âDammit, thereâs something I want to say to youâsomething I must explain before you go back to England,â he said quite angrily.
âThe trouble with you,â he continued, âis that I thought that I knew what you were thinking. Now that Iâve gotten to know you better Iâm not sure anymore. Iâm not even sure if you like me.â
Rose looked at him then and smiled a little and said steadily, âOh, yes, I like you. I didnât mean to, though.â
âGood, Rose. What would you say if I were to tell you that I want to get married?â He paused. âDo you know me well enough, I wonder?
âRoseâ¦â he began.
She held her breath, not sure what was going to happen next, aware her insides were turning over and wondering what he was going to say.
Only he didnât say it; the telephone rang.
THE EARLY summer sky, so vividly blue until now, was rapidly being swallowed up by black clouds, turning the water of the narrow canal to a steely grey and draining the colour from the old gabled houses on either side of it. The two girls on the narrow arched bridge spanning the water glanced up from the map they were studying and frowned at the darkening sky. The taller of the two had a pretty face, framed by dark curly hair, her blue eyes wide with apprehension; the smaller of the two, with unassuming features, straight pale brown hair piled into a too severe topknot and a pair of fine brown eyes, merely looked annoyed.
âItâs going to rain,â she observed, stating the obvious as the first slow, heavy drops began to fall. âShall we go back if we can, go on, or find shelter?â She added in a matter-of-fact way, âI havenât the faintest idea where we are.â She began to fold the map, already wet, but before she had done so the rain came down in earnest, soaking them in moments. Worse, there was a sudden flash of lightning and a great rumble of thunder.
The pretty girl gave a scared yelp. âRose, what shall we do? Iâm soaked.â
Her companion took her arm and hurried her off the bridge. âIâll knock on a door,â she said, âperhaps thereâs a porchâ¦â
The brick road they were on was narrow and the houses lining it were solid seventeenth and eighteenth century town mansions built by wealthy Dutch merchants, their doors massive, their windows symmetrical, presenting an ageless calm in this backwater of Amsterdam, and not one of them had a porch. A second flash of lightning sent the smaller girl up the steps of the nearest house, to bang resoundingly on the great brass door knocker.
âYou canât,â objected her companion; she didnât answer, only knocked again.
The door opened and she found herself staring into an elderly bewhiskered face; it belonged to a stout man, almost bald except for a fringe of hair with a stern expression and pale blue eyes. She swallowed and drew a breath.
âPlease may we stand in your doorway?â she began. âWeâre wet and lost.â
Before the man could answer a door behind him opened and shut and a voice asked, âEnglish, and lost?â and said something in Dutch so that the man opened the door wider and stood aside for them to go in.
The hall they entered was very impressive; its black-and-white tiled floor partly covered with thin silky rugs, its white plastered walls hung with paintings in heavy frames; the man who stood in its centre was impressive too, well over six feet tall, with great shoulders and the good looks to turn any girlâs head. Any age between thirty and forty, Rose guessed, wondering if his fair hair was actually silver.
She hung back a little; this was the kind of situation Sadie could cope with admirably; her pretty face and charming smile had smoothed her path through three years of training at the childrenâs hospital where they both worked; they could certainly turn things to her own advantage now.
âCome in, come in.â The blue eyes studied them sleepily. âVery wet, arenât you? Give your cardigans to Hans, heâll get them dried for you and come into the sitting-room while I explain where you are.â
He smiled at them both, but his eyes lingered on Sadieâs glowing face, damp with rain, her curls no less attractive for being wet, whereas Roseâs hair hung in damp tendrils, doing nothing to aid her looks.