Little Girl Lost (41 page)

Jane knocked and opened the door. ‘It's Mr Webster, ma'am. He asks if it's too late to call.'

‘Oh, no, not at all. Please show him up; and make tea, will you please, Jane?'

Mr Webster was shown in; there was a covering of snowflakes on his shoulders and top hat. He apologized profusely for the lateness of the hour. ‘I would not have come so late on a Christmas Eve, dear lady,' he said, ‘except that I have in this last half-hour received a messenger directly from York. He brought me news from Ramsey's lawyer, who, I might add, is Ramsey's lawyer no longer. The man has flown.'

‘Flown?' Rosamund said breathlessly. ‘Ramsey?'

‘The same,' the lawyer said, chuckling. ‘Last seen boarding a ferry to France with his wife and children scurrying after him.'

‘So what does it mean for my mother?' Margriet asked urgently.

‘It means that Ramsey is a bigamist and that your mama is free of him, though not of the scandal. But as he was a York resident and not from Hull, it is the York newspapers that will run it – indeed are already running it, for bigamy is a rare felony. By the time Christmas is over his escapades will be old news and of no interest to the readers of the Hull
Packet
or
Advertiser
. It also means,' he continued, warming to his subject as he was invited to take a seat, ‘that he is unlikely to return to these shores. If he does, the law will have him, not on one count but on two, for he is being chased by another lady – and I use the appellation lightly – whom he also
married
. The only thing in his favour, begging your pardon, madam, is that it appears he did not consummate that marriage either.'

Margriet saw by her mother's drained and ashen face that she was on the point of collapse, such was her relief at hearing the long-awaited news. ‘And if by chance he dared to come back?' she asked quietly.

‘Then he has no claim on your mother, none whatsoever. I propose, if I may, dear lady,' he went on, turning to Rosamund, ‘that you insert a small advertisement in the newspapers to say that henceforth you are to be known only as Mrs Vandergroene, and no other name will be recognized.'

In late February, Hans wrote to say he was now working in the Hull office and had obtained comfortable lodgings in the town. ‘I am at present travelling with one of my colleagues, but I hope to call and see you one day soon.'

Margriet was delighted to hear from him, but tried not to think of him too often in order to keep Anneliese quiet. She sometimes thought she must be hovering on the verge of delirium, for surely this was not normal. For the first time she began to wonder why she could still see an imaginary childhood friend, whom she herself had named Anneliese. As she slipped between the bedsheets that night, she thought she knew that Anneliese was not real, but imaginary, and yet she appeared when she least expected her. As a child she had conjured up a companion because she was lonely, but she was no longer lonely.

‘But
I'm
lonely,' Anneliese whispered. ‘You don't think about that, do you? Just because you have new friends doesn't mean you can abandon me. Come with me, Margriet. Come out and play.'

Margriet sat up and saw Anneliese sitting at the foot of her bed. ‘I don't want to. Anneliese, please stop. I'm grown up now and you must grow up too.' She stopped speaking as Anneliese began to weep at her words and her form became shadowy and indistinct. ‘I'm sorry,' Margriet said, reaching out a hand towards her. ‘I don't want to hurt you, but you must try to understand.'

Where Anneliese had been sitting was a shadow, dissolving like grey mist over water, but Margriet knew she was still there. She hadn't gone away; she was still there, waiting for her.

When Hans arrived back at the Hull office at the beginning of March he was greeted by the news that there had been an outbreak of influenza in the town and that they should avoid crowds. ‘It has been in Amsterdam also,' Hans said, ‘as has cholera, but it was contained.'

After finishing work for the day he went back to his lodgings in a house in Grimsby Lane, that ran between Market Place and High Street, run by a widow and her daughter. He dropped his bag there, wrote a note to Margriet, changed his formal business coat for a casual one and went out again, his intention being to put the note through the Vandergroenes' letter box, asking if he might call the next day, a Saturday.

He looked up at the topmost windows of the tall house in Parliament Street and thought he saw a shadow against one of them. He waved a hand in case it was Margriet, ran up the steps, and slipped the envelope through the letter box before turning and striding down the street again. He would have supper at a hostelry in the town, and then go back to his lodgings for an early night. The last few weeks had been very busy, with much travelling and many meetings with potential clients.

The next morning he rose, had breakfast and wandered into the town. He bought a posy of flowers from a girl at a stall who smiled and thanked him as he paid her, and then made his way to Parliament Street. He was shown into the sitting room, where Mrs Vandergroene greeted him warmly, and he remarked how well she looked as he handed her the posy.

‘I am very well indeed,' she said. ‘Thank you. How very nice of you to call. Won't you be seated? Margriet will be down very shortly. She was up late this morning, but seemingly she didn't sleep well. In fact I heard her call out once and went to her, but she didn't wake – dreaming, I suppose.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. I wondered if you would allow her to come for a short walk with me this morning, Mrs Vandergroene, just into town or by the river. Perhaps you would like to come too?'

‘Oh, no, thank you, it's still far too cold for me. But perhaps you should avoid the river,' she said cautiously. ‘I understand there is influenza in the town, and the Old Harbour is always packed with ships and boats. You can't be too careful: foreign sailors and travellers might well be carrying the infection. You could of course walk by the estuary, if you don't consider it too far. It is very open there, if very breezy. Margriet used to like going there with her papa when she was a child.'

Hans hid a wry smile as she spoke; she obviously didn't think of him as a foreigner or a traveller, even though he was foreign and indeed had been travelling. The door opened and Margriet came in and greeted him, then apologized for her lateness. He was struck immediately by her pallor and dull eyes. He gave a short formal bow. ‘How nice to see you, Margriet,' he said. ‘I asked your mother if you might like a short walk, but I understand that you have not slept well, so perhaps …' His question hung in the air, weighted with his disappointment that she might not come.

She sank down on the sofa. ‘It's true that I didn't sleep well, I often don't, but a walk in the fresh air might waken me up. I might be very dull company, though.'

He assured her that she wouldn't be, and then was startled when she asked if he had arrived back from his travels this morning. ‘Yesterday,' he said. ‘Did you not receive my note asking if I might call?'

Margriet looked at her mother, who shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,' Margriet said. ‘I did not. When did you send it?'

‘Last evening at about six thirty. I brought it myself. Did I not see you in an upstairs window?'

She smiled. ‘No. Mama and I were having supper at that time.'

‘I waved. One of the maids perhaps, looking out?'

She drew in a breath, then shook her head and murmured, ‘I don't think so. Perhaps a movement of the curtain?'

He agreed it could be that, and didn't mention that the window had been closed. She went to get a warm cloak and a shawl and he told Rosamund that he wouldn't keep her out long, as she did look very tired. He thought they might have rain, and he wouldn't like her to get a chill. Rosamund was gratified by his concern and said she would place her daughter in his safe hands.

When they reached the street he asked Margriet if she would like to take his arm, and wondered why she looked back at the house before she said, ‘Yes, thank you, I will in just a moment.' She fiddled with her gloves and shawl until they turned the corner into Whitefriargate, then put her arm through his.

‘Where would you like to go?' he asked. ‘Your mother suggested the estuary.'

‘That would be lovely,' she said. ‘Could we go to the hotel and have hot chocolate? Papa used to take me there.'

‘You must still miss him,' he said. ‘I miss my father very much. Sometimes I want to ask his advice on something and forget, momentarily, that he's no longer here.'

She turned and looked up at him. ‘Oh, so do I miss mine. I used to think that I was the only one to feel such things, but of course I'm not. It's so hard, isn't it, especially if you have had a good relationship, as I did.'

‘But you have your mother; she seems very protective of you.'

‘She was so protective when I was a child that I was not allowed to have friends,' Margriet told him. ‘She didn't want me to go to school, but I think my father must have insisted.' She hesitated, as if she might have said more, then asked him about his work in the office.

She was glad when they reached the pier, for she felt quite chilled. The wind was strong and the estuary water rough, and seeing her shiver Hans suggested they go into the hotel to have a hot drink and get warm.

‘This is the place where Papa brought me,' she said. She remembered too that it was here that she had met Mr Webster; something stirred in her memory and she wondered if it was then that he had warned her father about making his will watertight. What a clever, dear man he was to be on the side of women and fight the injustice inflicted upon them. She was glad he was now their friend as well as their lawyer.

There were few people in the hotel and they had the room overlooking the estuary to themselves. Hans thought that Margriet seemed unwell; she had drawn her shawl tight about her shoulders, and as she drank her chocolate she glanced around the room from time to time.

‘Are you uneasy about something, Margriet?' he asked quietly. ‘Is something bothering you?'

She passed her tongue over her lips. ‘Not exactly,' she murmured. ‘But I think I am perhaps unwell.'

‘Then we must get you home immediately.' He started to rise to his feet, but she forestalled him.

‘No!' She didn't mean to be brusque, but thought that was how it sounded. ‘I'm sorry. It's nothing, really.'

‘
Ow!
' Hans rubbed his thigh and shifted in his chair. ‘Something sharp in the upholstery,' he said, running his hand over the fabric. ‘A pin left in maybe.
Ow!
' he said again as he felt the pain, and was astonished when Margriet hissed, ‘
Stop it!

‘No, no, not you, Hans,' she said. Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled.

‘Margriet! What is it? What's wrong?'

She shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone.'

He leaned forward and took her hand. ‘You can tell me anything—' As he began to speak he felt a slap on the back of his head, sharp enough to make his ears ring. ‘Ow! What's happening? I think we had better leave.'

‘I will explain,' she wept. ‘But you must promise not to tell anyone, and I will understand if you don't believe what I say.'

‘I believe that something nipped and slapped me,' he said softly, ‘but I don't know what it was, for there's no one else in the room. Is this place haunted?'

‘I don't think so. It's me,' she croaked. ‘I'm the one who's haunted, and I don't know what to do.'

‘You're going to have to explain, Margriet.' Once more he reached for her hand and again he felt a sharp pinch on his thigh. ‘Trust me,' he whispered. ‘Tell me.'

And so she began.

Hans listened carefully to the long tale of the mettlesome spirit who had penetrated Margriet's thoughts and imaginings since she was a child. He had no reason to disbelieve it for he had felt the pinches, but he was inclined to believe there was some other explanation. Margriet, he considered uneasily, was certainly unwell and troubled no matter what the reason. He called for the bill, and led her to the door. It had started to rain, so he put her cape hood over her head and fastened his own scarf round her neck to keep it in place.

‘Where is the nearest cab stand?' he asked the post boy, and when the lad pointed across the road he hurried Margriet towards it with his arm about her, almost carrying her towards a waiting carriage.

‘Parliament Street, quick as you can,' he ordered the driver, who cracked the whip and set off down busy Queen Street, through the throng of shoppers heading for the market.

‘Don't tell Mama,' she urged fearfully. ‘Please don't tell Mama. Only say that I have a chill. It's true,' she muttered. ‘I'm so very cold.'

He put his arm about her again and drew her close. This wasn't the way he had imagined holding her in his arms, but she was trembling and shaking, unable to keep her body still, and he was struck by the sudden fear that she might have influenza.

The cab cut down Silver Street into Whitefriargate and Margriet lowered her head to her knees as if she didn't want to be seen as they passed the end of Land of Green Ginger.

‘Don't tell Mama,' she implored again as they reached her door. ‘She won't understand. She doesn't know about her.' She turned a stricken face up to him. ‘But I think maybe Papa did.'

He kept his thumb on the bell, which made Jane come running. ‘Miss Margriet is ill. Please fetch her mother immediately, and then she needs hot bricks in her bed and a fire lit in her room.'

‘Yes, sir.' Jane bobbed her knee. ‘And a hot posset?'

He didn't understand what she meant and she told him it was hot milk with added spice and wine. ‘You must ask her mother about that,' he said. ‘She will know.'