Eline Vere

XXXI

Frédérique felt very annoyed with herself. She had discovered that Paul had been lending Etienne money again, and when she found herself alone with him she had given him a piece of her mind. Oh, why couldn’t she resist meddling in their affairs? What they did was none of her business, really. With Etienne it was different: he was still a boy, and as his older sister she had every right to tell him off when he behaved badly. Paul, on the other hand, must be getting sick and tired of her, what with her lecturing him and going off into a huff whenever she took exception to his behaviour. Because that was what she had done, yet again. Why had she not simply asked him not to lend Etienne any money in future, why complicate matters by giving him a cold shoulder first? There was no need for any of that!

She sat with her mother and Mathilda in the conservatory after lunch, watching Ernestine and Jo busy themselves in the garden with the long rubber watering hose. They took aim with the brass nozzle, making a jetting fan of water descend on the roses and resedas, the verbenas and heliotropes, geraniums and begonias, making the flower heads bounce in the spray and the lawn glisten with droplets.

Madeleine and Nico pranced about with Hector on the gravel path beyond, shrieking and dashing away whenever the hose wavered in their direction.

‘Careful now, Tina! Don’t let the children get wet! And don’t be too rough watering the flowers! Gently does it!’ cautioned Mathilda.

Yes, Paul must find her intolerable, mused Frédérique, putting her book down to watch the youngsters’ antics. It was ridiculous of her to lecture him at all, but that time when she had criticised him for being lazy and arrogant and having the wrong kind of friends had been even more ridiculous. What made it worse was that there had been a ball the very next day, during which she had been completely won over by his irrepressible sense of fun. She did so enjoy some gaiety, she loved dancing, and she was glad that he had asked her to dance, but afterwards, when it was all over, she had felt very dissatisfied with herself. Not that she could think of anything she had done wrong, but still.

‘Madeleine, do stop teasing Hector! You’ll get bitten if you’re not careful,’ Mathilda cried out.

Frédérique found it hard to concentrate her thoughts with the spray pattering on the broad rhubarb leaves, the children whooping with excitement and Hector’s constant yapping, but she kept wondering what she had done to make herself feel so dissatisfied.

She did have a vague idea, but shied away from thinking it through. Paul’s flirtatious behaviour with all those girls had stung her; he danced attendance on every one of them, and he didn’t mean a word of what he said. Were they taken in by his blandishments? Was it just innocent fun, or was there a touch of malice there? But he was not a bounder, nor did she even think him frivolous, really; he was just getting a bit too big for his boots because he was handsome and had money. His heart was in the right place, though; he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, what concern was it of hers? What did she care if he flirted with Ange and Léonie, not to mention that goose of a Françoise! Why did she mind any more about that than about the behaviour of any other young man in her social circle? Because he was a friend of the family? Because he was Marie and Lili’s cousin? Surely not.

It irritated her that she did not dare confront the stirrings of her soul with the same honesty as when she looked in the mirror.

Still, she couldn’t help noticing that he was different with her than with the other girls, in both manner and tone, and she was flattered by this. Clearly he had more respect for her. Or was it just that he knew she wouldn’t be impressed by his cajolery? Could he be a little in awe of her, just because she gave him a piece of her mind from time to time? Oh, she would hate him to be in awe of her! If that were true she would never dare to have another tête-à-tête with him; she would, if the worst came to the worst, have to be like all the other girls and play the coquette. But no, she could never do that! Besides, what difference did it make if Paul was in awe of her?

All those questions went round and round in her head, as though trapped in a labyrinth without issue. Deep down, however, she did have an inkling of where the exit might be, but was not ready to admit it to herself.

‘Freddie, would you be so kind as to help me pack?’ asked Mathilda. ‘Then I’ll start by putting the children to bed.’

Freddie promised to give assistance. The youngsters rolled up the garden hose with much ado, after which Mathilda joined forces with Miss Frantzen to shoo the boisterous foursome upstairs. In the morning the whole party would be leaving for De Horze. That they should spend the summer months in the country had been Theodore van Erlevoort’s idea; life was less expensive on the estate, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for his mother to keep up the standards expected of her in the big house on the Voorhout. She had even considered moving permanently to De Horze, but had come to the conclusion that leaving her beloved home in The Hague would be too great a sacrifice. As it was, she would try to extend her stay at De Horze, possibly until November, and she looked forward to a happy sojourn in the countryside in the bosom of Theodore’s dear little family.

Mathilda, too, was glad to go to De Horze, and had agreed to take Tina and Jo out of school a few months before the summer holidays: she would see to their lessons herself, as she had done in the old days, and was secretly delighted at the prospect. Freddie felt less enthusiastic about leaving The Hague, and her own puzzlement at this increased her dissatisfaction. On the surface, however, she was the same as ever, cheerful and on friendly terms with everyone in the house, except with Etienne, whom she had treated rather coldly earlier that day, not only because of that business about borrowing money from Paul but also because he kept grumbling about them all going away. He said he was thinking of taking a room somewhere in the interim, in Leiden or The Hague; he had not yet decided which.

Otto had been a regular visitor at De Horze of late. He had spoken at length with Theodore, as he was thinking of taking a position in the provinces and leaving The Hague for good. In fact he already had something in his sights: thanks to an old friend of his father’s, he had a good chance of being appointed steward of the royal estates in Gelderland.

Although Madame van Erlevoort warned him repeatedly about the dangers of becoming a recluse, he had grown too disaffected with The Hague to find any distraction there. He was so despondent nowadays, desiring nothing but to be left alone in his private quarters, where he would not bother anyone with his gloomy presence. To her he seemed cowed and broken, languishing under his irredeemable loss. Not that he ever complained, nor did he stoop to the indignities of impatience or churlishness; in that respect he resembled Mathilda.

Madame van Erlevoort had dozed off in the stillness that prevailed now that the children were in bed. Frédérique, too, left the room, just as Etienne came running down the stairs.

‘Where are you off to?’ he asked.

‘I said I would help Mathilda with her packing,’ she replied.

‘Oh, but it’s me you should be helping!’ he exclaimed. ‘Mathilda already has the nursemaid to help her, and I can’t find the patience to fold up all my clothes properly.’

‘Have you rented a room then? Here or in Leiden?’

‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t rented a room. I am going to De Horze with the rest of you. I shall be able to study for my finals there, in peace and quiet. It’s no use being in Leiden during the holidays anyway, and if I stay here I shan’t get anything done. And I must, you see,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I can’t very well hang around here, can I? What with Mama saying we can’t make ends meet and Theodore telling us we ought to economise.’

She looked at him fixedly as he stood before her in doubtful expectation.

‘All right then,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

‘Come and take a look in my room then, will you?’ he asked brightly, relieved at her amenable tone.

They went upstairs to his room. His suitcase was wide open, as was the wardrobe.

‘I’ll throw all the stuff I want to take on my bed, shall I, then you can put it in the suitcase.’

‘Very well.’

‘And you’re not angry with me any more, on account of that loan?’ he said in the wheedling voice of a spoilt child.

‘No, but you must pay Paul back when you see him tonight. I can help you out if you like, because I’ve got some extra money.’

‘You don’t have anything against Paul, do you?’

‘Oh no, not at all!’ she said. ‘Still, it’s better not to be in debt.’

‘But Freddie! He’s my best friend! I’m not afraid of owing him a little money.’

‘Indeed. He’s very kind, but the sensible thing to do is to pay him back, don’t you agree?’

He agreed. Yet again she felt annoyed with herself. There she was, meddling in other people’s affairs again! They would both start hating her if she wasn’t careful. But Etienne did not hate her at all, on the contrary, he adored her for doing his packing for him.

‘There: shirts, collars, socks. Well, you can find the rest for yourself. I’ll go and look for Paul — at least, if you will advance me the money.’

She was prepared for this, and reached into her pocket to hand him the required sum.

‘Thank you. We are leaving early in the morning, I gather. Oh yes, would you tell Willem to wake me up in good time? Bye for now.’

He made to leave, but she took his head in her hands and kissed him.

‘I’m really glad you’re coming to De Horze with us. Mama will be thrilled. And so will Theodore, especially when he hears of your studious intentions,’ she concluded sweetly.

He was delighted that they had made up, and a moment later she heard him whistling as he ran down the stairs.

. .

The following evening Theodore van Erlevoort and Klaas the coachman drove to the railway station at Elzen to collect the party of visitors, and at about nine o’clock the old covered wagon rumbled up the oak-lined drive to De Horze. Marianne, who had returned from her final term at boarding school, came running to meet them, with Edmée and the two Van Stralenburg toddlers close at her heels. The little ones frolicked like young puppies, trying to keep up with the wagon amid shrieks of ‘Hello, Gran! Hello, Aunt Tilly! Hello, Aunt Freddie! Hello, Uncle Etienne!’ in complete disregard of Marianne’s frantic efforts to restrain them.

Between the pillars of the veranda stood Truus beside Suzanne and her husband, Arnold van Stralenburg. After a grand, rattling sweep around the pond, the wagon drew up by the entrance to disgorge its passengers on all sides. For a few moments pandemonium reigned in the mêlée of happy reunion, with the children hugging and kissing everyone in sight and Theodore’s large hunting hounds barking and bumping the littlest ones off their feet.

Madame van Erlevoort was the last to alight, and was promptly stormed by her high-spirited grandchildren, who squeezed past the long legs of their uncle from Zwolle to fling their short arms about her.

Truus, Mathilda and Suzanne allowed the children to play for a while, but before long Miss Frantzen and the two other nursemaids came to fetch them. They were served sandwiches and then unceremoniously bundled off to bed. Mathilda went after them to make sure they were all well settled.

They had not seen each other all winter, and the air was filled with questions to catch up on everybody’s news. Madame van Erlevoort glanced around, as though missing someone.

‘Where is Hetty? And where are the boys?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Still at school, Mama dear; the holidays haven’t started yet,’ replied Truus, smiling at her mother-in-law’s disappointment.

‘Hetty is doing very well in Bonn; she writes long letters home. Cor was in Buenos Aires recently, with his ship.’

‘And Miss Voermans has left, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes she has; the dear old soul took her leave with tears in her eyes. But she was no longer needed, and we couldn’t afford to keep her on for old time’s sake, more’s the pity. Theodore is having trouble enough with his tenants as it is.’

Overhearing this, Theodore assured them that he had no reason to complain, especially now that his dear kinfolk had arrived. ‘Why, Freddie! You look remarkably well! Prettier by the year! Look, Truus, what a fine-looking young lady she is! Wouldn’t you love to have a sister like that?’

He placed his hands on her waist, displaying her to his wife, who responded with a warm smile.

‘And how is your heart faring? All well I hope?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Anyone making it beat faster yet — pitter-patter, pitter-patter?’

Freddie’s laugh was as clear as a bell.

‘Oh no, no one yet! Don’t fret, it won’t happen for a while.’

‘So you send all your suitors packing, do you?’

‘Oh yes, I keep them at a distance. A long distance!’ she chuckled. ‘I haven’t found anyone I care for, no one at all.’

‘Ooh, Little Miss Sharp!’ he retorted. ‘You’ll frighten them all away if you’re not careful.’

She laughed more merrily than ever. How lovely she was when she laughed! She reminded him of the goddess Diana, a young, mocking Diana, lithe and strong with her proud head thrown back defiantly as she fixed him with her shining, challenging eyes. Despite her playful manner there was in her beauty a sense of truth and sincerity, a certain dignity telling him that she was not being coquettish, but that she possessed a sense of pride.

‘Ah, so that’s how you feel!’ he continued. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry. It just goes to show that you have a sense of breeding.’

And he looked at her once more, gratified to see in her a true Van Erlevoort.

‘And what do you think of Etienne?’ gushed Madame. ‘He has come to study for his exams!’

‘It is indeed a most pleasant surprise!’ said Theodore, bowing deeply.

Frédérique began to laugh again.

‘Oh, he’s such a card!’ she said to Van Stralenburg. ‘Just imagine, Arnold, he very nearly forgot to take his study material! He turned up with a great stack of books at the very last minute, so there was some legal treatise or history book tucked away in almost every one of our suitcases!’

‘You can’t expect me to think of everything!’ said Etienne defensively.

‘No, of course not! You have so much on your mind already, don’t you?’ quipped Arnold, narrowing his eyes. ‘All that correspondence to see to, all those conferences and consultations!’

He was in the habit of teasing his young brother-in-law at every opportunity, and Etienne was quick to rise to the bait, which often resulted in volleys of comic repartee followed by mock sparring matches.

‘Now, Arnold, don’t you start squabbling with Etienne!’ cried Suzanne. ‘Tell them to stop it, Mama, or they’ll be at each other’s throats again!’

‘Uncle Arnold and Etienne are always at each other’s throats!’ tittered Marianne.

Arnold, however, declared that the sheer joy of this family reunion had completely undermined his combative spirit, and with a theatrical flourish, he spread his long arms to welcome Etienne. Locked in their embrace, they swayed from side to side a long moment until, without warning and utterly straight-faced, Etienne forcibly pushed Arnold’s head down and vaulted over his stooping frame. As though by design, without a word or the slightest hesitation, Arnold proceeded to vault over Etienne and vice versa, in a succession of leapfrogs provoking hilarity all around.

‘When they’re not at each other’s throats they’re just like clowns!’ shrieked Marianne. ‘Just like clowns!’

. .

Frédérique and Marianne, who called each other by their first names despite being aunt and niece, shared a vast, high-ceilinged room, in which stood a monumental, old-fashioned oak bedstead with a dark-brown canopy. The doors were likewise made of oak, as was the wainscoting; the ceiling was decorated with a large medallion within which disporting nymphs and cupids could still be faintly discerned.

‘I am so glad we’re sharing a room,’ said Marianne as they were getting ready for bed. ‘Oh, I couldn’t bear to sleep here alone! I’d be terrified, wouldn’t you?’

‘I don’t expect so; I’m not that easily frightened,’ replied Freddie.

‘I think this room is awfully romantic, everything looks so ancient,’ said Marianne. ‘It’s easy to imagine yourself living in the Middle Ages, with all this dark panelling on the walls and the coats of arms over the doors.’

Frédérique donned her nightgown and crawled into the four-poster bed.

‘It’s big enough to drown in!’ she laughed. ‘I’ve never slept here before.’

Marianne, still dithering about in her bare feet, lifted the window-curtain a moment, letting a shaft of moonlight into the room.

‘Look, Freddie, how eerie! Don’t I look like a ghost in this light?’

‘Oh, Marianne, stop fussing, will you? Why don’t you come to bed, then we can have a nice gossip.’

Marianne dropped the curtain, undressed hurriedly and nestled herself beside Freddie.

‘Good gracious! This bed is gigantic! Oh, I’d die if I had to sleep in it by myself. Don’t you think it’s scary? Not even a little?’

‘Of course not. It’s your imagination, that’s all.’

‘Yes, I’m always imagining things, such as seeing ghosts, or being in a haunted house, or other things like meeting a knight in shining armour. But you’re different, all cool and collected, so I don’t suppose you dream up all sorts of stories for yourself the way I do.’

‘Stories? No, no. What sort of stories?’

‘Oh, entire novels sometimes. Then I imagine that I am a noble damsel, and that the boys are my grooms and the little ones my pages. And then I fall in love with a knight, who wants me to elope with him because my father’s so cruel and bloodthirsty, and won’t have him for a son-in-law.’

‘What a flattering portrait of your papa!’ giggled Frédérique. ‘And what about your knight — is he dark or fair?’

‘That depends on my mood. I say, Freddie, have you ever been in love?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Truly not? I’ve fallen in love a dozen times already, but it never lasts very long with me, just three or four weeks at the most. In Bonn, for instance, I had a drawing master whom I adored. And then there was a young man — fair hair and blue eyes, he had — who used to bring me bonbons on the sly.’

An elaborate enumeration of Marianne’s beaus followed.

‘But tell me, Marianne, how old are you now? Seventeen? Eighteen?’

‘I’m already eighteen!’

‘Goodness me!’ laughed Frédérique. ‘And your head is still full of ghosts and drawing masters! You’re as bad as Etienne, he never seems to grow up either.’

Marianne took offence at this and began to shake Freddie, whose laughter only increased.

‘And what about you? You’ve never even been in love! How grown-up is that?’

‘It’s time we went to sleep, Marianne. I wish you sweet dreams of a certain blue-eyed someone, then!’ laughed Freddie.

Marianne soon drifted into sleep, with her head touching Freddie’s shoulder.

Freddie lay awake for a long time; she had to smile at how childish Marianne seemed, despite being all of eighteen years old! She herself was twenty-three — quite a difference with Marianne there — and all that romantic fantasising about knights in armour and noble damsels was a thing of the past as far as she was concerned. But what kind of thoughts did she have nowadays? She often thought badly of herself, it was true — but who else did she think about? There was one person she thought about rather often, someone she wished were different in some ways, although in which ways she was not sure. So why did she think about him at all, if he was not as she would have liked him to be?

‘It’s so peculiar, so very peculiar,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Why I keep thinking of him is beyond me. It isn’t as if I want to think of him, I just can’t get him out of my mind.’

She was tempted to drift off into some pleasant daydream, but checked herself, sensing the stirrings of pride in her heart. She had self-worth, Theodore had said; she had breeding! The person she kept thinking of did not deserve her wholehearted attention. He was — she could see it quite clearly now — unserious, and besides, he was egotistic, the sort of person who made himself popular with everyone.

Theodore’s words had struck a chord, for there was in her character a trait that she had barely been conscious of before: a sense of pride, not merely pride in her high birth and her surname, but an innate pride inherited from noble forebears, which resonated in every nerve of her being. Yes indeed, she was proud, but that did not mean to say that she felt satisfied with herself. On the contrary! Oh, on the contrary!

She lay awake for hours, staring at the faded nymphs and cupids on the ceiling with Marianne beside her, fast asleep, breathing softly and regularly like a child. Countless times she asked herself the unanswerable question: why did she keep thinking of Paul?

. .

The following morning saw the arrival of Otto, who was to spend a week at De Horze before taking up his new position of steward to the royal estates. His appointment was in the environs of Elzen, and he would therefore be living fairly close by, a consoling thought to Madame van Erlevoort, who felt that the proximity of the happy household of De Horze might assist him in casting off his sorrows.

Theodore was out for the day, taking Arnold van Stralenburg on a tour of the grounds, and Truus was busy in the house while the children played in the park and the gym room under the supervision of the nursemaids. Otto joined the ladies — Madame van Erlevoort, Mathilda, Suzanne, Frédérique and Marianne — on one of the spacious, creepered verandas.

‘How is Etienne getting on?’ he asked.

Madame van Erlevoort beamed.

‘He got up early,’ said Freddie. ‘He made a tremendous to-do rearranging the furniture in his room when he arrived, to make himself a proper study, and he’s putting it to good use, as you see.’

Marianne stood up.

‘Where are you off to, Marianne?’ Suzanne wanted to know.

‘I am going to my favourite little spot at the back of the park!’ she said. ‘Oh, Freddie, it’s so lovely there, full of lilies of the valley. Why don’t you come with me? Then I can tell you all about the book I’m reading: Ein Gebet, by Carmen Sylva — oh, it’s just wonderful!’

Marianne left with Frédérique in tow, after which Otto and Suzanne set out for a stroll together. They had not seen each other for a long time, as Otto had gone to stay with his relatives in London the previous summer instead of coming to De Horze. Suzanne found him altered: he look older, and his face resembled a mask of quiet mourning, in which she detected a trace of bitterness.

She took his arm, and wordlessly they wandered down the broad oak-lined avenue, shaded from the baking July sunshine by the lush foliage. Giant ferns spread their fans along the ditches all ashimmer with metallic hues, delicate spider webs festooned the bushes like filaments of silvery glass, and now and then, through a break in the trees, they glimpsed a weather-beaten statue on a pedestal, a Flora or Pomona velvety with moss. The sweet-smelling wild honeysuckle ran riot along the verges, flinging its tangled shoots in every direction, while the blossoming cow parsley raised its flat heads of white froth. Otto and Suzanne proceeded at a leisurely pace. Ahead of them, in the distance, they saw two small figures in light-coloured clothes plunging into the greenery: Frédérique and Marianne, bound for the lilies of the valley. At their back they heard peals of laughter from the children frolicking on a heap of sand in the shade of the big house.

‘How beautiful it is here!’ Suzanne said at length. ‘I am so glad Theodore is letting nature have its way in the park, even if it’s only for the sake of economy. It looks like a jungle! I can remember when I was little Papa had a whole regiment of groundsmen, and the park always looked as tidy as a garden, with gazebos and vases and statues. And now it’s all tumbling down — some of the statues are broken, too. Oh, do you remember that time when you climbed on top of that nymph over there? You broke her arm, remember?’

‘So I did,’ said Otto.

‘Papa was furious! You were sent to your room and put on bread and water for three whole days, remember?’

‘Yes I do,’ said Otto, smiling.

‘And you refused to beg Papa’s pardon for answering back when he told you off, and then Mama insisted you should anyway. Remember?’

He squeezed her arm gently in response, moved almost to tears. The remembrance of that summer in his boyhood evoked a whole train of associations with another summer, during which he had strolled in this very park not with Suzanne, but with. .

‘I say, Otto!’ Suzanne said abruptly. ‘Won’t you be homesick for The Hague, living all by yourself in Elzen?’

‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed with feeling. ‘Not at all! I have no desire to be in The Hague.’

She glanced at him, startled by his emotion.

‘Life in the country appeals to me, and I look forward to my new office,’ he added.

‘Is there any particular reason you want to leave The Hague?’ she asked softly.

‘A particular reason? No, none at all.’

He seated himself on a park bench, but she remained standing, absently plucking sprays of blossom from the overhanging honeysuckle while she tried to find the words to continue.

‘Oh, Otto, it’s not on account of — on account of—?’ she faltered.

He looked straight ahead a moment, then replied in a slow, dull voice.

‘My dear Suzanne, what are you thinking? That I want to leave The Hague because of Eline?’

‘Yes,’ she said timidly. She sat down beside him and began to arrange the flowers into a posy.

‘My dear Sis,’ he resumed, sounding as if he were reciting a rehearsed response, ‘whatever gave you that idea? Did you really think a fellow would spend the rest of his life mourning a girl who goes back on her word? Of course I was sorry at first, and I was sad, too. But it’s all over now, I assure you. Over and done with. . one stops seeing the other person, gradually one stops thinking about them, and in due course one forgets. A broken heart never killed anyone in real life, and besides, a man’s heart does not break as easily as you might think: men have work to do, business to attend to, and life simply goes on, leaving them little time to ponder their losses, even if they wished to. It is different with women, I believe; they give in to their feelings more readily, don’t they?’

He stood up, as in a dream, and she followed him.

‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ she said, with little conviction.

‘One forgets,’ he continued in the same dull tone, ‘and so it can easily happen, after a time, that one meets someone else, someone one can love and who will make one happy. It happens all the time. That’s life.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she said, and he was reminded of something Eline had said in her letter: ‘then you will find a girl who is worthy of you, and who will make you happy.’

‘So don’t you go thinking I am pining with romantic love!’ he concluded, with a strained smile. ‘I’m not that far gone, you know.’

She fell silent, saddened by his response. He was like Mathilda, too proud to share his grief with anyone, preferring to maintain a certain stoic, outward composure. She did not let him notice that she was undeceived by his pose, and they walked on for a while, saying little. All at once they caught the sound of animated chatter some way off. It was Marianne, ensconced among the lilies of the valley, relating the story of Ein Gebet to Frédérique.

‘It’s a bit melodramatic, but so lovely, so moving! You see, Raoul is doing penance for his mother, who was a tremendous sinner, apparently, although I cannot imagine she could have done anything really wicked. He enters the priesthood and chastises himself. I didn’t sleep a wink after I’d read the bit about him blessing the marriage of Rassillo and Editha. Editha is ever so soft-hearted and sweet, and Raoul has always loved her. Berthalda, though, is incredibly passionate, oh, exaggeratedly so! Anyway, as I was telling you, Berthalda put poison on the wafer, and so, when Raoul gives Editha the wafer she collapses, and instead of repeating the marriage vows, she cries out “Raoul!” and dies. Sad, isn’t it? I couldn’t stop crying! Berthalda does penance too; she enters a convent, a subterranean one where the sun never shines, and Raoul’s hair turns white overnight.’

Otto and Suzanne, who had been hiding behind some trees to eavesdrop, went on their way again.

‘Look at my hair, Suzanne!’ said Otto with the same strained smile: ‘It didn’t turn white overnight! I am not a bit like Raoul, you see!’

She said nothing, trying to smile as she clung to his arm, swinging her honeysuckle posy with her free hand, and to end the silence she hummed a tune.

. .

At De Horze life continued at a steady, unhurried pace. Otto had left for Elzen, and Etienne was extraordinarily diligent, taking off straight after breakfast to study in his room upstairs and disappearing again after lunch for more work. In the evening he joined the rest of the company for a little entertainment, such as leapfrogging over Van Stralenburg and throwing mock punches at him, but when everybody retired he went back to his desk to put in a few more hours of study. He had a veritable craze for his books, in Madame van Erlevoort’s opinion, and seemed not to be deterred by any anxious looks or complaints about his pallor from her or anyone else.

One day Etienne received a letter from Paul, telling him of his plan to visit De Horze in the near future, after which he would travel on to Germany or Italy for an extended tour. Theodore responded somewhat scoffingly to this news, fearing that Paul would lure Etienne away from his books and even try to persuade him to accompany him on his travels. Madame van Erlevoort, however, was very pleased, for she thought Paul’s presence would do Etienne a world of good — the boy was working far too hard, all that zealous studying was bound to make him ill.

Frédérique had given a radiant smile when she heard of Paul’s intended visit, but had said nothing. She wore the same radiant smile when she studied her rosy reflection in the glass on the morning of his arrival. With her brown eyes sparkling like dark gems, her thick, chestnut hair curling silkily about her milk-white neck, she could not help thinking how pretty she looked in her simple dress of pink cotton, lithe and strong, smiling in that regal, munificent, way. Yes indeed, she was quite exhilarated!

Was it because of the sun lighting up her eyes and the peachy glow on her cheeks? Or was it because the person she could not get out of her mind was about to arrive? As she surveyed her appearance, lost in conjecture, she forgot her sense of pride, she forgot all about wanting Paul to be different in certain ways; she found herself being swept away on a wave of emotion that she was powerless to resist, and she was thrilled by her own weakness before the sublime effervescence invading her soul.

He arrived, and when she shook his hand she had the sensation that she had never seen him before. How tall he was, and how handsome, with his cheerful blue-grey eyes, his bushy moustache and his white teeth! How infectious his laughter, hearty and full, and so disarming! She returned his laugh with her own, uttered some pleasantries, and was struck by his manner towards her: it was not a bit like the way he laughed and joked with Françoise, Ange, or Léonie, or with any of the other girls for that matter. There was a gentle intimacy in his gaze, as there was in his tone of voice, from which every trace of cynicism or forwardness had vanished.

Was it the country air that made him look so attractive, so fresh-faced and sincere? Theodore at any rate was pleased to see Paul in such good form, and promptly pressed him to stay with them for a few days, on condition that he should not distract Etienne too much from his books. Paul gave his solemn promise and accepted the invitation with gratitude. When they were all gathered together on the veranda to enjoy a light May wine, Frédérique could not help noticing how he held everyone’s attention. No, he wasn’t half as vain and frivolous as she had thought, and she — well, she found him very engaging, to say the least.

It was a clear, starry evening, and the boat on the lake beckoned. Paul and Arnold van Stralenburg took the oars, Marianne and Etienne teased one another, and Freddie, holding the tiller, hummed a song which carried softly over the water in the violet dusk. Suddenly Paul broke in with a snatch of the duet he used to sing with Eline.

Ah! Viens, la nuit est belle!

Viens, le ciel est d’azur!

Freddie was delighted to hear him sing. The scene was so simple and so delightfully familiar: Paul’s song, the lake they were drifting on, the illuminated veranda with Mama, Mathilda, Suzanne and Theodore sitting together, the looming dark-green mass of the trees and the twinkling stars above. How extraordinary that she had never realised how poetic it all was! Paul concluded his barcarole with a soft, drawn-out high C in falsetto, and she fancied she heard nightingales in the jasmine-scented air, like a silvery vibration in her heart.

. .

How would he comport himself with Marianne, she wondered. Marianne had a pretty face with soulful eyes, and a pert, slightly coquettish demeanour. But he showed no inclination to flirt with her, by which Frédérique was both surprised and gratified.

Since that first day, however, she had recovered herself. She had been too forgiving, she believed; she had seen him the way she wished to see him — which might even have been the way he temporarily happened to be by some extraordinary coincidence. But had she then forgotten what he had been like in The Hague, dancing attendance on all those girls, inconsiderate to his mother, hanging around with those so-called friends of his who were nothing but spongers? By what stroke of magic could he have ceased to be frivolous and vain, egotistic and weak?

Whatever the case, now that he was away from all the girls, away from his mother and from his friends, he made a decidedly better impression. She vowed not to voice any criticism she might have, in case he took a permanent dislike to her. Nor would it be hard to keep her vow, for Paul was making things remarkably easy: for the moment he gave no cause for criticism of any kind.

It had rained for several days, and the morning was clear, with a well-rinsed brightness to the sky. Klaas had saddled the two riding horses, one of which was a sorrel; the other, fitted with a side saddle, had a blaze down its forehead. Paul was checking the horses’ tackles when Freddie emerged from the veranda with the train of her riding costume over her arm and a small top hat with a white veil on her head. She buttoned her gloves and smiled.

‘All set!’ said Paul, turning to face her.

He gave Freddie a leg up to her blazed horse; once seated, she leant forward to pat its gleaming neck. Paul mounted the sorrel and together they ambled off under the watchful eye of Klaas, who thought them a fine-looking pair, both of them healthy and strong, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. He noted that Freddie sat ramrod-straight on her side saddle, and deemed her companion to be a full-bodied young fellow. He approved of full-bodied men.

Paul and Freddie rode to the front of the big house, chatting happily.

‘Hullo there! Where are you off to?’ a voice called from above.

Looking up, they saw Etienne leaning out of his upstairs window, looking rather unkempt in his shirtsleeves and with tousled hair, which made Freddie laugh.

‘Well, you two! Where are you off to?’ demanded Etienne, with a hint of envy in his tone.

‘We haven’t decided yet!’

‘Why isn’t Marianne with you?’

‘Marianne said she was quite happy reading Carmen Sylva’s Ein Gebet all over again! Don’t you trust us?’

‘Well, yes, but did you have to pass under my window? Couldn’t you have taken another route?’

‘You’re the last person we were thinking of!’ Paul cried mercilessly.

‘I’m not surprised!’ spluttered Etienne. ‘You think of no one but yourselves, going off for a nice ride while I’m stuck indoors with my books. Well, bad luck to both of you, you heartless creatures!’

‘Merci bien, my charitable brother!’ exclaimed Freddie, waving her whip in his direction. ‘Here’s hoping you’ll be more favourably disposed when we return. Au revoir!’

‘Enjoy your books! Au revoir!’ rejoined Paul, and with that they rode off at a leisurely pace, down the long oak-lined avenue. Reaching the country lane, where the blazing sunshine swathed the oats and barley on either side with gold, they urged their horses to a canter.

‘Why don’t we go to the White Hollow? We could take the long way round and ride through the pine wood,’ suggested Freddie.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ said Paul.

They reined in their horses as they approached the farmstead, which stood in the shade of some chestnut trees. The farmer’s dogs, recognising them, sprang up and ran to the ends of their chains, barking enthusiastically, at which the farmer’s wife appeared at the door to wave. Then they entered the wood beyond, relieved to exchange the scorching sun for cooling, deep-green shade, where the horses’ hooves sounded muffled on the carpet of pine needles.

It was the first time since Paul’s arrival at De Horze that Freddie found herself alone with him, and she felt strangely nervous, as if this was the first time ever, yet she had often gone riding with him in previous summers, and there had also been plenty of occasions in the past when they had been alone together, talking quite confidentially. So why did she barely dare to look at him, if she were afraid of what his appearance might reveal?

She mustered her courage and looked him in the eye as he chatted on. She would not allow herself to be swayed by sentimental emotions; she would show him that she was the same girl she had always been, someone who had no qualms about speaking her mind. She would not say anything against him if she could help it, but neither would she flinch from his blue-grey gaze — that would be too much!

A challenging glint came into her eyes at that thought, but what was there to challenge? He was being neither sarcastic nor flippant, nor was he being pompous, indeed he was conversing with marked indulgence about all sorts of people she had known him to disparage on previous occasions.

‘Take Georges and Lili,’ he said, and she was astonished by the genial tone of his voice as he uttered those two names. ‘It’s so amusing to see them together! They’re so wrapped up in each other that they’re quite blind to what goes on in the world. They think everything revolves around them! And it’s not that they are arrogant, they are just naive! Try telling them they aren’t the only two people in the world to be madly in love with each other and they’ll shake their heads in disbelief. They’re Adam and Eve all over again — everything starts from them.’

Frédérique smiled, curiously moved by his words.

‘I think they are quite delightful together,’ continued Paul, ‘but you must admit that they’re rather superficial souls, when it comes down to it. Neither of them has much depth, really. Yes, Georges is a good, sensible young man, but apart from that—’

‘Good and sensible; well, that’s a start anyway!’ she said musingly.

‘Yes it is, but I don’t believe Georges has ever found himself confronted by any kind of mental struggle. Until now his life has been a smooth path, which is how it will always be for him.’

‘Well, what about you? Have you experienced mental struggles?’ she asked lightly.

‘More than Georges!’ he responded. ‘I thought I was an artist, but then I found out that I wasn’t. And it takes quite a struggle to admit to yourself that you’ve made that kind of mistake, don’t you see?’

‘Yes I do. It must have taken a lot of energy, too, I imagine.’

Her remark sounded a trifle snide, and she instantly regretted it. Why hint at his failure to pursue his artistic ambition if he was lacking in genius anyway? But he did not seem to have heard.

‘Do you know what I find so strange?’ he pursued. ‘That Georges and Lili knew that they were made for each other almost from the moment they first met. And then there are all those other people who have known each other for ages and think nothing of it, until one day they wake up, and then — they see the light—’

She could feel her heart beating and the blood rising to her cheeks. Keeping her head down to hide her colour, she affected deep concentration as she smoothed the folds of her riding costume with her whip.

‘Don’t you agree?’ he asked.

‘I–I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I have never thought about it, really.’

Neither spoke for a moment.

‘How oppressive it is here, under the trees!’ she murmured at length, blinking her eyes. ‘I can barely breathe! Let’s take this turning, shall we? It will take us back to the road, and then we can have a fine gallop to the White Hollow.’

She felt very strange — she, who never suffered from the heat, was overcome with a sense of dizziness; she felt suffocated by the tight bodice of her riding habit, and her hands holding the reins began to shake. With faint vision, she veered into the narrow overgrown path and spurred on her horse. She heard a warning shout from Paul, and before she knew it her hat had been knocked off her head and her hair was violently pulled, causing a searing pain on her scalp.

‘Ouch,’ she cried out, drawing up her horse, which halted, quivering.

She had not noticed the limb of a pine tree reaching out across the path; it had grazed her forehead and now her hair was caught in the branch. She leant back to avoid pulling it further.

‘Oh! Oh!’ she whimpered.

Paul rode up beside her, took her reins and patted both horses on the withers.

‘I tried to warn you about that tree!’ he lamented. ‘Here, lean on my shoulder, and I’ll untangle your hair.’

He flung down his whip, pulled off his gloves and carefully set about freeing her snarled, dark-brown locks, scattering hairpins in the process.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she moaned. ‘Ouch, ouch!’

‘Is this better?’

‘Yes — oh, yes — that’s better.’

He tried to be as deft as possible, and the tenderness of his movements made her forget the pain. When he was done at last she remained leaning against his shoulder, their two horses quivering side by side. She was spellbound by his smile, which reminded her of some extraordinarily beautiful young god. She closed her eyes, and everything sank away. .

Suddenly she became conscious of his breath near her face, then she felt the hot pressure of his lips on hers. As if she had received an electric shock, she sat bolt upright and stared at him with flashing eyes.

‘Paul!’ she cried.

She was at a loss for what to say or what to do. He continued to hold her eyes, half bashfully, half beseechingly, still wearing that winsome smile. Then, without warning, she slid down from her mount, retrieved her hat, clapped it on her dishevelled hair, picked up her whip and swung herself up to the saddle, at which her horse reared and sped off along the narrow path, beneath the overhanging pine branches.

She charged ahead without once looking back, filled with impotent fury, as though his kiss had stung her like a bee. Turning onto the country road, she urged her horse to go faster, and on she galloped between the fields of burnished gold, her hair and white veil streaming behind her, her skirt flapping wildly, causing the farmhands to pause in their labours and stare. Gradually she took possession of herself; her hands became steady again and she slowed the horse to a trot as she traversed the oak wood. At the sandy hollow she dismounted, tethered the horse to a beech sapling and, lifting the train of her habit with one hand, picked her way down the slope. The sand shifted beneath her tread, setting off small avalanches that left tree roots exposed on a layer of reddish earth. At the deepest point she halted and stood quite still a moment, with her eyes closed. Then she sighed, threw off her top hat and subsided on to the cool, shady ground. Burying her face in her arms, she began softly to cry.

Paul’s kiss had shocked her, and she was annoyed with herself for having fled instead of telling him off for his effrontery. Of course, it was not the first time he had chased her in fun and stolen a kiss, but they had only been children then — well, she had been a child, anyway. This time had been different; there had been a warm urgency in his kiss, a sensation that was new to her, and frightening, too. Why, oh why had he done it? That kiss had turned everything upside down, throwing into utter confusion what she had thought of as a gentle, budding friendship.

In her tearful distress she did not hear the soft thud of hooves reverberating in the sand as Paul rode up to the rim of the White Hollow, where he dismounted. After tethering his horse with hers, he clambered down to where she lay and softly called her name.

She raised herself up and stared at him through her tears. He was kneeling before her with such an engaging, fond expression in his eyes that she felt her anger ebb away.

‘Why did you rush away like that?’ he asked gently. ‘Did I make you angry? Was it so wrong of me?’

‘Yes it certainly was!’ she exclaimed, her resolute tone belying the frisson of pleasure at her recollection of Paul’s offending lips. ‘I never gave you permission to kiss me! Not ever!’

She waited for his response. He would no doubt remind her of those playful kisses of past summers, for which no permission had been given either. But he said nothing. Could that mean that the kiss had been different for him, too? She hid her face in her arms again.

‘What if I asked your permission, Freddie? What if I asked your permission now, as I have wanted to for such a long time? Tell me, would that be so wrong of me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she murmured almost inaudibly.

‘Don’t you understand what I am saying? I love you, and I’m asking you if you love me enough to be my wife!’

Blushing scarlet, with trembling lips, she felt her heart melting in secret rapture at the idea of falling into his arms with unconditional abandon. But in the next instant her indomitable pride reared its lofty head, tearing the blindfold from her eyes, and in a flash she saw him as she had seen him in The Hague: egotistic, frivolous, vain.

‘You don’t mean that, Paul!’ she replied with icy self-control, and calmly set about winding her flowing tresses into a chignon.

‘I don’t mean it?’ he echoed, casting her a pained, searching look.

‘You may think you mean what you say,’ she said, and then, with more conviction: ‘But you are mistaken. You are just imagining that you have feelings for me — it’s got nothing to do with love. You’ll feel the exactly the same about someone else tomorrow, about Léonie Eekhof, for instance, or Françoise Oudendijk and goodness knows who else the day after. If I weren’t wearing my riding costume — which I dare say is quite becoming — it wouldn’t even have entered your head to ask anything so silly.’

He had never heard her speak in such a sharp, sarcastic tone. For a moment he was unsure what to answer, then his indignation got the better of him: ‘Does it ever occur to you, Freddie, that the things you say might be hurtful?’

‘I would be sorry if that were the case, Paul,’ she responded, struggling to keep her tender feelings at bay. ‘But I have no doubt you can understand why I was offended by that kiss you gave me.’

‘I meant to ask you to marry me before I kissed you, Freddie! So is this the only answer I get?’

She paused, fighting back her tears.

‘That is all I have to say, Paul. Believe me, I probably know you better than you know yourself. You don’t love me in the way I wish to be loved by the man I marry. You are fond of me, I know. You may even think you have fallen in love with me. But you love yourself too dearly to care very much for anyone else.’

‘How well you know me!’ he said bitterly, pursing his lips beneath the blond moustache.

‘But do let’s remain friends!’ she said, extending her hand unsteadily. ‘We would never be happy together, and one day you will thank me for not taking you up on your — on your proposal of marriage.’

But he did not take the proffered hand, and she withdrew it.

‘Ah yes, how well you know me!’ he repeated cynically. ‘I was not aware that my character was an object of study to you, indeed, I was not aware that I could be deemed worthy of such studious interest.’

‘It doesn’t take much study to fathom you, you know!’ she said in a high, almost scathing tone of voice. ‘Whatever the case, for someone like me, who has seen the way you behave with the girls in our set, it is impossible to take any declarations of love on your part at all seriously.’

‘Do you really believe I was courting all those girls? I would have thought you could tell the difference between innocent fun and serious intent. Anyway, I didn’t know it was a sin to be jolly.’

‘That kind of fun and jollity ought to be beneath you, Paul. And I might remind you that some people are more susceptible than others when it comes to your ill-advised pleasantries.’

There she was, preaching again; she hated herself for it, but a twinge of jealousy had impelled her to speak her mind.

‘Are you accusing me of being a heartbreaker?’ he said with a forced laugh. ‘Believe me, Freddie, you are mistaken. Those girls are not naive, you know; they are perfectly capable of telling when I am being serious or just having a lark. It seems that you are not. And I can assure you that if my intentions towards any of them had been in the least serious, my behaviour would have been totally different.’

There was a hostile edge to his voice, which almost made her fearful, and she kept silent.

‘But you said just now,’ he continued in a gentler tone, ‘that you couldn’t take me seriously when I said I loved you. So tell me honestly, Freddie, what would I have to do to make you believe me?’

She was greatly confused, which did not escape his notice.

‘Go on, Freddie, please tell me!’ he urged.

‘If I believed you, Paul,’ she said, recovering herself, ‘I would feel very sorry for you. As it is, I believe you will get over your disappointment in no time, and so I would really like us to remain friends. There’s no need for either of us to have any hard feelings simply because you took it into head to propose and I didn’t take you seriously. And I am not naive, either, I’ll have you know.’

He said nothing, crushed by her contempt, inwardly incensed at her dismissive attitude. Slowly he rose to his feet.

‘Very well, then,’ he said evenly. ‘So be it.’

He took his whip and tapped the sand off the legs of his velvet riding breeches, then consulted his watch.

‘Ah, almost midday. We should be getting back, don’t you think?’ he asked, as if nothing had happened.

‘Yes, we should,’ she replied.

She too stood up, donned her hat and adjusted the veil, then shook out her train and arranged it over her arm before starting up the sandy incline.

‘Will you take my arm?’ he offered coldly.

‘No thank you, I am all right,’ she said.

At the top he untied the horses and silently helped her to mount.

‘Merci,’ she said.

They rode off side by side, but very soon he urged his horse to go faster, so that he was ahead of her. At the end of the wood they took the country lane, where he quickened his pace further. She followed at some distance in the scorching midday sun, her eyes fixed on his back, her mind filled with consternation. A bleak sense of dissatisfaction came over her, and she feared that she might have been wrong to respond as she did, that the victory of her family pride and self-esteem might have been gained at too great a cost.

When Paul reached the iron gateway of De Horze he halted his horse and waited for her to catch up, after which they rode side by side up the drive to the big house. At the stables beyond they found Klaas and the stable boy cleaning the wheels of the old covered wagon.

Paul and Freddie dismounted. Coffee would be served presently, and Freddie hurried indoors to change out of her riding habit. In the vestibule she brushed past Etienne, who was looking more civilised now, in a jacket and with combed hair.

‘Ah, there you are!’ he snapped. ‘Back at last! You ought to be ashamed of yourself — going off for a ride like that without me.’

She turned on him irritably.

‘And I hope you won’t wish me bad luck ever again, even as a joke!’ she burst out. ‘I very nearly cut my face on an overhanging branch — I missed it by a hair’s breadth! Look at this scratch on my forehead! Don’t you ever say something like that again, do you hear? I’m more superstitious than you think!’

. .

Paul announced that he would be leaving the following morning to join his friend Oudendijk, Françoise’s brother, in Cologne, whence the young men would travel together across Switzerland to Italy. During dinner he was the same as usual, conversing on various topics in sarcastic tones with a supercilious expression hovering beneath the blond moustache. Frédérique was very subdued; it was generally assumed that she was suffering from the after-effects of the accident with the branch when out riding.

But it would not have been so easy for them to dissemble what had transpired between them had not that very afternoon seen the riotous homecoming of young Willy and Gustaaf. The two boys, fourteen and fifteen years old, were thrilled to be home from boarding school for the summer holidays, and in the midst of their boisterous capers with the children no one noticed that Paul and Frédérique were avoiding each other.

That evening, in the big bed, Frédérique was thankful for Marianne’s chatter about the novels she had been reading, as her rambling discourse on the psychological and philosophical ramifications of Adam Bede and Romola safeguarded Frédérique from thinking her own thoughts. The following morning, when Paul took his leave, she offered him her hand, which he pressed briefly. Not a word passed between them. When he had gone she felt sad and distraught, and longed to unburden herself. But to whom could she turn? Not to Marianne, for she was only a child, and not to Mama either, because it always upset her to see any of her offspring suffer. To her older sister, then?

She went looking for Mathilda and found her in the sitting room with her foursome, about to begin their daily lessons. Schoolbooks and copybooks lay scattered on the table. Nico was scribbling noisily on his slate.

‘Oh, I have disturbed you! I am so sorry!’ said Freddie. ‘I had forgotten all about your lesson. I just wanted a chat, that’s all.’ She made to withdraw, but looked so crestfallen that Mathilda checked her.

‘What about?’ she asked.

Frédérique hesitated, glancing at the children.

‘I’ll come back later, shall I?’ she said.

But Mathilda told the children they could have an hour’s breaktime, and they rushed happily out of the room and down the stairs. Frédérique began to cry and Mathilda drew her to the sofa.

‘I simply had to come and tell you!’ said Freddie between sobs. ‘Yesterday morning Paul proposed to me, and I turned him down!’

Mathilda was taken aback. Paul and Freddie had known each other for a long time; they were friends, of course, but she had never imagined the amity between them blossoming into love on either part, let alone his.

‘I’m afraid I was too harsh with him,’ continued Freddie. ‘I hurt his feelings without meaning to. It’s strange how one can be driven to say things one has no intention of saying at all! I mean, there was no need to be cruel. Why couldn’t I simply have told him I didn’t love him enough to marry him, instead of telling him it was impossible for me to believe him when he said he loved me.’

‘Did you wish you could believe him, then?’ asked Mathilda, curving her arm about Freddie’s waist.

Mathilda was asking her almost the same question as Paul! But Freddie could not bring herself to disclose her true feelings, even to her sister, and she demurred.

‘Well, no!’ she said, blushing. ‘No, I didn’t; it was just that afterwards I regretted having been so inconsiderate. I didn’t regret it at the time, though, so why should I regret it now? How awkward it is when there’s something you know you have to do, but you don’t know how to do it. I don’t think I have ever felt quite so unsure of myself.’

‘I know what you mean,’ murmured Mathilda encouragingly, for she could tell that Frédérique was not telling her the whole truth. ‘Decisions can be so heart-rending. Sometimes you make a decision without thinking, in a blur of happiness, and you regret it afterwards, and sometimes you consider all the aspects carefully beforehand, only to discover after a time that your feelings have changed, which doesn’t get you anywhere either. And sometimes you simply aren’t brave enough to commit yourself one way or the other—’

Mathilda’s voice trailed off as her thoughts drifted to Eline, then to Freddie, who, she could guess, had not dared to make the decision of her choice, and whose refusal to commit herself seemed to her to stem from indecision rather than indifference.

‘Yes, that’s exactly right!’ Freddie cried. ‘I wasn’t brave enough, I didn’t have the courage! Why? Because I was stupid enough to put myself up on a pedestal, because of my wretched self-worth, as Theodore calls it. Oh yes, I know: Paul has his faults, quite big ones actually, but I love him with all his faults, maybe I love him because of his egotism, because he’s no paragon of genius and virtue, but a man of flesh and blood, with all the good and the bad! Who do I think I am, placing myself above him, thinking he might not be worthy of me? As if I can claim to be a paragon of genius and virtue! Me, with my preposterous pride! My breeding! Oh yes, I have breeding all right!’

She burst into tears and threw her arms about her sister. Mathilda was overcome with sympathy for Freddie — Freddie, who was humbling herself for the sake of the man she loved! But her humility came too late. She should have humbled herself before, if it was happiness she was after.

. .

The following week Hetty returned from her boarding school in Bonn to spend the holidays with her family at De Horze. The Van Stralenburgs left for Zwolle, and in their place the Howards arrived from London. Notwithstanding the bustle of arrivals and departures, and notwithstanding Mathilda’s sympathy, Frédérique felt lonely. She suggested inviting Marie Verstraeten to stay, and Theodore and his wife were happy to oblige, as there was plenty of room in the big house.

Frédérique went to fetch her friend from the station in the old-fashioned buggy, taking the reins herself, and during the ride homeward the girls chatted nineteen to the dozen. Although they were alone — Freddie having left the stable-boy at home — she did not feel ready to bare her soul.

‘What about Paul? Has he been amusing?’ asked Marie.

‘Oh, that can wait; I’ll tell you about him later,’ said Freddie.

There was a strange note of anxiety in her voice; Marie looked at her a moment in wonder, then quickly changed the subject to the practicalities of her luggage, which she had left at the station to be collected by wheelbarrow later. When they pulled up at the entrance to the house all the children came running to give Marie a joyous welcome. That night Marianne kindly gave up her place in the large bedroom for Marie, and it was then that Freddie finally confided her secret in her friend.

Wearing their white nightgowns, they settled themselves on the wide window seat overlooking the cavernous room, which was lit by a single night light. Frédérique began to cry, covering her face with her hands, which Marie tried gently to prise apart.

‘But Freddie, if you love him surely things can be put right. All he wants is for you to love him. I shall write him a letter.’

Frédérique straightened up.

‘No, Marie,’ she said firmly, between her tears. ‘I would never allow you to do that. I turned him down, and I can’t go back on my word and make demands on him now. I’m not crying because I’ve lost him, I’m just upset because I was unnecessarily harsh with him, because I got on my high horse and didn’t take him seriously. So if he feels hurt, it’s my fault. And I respect him for the way he kept his dignity with me afterwards, which just goes to show that his sense of self-worth is just as strong as my ridiculous pride. He has “breeding” too, as much as I do.’

‘That leaves you butting your heads together like a pair of stubborn goats, just because you both have breeding,’ Marie exclaimed. ‘Very sensible, I must say! No, Freddie, be honest, why don’t you admit that you misjudged his character, then you can set things right. What do you have against him, anyway? His egotism? All men are egotistic, so how can you expect him to be any different! Try and be sensible, take things as they are. I am not referring to your brothers, mind: Otto is in a class of his own, and besides,’ she continued, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, ‘besides, Otto has been through so much. As for Etienne, he’s still a boy, he’s good and kind, but only a boy nonetheless. So it’s no use comparing Paul with them; just think of Paul as someone who happens to have money and who simply wants to enjoy life. I’m not saying that Paul has a strong character, that he’s his own man, quite the opposite, in fact. I’m saying he’s a bit weak.’

‘I could never love a man who is weak,’ responded Freddie gruffly.

Marie put her arm around Freddie’s shoulder.

‘My dear Freddie,’ she said, ‘after everything you’ve told me, you can’t expect me to believe that you’re not in love with him. He may be weak, he may be an egotist, he may be anything under the sun — but it’s quite obvious that you love him.’

‘Yes,’ said Freddie, with a rueful smile. ‘I suppose I do. You are right. I’ve already confessed to Mathilda that I love him, faults and all. I didn’t tell you before because you rose to his defence, and it was such a relief to hear you do so.’

‘Well, let me write him a letter, then.’

‘No!’ said Freddie. ‘You must promise me you won’t write to him. Not ever. I don’t want you abusing my confidence. I have been very foolish, I have thrown away my chance of happiness, and I will suffer for it. That is as it should be.’

The summer drew to a close without Paul and Freddie meeting again. The Howards went back to London, Hetty and the boys returned to their respective boarding schools, and Marie, too, took her leave. Freddie soon received a letter from Marie in The Hague, with news of Paul: he had fallen in with a group of artists in Rome and had rented a studio there in which to paint.

However, when the Van Erlevoorts returned to The Hague in October, Frédérique heard that Paul was no longer painting in Italy. He was reported to have taken up residence in the town of Bodegraven, where he had found a position in local government, and that he was planning to become a mayor.