The Golden Tulip: A Novel Part 2

"I'm not going to," Anna a.s.sured her, giving her brow a kiss.

Francesca stood on the landing, her sister's blue cape in her hand. "Heer Blankert brought this cape he found in his pa.s.sageway. He didn't know it was Aletta's until one of the other neighbors recognized it. He is very concerned, because he thought he saw a struggle taking place. I told him she is unharmed."

"Has he a description of her attacker?" Both she and Francesca were talking in lowered voices to keep their conversation from Aletta's ears.

"He rushed out into the street in time to see the villain running away and caught a glimpse of his face in the light from a window. He wants to speak to Papa about it."

"Then ask him to find your father for himself. He drinks enough with Hendrick to know his possible whereabouts." She shoved back the cape that Francesca held out to her. "No! That is to be burned. There's more too." She slipped back into the room, where everything Aletta had been wearing was tied into a bundle, including hose and shoes, and brought it to Francesca. "Give this to Griet and tell her to burn every item. I want no reminders left of this dreadful evening."

When Aletta finally slept it was midnight. By her in the bed Anna lay awake, having finally been told of how the attack had come about. There had been more tears to dry, more comforting words to utter, and she hoped desperately that before long, with the resilience of the young, Aletta would be able to bury the experience in the depths of her mind. On the debit side was the reserve and modesty of the girl, which had been so flagrantly outraged, but on the credit side Anna knew there was in Aletta's character much of her own determination never to crumble under adversity, which, combined with more than a dash of stubbornness inherited from Hendrick, should stand Aletta in good stead.

Tentatively Anna ran a hand over her painful side. Surprisingly, considering she feared she might have cracked a rib, there had been almost no bruising when she had looked in the mirror while undressing. The baby in her womb was still as active as before, almost as if he wanted to let her know she need not worry about him when she had so much else to concern her. From the start she had been sure she was to bear a son this time.

She woke from a doze in the early hours of the morning to hear a commotion downstairs. Hendrick was home! With difficulty she sat up and reached for a robe. She checked that Aletta was lying undisturbed and then went downstairs as quickly as she could, holding on to the handrail and keeping her hems high. She was not angry with him for having been so long away from home when she needed him. There was no changing the way he was. But now she wanted to be held in his loving arms and given some tender words in her turn after all the anguish and physical pain endured, which still weighed her down. Together they could talk a little of how they might bring their beloved child out of her nightmare.

As soon as she came in sight of him in the stair hall she saw it was not going to be like that. Hendrick, flushed from earlier drinking, but sobered by the news he had received, stood with a crazed look in his eyes, his contorted expression blended of rage and frustration.

"How is she?" he shouted, taking no heed of waking anyone.

She put a finger to her lips and took the last few treads. "Asleep. We must be thankful she was spared the actual act of rape."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d laid hands on her! That's enough to earn him a rope! Blankert and I and a band of others have been searching for him in the streets and alleyways! We enlisted the aid of the Night Watch and combed the docks." His voice broke and he shook his head as if to clear it. "Dear G.o.d! I can't endure the thought of what would have happened to her if Blankert had not shouted in time." Then in remorse he drove a closed fist against his brow. "I should have been at home to meet her! That was the original arrangement, but I asked for it to be changed. There was to be a game of cards I didn't want to miss!"

She went to him. His big arms wrapped her to his broad body, but his head drooped onto her shoulder. Again she was the comforter.

IN THE MORNING Aletta rose at six o'clock with the rest of the household. It had not occurred to her that because of what had happened she should seek any privileges, even though the black horror of what she had been through had leapt into her mind upon waking. Twice in the night she had awoken in screams, but her mother had been there and the terror had been subdued again. There was no evidence in the bedchamber of how she had cleansed herself, except a damp patch on the floorboards, from which she averted her eyes. She wanted to build up a wall of blankness in her mind that would shut out everything that had happened. It should be possible, for she could not remember coming home, there being nothing between the shout in the pa.s.sageway and the rush of cold water over her head.

Whether she could have faced the day without a solution to her appearance she did not know, but her mother had brought her a head-hugging little cap to wear. Caps of every kind were worn by many women and young girls. It was an old custom that had never lost its grip, although the French fashion of drawing the hair smoothly into a coil at the back of the head, leaving the neck free with a few curls dangling over each ear, had banished cap wearing for all those with an eye for mode. Anna had always dressed her hair in a pretty style and had never seen the need for her daughters to wear caps.

The one she produced for Aletta had come from the chest of accessories in Hendrick's storeroom where he kept a motley collection of robes, objects and artifacts for his paintings, much as strolling players had baskets of props. Aletta put the cap on. It was covered with bright beadwork, shaped to reveal a small semicircle of hair above the brow and then curving down over the ears to fit neatly at the back of the head. A damp comb had smoothed the little bit of her cropped hair that was to be seen and there was no longer anything unsightly about her appearance.

"There!" Anna exclaimed admiringly as Aletta stood regarding herself in the mirror. "It suits you well. Later today you may take any others you like from the chest. Several are in that style. Before long your hair will have grown again and in the meantime none will question your wearing a pretty cap."

Going down to breakfast in her mother's wake, Aletta thought that how long she had to wait for her hair to grow again was not important, for never more would she go with an uncovered head in public.

Sensibly everyone at the table, primed beforehand by Anna, made no comment, and before long the sight of Aletta always in a cap became natural to the household and to other people alike. For several nights Anna continued to sleep with her. Then one evening Aletta asked if Sybylla, who had shared her bed ever since growing out of the cot bed, could return to be with her. It was not that she did not prefer her mother's rea.s.suring company, but any deviation from normal routine was reminder of the cause of it in the first place. Anna understood.

"Yes, of course Sybylla can come back to your room."

Sybylla was delighted. As the youngest she was the first to go to bed by half an hour. Since she never went to sleep early, she did not have so long to wait alone in the darkness for Aletta as she did for Francesca, whose bedtime was another hour after that. To add to Sybylla's joy in being back in the shared four-poster Aletta took her hand and held it, something never done before.

"Aletta?" Sybylla whispered.

"Yes?" The reply was half m.u.f.fled by the goose-feather quilt that was as thick and soft as the mattress beneath them.

"We are going to sleep hand in hand. It's like skipping through a meadow or walking down a street or skating together."

"I suppose it is. Now stop talking. I'm tired." Aletta emphasized her desire for sleep by thumping her head on the pillow. She chose not to disclose that holding her sister's hand was for her own benefit. She had been wrenched out of childhood through no wish of her own and she felt vulnerable and insecure in the adult world into which she had been thrown before her time. Sybylla's fingers looped with hers made a link with her own innocence in the blissful days that would never come again.

ANNA'S REALIZATION THAT all was not well with her pregnancy came quite suddenly. She awoke earlier than the usual hour of rising to an unnatural stillness in her womb. It was still dark, but the curtains of the four-poster were apart and the embers in the fireplace gave some faint glow to the room. Hendrick was fast asleep, his arm around her. She lay for a while, trying not to be unduly alarmed and reminding herself that the baby was never constantly astir. Yet all her instincts told her that something untoward had happened. Her thought went against her will to the stumble she had had on the stairs. With concern for Aletta uppermost in her mind, had she rea.s.sured herself too quickly that no harm had been done? Was it possible that there had been deeper damage within that was now taking its toll? Merciful heaven! No!

Carefully she lifted Hendrick's arm from her and he grunted, but did not wake. Then she spread her hands gently over her round belly, praying that she was mistaken and willing the baby to give her some sign that his little heart was still beating with hers. For minutes that seemed like hours nothing happened. She had begun to tremble with apprehension. Then she almost cried out with joy as she felt a faint stirring. Tears of relief started from her eyes and she smiled at her own foolishness in giving way to unnecessary imaginings. Nothing was wrong after all. Strangely, that moment of feeling him move again after nigh-panic fear for his well-being had released within her heart the fount of mother love that normally came with the first sighting of the infant. She felt as close to her son as if he were already in her arms. There was that sense of special togetherness that exists between a mother and her newborn child that is unique to the first hours and days.

Then pain pierced through her whole body like a sword. The force of her scream thrust her almost to a sitting position. Hendrick, waking with a great start, was in time to see her fall back again. She did not stop screaming and the whole house began to echo with banging doors and running feet. Ashen-faced, Francesca was first at the door as Hendrick flung it open. He had thrown on breeches and was thrusting his arms into a jacket.

"Stay with your mother! Don't let the younger ones in. Maria will most surely be here with you at any minute. I'm going for the doctor!"

He ran from the house, stopping only to bang the knocker on a neighbor's door. An upper window opened and a man's face appeared. Hendrick shouted up to him.

"My Anna! Her time has come too early! Ask your wife to go in to her at once!" Then Hendrick's running footsteps went echoing down the street.

For Anna there was only pain. Faces came and went at her bedside, accompanied by whispering and the crackle of starched ap.r.o.ns. For her previous confinements the midwife and helping neighbors had sufficed, for birthing was an entirely female affair, but this time the doctor was there as well. When he spoke to her his face seemed to hover in the most curious way and his cool hands on her arms made her realize how wildly she must be thrashing about. What he said to her she did not know, for she was incapable of listening or answering. Screams filled her head and her mouth as she and her son fought for their lives together.

When at last the pain eased she lapsed into a lulling quietude. There had been no newborn cry and she knew her adored infant had lost his battle. Yet the bond between them had not been broken.

"My beloved." It was Hendrick's voice, heavy with grief.

She opened her eyes. He was sitting at the bedside, holding her hand, and his poor, dear face was so doleful that she longed to take him into her arms, but she had no strength to raise them. There was no one else in the room and she was in a fresh nightshift and lying in crisp, clean linen. Her gaze moved across to the corner where the crib had stood in readiness. It had been removed.

"Anna-"

"I know," she whispered. "Our son is waiting for me."

He had to bend his head close to catch her words. "No!" he cried out desperately. "Don't leave me, my darling. I can't go on living without you!" He gazed in agony at her face, deathly white from the terrible hemorrhaging, and pressed her hand to his lips. The tears ran from his eyes, which were already red-rimmed.

It had become almost beyond her to whisper now. "I'll never leave you in spirit, my love. Try to remember that."

"You've always been everything to me. My love, my world, my soul!"

"I have loved you in the same way and will do so forever." She did not want to go from him, but all her fighting for life had been done in the past hours and she was now possessed by the most wonderful sense of peace. She wished she could explain it to him, for it confirmed that death was only a door. Her lids closed again, but she could not go yet and they fluttered open again. "Are the girls here?"

"Yes. I'll fetch them." He left the chair to open the door and beckon to his daughters, who stood huddled together, Maria and Griet with them. Francesca put an arm around Aletta, weeping on one side of her, and Sybylla on the other.

"Now smile for our mama!" she insisted. "It's what will please her most."

Somehow they managed it as each kissed her in turn. Anna whispered lovingly, "My darlings."

Maria and Griet came and stood at the end of the bed, able to see that the last moments were coming and there was no more time for personal farewells. The three girls together held Anna's hand that was nearest them while Hendrick half sat on the bed and drew her from the pillows into his arms, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. She made two or three little sounds in her throat and then she went from them on a sigh.

FRANCESCA'S LIFE TOOK an abrupt turn at her mother's death. She was just thirteen, newly come to womanhood, and her easygoing existence was no more. It was brought home to her the day after the funeral when she came down to breakfast, which was always eaten in the warm kitchen, to find there was no plate, knife, napkin or cup for her where she had always sat. Instead a place had been laid again at the end of the table at Anna's chair. She looked uncertainly at Hendrick, whose haggard face and bloodshot eyes were evidence of the alcohol he was consuming nightly to dull his grief. Listlessly he raised his hand and indicated she should take her mother's place.

The others watched her in silence as she went to it and stood there. She thought her heart must break anew, although she guessed the reason for this change. Hendrick could not endure looking at Anna's empty chair and it also established her position as female head of the household. It was to her that Maria and Griet must turn now for their instructions on any special matters arising and it also told her sisters that she was to be obeyed.

Hendrick said grace and all sat down. Since the day of Anna's going an uneasy silence had prevailed at mealtimes. Cheerful chatter was a thing of the past. Now and again there was a request for something to be pa.s.sed along the table and Maria would make a comment about the weather, but that was all. Hendrick did not look at anyone, but sat in his coc.o.o.n of grief, eating automatically whatever he had on his plate. Normally he was a hearty eater who enjoyed his food, but now if something he wanted was not within reach he could not be bothered to ask for it.

This morning Francesca could sense that the new move of her taking Anna's chair had upset everyone, even Hendrick, although it had been done by his wish. The tension was building and she steeled herself for the moment when someone's tears would break forth. She hoped they would not be her own. Until now, in order to give some succor to her sisters and Maria, she had shed her own floods of racking tears in the privacy of her room and kept a brave face otherwise.

The sudden loud sob came from an unexpected quarter. It was Griet who covered her face with her ap.r.o.n and fled from the kitchen. Hendrick did not look up from his plate. Then Sybylla exploded into hysterical tears, picking up her cup like a baby and smashing it down on her plate, spilling milk everywhere.

"I don't want Mama to be dead any longer!" It was the heart cry of the bereaved when after an initial state of numbing shock the empty gap begins to yawn. As Francesca sprang up to go to her, Sybylla added deliberately to her misdeed by picking up the basket of bread and throwing it across the room. But the attention she had expected from her father was not forthcoming. Instead of flying into a rage, he simply pushed back his chair and left the table to shut himself away in the family parlor, which he seemed to be making his place of retreat.

It was the first of many such scenes with Sybylla. She would throw tantrums and lie on the floor kicking her heels at the slightest provocation. Maria, finding her former means of discipline no longer worked on the child, called on Francesca to deal with her every time. Aletta, who had been closest to Anna, became deeply attached to Francesca and they would sit talking together as they never had before. First of all, it was about Anna and their memories of her, finding at last that they could laugh about funny things that had happened, which made her come more alive for them than remembrances of a more serious kind. Later they began to confide hopes and dreams.

They went together into the studio to look at the life-size portrait of Anna there. The studio had not been used for some time, because Hendrick had not been near it, and the half-finished painting of a mythical scene on the easel was as it had been on the day of Anna's death. The two sisters stood side by side to look up at Anna, whose twinkling eyes always looked right into the eyes of the viewer from any direction. Her laughing face framed by the banner of her hair, the flowing movement of her gown and the glimpse of one foot in its pink satin shoe showing beneath the hem, conveyed her whole warm presence to them.

"Let's set up our easels and start painting in this corner of the studio with Mama's portrait on the wall," Francesca suggested.

Aletta agreed eagerly. n.o.body had encouraged them more in their art than Anna. This first step in beginning to paint again was like doing something for her.

Among Francesca's new domestic duties was the keeping of the household accounts. She had been well taught in all domestic matters and running the house was not causing her any headaches. On the rare occasions when she sought Hendrick's advice, he would always give her the same reply.

"Do as your mother would have done."

That was well enough, but when it came to settling bills and there were only a few stivers left in the housekeeping box she felt the time had come to get her father to work again. For six weeks he had spent his time shut away in the family parlor, where he drank by himself at all hours of the day, or else he went out to the taverns and idled his time away there. She spoke of the matter to Willem de Hartog, her father's art dealer, when she called on him one day, a leather folder of Hendrick's etchings under her arm.

To reach de Hartog's residence she had to cross Dam Square, which was the heart of this fan-shaped city of bridges that lived on and with water. Anna had always liked to buy vegetables and fish from the market stalls here, saying the produce was always fresh, and there was so much to see whatever the season of the year. There was a busy scene on any weekday, for here trading took place on several levels. City affairs were conducted at the Town Hall, which was a grand building ornamented with pilasters and cornices with great pedimental sculptures of sea G.o.ds. Cargoes from the ships dropping anchor by the Dam were dealt with at the weighhouse. The whole square and the streets leading to it thronged with people, wagons, coaches and handcarts. Peddlers bawled their wares, dogs barked and she kept out of the path of some drunken seamen who came reeling out of the tavern, singing raucously. Francesca paused to watch a team of tumblers in yellow-and-pink costumes performing to the music of a flute and a drum, which blended discordantly with the shrill notes of a trumpet being blown by a quack doctor's a.s.sistant to gain the attention of pa.s.sersby.

It was far quieter when she thumped the silver knocker of Willem de Hartog's house. A maidservant admitted her, invited her to sit and then went to fetch the art dealer. The main ground-floor rooms of his house made up his gallery and in the reception hall where she sat there were many paintings set off by the walls of gilt leather.

Willem came to her at once. He was a tall, thin and dignified man with brindled gray hair, his lean face trimmed with a mustache. He had attended her mother's funeral and had not seen her since, which was why he greeted her with a kiss on the hand and the cheek.

"What a pleasure to see you, Francesca! How is your father? Are you managing well?" He led her into another room where there were more works of art on the walls and they sat down at opposite sides of a narrow table on which she placed the leather folder of etchings. When he asked after Janetje she told him how deeply distressed her aunt had been to receive the news of Anna's death. "Her reply to my letter was so sad. She and my mother had always been close." Francesca talked easily with him, for he had been her father's friend and agent since before she was born. He had recently married a third wife, although his children by both previous marriages were grown up and wed themselves with no need of a mother. This was often the reason why a widower went speedily into a new marriage as soon as was decently possible. She did not think her father would take such a step.

"So you see," she said in conclusion after they had talked awhile, "I feel I must get Father back to work in the studio, even if I have to use desperate measures. Not just because we've run out of money, but because he needs to work now more than ever. None of us will ever get over losing Mama." Her voice faltered, but she swallowed and carried on. "But she would have wanted us all to continue as if she were still in the house, which, in a way, she is with that wonderful portrait of her in the studio."

"I agree. Would you like me to talk to Hendrick?"

She shook her head. "That's most kind, but you know how easily he takes offense and I wouldn't want him to fall out with you after all these years."

Willem smiled. "I think I've broad enough shoulders to take whatever Hendrick should aim, knowing him as well as I do. However, I'll leave it to you to see what can be done, but if all else fails, do get in touch with me at once."

She thanked him and then opened the folder of etchings, explaining that she had gathered them from various drawers in the studio and hoped he would be able to sell them. He looked through them all. Most were of Amsterdam, but there were a few others of boats and barges on the ca.n.a.ls by windmills in the countryside. He guessed that Hendrick had been dissatisfied with each one for some reason or another, which was why he had never seen any of them before, but that had nothing to do with the matter now. Hendrick's daughter needed money for bread on the table and he would give her an advance on them to the full value of what he expected to get. This was a time when he would forfeit his commission, as he had done on two or three previous occasions when her father had been in desperate straits, not that Hendrick had ever known. His enormous pride was as touchy as his temper.

On the way home again Francesca shopped carefully. She practiced all the economies she had been taught for difficult times. When she had deposited her purchases in the kitchen she went to Hendrick, who sat with a gla.s.s of grape brandy in his hand.

"Father," she said, steeling herself. "I took some of your etchings to Willem today."

He looked at her, bleary-eyed. "Did he take them? Good."

"There aren't any more. If you don't start painting again soon I'll have to take something else to sell. I could start with one of the smaller portraits of Mama that are hanging in this room. Later it may have to be the studio one."

He leapt out of his chair, hurling the gla.s.s and its contents into the fireplace, creating a roar of flame, and with his face a crimson mask of fury he swung up his hand to strike her. She faced him squarely, waiting for the blow to fall and did not flinch. His hand shook as he checked his action and then he let his arm drop to his side. He had never struck any one of his children and he realized painfully why she had goaded him as she had done. Reaching out, he drew her gently to him, cupping her head against his chest. His voice rumbled under her ear.

"I think I'll go along to the studio now and do some more work on that painting of Andromeda."

Francesca closed her eyes in thankfulness. Nothing was completely solved yet, but a beginning had been made.

HENDRICK WAS NEVER to work again as regularly as he had when Anna was alive. His commitment as an artist had not diminished, but at times when a painting was almost finished he would break off and be away for several days at his own pleasures. It was as if he felt himself ent.i.tled to a reward for a spate of dedication to work in spite of his bereavement. This always infuriated Willem, waiting to sell the work, and exasperated Francesca, who continued to struggle to make ends meet, for nothing had changed in that respect.

Like her mother before her, she had become expert in juggling the creditors. When she received money for the housekeeping she would pay one tradesman in full and allow just enough to the rest to take the edge off their tempers. None of them had anything against her personally, any more than at Anna before her, for it was Hendrick they blamed for everything. Since they frequented the same taverns, their resentment would surge at the sight of him deep in his cups or flashing his money for any kind of wager when their account books had mounting figures of what he owed.

It was not only his new and erratic pattern of work that drastically reduced the tuition he gave his daughters. He had simply lost interest in teaching them. His resentment against giving instruction had come to the fore again now that Anna was no longer there to be pleased with their progress. It became obvious to the girls that their mother's generous praise for his efforts had been mainly instrumental in the close guidance he had given them in the past. Sybylla was overjoyed to be free of the studio. Her tantrums had subsided with the pa.s.sing of time, but she waged a constant battle with Maria, who was determined to make her as competent at domestic ch.o.r.es as her sisters. Her exultation at leaving school on her twelfth birthday was dampened by the discovery of how many more hours a day she would have to spend mending and polishing and baking. On the day she had to scrub the stoop and pavement outside the house, normally Griet's task, she made a vow to herself, grumbling aloud to the soapsuds.

"I'm never going to do any of these ch.o.r.es when I'm married. Neither shall I be poor! Somehow I must find a rich husband quickly. Then I'll get away from Maria and have everything I want!"

DURING THE NEXT two years Sybylla kept a keen lookout every time she went to the Korvers' home. They were the only well-to-do people she knew and really rich men came to their house. When she was fifteen and her mirror showed her a pretty, dimpled face with sparkling mischievous eyes and a bosom of which she was proud, she thought she had found what she was looking for in Jacob Korver. He had come home from serving his apprenticeship and she had grown up in his absence. They looked at each other with new eyes. With his dark good looks and a future destined to be even more prosperous than that of his father, he filled her every requirement.

From him she received her first kiss. They were alone in the garden, hidden from the sight of the house. She melted toward him and was awakened to the first taste of the delights to be found in a man's arms, his lips warm and eager on hers.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, his face tender and adoring. He was totally infatuated with her.

"Kiss me again," she demanded shamelessly. It was even more thrilling the second time, for he placed his hand over her breast. They were breathless with delight and with each other.

"We shall be betrothed!" he declared recklessly.

But it was not to be. Heer Korver invited Hendrick for a gla.s.s of wine and they agreed amicably that a match between a Jewish boy and a girl brought up in the Dutch Reformed Church would not be suitable. They finished the bottle between them and parted in the same good neighborliness as before. Jacob was sent off to learn about buying diamonds in foreign lands and Sybylla found herself back where she had started with a wedding ring as far away as ever.

Chapter 3.

FRANCESCA HAD MANY TEMPESTUOUS SCENES TO SETTLE WITH Sybylla over Jacob and there was no peace for anyone. Hendrick kept out of the way as much as possible, either leaving the house when trouble erupted or locking himself in the studio. Then, almost overnight, Sybylla accepted the situation. n.o.body was more relieved than Francesca, for her painting had been severely disrupted, it being impossible to concentrate with such turmoil in the house. Looking in the mirror on the day she heard her younger sister laughing again, she wondered that she did not look thrice her age of seventeen years.

She was unaware of the extent to which her face had taken on an unusual and striking beauty, for she saw no symmetry in her features such as she admired in others and she was dismissive of compliments. Yet there was a haunting, fascinating quality to her expressive visage that Hendrick had long recognized in his paintings of her, and which was further enhanced by her l.u.s.trous green eyes, the upper lids weighed down by thick lashes. Her nose was narrow with delicately flaring nostrils and her neck was long, giving her a swanlike poise. Her cheekbones were wide, as was her mouth, but her lips were curved and her complexion was smooth as creamy silk.

She enjoyed men's company and, had she allowed it, could have been like any girl in becoming attracted to one or another handsome smile. It was not always easy to turn away, although by now the boys she had known since childhood had given up pursuing her, the older ones betrothed or wed elsewhere. The decision she had made long ago to be an artist had not changed and marriage was something she did not intend to contemplate for years to come, if ever.

The letter from Janetje was delivered one morning shortly before Francesca was to pose in another of many sittings for Hendrick, who was painting her as Flora, the G.o.ddess of spring. With about ten minutes to spare, she darted upstairs to her bedchamber, where she could read it on her own before sharing it with the rest of the family. Her hair, loosened in readiness for the sitting, hung in waves down her back and swirled out as she settled herself on the cushioned window seat, the sunshine through the panes making a red-gold aura of its coppery luxuriance. The fond link between her aunt and her had continued unbroken through their correspondence, Francesca writing to her much as she might have done to her own mother.

As usual, Janetje's letter was full of family affairs, from the progress her sons were making with their education to the banquet she and Giovanni gave to celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary. She expressed her intense eagerness for news from Holland, not having heard for several months, and Francesca hoped that by now the letter she had dispatched quite a while ago would have arrived. Any letter from her aunt that came at this time of year never failed to have a strong undertone of homesickness. It was clear that Janetje's thoughts always began to turn to the forthcoming Dutch Feast of St. Nicholaes, a family occasion that she had enjoyed both as a child and as an adult, and she never forgot to send a gift to each of her three nieces for the sixth day of December. This year of 1669 three pairs of scented leather gloves would be coming.

Francesca lowered the letter to her lap and began to fold it up again, her thoughts full of her aunt. It was pleasant to have read the letter by herself, here in her own room with its simple furnishings and the four-poster with the plain blue drapes. n.o.body intruded on her when it was known she wanted to be alone. Her sisters still shared a room, although there were enough bedchambers for them to have had one each, but Aletta still had nightmares if she slept alone and Sybylla liked her company.

"Francesca!" Hendrick's voice boomed up the three flights like a distant roll of thunder.

"I'm coming!" she called back, not at all sure whether he would have heard her. She tucked the letter into her sash to take it to him, for she was already in robes from one of the atelier chests that she was to wear for the painting. Picking up a chaplet of silk flowers, she sprang up to cross to the mirror in a swish of heavy green satin, her sleeves of soft and flowing silk gauze cut so full they almost draped to her hems, the wristbands encrusted with embroidery, as was her low-cut bodice. She put the chaplet on her head. In her lobes were large azure earbobs from the chest of trinkets and a necklace from the same source encircled her neck. After giving a final touch to her hair, she gathered up her skirts and hastened to descend the stairs.

Someone was hammering the knocker on the front door. Perhaps it was a tradesman expecting money, a pattern that never changed. If Hendrick had not called her she would have answered the door herself. Now she must leave it to Griet, who was equally well used to dealing with creditors. Her thoughts invariably went to her mother as she descended the second flight and turned by the newel post. She had no idea why, but she liked to believe she was being warned not to trip, for the last flight down to the stair hall was precipitous with barely enough room for two people to pa.s.s. By the time she reached the bottom tread the hammering had stopped. She sped from the stair hall, skipped two steps leading down from an archway into the corridor and hurried along it to reach the studio.

"I'm here!" she announced as she entered.

At the front door a tall, straight-backed young man in his mid-twenties had stepped from the stoop to regard the house with a frown. Was n.o.body at home? He had a shock of dark brown curly hair that grew fashionably to his shoulders and was kept temporarily in order by a black hat with a wide brim c.o.c.ked at the side. His knee-length red coat was of good cloth, fitting well across his broad shoulders, and his bucket-topped boots were of fine leather. Under his arm he carried a lidded box. He had no wish to leave without fulfilling his mission and he looked upward to see if a window was opening in response to his knocking, but nothing happened.