The Huge Roses: Chapter Five, part four

American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States, daydreaming of the handsome Dutchman.  To her surprise, Max arrives in Tory's New Hampshire village a few weeks later!

Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven - Installment Eight - Installment Nine - Installment Ten - Installment Eleven - Installment Twelve - Installment Thirteen - Installment Fourteen - Installment Fifteen - Installment Sixteen

THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission

The next day, she kept her appointment to pick up Titus, driving up the hill to Josh and Sheila’s with a freshly-washed cat bed on the passenger seat.  It was just 6:00, since she guessed the household would stick to later, more European mealtimes.  It seemed she was right; Jaap answered the doorbell wearing a clean white apron and welcomed her in, explaining that he’d just put a cauliflower to braise for dinner.  “Well, then,” Tory offered, “I’ll just grab Titus and go.”

“A drink first?” Jaap suggested.  “That might give the beast a chance to accustom himself to his new bed.  I thought you might be interested in the kitchen here, and could perhaps advise me as to one or two things that are unfamiliar.”

“Oh, of course,” she agreed, and walked with him to the kitchen.  Given a choice of cocktail or mocktail, she picked the non-alcoholic one, and was rewarded with a tall, iced elderflower concoction that was light and delicious.  Jaap told her he’d brought the cordial syrup with him from the Netherlands, wisely not trusting to find it in rural New Hampshire.  “Although I think it’s quite popular in restaurants, now, so you’d probably be able to get it in Boston, and maybe someplace like Walpole,” Tory mused.

Jaap mentioned Thanksgiving, and Tory suggested he might like to arrive an hour or two before the 4:00pm dinner time.  She got the impression he would enjoy being part of the preparations for the big meal.  Jaap agreed with pleasure, and asked whether he might bring anything to add to the table.  They went through the various traditional menu items, and settled on salad as his contribution.  It wasn’t an essential element of the meal, Tory reflected, but it was nice to add some color to the largely-beige dinner, plus salad traveled well and no one at her house ever seemed to remember it or have time to throw one together.

“Mr. Max is a great one for vegetables,” Jaap informed her.  “He’s not particular at mealtimes, but he does prefer to emphasize nutrition over trends and luxuries.  Now Mrs. Winton, who cared for the children when they were little, she seemed to think bread and butter, porridge and potatoes were all children needed to grow strong.”

“Very English of her,” Tory commented.

“Rather Dutch, as well,” her companion said mournfully.  “But we had Bep in the kitchen, and she watching cookery shows, and took courses at the – you might say town center, I think – and taught her niece, Sitska, who’s the cook now, that we ought to have greens and citrus and spices and all the rest, not just this stodge and fat.  So we eat very well indeed at home.”

“I love the Indonesian spices,” Tory said, remembering the rijsttafel.  Jaap beamed.

“Mr. Max, also,” he said.  “You know he goes to that area every year or two, as part of Mediciens Sans Frontieres.  You know that company?  He has always been a great donor to charity.  His mother the same, and his father in his day as well.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Tory informed him, impressed.  “We call it Doctors Without Borders, and my sister spent two years with them, in Uganda, when she finished med school.  Medical school.”

“He has a program for club feet,” Jaap elaborated.  “He is very generous.  He was since he was a little boy, taking care of his sisters, and standing up for the scholarship children at school.  I remember he came home once with his shirt torn, and a cut lip, and asked me to help him tidy himself before he went in to his mother.  ‘Fighting is not the right way, Jaap,’ he said to me, ‘but when I saw them bullying Rafik, I had to help him.  Another time, I shall be there in time to be sure no one starts anything.’  He was twelve, maybe eleven.”

Jaap paused to contemplate the memory of a young Mr. Max, and Tory tried to imagine him as he’d been then.  Even allowing for Jaap’s prejudice, she could believe he’d been special from an early age.

“There have always been rescue dogs, cats, once a donkey at the house in Friesland,” Jaap spoke again.  Tory checked the time, suddenly guilty.  “Speaking of dogs,” she said, “I’ve really got to get home to mine.  Titus seems content in his bed, so I’ll just carry him out that way.”

Of course, Jaap insisted on seeing her to her car, holding doors and closing them again, and assuring her he looked forward to seeing Titus and her, and meeting the rest of the clan, in three days.  She smiled and waved and drove away, glancing down to ensure the cat was still settled.  He was.  “I love donkeys,” she remarked to him.  The handsome calico readied himself for a snooze, and evinced no opinion.

 

Betty by the Numbers: Cars Redux

If you've taken a look at The Huge Roses, my Betty homage, you may have noticed a Rolls Royce Phantom and an elderly Subaru.  They are, of course, sub-homages to TGB.  (If I were fully homage-ing, I would have my heroine drive an American make, but elderly Subaru are the quintessential New Hampshire vehicle for students, recent grads, and almost anyone else in the state who's not wealthy.  Rich folk drive younger Subaru, ha ha, and the RDD comes to grief in a rented Mercedes -- you don't drive rear-wheel drive in New Hampshire in the winter, for silly's sake!)  I love Betty's anomalous interest in, and knowledge of, hot car models.  It adds a touch of butch competence to the froth of dresses and souffles in her stories.  The great medical scenes of the early canon lay the foundation of gender-irrelevant competence, but the car-knowledge is a fun garnish.  So here's a redux of BbtN: Cars.

Did you know this figurehead-thingy is called 'The Spirit of Ecstasy'?  I have got to hitch me a ride in a Rolls...

Well, this slice-and-dice proved something I’d kinda noticed whilst paging through the canon:  as Betty aged, either she or her editor decided detailed information on our hero’s chariot was unneeded or unwanted – or else Betty lost touch with or interest in the automotive world.  In the last 68 books, from 1985 on, our hero drives either a Bentley or a Rolls (sometimes called a Rolls-Royce), with the very occasional Jaguar, Daimler or Rover for back-up.  Only two of those late books identify which model of Bentley, and there are no specifics on the Rolls-Royces.

That’s a long way from the early years, when every Rolls is a Silver Shadow drophead coupé, Merlin or Corniche; Rovers are Land, Range or TC 2000s; and Aston Martins, Panthers and Lamborghinis zoom across the Afsluitdijk.  One notices, too, that in later years our hero is apt to explain his Rolls or Bentley by saying that he needs a big car to accommodate his large frame.  In earlier years, he was apparently content to cram himself into a sporty Italian model that must have required tucking his knees into his underarms.  And, incidentally, those cars were seriously ugly – check all the photo research the Founding Bettys have generously done.

Of course, in early years he also had a back-up car, to vary the ergonomics a bit.  In the first three years (1969-71) and nine books she published, Betty’s menfolk average 2.1 cars each.  From 1972-79, over 37 books, they average 1.7 apiece, and then from 1980-2001, 89 books, we’re down to just 1.1 vehicles per man; 80 of them have a single auto and nine have two – Titus Tavener of Dearest Love (1995) has three.  The average for all 135 heroes is 1.3 cars each.  The most conspicuous consumer of automotive goods is Fraam der Linssen of Ring in a Teacup (1978), who kept a Panther 4.2, a Rolls-Royce Carmague, a Range Rover and a Mini.  Which one do you think he passed down to Fraam Jr. sixteen years later?

The final count:  of the 180 cars Betty names for her menfolk, Rolls Royce wins the checkered flag, with 59 product placements.  The Bentley folks are close behind, with 50 mentions.  Since 38 of these children of fortune own multiple luxury automobiles – let’s just tot up some maths here – that means 44% of perfect husbands drive Rollses and 37% drive Bentleys.  Only two heroes – Jonkheer Max van Oosterwelde of Visiting Consultant (1969) and Radmer ter Bavinck of The Moon for Lavinia (1975) – drive one of each.

And what do the gentlemen drive when not in those exemplars of British automaking?  Other exemplars, mostly:  eleven Daimlers (typically Sovereigns) and ten Aston Martins lead the pack, with nine Jaguars almost keeping pace.  Six Rovers and six Bristols make a nice showing.

I was surprised to find four Panthers on the list.  That has got to be some kind of early-childhood fixation of Madame Neels’s, because no one could love that thing on first sight.  There are also four Minis, which are more likely to be wifeys, as no one as vast as an RDD will be comfy in a Mini.  The ones, twos and threes include:  Jensen, Volvo, Iso Grigo, Mercedes, BMW, Citroën, Porsche, Lamborghini, Iso Lele, a shabby Fiat, Maserati, Lagonda, Ferrari and – say it with me – “The Man in the AC 428 Fastback!”  I do think it impressive, and interesting, that Betty Neels had so detailed an interest in automobiles.  I read once that she didn’t know how to drive (it was in a Harlequin author profile, in response to a question about what she’d do differently in her life, or something like that), yet she obviously had strong opinions on how, and in what, it ought to be done.  She routinely praises her heroes for fast driving, and a few heroines in earlier books have ‘advanced driving certificates,’ as a point of pride.

And back here at home, I recently quit my career and had to give up the dream of augmenting my nearly-new Corolla with an elderly Miata for summer days.  Ah, well.  It’s worth it not to have a career that makes me stress-eat to the point of not being able to wedge myself into a Miata anyway.  And the Corolla has a sunroof, so life could be worse!

The Huge Roses: Chapter Five, part three

American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States, daydreaming of the handsome Dutchman.  To her surprise, Max arrives in Tory's New Hampshire village a few weeks later!

Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven - Installment Eight - Installment Nine - Installment Ten - Installment Eleven - Installment Twelve - Installment Thirteen - Installment Fourteen - Installment Fifteen


THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission

Two days later, Tory drove up to Hanover to join the twins and a few of their friends for a weekend of snow sports.  After parking the dogs at the twins’ apartment, they headed for a nearby mountain.  Tory wasn’t an aggressive skiier, like her siblings, but she enjoyed several runs on the moderate slopes that afternoon.  The group of them – seven in all – went out for pizza at a popular local dive, laughing and washing their slices down with inexpensive beer.  One of the group, a law student named Trevor, made sure to sit next to Tory. He quizzed her a bit, about her work and her home, and seemed taken aback that she lived in her family home.  “You live with your parents?” he asked, twice, and later made a joke about it that Emma heard.

“Tory’s guardian of our family estate,” Emma said in the snooty tone she could assume when she wanted.  “She’s invaluable at keeping the land and buildings properly maintained.”  Tory, catching Neil’s eye, had to contort her mouth in several different directions to keep from giggling.

After making plans for the morning, the gang split up on the sidewalk.  The Bird siblings walked back to Emma and Neil’s apartment, arms linked, sleepy and content.  Once Tory had washed and brushed and tucked herself up on the couch, the twins settled into two deep armchairs and resumed The Great Brussels Sprout Debate.  Tory let herself slump into the cushions and drift into dreams, their squabbles wafting over her.

In the morning, she joined Trevor and two others from the previous day’s sports, Kai and Lulua, for cross-country skiing.  The twins, with their friend Jerzy, headed for black-diamond snowboarding.  Tory really enjoyed talking with Lulua while they skiied.  The other woman was originally from Bangladesh, and her reflections on life there and in the U.S. were fascinating.  She was happy to chat with Trevor, too, although she found him a bit silly, but Kai was the best match for her skiing.  Trevor and Lulua were both relative beginners – although only Lulua was willing to admit that – but Kai was clearly a pro, and willing to push himself.  That suited Tory, too.  She didn’t mind that the pace made conversation difficult.  She found out only that his ancestry was Norwegian, and that he’d grown up in Vermont.

They had the chance to talk more over lunch at the twins’ place – a bean-and-tortilla casserole Neil had made earlier, that heated up in 30 minutes while Emma took the dogs out and the rest of them set the table and described their circuits and runs.  Kai was an operations manager for a major financial company, and sang tenor in a community choir.  She was impressed with his professional success, and when he sang a bit of Andrew Lloyd Weber, she was impressed with his voice.  It was an odd song choice, from ‘Jesus Christ Superstar,’ but well performed.  She caught Emma and Neil eye-rolling, though – as if she hadn’t already noticed that Kai was a bit full of himself, and earnest in a way that emphasized how young he was.  He was two or three years older than Tory, actually, but his concern with his own prestige made him seem younger.  Still, he was a fine cross-country skiier.

In the afternoon, she hit the slopes again, this time with just Emma and Neil for company, and agreed to two runs on the expert trails.  As they headed up the chairlift for the second time, she told them about her discovery of Titus.  Of course, she had to describe Max’s part in the rescue, but by focusing on the oddities of Josh Brown’s house, she thought she distracted them pretty well.  “So, what’s up with Max van den Nie and you?” Neil demanded, shattering that illusion.

“Nothing at all,” Tory insisted.  “I mean, what would be?  He was nice to help with the kitten, that’s all.  You’re weird.”

That red herring proved ineffective, too.  “He kept looking at her at dinner that night,” Emma mused.  “Did you notice that?  Tory, he’s hot, and he’s smart, and he seems nice.  Why wouldn’t there be something up with you?”

“Because he’s Dutch, and he’s rich, and he never blushes or stammers or wears a pajama top to the supermarket because he’s comfy and in a rush, and I bet his dogs never knock him over when he’s walking downhill.  Also, he’s intimidating.  So, no.  No Max in my future, and he doesn’t even have a future here; he lives in Amsterdam.  So unless you’re suggesting a one-night stand or a four-week stand or whatever – what is taking Josh so long to recover? – then really there is nothing up with Max and me.”

“Okay,” Emma replied easily.

“Except that there totally is,” Neil sing-songed quietly.  Too bad they’d reached the top, and Tory’s ski skills didn’t allow her to chase down and pound on her nimbler brother.  She settled for throwing a few snowballs.

At the end of the run, she was breathless and flushed.  The twins were replaying each turn and mogul, giving each other pointers on how to get faster next time.  “Wow,” Tory remarked, “I love you guys, and that was exhilarating, but I am set until, let’s say, February, or maybe March.  There were two or three trees that just came a lot too close that time, and I just don’t process adrenaline as efficiently as you do.”

“Well, come up in two weeks and bring your rich Dutch doctor, and we’ll let you back on the bunny slope while we put him through his paces – see whether he’s man enough for you,” Neil teased, or threatened.  Tory swung a punch at his shoulder.

“Seriously, sweetie,” Emma asked, “do you like him?  Because I don’t see why rich or Dutch or a little older than you would matter if you do.”

“Oh, no,” Tory insisted.  “He’s a great guy, and he’s been a good friend, but I can’t imagine him as a boyfriend.  He’s more like a favorite teacher, or a mentor or something.  He’s too stolid for me.  I need someone who’s a little more goofball.”

“I can give you Trevor’s number,” Neil offered.

“A little more,” Tory emphasized.  “Less than 85% goofball is my standard.”

An hour later, ensconced in her Subaru and homeward bound, Tory said aloud to Hal and Jennet, “Actually, I like that he’s not a goofball, you know?  I really like being a grown-up, and I don’t think the pajama-top thing disqualifies me.”  Then she turned up the radio and concentrated on her driving.

Betty's World on BBC!

Probably many of you have, by now, read Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth, or seen the BBC series based on the book and two follow-ups.  Those of you who have not have the most marvelous summer treat in store!

Worth (1935-2011) wrote her memoirs in her 60s, and the first volume was published in 2002.  The BBC series began airing in early 2012.

The story is autobiographical, with most names changed to protect the privacy of people Worth hadn't kept in touch with in the 50 years since the story's setting.  And that setting?  It's Worth's foray into midwifery in the tough slums of London's East End in the 1950s and early 60s!  Yes!  This is Betty's world, replete with caps and cloaks, Cockney accents and bicycles.

The first book contains a lot less romance (the author fled a doomed love affair, in her mid-teens, to learn nursing in a West End hospital, and doesn't care to discuss it) and a whole lot more gynecological detail than a Betty novel.  There are also heartbreaking stories of poor people abandoned to horror by a system without safety nets.  Worth doesn't shrink from the sorrow and horror, but keeps a stiff upper lip and soldiers on, calling in the chiropodist to deal with toenails untrimmed for decades, befriending a young prostitute and trusting a mother of 25(!) to deal with a premature baby successfully.  There's also a skinnydipping interlude in literal Brighton, but other than constant babies, no mention of metaphorical Brighton.

I've only seen two episodes of the show, one from the middle and one toward the end, but I get the impression romance figures more largely in the film version than the printed.  And oh, the costumes!  The hairdos!  The meals!

Must dash to library and attempt to wrestle volumes two and three (Shadows of the Workhouse and Farewell to the East End) from what is most likely a long list of requestees.  So maybe the bookstore...

Enjoy!

The Huge Roses: Chapter Five, part two

American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States, daydreaming of the handsome Dutchman.  To her surprise, Max arrives in Tory's New Hampshire village a few weeks later!

Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven - Installment Eight - Installment Nine - Installment Ten - Installment Eleven - Installment Twelve - Installment Thirteen - Installment Fourteen


THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission

Max, driving Josh Brown’s BMW coupe toward his home office for a quiet evening amongst his data sets, saw the bright green bicycle lying next to the pavement first.  Almost immediately, he noticed the shapely lower body extending from a roadside shrub.  Tory had changed into shiny grey exercise tights for the ride home, and their spandex blend did nothing to hide the curves of her legs and hips.  She vaguely noticed the sound of an engine, but paid no attention as she seemed to have gained the kitten’s trust, and her focus was on emerging safely with the frightened animal.

Max had pulled the car over and was approaching her as she began her backward crawl, murmuring reassurances to her small burden as she went.  The doctor observed her progress, and eavesdropped shamelessly on her mutterings, with profound appreciation.  Concerned not to startle her, he made a point of shuffling his feet through the dry leaves.  The tactic worked; Tory turned her head, the kitten safely cradled in one arm, and smiled.  Then she realized how compromising her current position was, and dropped her head again to struggle for composure.

First things first, she thought, and pushed herself into a crouching position.  Then she looked back up – and up, and up – at Max, managed a smile, and stated the obvious.  “I found a kitten.  It’s hurt.”

His face, even his posture, immediately registered concern, and Tory liked him for it.  He held out a hand to help her to her feet, peering at the bundle of fur in her left arm.  “Could you tell how badly?  And what type of injury?” he asked her, looking eager to do an exam himself.  In response, she gently held the kitten out toward him, using both hands now.

“I don’t think it’s been in a fight.  The cut is too clean.  But you can see the gash on its shoulder.  It’s also far too thin, and since the wound is fresh, I suppose it must be a stray, probably abandoned.  Poor little thing,” she added with compassion.

Max, meanwhile, had pulled off his gloves and run gentle hands over the small body.  “It’s certainly too thin, and it seems tender in several spots.  However, there’s no swelling, so we’ll hope for the best.  Come with me and let’s get this wound stitched.  I’ll have everything I need at my temporary home.”  He turned and headed toward the sports car, grabbing her bike with one hand as he went.  She was startled to see him lower the car into the narrow space behind the two seats.

“Um, my bike isn’t very clean,” she pointed out.

“Quite all right,” he replied.  “This is Josh’s car, and he tells me he often transports his mountain bike this way.  Your bicycle is spotless by comparison.  Will you be all right with the top down?  It’s less than a mile,” he added.

“I’ll be fine,” Tory assured him.  “And I’ll hunch over the cat a little so it won’t be bothered by the wind.”  The doctor, opening her door, turned away to hide his smile.

They made the drive in less than three minutes, pulling up to an elaborate front door, which opened as Max helped her from the car.  The man standing in the hall to welcome them in was the same one Tory had spotted in the grocery store earlier in the month, and he seemed incongruous in his quiet suit.  In fairness, she had to admit that anyone would look incongruous in Josh and Sheila’s soaring hallway.  “I’ve never been inside this house before,” she mentioned.  “I’ve wondered what it looks like.”

From the outside, the house – built to Josh’s custom design just a few years before – was a mix of Alpine, mountain cabin and modern styles, none of them quite blending in Tory’s eyes.  On the inside, the clash of aesthetics continued, with a thick, white fur rug on a gleaming stone floor – marble, maybe?  A Murano glass chandelier illuminated a huge fireplace, trimmed in brass, and a dark, wood staircase with a wrought-iron railing spiraled up to the next floor.

“Not entirely to my taste,” Max confessed.  “Meet Jaap Hol, my right hand.  Jaap, Tory Bird has found a kitten that needs a stitch or two.”

Tory waved her hand toward the older man.  “I shan’t shake hands,” she excused herself, “as it’s filthy right now.”

“Miss Tory,” Jaap smiled and bowed his head slightly.  “Mr. Max, may I suggest the pantry for your operation?”  At the doctor’s murmured assent, he whisked away.  Tory, gazing from spot to unexpected spot, followed Max through a living room (magnificent bay window, tartan curtains and a stag’s head on the wall) and dining room (octagonal, with a circular blond wood table on a gray slate floor) into the pantry.  They found Jaap spreading clean white packing paper over a high serving table.  A heavy black bag in an old-fashioned style was open on a nearby chair, revealing first-aid supplies.  Spotting a deep sink, Tory started the water running to get warm and resumed her soft murmuring.  Jaap stepped forward as it to assist, but then took a step back.  Perhaps he recognized the hand of an expert at work.

With equal parts tender words and a firm grip, Tory got the little animal cleaned up a bit, and was pleased to hear its pitiful mews of protest.  “Finally, he’s talking,” she said happily to her companions.  As the doctor stood by silently, a smile in his eyes, Jaap replied, “A very good sign, indeed,” and handed her a clean, white towel.  She blotted the kitten briefly, then set him on the table.  “I thought it was,” she said to Jaap.  “Craig – that’s the vet here in town – always says cats are experts at masking pain, so it’s especially hard to tell how much they’re hurting.  By the way, he’s male.  The cat.”

She realized she needed to stop talking, and turned toward Max, who held a threaded needle and a gauze pad.  “He it is, then,” he answered her.  “Shall I stitch, or will you?”

“Do you mind?  I haven’t stitched since Emma cut herself water-skiing a couple of years ago.  The kitten will probably fight more, but I’m pretty good at holding critters over objections.”

The doctor’s chuckle rolled across her, warming her from the inside out.  “Certainly, Tory,” he answered, and leaned over the table to set to his task.

The kitten certainly did fight, despite the anesthetic Max swapped across its shoulder, but Tory had spent her life amongst litters of pets, and the little cat struggled in vain.  As they finished their work, Jaap reappeared with a nicely-sized wooden box lined with another fluffy white towel.  “Oh, just the thing,” Tory exclaimed, stroking their small patient a few more times before depositing it in its new bed.  “I’ll bike home and get my car and come back to fetch him, if that’s the right thing.  Do you think?”  She cocked her head, gazing trustingly at Max.  He looked back, the smile in his eyes extinguished as his lids dropped lower.  Before she could puzzle out his expression, Jaap intervened.

“Tea is ready, Mr. Max,” he stated clearly.  Max hesitated, then smiled and said, in a voice like silk, “Well, Tory, I hope you’ll stay for tea.  We can discuss your protegée over biscuits.”  She agreed uncertainly, and was soothed by his adding, in a much warmer voice, “We’ll go into the morning room – or den, I think Josh and Sheila call it.”  Holding the pantry door, he gestured for her to precede him through it.

The den was another amalgamation of styles and eccentricities, but, like the living room, it contained a bay window with a magnificent view of the descending hillside thickly covered with mature pine trees.  The larger living room was situated to catch the sunset, but even here the last rays were reflected in the clouds to the south.  “Pretty,” Tory commented, looking toward the sky.  “Very,” Max replied.  With her gaze on the view from the window, Tory didn’t realize Max’s eyes were focused on her.

He took the cat’s box from her, gently setting it by a small table loaded with snacks and a sizeable tea pot.  “How lovely,” Tory exclaimed, taking in the tea set and all its accoutrements.

“Again, I agree – very lovely,” Max answered.  This time, she looked up to find him looking at her.  She was disconcerted briefly, but eased by his asking, “Do you have the expression, ‘be mother’?”

“We don’t have tea often enough to use it in America,” Tory replied, “but my dad’s dad was English, and we lived in Northumberland for a year on a dig, so I know it.  So... I guess I’ll pour?”

“Thank you,” Max accepted her offer.  “And I see Jaap has provided an extra saucer, so we can give the cat a bit of milk.  And a morsel of chicken salad, perhaps.”  The saucer placed into the box, and cups handed round to the humans, Tory began an exploration of the several small serving dishes.  She chose a tomato sandwich with pleasure.

“I love tea,” she reported, and watched the kitten begin lapping his milk.

“Jaap insisted on bringing the tea set over from our Amsterdam house,” Max explained.  “I think he’s more thoroughly indoctrinated by Nanny Winton than my sisters and brother and I.”

“How many sisters?” Tory asked.

“Three, all younger, two with children of their own,” was the answer.  “And just the one brother, the youngest of us all.  He and my sister Pleane are both still at university; he for his medical degree, and she for a doctorate in art history.  She especially is a great one for cats, which reminds me that I must ask you to choose a name for this one, so we have some way to discuss him.”

“I’d like to name his something Dutch, or Fries,” Tory replied promptly.  “And I took two art history classes in college, though I didn’t have time for more.  But that’s not important.  Could you please offer me some names?”

The doctor’s warm smile – very nearly a grin – spread across his handsome face.  “I shall of course.  There is Friso, which essentially means ‘Frisian;’ I doubt your friend is that.  Hidde, a warrior’s name, and Adde means ‘noble.’  There’s a village near the main city, Leeuwarden, called Kooten, which he might dislike as he gets older.”  Max stopped his recitation and frankly grinned at Tory.  She grinned back.  “No, not Kooten.”

He resumed, “Titus Brandsma, a hero of the Resistance; Pier Gerlofs Donia, a medieval hero; Dieter Eilts, a great footballer; Eise Eisinga, the renowned astronomer; Magnus Forteman, a very early governor; Jürgen Ovens, a student of Rembrandt; Menno Simons, the first Mennonite.”

“These are not easy names for an American tongue,” Tory observed.  “Fortunately, with cats you don’t have to choose a name that’s easy to shout, since they never come when you call them anyway.  I like Titus, and I like the Resistance.  Would that be okay?”

“An excellent choice,” Max approved.  “Titus it is.  Now, it strikes me that your home is quite full of animals already, and young Titus might appreciate a few days to recuperate in peace.  He is very welcome here; Jaap misses the kitchen cats at home.  Archy and Mehitabel, in case you’re interested.”

“I love those stories,” Tory exclaimed.  “I haven’t read them for years.”

“My mother spent a year in Manhattan, studying botany, before marrying my father.  She was a bit late for the Greenwich Village heyday, but she enjoyed the Archy and Mehitabel stories, too, and shared that enjoyment with us when we were old enough to understand the jokes.  I knew I should have a cat named Mehitabel someday, and when she was joined by a tiny, battered kitten my sister Joke rescued from a canal, he was an obvious Archy.  But you understand that Jaap will be pleased to have feline company for, shall we say a week or so?”

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea.  I’ll come over and get him on... Monday evening, I think.  Then he’ll have time to settle with the dogs and Fiona before Mother and Dad and Jane and Great Aunt Lindy arrive on Tuesday.  Will that be okay?”

“Very good indeed,” Max approved.  “Now please, have a macaroon or one of these sponge cakes.  Jaap finds it difficult to be feeding just me.”  Tory nibbled a cake with pleasure – much better to have dessert in the afternoon than at the end of the day, she thought – and together they chatted about the weather forecast and their respective national holidays, in a spirit of perfect accord.  It was pitch black outside by the time Tory realized she ought to have left thirty minutes before, or earlier.  Just as she did, Jaap came in to draw the curtains across the window.

“I should be going,” she announced, rising to her feet.  “Jaap, the cake was delicious, and so were the sandwiches.  And the tea; I love Lapsang Souchong.  And Max, thanks so much for taking care of Titus today.  I guess you’ll have him for the next few days,” she observed, turning to shake hands with the housekeeper.

“A great pleasure,” he replied, and Max said, “Jaap will drive you back, Tory, if you’d like.  Given how cold it gets after sunset, I thought that might be better.  Your bicycle is in the Land Rover already.”

“Oh, how kind,” she accepted.  “I’d really appreciate that.”  She bent down to say her farewells to Titus, who’d curled up to nap after gratefully bolting his chicken.  He was awake again, and purred contentedly as she stroked his side.  “There, he’s purring.  He knows he’ll be well cared for here.”  She smiled at the two Dutch men, and turned toward the door.  Jaap followed her to retrieve her coat from a commodious closet, and Max came after him.  Jaap seemed to be taking a good bit of time peering into the closet, and after handshakes and another round of thanks, Tory and Max had little to do but watch him as he shifted hangers from one side to the other.  Max cleared his throat audibly, and Jaap spun around, Tory’s coat in one hand and his own in the other.

The drive home was short, and mostly taken up with “the next left,” and “there are a few potholes along here already.”  At the house, Jaap pulled her bike from the truck, and set it on the driveway.  “Thank you again,” Tory said.  “For everything.  Cakes, the cat box, the ride home.  I’m very grateful.”  She smiled shyly, and he said, in his formal English, “Certainly the pleasure is very much mine, Miss Tory.  I shall look toward seeing you on Monday.”  They, too, shook hands, and he waited to see her safely into the house before returning to the Land Rover and driving away.

Unbeknownst to Tory, after serving Max a light supper that evening, Jaap made a point of mentioning her.  “A lovely young lady,” he judged.  “Clearly someone of hearth and home, but with a deftig air.”  Max simply grunted in response, which his companion understood as a clear signal to drop the subject.

As hoped, though, he got Max thinking – or stirred up thoughts already there.  The doctor had sworn off Tory’s company once already, and none of his reasons for doing so had changed.  His decision to have Jaap drive her home had been the right one, he decided, as a picture of her leaning down to the teapot, her shining hair swinging free, rose in his head.  He didn’t intend starting anything that could only end unhappily.