Henrietta's Own Castle. Бетти НилсЧитать онлайн книгу.
anyway, for he held up two hands to show that he knew what ten meant, saluted her and got into Charlie, who rather surprisingly purred into life and was driven away through the gates and out of sight. Henrietta went back indoors; the arrangements would do for the moment, but once she had got her bearings she would find a shed or something—supposing she wanted Charlie in a hurry, how was she to get him? It was a pity, but she could see that there were a great many questions she would have to ask Mr van Hessel when she saw him again.
She made tea for the neighbour and had a cup herself, deciding to skip lunch, for there was still the linen cupboard to go through. She would get a stew going and eat it later round the stove. The man went presently and she went to see what he had done; the logs had been split and piled tidily, and besides that he had chopped a pile of kindling. She took some logs back with her, made up the stove and settled down to her task. It proved a more lengthy one than she had imagined; Aunt Harriet had had a remarkably well stocked linen cupboard, and everything was of the best quality. Henrietta, happily counting and checking, came to the conclusion that she would have no need to buy a single article for years to come.
She finished at last and went downstairs, well content, to sit in the lamplit room with a tray of tea and a book while the stew bubbled appetizingly. After supper she would make a few lists and try to get her finances planned, but after supper she found herself thinking of bed; she tidied away the remains of her meal, had a shower and made herself a cup of cocoa to drink by the stove. She had enjoyed her day, she thought sleepily, and tomorrow would be fun, too—besides, once she had been to the bank she would know exactly how much money she had.
She took her mug out to the sink and went yawning through the little house, to pause and straighten a picture on the dining-room wall. It had caught on something behind it and when she unhooked it she saw the small knob on the wall. She pulled it idly and a little cupboard door, papered over, opened. It was a little high for her, tall though she was, so she got a chair and climbed on it to peer inside. There were several rolls of green baize and a velvet-covered box. She carried them to the light and opened them—there was table silver, simple and old and she supposed valuable. There was a small silver coffee pot too with a cream jug and a sugar bowl, just as simple in design and very beautiful. Henrietta set them down beside the other silver and opened the box. There was a garnet necklace inside; a gold chain, very thick and solid, the garnets fashioned into a cascade of flowers; it shone and glowed in her hands and she wondered who had worn it. She would have to tell someone, she decided as she wrapped everything up again; it might make a difference to the estate, for they were valuable. And who was she to tell? Mr Boggett, perhaps, or the bank manager in Tilburg? She went slowly up to bed, wondering why Aunt Henrietta had hidden them away, and who had given her such a lovely necklace.
She was up early the next morning and although it was still only half light saw with a sinking heart that it had been snowing, and still was. The road to Tilburg was a good one; it was the few kilometres from the village to that road which worried her. True, there were no hills or S-bends and it had been dark when she had driven along it, but it was very narrow and the surface was bad. She ate her breakfast, tidied up the house, peeled potatoes to go with the rest of the stew and checked her small stock of tins for a pudding to go after it, then went upstairs to put on her outdoor clothes; the tweed coat, while not quite the height of fashion, was warm and so were the boots, she added a fur bonnet too—an extravagance she had permitted herself and was now thankful for; it framed her pretty face attractively and its dark fur was undoubtedly becoming.
It was almost ten o’clock as she opened her front door, but there was no sign of Charlie; indeed, there was no sign of anything or anyone, everyone who could was undoubtedly snug indoors on such a day. The Catholic church played its carillon for ten o’clock and the Protestant church, not to be outdone, chimed the hour with its deliberate, deep bell, and Henrietta peered round the door once more. A car was turning out of the castle gates, not her Mini, but a gleaming, silver-grey Rolls-Royce, moving silently and disdainfully through the snow. It drew up before her door and Mr van Hessel got out.
‘You can’t take your car out on a day like this,’ he greeted her, without as much as a ‘good day’ for politeness’ sake. ‘I have to go into Tilburg, you may come with me.’
He was standing in the snow, nattily dressed in what she recognized as town clothes of the finest quality, sober grey and exquisitely tailored.
‘How do I get back?’ she asked; if he wasn’t civil enough to wish her good morning she saw no reason to be polite herself.
‘Will four o’clock suit you?’ he asked carelessly. ‘I’ll show you where I’ll pick you up. Come along, I’m a little late already.’
She locked the door behind her and got in wordlessly; anyone would think, listening to him, that she was to blame for his lateness. She fastened her seat belt and pretended to herself that driving in a Rolls was something she did so often that it no longer gave her a thrill.
The big car made light of the slippery road and she was secretly thankful that she hadn’t had to drive Charlie. It wasn’t until they had joined the motorway to Tilburg that she spoke. ‘How did you know that I was going out at ten o’clock—and to Tilburg?’
‘Jan told me. He fetched your car yesterday and I supposed it would be Tilburg—it’s the nearest town and I daresay you have business there.’
‘With the bank—my aunt’s bank—I daresay you know that too,’ she said with a touch of temper. ‘You knew my aunt?’
‘Yes, very well.’
‘Then when you have the time to spare, I have a number of questions I should like to ask you about her.’
‘I seldom have time to spare, so you had better start now.’
‘Did you know that there’s a cupboard in the dining-room of my little house, with silver in it and a necklace?’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘Well—is it a secret? Why didn’t Mr Boggett tell me about it? Or you, for that matter.’
‘I imagine Mr Boggett didn’t know, and as for myself, I felt sure that you would find them sooner or later. They’re yours now, of course.’
‘But are they? Who gave them to Aunt Henrietta in the first place—and I want to know why she lived in Gijzelmortel for so many years and why my parents always allowed me to believe that she was dead—did she do something awful?’
His voice sounded patient enough, although she didn’t think he was. ‘My uncle gave them to her—no, my dear good girl, do not interrupt. He gave her the house too, to live in for the rest of her life and to leave to anyone she wished. You see, they loved each other; he met her when they were both quite young and was already married, and not happily. They didn’t have an affair in the usual sense of that word; it wasn’t until she was forty or so that he finally persuaded her to go and live near him. My aunt had become almost impossible to live with by then, leading her own life, not caring for anyone but herself; he desperately needed someone to love, so Henrietta gave in at last and made her home in Gijzelmortel. He furnished the house for her and bought her trifles, and although they loved each other very deeply they were never more than friends—the village loved her; so did anyone who met her. If my aunt had died, they would undoubtedly have married, but my uncle died first and my aunt went to Switzerland to live, but your aunt stayed in her little house because my uncle would have wished it. When my aunt died I came to the castle to live.’ He slowed the big car as they neared Tilburg. ‘Will you be all right at the bank?’
‘Yes, thank you. Do you want me to be there at four o’clock?’
‘Outside the bank? Yes. If I am late I will let them know, they can send someone out to tell you.’
Henrietta said ‘thank you’ meekly, bursting with questions about Aunt Henrietta and not daring to ask them. He had told her the story—just the facts with no trimmings—and supposed that she would be content with that; besides, he wanted to get to his work. She wondered what he did for a living, or perhaps he didn’t do anything, just lived in his splendid