Little Girl Lost (43 page)

‘I see.' He covered his mouth. She is the sweetest, most darling creature I have ever met. ‘But, Margriet' – he turned to look at her but she had lowered her head and he couldn't see her face for the rim of her bonnet – ‘I wasn't aware that I had made you an offer of marriage.' He paused before continuing. ‘And in view of your lack of trust of any man who might wish to exchange wedding vows with you, regardless of the deepest love he might have for you, then I am grateful for your warning and am mindful of the rebuff that would be given should I foolishly think to ask you.'

Although to begin with he had been teasing, his last few words held a certain tonal quality as he realized that he would be deeply upset if she thought that he would marry her, or any woman, for her property.

She turned to him and her face was a picture of dismay. ‘I've hurt you. I didn't mean to – I'm sorry, so sorry. I wouldn't ever want to hurt you; what we have is very special, our friendship and understanding, and …' Her lips parted. ‘I do love you, Hans,' she whispered. ‘Very much.'

He closed his eyes and put his head back, exhaling a great breath of deliverance. Then he gazed at her and smiled. ‘You love me but don't trust me? Not with your life when I would honour it above all else? Or is it only with your property that the difficulty arises?'

She nodded and then shook her head and began to weep, and gently he wiped away the tears with his fingertips. ‘It is because of my mother and Mr Ramsey. I know in my heart that you are not like him.'

‘Margriet,' he whispered. ‘I love you and want to marry you. Give your house to your mother, give her your shares and your money and all that you own and come to me with nothing but your love, because that is all I want. One day in the future I will give you a house where our children will play.'

‘And a garden?' She continued to cry.

‘And a garden filled with flowers if that is what you desire.' He kissed her palm. ‘Not quite yet, as I have not earned enough, but I will, and until then, if you will marry me, we will rent a house that neither of us can own where you'll feel safe and we'll be happy together.'

She wiped away her tears and then blew her nose, leaving it pink and blotchy. ‘I will marry you, Hans, if you choose to ask me. If you do, we wouldn't need to rent another house – I can give mine to my mother and we could live with her there. She could live on the top floor in my old nursery schoolroom and have my bedroom, and we could have the rest of the house until such time as— What? Why are you laughing? I'm perfectly serious.'

He put his arms around her, regardless of any passers-by, and kissed her cheek. ‘Life with you is going to be fun, unpredictable and full of love, Margriet, and I just can't wait. Let's go now and ask your mama for her permission. Will she be pleased, do you think?'

‘She will be delighted,' Margriet said joyously.

Rosamund had indeed been delighted. She felt safe at last from the clutches of William Ramsey, thanks in great part to the advice of Hugh Webster, who had become her very good friend as well as her lawyer. She occasionally accompanied him to official functions and dinners, and both were happy in the knowledge that there was no commitment on either side: Webster was a confirmed bachelor and Rosamund intended to remain a widow for ever more.

Lydia Percival had written to Rosamund from an address in Wiltshire; the letter was carefully couched so as not to admit any blame on her own part, either for the introduction to or the indiscretions of her brother. She went on to say that in her opinion Rosamund's virtuous reputation would not suffer in the least from the scandal, as she had had such a good name prior to her involvement with William Ramsey. In Lydia's opinion William's weakness should be laid entirely at the feet of his first wife, Marie-Louise Ramsey, as he had previously led a blameless life. She explained that she and Vincent would be staying quietly in Wiltshire for an indefinite period but that she would be pleased to hear from Rosamund should she care to write.

Rosamund read the letter carefully. Had Lydia known or guessed there was something wrong? Perhaps she had, although not at first, and then dared not say out of fear for her own reputation. Rosamund screwed the letter into a ball and committed it to the fire, where with some satisfaction she watched it burn.

The wedding of Margriet and Hans was to take place the following summer and there was much coming and going between Hull and Amsterdam as arrangements were made. There were also regular passings up and down Parliament Street as Margriet visited Hugh Webster, climbing the stairs to his rooms overlooking the rooftops, entries and alleyways to discuss her inheritance. She had decided that if she really wanted to show her love and trust for her husband-to-be they should share everything they owned. She also asked Hugh Webster if he would give her away, to which he replied that he would be honoured.

On a glorious day in August the bells of Holy Trinity rang out and English and Dutch friends and relatives gathered outside to await the bride's arrival. Margriet's and Hans's grandmothers wore traditional Dutch costume at their grandchildren's request. Lia wore pale green silk and Rosamund silver grey and the two walked into church side by side, united, had Rosamund but known it, by Frederik's constant love. Julia and Klara, as Margriet's attendants, both wore soft blue.

Floris had helped Margriet into her crinoline gown of rose silk and dressed her hair with rosebuds and a wispy veil. She was very happy, she confided to Margriet, as she was being pursued very seriously by a kind young Dutch man.

After the service, as they stood outside the church door, Margriet lifted her face to receive a kiss from her handsome husband and both laughed as they were covered in flower heads thrown by Betty and Mabel. She looked around her. Everyone she cared about was here: her mother, the Sandersons, the street children, the clerks and managers of the Vandergroene Company, but most of all her father's family – her
oma
, Anna and Bartel and her cousins – and the Jansens whom she loved so dearly. On the edge of the crowd, two others hovered, whom she could only see mistily as if through diaphanous gauze.

‘Papa.' Her lips formed the word. ‘Anneliese.' Her father smiled, and then he put his hand on Anneliese's shoulder and she raised hers as they moved away.

Hans touched her cheek and turned her towards him. ‘Margriet?' he said softly.

‘Yes.' She smiled up at him. ‘I'm here.'

The house in Parliament Street was renovated over the next few years. Rosamund loved being on the top floor, where she felt safe in the knowledge that her daughter and husband and growing family were living below. She wasn't alone as she had feared she might be. Sometimes as she lay awake in her bed at night she heard the chatter and laughter of her grandchildren and it was almost as if they were in her sitting room next door, which had once been Margriet's schoolroom. That was nonsense, of course, for they were tucked up in their own little beds on the floor below, and so their voices must have been echoing through the walls and ceilings. She sighed contentedly as she turned on her pillow; it was a very comforting sound.

The spirit that had been Anneliese slipped back through the layers of time to the very beginning. She drifted by the damp river bank, pausing momentarily by the rough shelters where she watched children playing by the camp fires and women stirring the contents of pots or pounding grain. Wild boar penned in enclosures snuffled and grunted and men sawed timber to make stronger cabins for their families. They would be staying here, had found their shelter, and would build a town.

She passed through many centuries and the cabins became more solid, built with brick and stone. Royal personages came by ship and saw this place as a safe haven, barricaded it with walls and ditches against enemies from across the northern sea and named it King's Town upon Hull. Decades passed in the blink of an eye; rich merchants and traders made their homes here and royalty returned; the common people bowed or knelt as courtiers and gentlefolk rode by on their fine steeds towards their manor houses and imposing palaces. She did not bow to them, but simply melted away.

She bowed to the white-robed Carmelite monks who walked the long street of White Friar Gate where their house was situated and to those dressed in the black habit who lived close by the estuary. As she bowed her head they looked cautiously in her direction, as if they were unsure or even slightly afraid.

The lonely child who had called to her had not been afraid but had welcomed her presence. What pleasure we had together; the girl reminded me of myself when I was once a child. I showed her so many sights and she loved the royal gardens, the neat hedges and lawns and scented flowers, and more than anything she loved the scent of the ginger plants, the tulips and narcissi that my father once grew in his garden.

We had a brief but happy time together, but I knew I was losing her. I knew she would no longer need me on that day when the tall, broad-shouldered young Dutchman, my own countryman, came striding towards her. I tried to detain him, to push him away, but he was intent in his purpose. It was as if he saw me and said, No, she is mine. I became bedevilled in my attempts to be rid of him, which wasn't ever in my former nature, and even tried to take her with me, but he was stronger than I. When Margriet at last turned and I showed myself to her, she bade me a sad goodbye and I knew I must leave. She will miss me.

Like a breath of a breeze the spirit drifted through warrens of dark and murky alleyways towards Market Place, whence came the clamour of reverberating voices; the strident shouts of traders, children mewling and crying, women gossiping, the clatter of clogs on cobbles and the snapping snarl and growl of dogs as she passed them by.

Onward she wandered towards the short street named for her family and the house she had once called home. People took short cuts through the passageways and some, more aware than others of a presence amongst them, turned their heads or inhaled a sudden breath as they felt a ghostly visitant lingering near.

I have been here for far too long, and yet I wanted to stay; but now my time here is finished and I am ready to rest. She paused by the house. The door was open to admit her as it had always been, and she went in search of what she had left behind. The upstairs rooms were empty, cool and welcoming to her. She listened; she could hear the echo of her mother's voice calling to her and was glad. They had had so little time together before Anneliese had to leave, before the fever had taken her away.

The shade of Anneliese ran her fingers across the wall and put her cheek against the coolness and whispered,
Moeder, I am here. I have come home.

Land of Green Ginger is the strangest of addresses hidden away in the heart of the old town of Hull. According to Sheehan's history of Hull, early inhabitants of the town once described it as a place where green ginger was sold.

In very early maps it was designated as Old Beverley Street and lay within the district where the illustrious family of De la Pole – having lost their home to the sea at Ravenspurn at the mouth of the Humber – built their new home, Suffolk Palace. This was a magnificent mansion with a tower entrance, splendid rooms, courtyards, pleasant flower and kitchen gardens and ornamental fish ponds. It is said that during the reign of Henry VIII, who acquired the palace and kept court here in 1540, the house and gardens were extended and renamed the King's Manor. It is also conjectured that green ginger was grown in the royal gardens as a luxury for the monarch's table.

There have been, and still are, many commercial connections between the Netherlands and the town of Hull. Therefore it is more plausible, though less romantic, that a Dutch family by the name of Lindergren or Lindegroen resided here in this street, and so Lindergren Ganger (Lindergren Walk) became corrupted to Land of Green Ginger.

From these historical facts and my imagination I have attempted to create a fictional tale. After all, who are we to say that it might or might not have been true?

Val Wood

Books and websites for general reading and information:

History of the Town and Port of Hull
, James Joseph Sheehan, 1866

Property Rights of Women in Nineteenth-Century England,
www.123helpme.com

Since winning the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction for her first novel,
The Hungry Tide
, Val Wood has published twenty novels and become one of the most popular authors in the UK.

Born in the mining town of Castleford, Val came to East Yorkshire as a child and has lived in Hull and rural Holderness, where many of her novels are set. She now lives in the market town of Beverley.

When she is not writing, Val is busy promoting libraries and supporting many charities.

Find out more about Val Wood's novels by visiting her website at
www.valeriewood.co.uk

THE HUNGRY TIDE

ANNIE

CHILDREN OF THE TIDE

THE ROMANY GIRL

EMILY

GOING HOME

ROSA'S ISLAND

THE DOORSTEP GIRLS

FAR FROM HOME

THE KITCHEN MAID

THE SONGBIRD

NOBODY'S CHILD

FALLEN ANGELS

THE LONG WALK HOME

RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL

HOMECOMING GIRLS

THE HARBOUR GIRL

THE INNKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

HIS BROTHER'S WIFE

EVERY MOTHER'S SON

For more information on Val Wood and her books, see her website at
www.valeriewood.co.uk

A story of determination and endurance, as a young woman struggles to fulfil her dream of becoming a doctor, from
Sunday Times
bestseller Val Wood.