Little Girl Lost (42 page)

But Rosamund didn't know any remedies for colds and it was left to Cook to decide. She heated milk with a dash of ale and a sprinkling of nutmeg whilst Mrs Simmonds took Margriet upstairs to her room, undressed her, wrapped her in a blanket and put her into her bed, which Jane had warmed with a warming pan filled with hot coals from the kitchen range and hot bricks wrapped in an old blanket.

‘I think you must send for a physician, Mrs Vandergroene,' Hans told her quietly. ‘We cannot rule out the possibility of influenza. Better to be safe than sorry. If you will tell me where he lives I will go myself.'

‘You must ask Mrs Simmonds,' Rosamund said, confused by this development. ‘We rarely see a physician. Ask her for Dr Johnston's address. I seem to recall Margriet liked him when she was a child. We haven't seen him since …' She put her hand to her head. ‘You don't really think—'

But he was gone, running to the kitchen and then out of the door. She went slowly upstairs to sit by her daughter's bedside.

The doctor came within the hour and felt Margriet's burning forehead. Rosamund watched anxiously. ‘Do you think it is influenza, Dr Johnston?' she asked him. ‘I don't know how she could have caught it.'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘She's certainly feverish, but you have done the right thing by putting her to bed. How are you feeling, Miss Vandergroene? Are you able to describe your symptoms to me? Do you have a cough or a sore throat?'

She shook her head. ‘No,' she said weakly, and he watched her nervous eyes search restlessly around the room and saw how she trembled. ‘I'm cold, and I'm hot.' Her body ached too with the shaking but she didn't tell him that; it was as if she was being pulled in several directions.

‘I'll come again tomorrow,' he told Rosamund. ‘Keep her quiet and warm but not overheated and give her plenty of cool drinks, lemonade or boiled water. I'll see myself out.'

He went down the stairs to the young man waiting in the hall. ‘I don't think Miss Vandergroene has influenza,' he said, assuming he was a relative. ‘But she has a fever, I'm not sure what kind. It's strange,' he added, rubbing his hand over his chin. ‘Is she prone to hallucination? She seemed to be looking at someone in the room.'

‘No,' Hans lied. ‘She is rarely ill.'

‘Mmm, that's what her mother said,' the doctor murmured. ‘But I've seen something similar before. Ah well, we'll see. I'll call again tomorrow.'

Hans sat in Mrs Vandergroene's sitting room after the doctor had left, not knowing what else to do. Jane brought him a tray of tea and a plate of bread and ham. He wasn't hungry, but he drank the tea and wished it were coffee. He paced about the room and longed to go up and sit by Margriet's bedside, but he knew that would be unacceptable. Another hour went by and Mrs Simmonds came in.

‘The mistress asked if you were still here, and when I said you were she asked if you'd mind going up.'

Instantly he was on his feet. ‘If you would follow me, sir,' Mrs Simmonds said primly, ‘I'll show you 'way.'

He followed her up to the top of the house, where he waited on the landing whilst the housekeeper went into the room, closing the door behind her. He remembered when he had looked up at the window and seen the shadow. You're being absurd, he told himself firmly, but a doubt crept in.

Mrs Vandergroene came out, looking ashen. ‘She is no better, Mr Jansen,' she said. ‘I am so worried. She keeps talking about someone I have never heard of.'

‘Is there anyone I can fetch to sit with you? A friend or a relative?'

She nodded and swallowed hard. ‘That is why I asked for you,' she said in a low voice. ‘Would you be kind enough to take a message to someone? I feel sure she will come if she is able. She works for someone else now but she knows Margriet very well. She looked after her all through her childhood. Florence is her name. If I give you the address?'

He put his coat on again and asked Jane for directions, but was unable to remember the litany of shortcuts that followed. When he left the house he raced down Whitefriargate to the Junction Dock, where he picked up a cab to take him to Albion Street. He asked the driver to wait, and it was Florrie herself who opened the door. She listened to what he had to say, asked him in and ran down the hall to a room at the end, returning with a woman he guessed was the mistress of the house in spite of her dishevelled appearance.

‘Is there anything you need?' Mrs Sanderson asked. ‘Anything I can send for the poor child?'

‘Your prayers,' he said, ‘and strong thoughts to make her well.'

She nodded. ‘It is done.'

‘I have met your mother and sister,' Florrie told him as they rattled back. ‘I'm going to work for Miss Margriet's grandmother. As her companion,' she added. ‘I sail in a month.'

He nodded, barely listening, and murmured something, but he had no idea what.

Rosamund wept when she saw Florrie. Hans saw the sensible and caring young woman put her hand on her former mistress's shoulder and pat it gently before she ran upstairs.

‘I'm so afraid,' Rosamund wept. ‘What will I do if she doesn't recover?'

He was struck with fear, but murmured comforting words as he led her into her sitting room. ‘Rest for a while,' he said. ‘You are overwrought.' He hesitated, and then asked, ‘May I go up? If Florence is there?'

She sighed and wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, of course. What does it matter if it is the done thing or not? I don't care about anything as long as Margriet gets well again, and I know how highly she regards you.'

He sped upstairs and this time he knocked on the door. When he entered Florrie was kneeling by the bed and murmuring something to her charge, who was thrashing about, her face running with sweat and her hair wet and bedraggled.

‘There's summat up, sir,' Florrie whispered. ‘She keeps calling out a name, but it isn't anybody I know. It sounds Dutch, but I don't ever remember her meeting anybody with that name.'

‘What is it?'

Florrie shook her head. ‘Sounded like Anneliese. It's Dutch, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is.' He watched as the girl leaned over the bed.

‘Miss Margriet,' she said softly. ‘It's Florrie. You know, your Florrie who looked after you when you were just a little bairn. Did I tell you that I'm going to see your
oma
soon? Now then, I don't want to have to tell her that you're ill. She won't be happy to hear that, will she? She'll want to hear that you're fit and well, so what we going to do about it? Will you tek a sip of water?'

She fumbled for the glass at the side of the bed. Hans reached and handed it to her so that she could put it to Margriet's lips. Margriet took a drink, running her tongue about her lips as if her mouth was dry.

She said something, and Hans and Florrie listened intently. ‘There, she said it again,' Florrie murmured. ‘Who is it?'

‘It's someone she used to know,' Hans hedged. ‘Her name was Anneliese.'

‘No.' Florrie shook her head in denial. ‘Nobody I knew of.'

‘Someone in Gouda whom she met at my mother's house,' he said desperately, and was relieved when Florrie seemed to accept it.

They were both startled when Margriet suddenly sat up with wild eyes and shouted, ‘No! I won't come. I'm staying here.'

Hans rushed to the other side of the bed and took her hand. ‘Hold her other hand, Florence,' he urged.

‘It's Florrie, sir,' she told him. ‘Only Mrs Vandergroene calls me Florence.' But she took Margriet's hand as he asked and held it tight.

‘Don't let go,' he said. ‘She's fighting. Hold her fast.' He spoke firmly. ‘Margriet. Tell Anneliese to leave. Tell her it is time she went home.'

Margriet shook her head, her neck stretched back. ‘She doesn't want to,' she said wildly. ‘Not without me.'

Open-mouthed, Florrie gazed with startled eyes from one to another as Hans said, ‘Tell her you are staying here with me and your mother and everyone who loves you.'

Margriet let out a cry. ‘She won't
listen
to me.
You
tell her,' she shrieked. ‘It's because of
you
that she wants me to go with her!' She dropped back on her pillow as if exhausted. ‘You tell her,' she said again, her voice faint but her eyes still searching the room. ‘She'll listen to you.'

Hans swallowed and licked his lips, and held Margriet's hand in both of his. ‘Very well,' he said quietly. ‘I'm going to tell her to leave now and you must hold fast to my hand and to Florrie's and let Anneliese go without you. Do you hear me, Margriet?'

She didn't answer. He looked at Florrie appealingly and saw she was afraid, her breathing swift and short as if she had been running.

‘Anneliese,' he called out in his own language. ‘You must leave now. Your time here is over. You have been a good friend to Margriet but now you must go back where you belong.' He spoke firmly, and although his voice wasn't loud it was strong and determined and unwavering and filled the room with resonance. ‘Say goodbye. Go now and leave her in peace.'

They watched as Margriet shook and shuddered and lifted her arms in entreaty, but still they held her fast. Moments later the tremors passed and they felt her go limp; she closed her eyes and lay still.

‘Oh, sir,' Florrie breathed, and her voice caught. ‘She's not – not …'

Hans gently touched Margriet's cheek. It was warm, but the fever had passed. He smiled, and his throat tightened as his eyes filled with tears. ‘No,' he said, his voice choked. ‘She is well. She has come back to us.'

On a sunny Saturday two summers later Hans and Margriet strolled through Market Place and Trinity Square.

Margriet waved to Betty, who was working full time with Tom on his stall and had moved in with him and his wife, becoming the surrogate daughter they had long been denied. Mabel, with the help of the committee, had found work with a florist. She and Billy, who was setting up his own signwriting business, were planning on getting married and living above the rented workshop with Jim, who was apprenticed to a joiner. Julia Sanderson was also to be married later that year, while her sister Imogen said she wasn't going to marry but instead intended to set up a charity to house orphaned children.

Margriet had taken several weeks to recover fully from the unaccountable fever, as the doctor had called it, but was now fit and well and could remember little of what had happened. She recalled that she had felt drained and empty when she was at last able to sit up in bed, and had built up her strength with Cook's chicken broth, coddled eggs and syllabub.

Hans had been her constant visitor until she was once more downstairs with her mother. He was fully committed to his work with the Vandergroene Company, and was expected to take a leading position in the years to come. On one of his trips home to Amsterdam he had brought Gerda Vandergroene back to England with him and she had stayed with Margriet and her mother, building bridges with her daughter-in-law at last. When she returned home, Florrie had gone with her. Floris, as she was now known, had never fathomed what had happened to Margriet, but wisely did not try to understand something completely beyond her comprehension.

‘I miss not seeing Floris,' Margriet remarked as they strolled past the church. ‘And …' She hesitated, wondering what Hans would say to this confession. She was eighteen years old now, after all. ‘Sometimes I miss Anneliese too. She was my constant companion for so long.'

He looked down at her. ‘Am I not your constant companion now? Have I not taken her place?'

She didn't answer his question but said, ‘She was jealous of you, you know; that's why she changed. We played very happily when we were children – or at least I think we did. She's becoming a distant memory.'

Hans breathed a small sigh. How reassuring and comforting it was to hear her say so. Not once had he implied that Margriet had conjured up this being from her imagination because she was lonely, nor ever suggested that Anneliese wasn't real, but Margriet wasn't quite over her. She still hurried past Land of Green Ginger and never looked down it.

‘So,' he said again. ‘Have I not become your constant companion?'

She smiled and bent her head. It was time, she thought, to explain a few things to him. ‘You have, it's true. Shall we walk to the pier? We can sit there and watch the ships sailing past.'

He stopped first and bought Margriet a bunch of sweet-smelling roses. She pressed her nose to them. ‘They're lovely,' she said. ‘Thank you.'

Gallantly he pressed his hand to his heart. ‘It is my utmost pleasure,' he declared. ‘I would be happy to bring you flowers every day.' At twenty-three, Hans was already a kind, thoughtful young man.

She smiled but didn't respond and they walked on in comfortable silence until they reached the pier, where they sat on a bench and watched the ships and barges sailing down the estuary, the smaller market boats tied to the timbers below the pier lapping and bobbing on the water.

Margriet looked down at the roses. ‘You know, don't you, Hans, that I have made a pledge never to marry. I have mentioned it often.'

He nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed you have, Margriet. I have heard your comments regarding the plight of married women many times.'

‘Mr Webster says that one day in the not-too-distant future, the legal status of married women will change and Parliament will be forced to bring in new and fairer rules.'

‘So I understand. But,' he said, holding in a smile, ‘what I don't understand is why you think that I should be interested in this English law. Or is it that you intend to inform every man you know of what is or might be happening?'

‘Oh, well.' She flushed, and seemed a little flummoxed. ‘It's just that I feel I should make it plain that I could never marry. Not even you, Hans, though you have my utmost respect and' – she took a deep breath – ‘affection.'