“Did you miss me?”

She stared at him blankly. “Yes, I did,” and added quickly, “we all did.”

“You passport has been found. The police telephoned this morning…. You’ll have it back very shortly.”

She was conscious of bitter disappointment because now she was free to go back to England, back to her lonely life. She faltered, “Oh, good.”

“Excellent.” Jeroen was leaning over the end of the bed, watching her while she fiddled with the sheets. “Now you can go back to England.”

“So I can.” Her voice was very bright.

“But I’d like you to come back here, Constantia—it has occurred to me that it might be a very good idea if we were to marry.”

About the Author

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

The Little Dragon
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS starting to snow; the feathery flakes fell soundlessly in a kind of slow motion, turning the old-fashioned gabled houses lining the canal into a painting by Pieter de Hoogh.

The girl at the window stood quietly, staring down at the people in the streets below as they bustled to and fro over the narrow arched bridge in front of the house, intent on getting home before the weather worsened. She was a pretty girl, small and slim with nut-brown hair and wide grey eyes heavily fringed. Her nose turned up the merest trifle and her mouth was too wide, although it curved enchantingly. She looked happy too, which was surprising, for Constantia Morley, twenty-six years old and an orphan for twenty of those years, hadn’t a great deal to be happy about.

She had been brought up by an aunt, unmarried and straitlaced, who had tried in vain to make Constantia straitlaced too and quite failed; but she had been kind to her niece after her fashion, and educated her well and raised no objection when Constantia evinced a desire to become a nurse. She had died a year after her niece had taken her finals, and because she had overlooked the fact that the will she had made many years earlier held no provision for Constantia, she had left her nothing at all. The modest amount she had left went to various charities, and the house to some distant relation Constantia had never heard of, who, taking possession of it with almost indecent haste, couldn’t wait to show Constantia the door.

From then on Constantia had lived at the hospital where she worked, on the fringe of London, with plenty of friends with whom to spend her free time but no home or family to visit. But she wasn’t sorry for herself; self-pity wasn’t going to help her to make her way in life, and if she were lucky one day she would marry and have a family of her own. Indeed, she had had several proposals during the last few years, but although she had liked the proposers well enough, none of them had swept her off her feet, and she wanted to be swept off her feet…

By the time she had reached her twenty-sixth birthday she was beginning to wonder if she was expecting too much of life, and egged on by a restlessness she couldn’t understand, she gave up her post as Sister on the medical wards, and went into private nursing. She had been told at the time that it wasn’t the life for her; she was a good nurse and used to hard work and the pressures of a busy ward; she would be bored. But she hadn’t been bored, although she was willing to concede the fact that life wasn’t all roses.

She had had a variety of patients during the last six months, spending the first few weeks in a Scottish castle miles from anywhere, followed by a mercifully brief period in a remote Welsh cottage with no telephone, a very sick patient and only a deaf old woman for company. Then there had been a wholesale grocer in the Midlands who worried unceasingly about his money, and then a small spoilt girl in Bournemouth and a charming old lady in a London flat. And now here she was in Holland with what she had to admit was the worst patient of the lot.

She turned away from the window at last; her sharp eyes had seen Doctor Sperling’s Renault coming over the bridge. He would be at the house in a few moments now and she must go down and meet him in the hall. It was one of her patient’s little foibles that Constantia should always be waiting for the doctor; she had to wear uniform too, which, when she considered how little nursing there was to do, seemed ridiculous. She suspected that she was a prestige symbol and that her cap and apron were needed to substantiate her patient’s boasting.

She reached the dark hall just as Nel, the elderly maid, opened the door and the doctor entered.

He was a man of middle age, tall and balding and, Constantia had to admit, as fussy as an old woman. He greeted her with a condescension which made her grit her small even teeth, remarked on the inclemency of the weather: ‘It is, after all, the last day of February,’ he informed her in the manner of someone handing out vital information, and then, divested of his coat and hat: ‘You will lead the way to your patient, nurse?’

He had said that each day for just over a week and she had answered, just as she had done each time he came, ‘Of course, Doctor,’ and led the way upstairs again to her patient’s room.

Mrs Dowling was lying on a day bed drawn up to the old-fashioned stove. She was a thin woman, made even thinner by the diet she had insisted upon keeping to until it was discovered that she was a diabetic. Her hair was grey, curly and short and her features strong, with a perpetual expression of annoyance upon them. Her voice was loud, penetrating and bossy.

She responded to the doctor’s greeting with a languid nod and broke at once into complaint. ‘You really must explain to Nurse, Doctor Sperling, that I am quite capable of compiling my own diet.’ She didn’t look at Constantia as she spoke, indeed she could have been invisible. ‘And you must do something about my headaches.’

Doctor Sperling put his fingertips together and looked wise. He said, in almost perfect English: ‘Dear lady, your condition, unless controlled by insulin, would be cause of those headaches. You must allow me to guide you in the matter. I will discuss your diet with Nurse and see what alternatives there are to the diet I prescribed. And now you must tell me how you feel today, Mrs Dowling.’

His patient spoke at some length, her voice grating unpleasantly on Constantia’s ear. But she had heard it all before, so she felt justified in allowing her thoughts to wander. Tomorrow, she reflected, she would have the half day Mrs Dowling so grudgingly gave her twice a week. She had glimpsed the town briefly already, now she was going to explore it; its churches, museums, old houses, canals and narrow alleys. After all, she might never have the chance to come to Delft again. She was really very lucky, she could have been up to her eyes on Women’s Medical…the Nieuw Kerk first, she decided, and then the Town Hall…

Mrs Dowling had paused for breath; Constantia switched her mind back to her present surroundings, and although she wasn’t required to speak, looked intelligent.

Ten minutes later she was attending Doctor Sperling to the door. The new diet had been discussed, written down and approved by the patient. The insulin doses the doctor had tactfully left until he was alone with Constantia; she listened carefully to his instructions and smiled a goodbye, quite sorry for him because although he was well thought of by his colleagues in the medical profession and had a fashionable practice, he still had to suffer the tiresomeness of patients like Mrs Dowling. And it seemed as though he would have to suffer her for some time yet, for she harboured the notion that her complaint was something she could ignore if she wished, and indeed before the doctor had persuaded her to have a private nurse she had played ducks and drakes with both her diet and her insulin.

She hadn’t liked the idea of a nurse at first, but after the beginnings of a diabetic coma, luckily nipped in the bud by the doctor, she had changed her views and even got a good deal of satisfaction from having a nurse to look after her. She had a number of friends, hard-faced women like herself who were addicted to bridge and the bullying of those they considered beneath them, and as none of them had had a private nurse at any time, she derived a good deal of satisfaction from Constantia’s presence. But not pleasure; she had tried in vain to bully her, but Constantia wasn’t to be cowed. She had learned to show an imperturbable front which quite disconcerted her patient, and although she had a nasty temper upon occasion, she kept it well in check.

The agency for whom she worked had thought that she might be in Holland for two or three weeks, no longer, but already a week had gone by and if Mrs Dowling was going to insist on doing exactly what she liked about her diet, then Constantia could see that she might be there for very much longer. Given a sensible patient, the diabetes could have been controlled within two weeks, diets worked out and the insulin doses adjusted, so that an occasional visit to the doctor would have been quite sufficient. But Mrs Dowling wasn’t sensible, she was also very rich and moreover suffered from the illusion that money would and could smooth her path. Quite why she needed Constantia was a puzzle, and certainly she had said nothing about her leaving. Constantia, who liked to nurse patients who needed all her skill and care, felt impatient when she thought about it—but if she were to go, the chances were that Mrs Dowling would do something silly like eating éclairs for tea and forgetting her insulin, and end up in hospital in a coma.

Constantia went back upstairs and spent the next half an hour persuading her patient that Vienne snitczels just wouldn’t do for her dinner that evening.

‘I sometimes wish that I were back in England,’ complained Mrs Dowling. ‘I could go to one of those health hydros where I’m sure my wishes would be carried out.’

‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t,’ said Constantia briskly, ‘if you want to.’

Her patient cast her a look of dislike. ‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,’ she snapped. ‘What have you to offer in place of Vienne snitczels?’

Constantia was ready with quite a list; Mrs Dowling rejected first one and then the other and then finally, seeing that Constantia had no intention of ordering the snitczels, graciously allowed that Parma ham cut wafer-thin might do very well. Constantia retired to the kitchen to confer with the cook and on the way back again lingered for a moment at a downstairs window.

The snow was coming down thickly now and it was almost dark. Across the bridge she could see the shops lighted up; it would be pleasant to wrap up warmly and explore—tomorrow she would do just that.

By lunch time the next day the snow had ceased and the sun had come out; it was cold, though. Constantia, already a little late because Mrs Dowling had thought up first one and then the other small task for her to do before she went, hurried along the Wijn Haven, across the bridge and into Oude Langen Dijke, where she turned off to cross the market square in the direction of the Nieuwe Kerk. She paused as she went to turn and stare at the Stadhuis; it looked beautiful in its snowy setting—seventeenth-century Baroque, although there was a small part of it which was much older and no longer open to the public. She shivered as she stood; the wind was cold and her coat, several winters old now, wasn’t quite adequate. She dismissed the coat with a cheerful shrug and continued on her way, and it was as she reached the far side of the market square that she saw Doctor Sperling’s car parked opposite the Nieuwe Kerk. There was another car close by, a shabby little Fiat parked rather carelessly, and its occupant was apparently talking to Doctor Sperling, for she could see that he was talking to someone bending down at his car’s window. She had almost reached it when the doctor turned round, saw her, and raised a dignified hand.

Constantia hadn’t much dignity. She skipped up to the car and said, ‘Hullo, Doctor Sperling,’ with an almost childlike friendliness, and then uttered a surprised ‘Oh,’ as whoever it was on the other side straightened up to look at her over the car’s roof. A very large, tall man with pale hair silvering over the temples, his eyes were blue, and heavy-lidded, his nose high-bridged above a large firm mouth. A nice face, decided Constantia, and smiled widely at him.

He had a nice smile too, she discovered. The arm he stretched over the car’s roof was enormous, so was his hand, but his grip was gentle.

‘Jeroen van der Giessen.’ His voice was deep and placid.

‘Constantia Morley…’ Doctor Sperling’s pedantic voice interrupted her. ‘Miss Morley is nursing Mrs Dowling.’ He poked his head further out of the car window. ‘You have a free afternoon, Nurse?’

‘It’s my half day—I’m exploring, Doctor Sperling.’ She smiled at him, delighted with her freedom; she smiled at the large man, too, rather shyly. ‘I don’t want to miss a minute,’ she explained. ‘Goodbye, Doctor—Mijnheer van der Giessen.’

She crossed the road and went into the Nieuwe Kerk and Doctor Sperling watching her, observed severely: ‘A good nurse, very thorough and conscientious, but one feels that she should take life more seriously.’

‘Why?’ asked his companion, his eyes on Constantia’s small brisk person as it disappeared into the church.

Doctor Sperling coughed. ‘She is twenty-six,’ he remarked severely.

Two lazy blue eyes twinkled down at him. ‘I’m thirty-nine myself and I have the greatest difficulty in taking life seriously.’

The older man examined his nails. ‘I’m not surprised, Jeroen, with three children and those dogs and that great house.’ He sounded faintly envious. ‘And your work.’ He sighed. ‘I must get on, I’ve another patient to visit. We must have an evening together…’

‘Give me a ring.’ The two men shook hands and Doctor Sperling watched the other man insert his giant-like proportions into the Fiat and drive away. He was a good driver; no fiddling with mirrors or gears, no anxious ear cocked for engine noises, just in and away. ‘He could drive a biscuit tin,’ muttered Doctor Sperling, and drove off himself, only rather more sedately.

Constantia, in between a close study of the stained glass windows in the choir, the Royal Burial Vault of the House of Orange and the mausoleum of William of Orange, allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the man she had just met. She had liked him and he had looked at her as though he had known her already…

She paused to gaze at the great organ. He would be married, of course, with children and from the look of his car, not much money. She wondered what he did for a living and what his wife was like, and then dismissed him from her thoughts and concentrated on the organ. But Jeroen van der Giessen popped back into her head again as she made her way down the church to the door once more. It was a pity that just once in a while one met someone one could feel completely at ease with and then never saw again.

She saw him the minute she went through the door; he was striding across the Markt square, his hands in the pockets of his rather deplorable sheepskin jacket. He reached the road at the same time as she did and said at once: ‘Hullo again. How far have you got with the sightseeing?’

‘Just the Nieuwe Kerk,’ she told him happily, aware that she was glad to see him. ‘I’m going over to the Oude Kerk now.’

‘Yes? I’ve an hour to spare, I wondered if you would like to see the Steen—the tower of the Stadhuis, you know. It’s a good deal older than the rest of the building—fifteenth century, it was a small museum but it had to close because of staff difficulties, but I know the curator—if you’re interested we could go there now, and you could explore the Nieuwe Kerk another time.’ He added casually: ‘How many half days do you get in a week?’

‘Two. I’d love to see the Steen, but are you—can you spare the time?’

‘I’ve an hour, as I said. I like to be home at four o’clock for the children. I usually have visits in the afternoon, but I did them early.’

‘You’re a doctor?’ And when he nodded, ‘How many children have you?’

‘Three, two boys and a girl. But they’re not mine, they’re my sister’s—she’s away for a few months and I’ve got them with me.’

It was ridiculous to feel so relieved. When he added: ‘I’m not married,’ Constantia smiled widely. ‘Oh—how do you manage, then?’

He shrugged enormous shoulders. ‘It isn’t for very long—three or four months.’ They were walking across the Markt towards the Raadhuis, not hurrying their steps. ‘And how do you enjoy looking after Mrs Dowling?’

‘You know her?’

‘Oh, yes—not as a friend, though.’

‘Well then, I can tell you, can’t I? I don’t enjoy it at all, but I love being here in Delft, so that makes up for it.’

‘Makes up for what?’

‘Mrs Dowling is rather a difficult patient,’ she said carefully, and listened to his bellow of laughter.

‘My dear young lady, that is the understatement of the year. Does she still change her diet at every opportunity?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Constantia stopped to look up at him and thought what a kind face he had. ‘But I’m sorry for her too. She’s rich, you know, and miserable with it.’

He stared down at her, smiling faintly. ‘You think that being rich makes one miserable?’

‘I don’t know exactly, how should I? I’ve never been rich, but I don’t think wealthy people have much fun…’

‘You wouldn’t marry a rich man?’

She shook her head. ‘They worry about their money, don’t they? When I marry, if my husband wants to worry, then I’d like him to worry about me.’

‘You don’t mind having no money, then?’

‘No.’ She paused and added seriously: ‘Isn’t it funny the way we’re talking, just as though we’ve known each other for years and years.’

He said easily, ‘Oh, I’m a great believer in instant friendship.’ They had reached the Stadhuis and he ushered her up the steps and in through the door to a marble hall; the great staircase faced the door and there were a number of much smaller doors in the walls. Doctor van der Giessen knocked on one of them and poked his head round it to speak to someone in the room beyond. Constantia stood patiently listening to the unintelligible conversation, and wished she could understand just a little of it; if she were to stay much longer she would start to learn.

Her companion opened the door a little wider and an elderly bearded face peered round it at her, smiled, nodded and disappeared again. ‘We can potter,’ her guide informed her.

They climbed the stairs together and he showed her the Council Chamber and waited patiently while she admired the view from its windows, and then the portraits of the members of the House of Orange on its walls before leading her to the Wedding Chamber. Constantia, athirst for information, asked: ‘Does everyone have to get married here?’

‘Oh, yes—it isn’t legal otherwise.’

‘But what about church? I shouldn’t feel married…’

Doctor van der Giessen smiled a little. ‘A number of people are married in church too. A twice tied knot, one might say.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘Come and see the Steen Tower.’

It seemed that he was a privileged visitor and she was glad of it; the Steen Tower proved to house a small museum, closed for the time being to the public, the contents of which—to do with the law of the land—her companion explained in a leisurely manner. As they were leaving the Stadhuis at length, he asked: ‘Tea? There’s a small teashop just across the Markt.’

He gave her a placid smile and she thought again what a nice man he was and how easy she felt with him. ‘I’d love some, but do you have the time?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve no surgery until half-past five.’

‘The children?’

‘Playing with friends after school—they’ll be brought home.’

She smiled widely at him. ‘Well then—’ They started to walk across the Markt. ‘What a lovely half day I’m having,’ she told him happily.

He beamed down at her. ‘Yes? And I—it is very pleasant to show one’s home town to someone who is really interested in it.’

They had reached a small corner shop, a pastry cook’s she had thought, but through it was a very small room with tables and chairs, quite empty. They had their tea and Constantia ate a cream cake with real pleasure. ‘For,’ she explained, ‘Mrs Dowling mustn’t have anything like this—I have to eat the same food as she does.’

Her companion looked astonished. ‘But she’s on a diabetic diet, is she not?’

Constantia nodded. ‘Yes—I have sugar in my tea and coffee, of course. But no cake or biscuits or puddings.’

The doctor muttered something in Dutch and she said severely: ‘That sounded rude.’

He laughed. ‘It was. Have another cake—your carbohydrates must be at a very low ebb.’

She speared a second luscious confection. ‘Yes, I thought that too. I’m being greedy. You’ve not eaten anything.’ It occurred to her suddenly that perhaps he hadn’t very much money—three children would cost a lot to feed and he had a dreadful old car. On the other hand, when he had taken off his sheepskin jacket, she had noticed that the grey suit he was wearing was of very fine cloth and most elegantly cut. Of course, being such a size he would have to have his clothes made for him, just as he would have to present a well-tailored person to his patients. Probably he bought a very expensive suit every five years or so. It worried her a little and she said presently: ‘It is kind of you to give me tea—I mean, we’ve only just met, and you didn’t have to…if we’d been old friends or not seen each other for a long time…’

He smiled lazily at her. ‘I hope we’ll soon be old friends, and I have the strangest feeling that I have known you for a very long time.’

‘That’s funny—I felt like that too when we met. Perhaps we’ve met before and haven’t remembered.’ She poured more tea for them both. ‘Do you ever go to London?’

‘Yes—from time to time.’

‘Well, perhaps that’s it? St Anne’s isn’t a very big hospital, but it specialises in deficiency diseases and diabetes and metabolism.’

‘And do you plan to go back there?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I thought I’d do private nursing for a year because one can really save money, and then I shall go to Canada or New Zealand.’

‘Your family don’t mind?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t a family. I can only just remember my parents. An aunt brought me up; she died a year or two ago. There isn’t anyone else.’

‘No boy-friend?’

‘No.’

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I’m surprised. Don’t you approve of us?’

She had to laugh. ‘Of course I do, only I’ve never met anyone I wanted to marry. I expect I shall one day.’

‘I expect you will, too. In the meantime you have Mrs Dowling to contend with.’ He took a pipe from his pocket. ‘Would you mind if I smoked?’

‘Not a bit.’ She savoured the last crumbs of her cake. ‘I should be going.’

‘You have a half day—surely you can stay out as long as you wish?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t going back to Mrs Dowling. There’s an organ recital at the Walloon church—I thought I’d go.’

‘And until then?’ he prompted.

‘Well, I want to look at the shops and learn my way about the town.’ She picked up her gloves and began to put them on. ‘I have enjoyed my afternoon. Thank you very much, Doctor van der Giessen.’

She stifled quick disappointment at his noncommittal, ‘That sounds very pleasant,’ and when she got up he rose to his feet too with no sign of reluctance—and there was no reason why he should do otherwise, she told herself sensibly.

All the same, the rest of her half day seemed flat. Constantia had faced loneliness for several years now, quite cheerfully, too, but now she felt lonely. As she prepared for bed later she decided it was because she hadn’t met anyone—any man—with whom she had felt so relaxed. Probably she would see him again from time to time, but she would have to take care not to go out of her way to do so. He had been kind because she was a stranger in Delft and he had wanted her to see something of it. He would be a very good friend, she thought sleepily; impersonal friendliness among the young men she had known had been a rarity…

She closed her eyes, content with her day, and then opened them again as Mrs Dowling’s bell pinged in her ear. Constantia stifled a yawn, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and went along to the large room at the front of the house. Mrs Dowling always rang when she had had a half day; probably to make her pay for her free time. Constantia made a charmingly naughty face and opened the door.

‘There you are,’ declared her patient, quite unnecessarily. ‘I can’t sleep—I’ll have a cup of tea. What did you do with yourself?’

‘Oh, I had a delightful afternoon,’ Constantia told her happily, and went away to make the tea.

CHAPTER TWO

CONSTANTIA SAW Doctor van der Giessen three days later, on a rather bleak Sunday afternoon, because Mrs Dowling had decided that it suited her to allow Constantia to have her half day then…that there would be very little for her to do hadn’t entered her patient’s head. She was having friends in for tea and bridge, and there would be no need for her company.

So Constantia wrapped herself up in her winter coat once more and went for a walk. The Hotel Central would be open, she would have tea there and then go back and write letters and perhaps spend an hour conning the Dutch phrase book she had purchased; and if the walk palled, there were two museums which would be open until five o’clock. She had been saving them for a wet day, but they would pass a pleasant hour.

She was making her way towards the Nieuwe Plantage when she saw the doctor coming towards her. He wasn’t alone; there were three small children skipping around him and two magnificent long-haired Alsatian dogs were at his heels, and trotting along on a lead, a small black and white dog of no known parentage.

‘Another half day?’ asked the doctor as they drew level with her and came to a halt.

‘Yes. Mrs Dowling is playing bridge this afternoon.’

‘We were just saying that we would like something nice to happen—and here you are.’

‘Well,’ began Constantia, ‘you’re very kind to say so.’

‘Paul,’ he introduced the elder of the two boys, ‘and Pieter, seven and nine years old, and Elisabeth—she’s five.’

The children shook hands and smiled at her. They were nice-looking and very clean and neat; she wondered how the doctor managed that.

‘And the dogs—Solly and Sheba, and this…’ He indicated the nondescript animal now worrying his shoes, ‘is Prince.’

Constantia stroked three silky heads and said ‘Hullo,’ and the doctor observed: ‘Good, now you know everyone. We’re on our way back from the usual Sunday afternoon walk.’ He paused and went on smoothly: ‘We mustn’t keep you—your free time is precious.’

Constantia’s tongue almost tripped over itself in her hurry to agree. Not for the world would she have admitted, even to herself, that she would have welcomed a few minutes spent in the doctor’s company, not to mention the children and the dogs. She bade them all a cheerful goodbye and walked off in a purposeful fashion as though she really had somewhere to go. She longed to look round and watch them on their way home, but if one of them happened to look round at the same time, they might think that she was being nosey.

She walked on, not seeing her surroundings at all; they would be home by now—a small, shabby house, probably, if the car was anything to go by, but it would be cosy inside and they would have tea round the fire and do jigsaw puzzles and draw, and the doctor would sit in his chair and admire the children’s efforts and catch up on his reading when he wasn’t called upon to help with the jigsaw puzzle… She made herself think about something else; it was only because she felt a little lonely that she was allowing her imagination to run away with her, and she had better hurry back to the town’s centre or the museums would be closed. There might be a café open where she could get a cup of tea.

She couldn’t find a caf, but she did discover the Hofje van Elisabeth Pauw, a cluster of almshouses round a courtyard, old and peaceful and delightful to see even on a cold March afternoon. And as the Hofje van Gratie was close by it seemed a shame not to take a look at it while she was in that part of the town. By the time she had found her way back to the Markt square, it was too late to visit a museum; she went instead to the Hotel Central and had coffee in its dim warmth. There were a lot of people there, sitting in family groups or couples with their heads close together; it gave her the illusion that she was one of them, so that she settled quite happily to writing the postcards she bought at the bar and presently ordered more coffee and a ham broodje to go with it. Nel would have kept some supper for her—soup and something cold which she was expected to take to her room on a tray.

The house was quiet as she went in an hour later. Constantia started gingerly up the stairs, intent on gaining her room without Mrs Dowling knowing that she was back. A half day was a half day, after all, although her patient seemed to think that once she was in the house, she could resume her duties at the drop of a hat. She had gained the landing when Mrs Dowling’s harsh voice called: ‘Is that you, Nurse? Come in here.’

Constantia sighed and turned her steps to the front of the house where Mrs Dowling spent so much of her day. That lady looked up from her book as she went in with a peevish: ‘I can’t think what you find to do, Nurse—you might just as well stay in the house.’

‘I find exploring Delft very interesting, Mrs Dowling.’

‘Huh—and who do you meet on the sly?’ Mrs Dowling suddenly smiled rather nastily. ‘So you do meet someone—I can see it in your face.’

‘No, Mrs Dowling, I don’t, not an arranged meeting, and that’s what you’re hinting at. I did meet someone this afternoon—we said good afternoon and that was all.’

‘Who was it?’ demanded her patient.

‘I don’t think it could be of any interest to you, but there’s no secret about it. Doctor van der Giessen—I met him with Doctor Sperling a day or so ago.’

‘Him—he hasn’t any money,’ said Mrs Dowling deliberately.

Constantia’s grey eyes surveyed her with veiled contempt. ‘He’s a hardworking doctor—surely that’s more important?’

Her patient made a vulgar noise. ‘And what use is that with three children to clothe and feed and educate? I don’t know him, but Doctor Sperling has hinted as much. He’s poor.’ She uttered the word with contempt.

Constantia composed her features into mild interest and said: ‘Oh?’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t made it your business to find out? I thought all nurses were after doctors. Well, now you do know, so there’s no point in making eyes at him.’

Constantia went a little pale; she said evenly: ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Dowling, I still have an hour or so of my half day—I have some letters to write. I’ll say goodnight.’

‘You’re so damned ladylike!’ snapped her patient.

She had spoilt what was left of the day, of course. Constantia went along to the kitchen and collected her frugal supper and then went to bed early, for there was nothing else to do. She took great care not to think about Doctor van der Giessen at all.

Doctor Sperling came the next morning and because Mrs Dowling complained of headache, prescribed tablets—to be fetched by Constantia immediately, for the apotheek would be unable to deliver them at once. ‘Just over the bridge,’ he told her, ‘go through the shopping precinct, you will find it a little further along. You will need to get there by noon—they will be closing for lunch.’

Mrs Dowling glanced at the diamond-studded watch on her bony wrist. ‘Yes, go now, Nurse, and you, Doctor Sperling, can stay for a few minutes and see what is to be done about my diet. I need variety—my appetite needs tempting.’

Constantia felt a pang of pity for Doctor Sperling as she slipped away. Even ten minutes away from her patient was a pleasurable little bonus. Not even that lady’s ‘Hurry back, Nurse,’ could dim that. She whipped off the cap Mrs Dowling insisted that she wore, fetched her coat and let herself out of the house.

She had finished her errand and was almost at the bridge when Doctor van der Giessen, carrying his bag, came out of a doorway.

His ‘Good morning’ was genial. ‘Free so early in the day?’ he wanted to know.

She beamed at him warmly, for it was like meeting an old friend. ‘No, just an errand—some pills for Mrs Dowling; Doctor Sperling wanted her to have them at once.’ She gave a small skip. ‘I have to be very quick.’

He was blocking her path and he made no move to stand aside.

‘It’s not good for you to rush around. I prescribe two minutes of standing just where you are—we can while them away with a little light conversation. Did you enjoy your half day?’

‘Oh—yes. I walked to the Hofje van Elisabeth Pauw and then I went to see the other one close by, and by then it was too late to go to a museum, so I had coffee at the Central Hotel—it’s nice there. There were a lot of people.’

His eyes were quick to see the wistfulness on her face. He said gently: ‘And then what did you do?’

‘I went back…’ She remembered Mrs Dowling’s remarks and went bright pink.

‘And your patient was waiting for you?’ he prompted.

‘Yes, she was—but it didn’t matter.’ She smiled at him. ‘I really must go.’

He fell into step beside her, and as they crossed the bridge asked: ‘When is your next half day?’

‘Thursday. There’s a bridge party. It’s market day, isn’t it? I’m going to have a super time going round the stalls.’

He caught her arm in a casual grip and steered her across the busy street. ‘I have a half day too—perhaps we could go together.’

They were on the pavement outside the Hotel Central’s coffee room, full of people sitting at the little tables in its windows, watching the street and the passers-by in it.

‘Oh, I’d love that.’ Constantia sounded like a happy child, ‘but wouldn’t it bore you?’

He was looking at the curious faces peering at them through the glass, but he turned to look down at her. ‘No, it wouldn’t. I enjoy your company.’ He smiled in a friendly fashion and went on casually: ‘I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘Two o’clock,’ pronounced Constantia, and added, ‘You have no idea how marvellous it is to have a friend.’

‘You think of me as a friend?’ There was mild interest in his voice.

‘Oh, yes. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘I’m delighted. Shall we shake on it?’ They shook hands and the interested faces on the other side of the glass window smiled, although neither of them noticed that.

Constantia was late. Mrs Dowling made a point of pointing that out to her. She grumbled on and off for the rest of the day too, so that Constantia went to bed with a faint headache; not that that mattered. Thursday wasn’t too far away; she would wash her hair, she decided rather absurdly, and fell to wondering if she should have it cut short and permed—perhaps not, supposing it didn’t suit her? Unlike most pretty girls, she had never considered herself more than passable—although it doesn’t matter what one looks like to a friend, she reminded herself, and that was what Doctor van der Giessen was.

Thursday held a touch of spring, with a brilliant sunshine making nonsense of the biting wind. Constantia, tempted to wear a thin wool dress under her winter coat, changed her mind and put on a Marks and Spencer sweater and a pleated skirt and tied a scarf round her slender neck. No one would see what she was wearing under her coat and the dress wouldn’t be thick enough. She pulled a knitted cap down over her ears and thus sensibly attired, hurried from the house before Mrs Dowling, awaiting her friends for bridge in the sitting room, should think of something for her to do.

The doctor was waiting, bare-headed in the wind and not seeming to mind. He greeted her casually and she said at once: ‘Sorry I’m a bit late—it’s sometimes difficult to get away.’ And then: ‘You’re sure you don’t mind coming to the market? Are the children at school?’

He nodded. ‘Though I must get back about half past three or four—they’ll be coming home then.’

Less than two hours, she thought regretfully, and then chided herself for being discontented. Two hours was quite a long time and she was lucky to have someone to go out with.

The market square, when they reached it, was teeming with people; housewives with bulging shopping baskets, old men peering at the stalls and buying nothing, children weaving in and out between the grown-ups, dogs barking, and a number of respectable matrons in frightful felt hats and expensive unfashionable coats, who peered at the stalls’ contents with sharp eyes and when they bought anything, bargained for it shrewdly. There weren’t just fruit and vegetable stalls, butchers and fishmongers and household goods, there were stalls devoted entirely to cheese, mountains of it—brightly coloured aprons and dresses and trestle tables laid out with rows of old-fashioned corsets and bras. Constantia, her fascinated eyes held by the sight of them, was quite taken aback.

‘They’re so large and there are so many,’ she remarked to her companion. ‘Whoever buys them?’

He grinned down at her. ‘I’ve never dared to stay long enough to find out,’ he told her, ‘but they must do a roaring trade. As far as I can remember they haven’t changed their—er—shape since I was a small boy.’

Constantia giggled and then sighed with pleasure. ‘Isn’t this a simply gorgeous place?’ she wanted to know. ‘And look at those flowers—it’s only March and there’s roses and lilac and freesias and tulips…’

‘But this isn’t the flower market, that’s in the Hippolytusbuurt—we’ll go there presently.’

They strolled round, the doctor’s hand on her arm, for there was a good deal of good-natured pushing and shoving and as he pointed out, her small slim person would have stood very little chance of staying upright. Constantia, who was remarkably tough despite her fairy-like appearance, didn’t argue the point; it was pleasant to be looked after so carefully. And the flower market was something she wouldn’t have missed for the world, for the stalls lined the whole length of the canal, a riot of spring flowers. Constantia stood and sniffed their fragrance and exclaimed, ‘Oh, I’ve never seen anything like this—are they here all the year round?’

‘Yes, even in midwinter. They hang out little orange-coloured lanterns so that the customers can see.’ They had paused before a stall and Jeroen van der Giessen spoke to the stallholder, who smiled and began bunching narcissi, daffodils and tulips in a vast colourful bouquet. When the doctor took them from her and handed them to Constantia she said in utter surprise, ‘For me? all these? there are dozens… How absolutely super!’

She couldn’t help but see the notes the doctor was passing across the stall—a lot of money—far too much, but she knew instinctively that if she even so much as hinted that he was being extravagant, he would be annoyed. All the same, the money would have bought warm socks for the children…

Evidently that point of view hadn’t occurred to her companion; he appeared quite unworried at his expenditure, took her arm again and strolled on until they reached the end of the canal, where he turned down a narrow street which led them to Oude Delft. ‘Tea?’ he enquired. ‘I live close by and the children are always famished when they get home.’

She wondered just where close by was. The houses on either side of the canal were large; museums, converted offices, large family mansions for those who could still afford to maintain them. She didn’t have to wonder for long; he crossed one of the little arched bridges and paused before the massive door of a patrician house, its flat-faced front ornamented in the rococo style with a great deal of plaster work.

‘Here?’ asked Constantia in an unbelieving voice.

Her companion had taken out a key and turned to look at her. ‘Er—yes.’

‘You live here? I thought…oh, it’s a flat.’

‘No, it’s a house—the owner allows me to live in it.’

‘How kind of him—a relation, I expect.’ She skipped past him into the hall, quite happy again. For one moment she had wondered if he was actually the owner of all this magnificence. For it was magnificent; a vast square hall, its white marble floor covered with thin silk rugs, an elaborately carved staircase rising grandly from its centre, and the sort of furniture that one saw in museums—only the atmosphere wasn’t like a museum at all. The house was lived in and cared for. She wondered who coped with the vast amount of polishing and cleaning evident in the hall alone. ‘Do you have a daily woman?’ she asked.

The doctor looked surprised and then amused, but he answered carefully: ‘Oh, yes, a very good woman, her name’s Rietje. She’s not here this afternoon, though. I expect the children will get the tea; they’ll be here at any moment.’ He shut the massive door behind him. ‘Ah, here are Solly and Sheba and Prince. There’s a cat in the kitchen—the children, you know,’ he added vaguely.

Constantia nodded her understanding. ‘Of course, they have to have pets.’

She stood a little irresolutely, for her host appeared lost in thought—or was he listening for something? She decided that she was mistaken, for he spoke to the dogs and then said: ‘Do take your coat off,’ and took it from her and tossed it on to one of the carved chairs against one wall, then tossed his on top of it. ‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’

It was a grand room, grandly furnished with rich brocade curtains at its windows and more fine rugs on the polished wood floor, but somehow it was comfortable too, with great armchairs and sofas of an inviting softness, and delicate little tables. There were bookshelves too and a pile of children’s comics and a half-finished game of Monopoly. Constantia drew an admiring breath.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she exclaimed, ‘and so exquisitely furnished. Doesn’t the owner mind you being here?’ An expression she couldn’t read crossed her companion’s face and she hastened to add: ‘I didn’t mean you—I was thinking of the children. Three of them, you know, however good they are—I mean, breaking things and finger marks…’

The expression had gone, if ever she had seen it. He said easily, ‘He doesn’t object—he likes children, you see. Besides, he understands that they’re well behaved and wouldn’t break or spoil anything if they could help it. There’s a big room upstairs which they use as a playroom, and he doesn’t mind how much that gets battered.’

Her voice was warm. ‘He must be a nice man.’ She looked around her again. ‘You’d think that he would want to live here himself.’

‘He likes the country.’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose he would if he’s elderly. He must have a great deal of money if he has two houses. Is he married?’

She had crossed the room to look at a flower painting and had her back to the doctor, who had bent to tickle Prince’s ears. ‘No—he’s rather a lonely man.’

Her pretty face was full of sympathy as she turned to face him. ‘Oh, the poor dear—if only he had a wife and children—being lonely is terrible.’

Her companion echoed her. ‘Terrible, and if only he had…’

‘Anyway, he must be a perfect dear to allow you all to live here, though I expect he feels that this house was built for a family. Your…uncle?’ She paused and looked enquiringly at the doctor. ‘He is a relation?’

He nodded. ‘Oh, certainly of my blood.’

‘Yes, well—I daresay he loves this place very much and likes to know that there are children in it.’

‘I’m sure that he does—here they come now. They use the little door in the garden wall at the back.’

They surged in, all talking at once, laughing and calling to each other, running to greet the doctor and then Constantia, delighted to see her again. The doctor prised them loose, quite unperturbed by the din going on around him, and said firmly in English: ‘Wash your hands for tea, my dears—it’s in the kitchen.’

Pieter and Paul exchanged glances and looked mischievous, and Elisabeth burst into a torrent of Dutch. Constantia had no idea what the doctor said to them, only that they chorused, ‘Ja, Oom Jeroen,’ and flew from the room; she could hear them giggling together as they crossed the hall and the doctor said easily: ‘Don’t mind the mirth—speaking English always sends them into paroxysms.’

Constantia giggled too. ‘You’ve got your hands full, haven’t you? But they’re pretty super, aren’t they?’

In her room that evening, getting ready for bed, she allowed her thoughts to linger over the day while her eyes dwelt on the flowers arranged in the variety of vases and jars she had managed to collect around the house. It had been tremendous fun and much, much nicer than she had ever supposed it would be. The market had been great, but tea with the doctor and his small relatives had been marvellous. They had sat at the big scrubbed table in the centre of the enormous kitchen, with its windows overlooking the garden at the back of the house, and eaten the sort of tea she remembered from her own childhood. Bread and butter and jam and a large cake to cut at, and when she had remarked upon it the doctor had assured her that although it certainly wasn’t the rule in Holland, where a small cup of milkless tea and a biscuit or a chocolate were considered quite sufficient, he had found that the children, hungry from school, enjoyed a more substantial meal when they got home and then only needed a light supper at bedtime.

And after tea they had all washed up and gone back upstairs to play Monopoly until bedtime, when she had helped Elisabeth get ready for bed, and when she had gone downstairs again there had been her host with a coffee tray on the table before the great fireplace in the sitting room. There had been little chicken patties and sausage rolls too, and when she asked who did the cooking, it was to hear that Rietje did that too, and from time to time produced the dainties they were eating for their supper.

All the same, thought Constantia worriedly as she sat on the edge of her bed, giving her soft fine hair its regulation one hundred strokes, Doctor van der Giessen must have his work cut out. She got into bed, her mind busy—longing to know more about him.

Mrs Dowling had said that he was poor, and that didn’t matter at all to Constantia; she would have liked to know more about him as a person. Did he have a large practice, she wondered, and was his sister his only relation other than the children? And surely there must be a girl somewhere in his life? She curled up in bed, trying to imagine what she would be like—a very special girl; the doctor deserved that. He was just about the nicest man she had ever met. She wondered how old he was, too. Perhaps, if they saw each other fairly frequently while she was in Delft, she could ask him. She began to worry as to how much longer she would be there; Mrs Dowling wasn’t quite like her other cases, who, sooner or later, had got well enough for her to leave them. Mrs Dowling didn’t really need a nurse at all, and if she had been sensible she could have learned to give herself her insulin injections and cope with her own diet. Constantia found herself hoping that she would be needed for some time yet; true, it was boring with no actual nursing to do, and Mrs Dowling was just about the most tiresome patient she had ever encountered.

And as if to emphasise that opinion, Mrs Dowling was worse than ever the next morning. Her breakfast was uneatable; Constantia had hurt her when she had given her injection; an old friend who was a cornerstone of her bridge table had gone to England and left her with a choice of most inferior substitutes. And the wrong newspaper had been delivered.

Constantia, busy charting insulin doses and sugar levels, was told to leave what she was doing and fetch the correct one, ‘and at the same time you might as well go into that needlework shop in Gerritstraat and see if that embroidery silk I ordered has arrived.’ She added crossly: ‘And go now.’

Constantia went, glad to escape and glad to have the opportunity of telephoning Doctor Sperling to let him know that Mrs Dowling’s tests were all over the place again. Either she was hopelessly unstabilised, which in view of the doctor’s treatment was absurd, or she was eating something she shouldn’t be.

There was a telephone in the hotel close by, so she left a message with the doctor’s secretary and went on her way to the newsagent. She had collected the newspaper and the embroidery silk and was on her way back through the shopping precinct when Doctor van der Giessen came out of the same door as he had done before.

‘Playing truant?’ he wanted to know.

She laughed. ‘No; changing the newspaper and fetching something Mrs Dowling ordered.’

He fell into step beside her. ‘Why can’t she do these things for herself?’ he enquired mildly.

‘Well—I’m not sure…’ She hesitated. ‘Is it all right if I tell you something, or isn’t it ethical?’

He smiled down at her. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter—Doctor Sperling and I have known each other for quite some time. What seems to be the matter?’

‘I left a message with Doctor Sperling’s secretary. Mrs Dowling isn’t stabilising and she ought to be.’

‘Ah—the odd hunk of cheese or bar of chocolate?’ he commented placidly. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised—a few days in hospital would see to that. I expect Doctor Sperling will have that at the back of his mind.’ They were crossing the bridge and weren’t hurrying in the sunshine. ‘The children want to know when you’re coming to tea again.’

‘Oh, do they? How sweet of them.’

‘On your next half day, perhaps?’

‘I’d like that very much—about four o’clock? It will be Wednesday.’

‘I’ve a surgery until three-thirty, come then—if no one answers the door walk in and make yourself at home.’

‘I could get the tea if you wouldn’t mind me going to the kitchen,’ Constantia offered.

‘Splendid.’ They had come to a halt in front of the hotel again.

‘I must go,’ she said regretfully.

‘Tot ziens, then.’

She watched him disappear down a small street in the direction of Oude Delft and then went slowly on her way. Life was really rather pleasant, she decided as she waited for Nel to open the door.

It wasn’t quite as pleasant as she went into Mrs Dowling’s room.

‘There you are!’ Her patient’s harsh voice was pitched high with impatience; she scarcely glanced up from manicuring her nails. ‘You’ve been a long time.’

‘Not quite half an hour,’ said Constantia quietly. She put the newspaper and the silk on a table with the little pile of change, which Mrs Dowling leaned over and counted carefully before telling Constantia to give her her handbag. ‘Did you meet someone?’ she demanded.

‘Doctor van der Giessen.’

Mrs Dowling closed her handbag with a snap. ‘Him?’ Her lip curled in a sneer. ‘Sweet on him, are you? I told you that he was as poor as a church mouse—so rumour says—and likely to stay that way, with three children to look after. More fool he!’

Constantia was collecting the odds and ends Mrs Dowling had shed around the room. The remark ruffled her patience and her temper, but she had no intention of letting her patient see that. ‘Probably he prefers children to money,’ she commented lightly, ‘some people do.’

Mrs Dowling shot her a peevish look. ‘That’s ridiculous, and you’re being impertinent, Nurse.’

Constantia let that pass. ‘Would you like cheese or ham with your salad?’ she wanted to know.

‘Neither. You can think up something else; that’s what I pay you for, isn’t it? I’m tired of this dreary diet. I’m sure Doctor Sperling has exaggerated the whole business—I’ll have escalope of veal with a cream sauce.’

‘Followed by a diabetic coma,’ Constantia added silently while she observed out loud, ‘I’m afraid a diet is necessary, Mrs Dowling. Once you’re stabilised Doctor Sperling will allow you more variety. I’ll go and see about your lunch and then give you your injection.’

She was almost at the door when Mrs Dowling called after her in her penetrating voice: ‘Are you going to ask for time off to meet your doctor? I daresay he could afford a cup of coffee somewhere.’

Constantia fought and conquered a desire to throw something at her patient and went out of the room without saying a word, although she muttered nastily to herself on her way to the kitchen.

Wednesday came; Constantia bounced out of bed, observed that it was a lovely morning, even if cold still, and set about dealing with her patient’s wants. It was almost lunchtime when the doorbell rang and a visitor was shown in by Nel—a young man with rather vapid good looks, who embraced Mrs Dowling with every appearance of delight and addressed her as Vera.

‘My nephew, Willy Caxton—passing through Delft and lunching with us,’ explained Mrs Dowling briefly. She nodded at Constantia. ‘My nurse.’

They exchanged a cool greeting because Constantia was smarting under the assumption that she had no name and he obviously didn’t consider it worth his while to ask. ‘Give Mr Caxton a drink,’ decreed Mrs Dowling, ‘and then go and see about lunch. Nel should have it ready.’

It was almost one o’clock. Constantia, hurrying a Nel who didn’t want to be hurried, found herself fretting and fuming that she wouldn’t be able to escape for her half day. Luckily she wasn’t expected until half past three…

It was during lunch that Mrs Dowling told Constantia that she was to escort her nephew to as many of the local places of interest as could be squashed into a couple of hours.

‘It’s my half day, Mrs Dowling, and I’ve already made other arrangements.’

‘Nonsense, what arrangements could you possibly have?’ Her employer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Going out with your doctor, I suppose? Well, he’ll just have to wait, won’t he? Mr Caxton will be leaving at four o’clock, you can have the rest of the day to yourself.’

Constantia was on the point of refusing point blank; it was Willy’s rather plaintive request to agree to his aunt’s wishes which melted her too-soft heart. He was so obviously anxious to get away as soon as possible. ‘Until half past three?’ she conceded, and went to get her outdoor things.

He was hard going; not in the least interested in the town or its lovely buildings. Indeed, he confided in Constantia, if it wasn’t that Aunt Vera had left him a tidy little sum in her will, he wouldn’t bother to come and see her at all. Constantia liked him even less for saying that; his good looks were skin-deep and she had the strong impression that the only thing that mattered to him was himself and his own doings. She rushed him from one church to the next, pointed out some of the more beautiful buildings, knowing that he wasn’t in the least interested, and wanted to know, with some asperity, if he wouldn’t like to cut short his sightseeing. It was already well past half past three—she would never get to Doctor van der Giessen’s house in time now.

They were standing on the edge of the Markt where he had parked his car, while she urged him to get in and drive away as nicely as she could without actually giving him a push, when Doctor van der Giessen’s battered Fiat drove slowly by. He saw them but he didn’t stop, only gave her an expressionless look which held no hint of an invitation to tea.

It was a pity that Willy Caxton chose that moment to catch her by the hand and look earnestly into her face. He was only begging her to assure his aunt that he had had a delightful afternoon and to refrain from mentioning that he was leaving before he was supposed to, but she could hardly stop the doctor’s car to tell him that.

She gave Willy only half her attention as she watched the Fiat rush round a corner and out of sight. She wouldn’t dare to go to tea now; she had wasted almost half an hour getting the wretched Willy to go, and probably the doctor thought that she had stood his tea party up for the pleasures of Willy’s tiresome company.

Her half day was spoiled; she waved Willy a thankful goodbye and wandered away, wondering if she should telephone the doctor’s house or even go there. But in the face of that bland look she had received from the car she didn’t dare. She would write a little note. She had tea in the little tea shop by the market, composing it in her head while she did so. She went for a long walk afterwards, eating her supper in a snack bar and then walking again. The half day she had so looked forward to had been a washout.

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