tomorrow. It’s—it’s the funeral tomorrow morning, you know, and I told Thomas I wouldn’t stay any longer.’

  His hands moved a little on hers, holding them closer. ‘When you get back, will you resign?’

  Shock took her breath. ‘Resign? Whatever for? I haven’t another job.’

  He ignored that. ‘And during that time—before you leave—will you think of me?’

  Her eyes hadn’t left his face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good—you see, I want to be very sure, Araminta, you’ve seen me at my best and almost at my worst. I’m not an easy man, you know that, but I’m prepared to wait—you are young and not very worldly.’ He smiled, and when she would have spoken: ‘No, don’t say anything, dear girl, not now.’ He bent to kiss her. ‘I’ll take you back to the flat now.’