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arrived in the open air to find a uniformed chauffeur waiting for them.
He greeted Mrs Wesley with great politeness, acknowledged Prudence’s polite good morning with a bowed head and grinned at Pretty. The car waiting for them was a very large Mercedes into which Aunt Beatrix stepped and settled herself comfortably, leaving everyone else to load in the luggage, with Prudence giving advice which only Pretty understood and the porters taking no notice of anyone at all. But at length everything was stowed away to the chauffeur’s satisfaction; he held the door politely for Prudence to get in beside her godmother, saw Pretty into the seat beside him and drove off.
“We go around Amsterdam,” explained Aunt Beatrix, “and join the motorway going north. We shall cross the Afsluitdijk into Friesland, and from there we drive across Friesland very nearly to Groningen Province. I think you’ll find the country pleasant enough; there should be a map in the pocket beside you, dear, so you can see exactly where you are. I shall compose myself and take a nap—I find travelling very fatiguing.”
Prudence somehow choked back a giggle, and presently opened the map.
She hadn’t realised quite how small Holland was. They were on the Afsluitdijk within two hours, speeding towards the distant coastline of Friesland; they must be almost there. Aunt Maud had warned her that she might expect to find her hostess’s home somewhat larger than her own. “I visited there once, a long time ago,” Aunt Maud had said, “and I remember I was rather impressed.”
The car swept on, skirting Franeker and Leeuwarden, racing along the main road towards Groningen. What was more, Prudence had seen very few country houses, but numerous villages, each with its church, offering useful landmarks in the rolling countryside, and any number of large prosperous farms. She was wondering just where they would end up when the chauffeur turned the car on to a narrow brick road, and within minutes they had left the modern world behind them. There were trees ahead of them and a glimpse of red roofs, and, as though Mrs Wesley had secreted an alarm clock about her person, she opened her eyes, sat up straight, and said in a satisfied voice, “Ah, we’re arriving at last,” just as though she had been awake all the time. She said something to the chauffeur in Dutch and he replied at some length as they slowed through a small village; a pretty place surrounded by trees and overseen by a red brick church in its centre. The road was cobbled now and the car slowed to a walking pace as it rounded the centre of the village and took a narrow road on the other side.
“A lake?” asked Prudence. “How delightful!” She was still craning her neck to get a better view when the car was driven between stone pillars and along a curved drive, thickly bordered by shrubs and trees. It was quite short and ended in a wide sweep before a large, square house with a gabled roof, a very large front door reached by double steps and orderly rows of large windows. There was a formal flower garden facing it beyond the sweep, and an assortment of trees in a semicircle around it. Prudence, getting out of the car, decided that it was rather nice in a massive, simple way. It might lack the mellow red brick beauty of Aunt Maud’s home, but it had charm of its own, standing solidly in all the splendour of its white walls in the May sunshine.
The procession, led by Mrs Wesley with Prudence behind her and tailed by Pretty and the chauffeur, carrying the first of the baggage, mounted the steps, to be welcomed by a stout man with cropped white hair and bright blue eyes. He made what Prudence supposed to be a speech of welcome, and stood aside to allow them into a vestibule which in turn opened into an oval entrance hall. Very grand, reflected Prudence, with pillars supporting an elaborate plaster ceiling and some truly hideous large vases arranged in the broad niches around the walls. The floor was black-and-white marble and cold to the feet.
There were numerous doors, and the stout man opened one and ushered them into a large room furnished in the style of the Second Empire, with heavy brocade curtains at its windows and a vast carpet on its polished floor. Aunt Beatrix took off her gloves, asked Pretty to see that the luggage was brought in and taken to their rooms, and sat down in a massive armchair. “Wim will let my sister’s maid know that we have arrived,” she observed, “but first we’ll have coffee. I suggest that while I’m seeing my sister you might like to stroll through the gardens for half an hour.”
Prudence agreed cheerfully. “And when do you take your insulin?” she wanted to know.
“Ah, yes, I mustn’t forget that, must I, my dear? And my diet…”
“You have it with you? Shall I go and see someone about it? It’s very important.”
Her godmother was searching through her handbag. “I have it here, but I shall need to translate it. How many grammes are there in an ounce?”
They worked out a lunch diet while they drank their coffee, and gave the result to Wim, and Mrs Wesley said comfortably, “I shall leave you to arrange dinner for me, dear; if you’ll write it out I can translate it…I dare say you’re clever enough to ring the changes.”
Prudence agreed placidly, concealing the fact that she was a surgical nurse and had always loathed diabetics anyway. “You’d like me to see to your insulin, too?” she asked.
Her godmother nodded. “But of course, Prudence.”
A small, stout, apple-cheeked woman came presently to take Mrs Wesley to her sister. Before she went, she suggested once again that Prudence should go into the garden around the house. “My sister will want to meet you,” she concluded, “but first we must have a chat.”
When she had gone, Prudence wandered over to the doors opening on to the terrace behind the house and went outside. The gardens were a picture of neatness and orderliness. Tulips stood in rows, masses of them, with clumps of wallflowers and forget-me-nots between them. All very formal and Dutch, she reflected, and made her way past the side of the house, down a narrow path and through a small wooden gate. The path meandered here, between shrubs she couldn’t name, and there were clumps of wild flowers, ground ivy and the last of a splendid carpet of bluebells. She turned a corner and ran full tilt into a man digging. He straightened up, and said something in Dutch and turned to look at her. He was tall and heavily built, so that she felt quite dwarfed beside him. She had read somewhere that the people of Friesland and Groningen were massively built, and this man was certainly proof of that; he was handsome, too, with lint-fair hair, cut unfashionably short, bright blue eyes, a disdainful nose and a firm mouth. The gardener, she assumed, and murmured a polite good day.
He stood leaning on his spade, inspecting her so that after a moment she frowned at him. And when he grinned and spoke to her in Dutch she said sharply, “Don’t stare like that! What a pity I can’t speak Dutch.” And at his slow smile she flushed pinkly and turned on her heel. So silly to get riled, she told herself, walking away with great dignity. He hadn’t said a word—or at least, none that she could understand.
She went back into the house and presently she was taken upstairs to a vast bedroom and introduced to Aunt Beatrix’s sister—Mevrouw ter Brons Huizinga, a rather more stately version of Aunt Beatrix, if that were possible, sitting up in bed against a pile of very large linen-covered pillows. Despite her stateliness, she looked ill, and Prudence eyed her with some uneasiness. She enquired tentatively after her hostess’s health, and was reassured to hear that her doctor visited her daily and was quite satisfied with her progress. “He should be here any minute,” declared Mevrouw ter Brons Huizinga, and, exactly on cue, there was a tap on the door and he came into the room. The gardener, no less.
CHAPTER TWO
AUNT BEATRIX swam forward and enveloped him in her vast embrace. “My dear boy, how delightful to see you again and to know that you are taking such good care of your aunt! We’ve only just arrived…” She had spoken in English and turned to glance at Prudence, standing with her mouth deplorably half-open and with a heightened colour. “Prudence, this is my nephew—at least, he’s my sister’s nephew; Haso ter Brons Huizinga. Haso, this is Prudence Makepeace who has kindly come with me so that there’s someone to look after me. She’s a nurse.”
Prudence offered a hand and nodded coldly. He didn’t look like a gardener any more; he had rolled down his shirt sleeves and put on a beautifully tailored