On a sunny Saturday two summers later Hans and Margriet strolled through Market Place and Trinity Square.
Margriet waved to Betty, who was working full time with Tom on his stall and had moved in with him and his wife, becoming the surrogate daughter they had long been denied. Mabel, with the help of the committee, had found work with a florist. She and Billy, who was setting up his own signwriting business, were planning on getting married and living above the rented workshop with Jim, who was apprenticed to a joiner. Julia Sanderson was also to be married later that year, while her sister Imogen said she wasn’t going to marry but instead intended to set up a charity to house orphaned children.
Margriet had taken several weeks to recover fully from the unaccountable fever, as the doctor had called it, but was now fit and well and could remember little of what had happened. She recalled that she had felt drained and empty when she was at last able to sit up in bed, and had built up her strength with Cook’s chicken broth, coddled eggs and syllabub.
Hans had been her constant visitor until she was once more downstairs with her mother. He was fully committed to his work with the Vandergroene Company, and was expected to take a leading position in the years to come. On one of his trips home to Amsterdam he had brought Gerda Vandergroene back to England with him and she had stayed with Margriet and her mother, building bridges with her daughter-in-law at last. When she returned home, Florrie had gone with her. Floris, as she was now known, had never fathomed what had happened to Margriet, but wisely did not try to understand something completely beyond her comprehension.
‘I miss not seeing Floris,’ Margriet remarked as they strolled past the church. ‘And …’ She hesitated, wondering what Hans would say to this confession. She was eighteen years old now, after all. ‘Sometimes I miss Anneliese too. She was my constant companion for so long.’
He looked down at her. ‘Am I not your constant companion now? Have I not taken her place?’
She didn’t answer his question but said, ‘She was jealous of you, you know; that’s why she changed. We played very happily when we were children – or at least I think we did. She’s becoming a distant memory.’
Hans breathed a small sigh. How reassuring and comforting it was to hear her say so. Not once had he implied that Margriet had conjured up this being from her imagination because she was lonely, nor ever suggested that Anneliese wasn’t real, but Margriet wasn’t quite over her. She still hurried past Land of Green Ginger and never looked down it.
‘So,’ he said again. ‘Have I not become your constant companion?’
She smiled and bent her head. It was time, she thought, to explain a few things to him. ‘You have, it’s true. Shall we walk to the pier? We can sit there and watch the ships sailing past.’
He stopped first and bought Margriet a bunch of sweet-smelling roses. She pressed her nose to them. ‘They’re lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Gallantly he pressed his hand to his heart. ‘It is my utmost pleasure,’ he declared. ‘I would be happy to bring you flowers every day.’ At twenty-three, Hans was already a kind, thoughtful young man.
She smiled but didn’t respond and they walked on in comfortable silence until they reached the pier, where they sat on a bench and watched the ships and barges sailing down the estuary, the smaller market boats tied to the timbers below the pier lapping and bobbing on the water.
Margriet looked down at the roses. ‘You know, don’t you, Hans, that I have made a pledge never to marry. I have mentioned it often.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘Indeed you have, Margriet. I have heard your comments regarding the plight of married women many times.’
‘Mr Webster says that one day in the not-too-distant future, the legal status of married women will change and Parliament will be forced to bring in new and fairer rules.’
‘So I understand. But,’ he said, holding in a smile, ‘what I don’t understand is why you think that I should be interested in this English law. Or is it that you intend to inform every man you know of what is or might be happening?’
‘Oh, well.’ She flushed, and seemed a little flummoxed. ‘It’s just that I feel I should make it plain that I could never marry. Not even you, Hans, though you have my utmost respect and’ – she took a deep breath – ‘affection.’
‘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.