The Golden Tulip: A Novel Part 20

"Why was it rearranged?" Pieter asked her.

She gave a little shrug, still puzzled herself. "It appears it was no longer convenient for the first family to have me, but on thinking it over I am sure Father really has another reason for making the change. He had become nervous of my being away from home in a new town among strangers. He thinks I will be better cared for by a widow glad of my company. Her name is Vrouw Geetruyd Wolff."

"I'm sure you will. Shall you have time to write to me?"

She answered in a gentle jest. "My evenings will be my own unless I get lessons in the tonal light of lamps and candles after dark."

He surveyed her teasingly. "Is that so? Somehow I don't think that will happen very often."

"We want letters!" Sybylla declared firmly.

Aletta gave a laugh. "It won't be a one-way correspondence, I promise you, Francesca."

Pieter became more serious. "What of your studies, Francesca? All jesting aside, I'll take no time away from you in letter writing to me that should be spent on your art."

She gave back her reply with equal seriousness. "If ever I should find some conflict arising between our friendship and my work I would tell you."

"That's a promise?"

"It is."

An increasing bustle of activity around the stage wagon showed that it was about to leave. For a few seconds more they looked deeply at each other before he kissed her with such intensity that Aletta and Sybylla stared in astonishment. Then she embraced her sisters in turn, cheeks kissed and last-minute advice and instructions given and returned. Pieter helped her up into the wagon by the steps placed alongside it. She took a seat where enough s.p.a.ce had been left by the waxed roof covering for pa.s.sengers to see out. With a shout from the coachman and the crack of the whip the high wheels rolled forward over the cobbles, bearing her away. Aletta and Sybylla both ran a few steps along to keep level with her, although Pieter remained where he was. All three waved to her. "Farewell! Take care! G.o.d speed you!"

She waved back until the stage wagon rumbled over a bridge and a row of warehouses blocked off her view of them. Her first action then was to find a safe place for her violets and there was a crevice by her seat in which she was able to wedge the stalks in their ribbon binding. It was as well that she took such a precaution, because, as she had expected, it was a bone-shaking journey. The high wheels thundered along as the little leather sails were raised on the roof to catch the wind and aid the speed of the four galloping horses. Pa.s.sengers cried out in alarm and were tossed against one another whenever the stage wagon tipped dangerously in a deep rut. All the time the madman with the whip drove on his horses and yelled in triumph when he pa.s.sed another stage wagon going in the opposite direction, a sign that he was keeping up to time and maybe even surpa.s.sing it on this particular journey.

Occasionally there was a much needed halt at a hostelry when horses were changed and some pa.s.sengers disembarked while others came aboard. For those making the full journey from Amsterdam to Delft there would be just time to s.n.a.t.c.h some refreshment at the hostelry or use the privy, but rarely both. The coachman would blow his horn as a signal he was about to depart again and he did not wait for latecomers. It became a common sight to see men almost choking themselves to down the last drop from a tankard or come running to scramble back onto the stage wagon still tying the strings of their breeches.

Francesca had a packet of food wrapped in a white napkin to sustain her on the journey, together with some of the fruit that friends had brought as farewell gifts, most of which she had left behind for the family. She had a change of fellow pa.s.sengers beside her three times throughout the journey and each time they chatted, which helped to pa.s.s the hours.

The late-afternoon sun was shining when the stage wagon eventually rumbled into Delft and Francesca looked out eagerly. The prosperity of this charming old town was founded on its cloth, its breweries and its shipping, being connected by ca.n.a.ls with ports on the river Maas. Over the past hundred years there had been such a growth in its potteries producing Delft tiles and every kind of domestic utensil, ornamental and practical, that there were now thirty establishments in the town.

She thought that Delft with its innumerable bridges appeared to be more webbed by ca.n.a.ls than Amsterdam, and whichever side of a street she looked at there were gray-or rust-red-roofed mediaeval, Gothic and Renaissance buildings unchanged by the pa.s.sing of centuries. Leaded panes winked in the sun and ancient doorways lurked in the shadows while shutters shone blue or green or brown and sometimes crimson. Trees, misty with blossom or sharp with new green, combined with flowering plants and brilliant tulips to bring added beauty to the old town. Surely there was no better time to come to Delft than on a sunny May day!

There was a bustle of activity outside the hostelry in the street where she alighted, her posy of violets in one hand and her casket in the other. She had ensured that her traveling chest had been unloaded and set down beside her before she saw in the milling throng of people the middle-aged woman whom she guessed to be Vrouw Wolff. The widow spotted her in almost the same instant and came forward. Although soberly dressed in a short cape over a white-collared black gown and a plain hat without plume or ribbons, she had a certain style that belied her prim attire. In her early forties with a fine figure, she was not an uncomely-looking woman, her face triangular, her brow wide, her chin sharp. She was smiling in welcome, but her gray eyes were as hard and bright as gla.s.s in her a.s.sessing scrutiny of the new arrival.

"I believe I'm addressing Juffrouw Visser," she said, her black silky brows raised inquiringly.

"My greetings, Vrouw Wolff. Please call me Francesca."

"Since I am to guard you as if you were my own child that would be appropriate. Is this all your baggage?" She looked somewhat disparagingly at the old and much battered traveling chest on the ground and the single hand casket that Francesca held in one hand, her beribboned posy in the other.

"Yes. I'll hail a porter."

"No need. I already have one standing by." Vrouw Wolff half turned to signal with a raised hand to a youth waiting with a handcart. When the baggage was loaded she made him go ahead of them, suspecting that he might try to tamper with the contents if he was behind their backs. It would not have occurred to Francesca to doubt his honesty, but later she was to discover that Geetruyd Wolff rarely trusted anyone.

It was only a short distance to the narrow crooked street called Kromstraat, where Geetruyd lived. Her house was five stories high and at some time in the past it had been tarred to protect the bricks from corrosion by the damp climate, which made the sandstone ornamentation stand out attractively. Across the cas.e.m.e.nt windows at street level the ochre-colored half-shutters were closed to give privacy while allowing light to penetrate through the upper halves. The entrance door, with its iron knocker, when opened by Geetruyd, was thick enough to have done justice to a church porch. Inside the effect was of gloominess, partly through the light being reduced by the shutters and also a choice of dark wall paneling, but there were some pieces of particularly fine furniture and a display of beautiful Delftware.

A maidservant named Weintje guided the porter, who had hoisted the traveling chest onto his back, up a precipitous staircase that rose from an inner stair hall as in Francesca's own home, although here it was L-shaped, which hid the flight from the view of anyone in the reception hall. Geetruyd led the way for Francesca, who followed her up the staircase, which was handsomely carved, in the wake of the maidservant and the porter.

"These old houses," Geetruyd said over her shoulder, "have many rooms, and some years ago, in order to improve my modest circ.u.mstances, I started giving accommodation to travelers when the hostelries were full. Since then I have built up a clientele of merchants, who travel regularly and always come here, because they can be sure of a quiet night in respectable surroundings with a good bed and an ample breakfast in the morning." She had reached an upper floor and was nimbly ascending the next flight.

"Are there many guests staying at any one time?"

"No. Usually only two or three or four at the most. I accommodate only those gentlemen who are known to me, although I do oblige the landlord of the Mechelin tavern by providing a room sometimes, because I know he would never send me anyone unsuitable, which is important. You will hardly know when there are guests in the house, because I have four large bedchambers downstairs with wall beds dating from the days when people often lived and slept in the same room, as they still do in parts of the countryside till this day. Breakfast is always served in the rooms, so none come into my dining hall, which leads off the kitchen on the ground floor."

"I noticed through two open doors that we pa.s.sed on the first floor that you have upstairs parlors."

"Yes, there are three and also an office where I keep my books and deal with paperwork linked with my charity work. I am a regentess on the committee of several almshouses for the elderly and other charitable inst.i.tutions."

It was a declaration of the high respect with which she was regarded in the town. Having reached the second floor, she went trotting off along a corridor to where the porter was emerging from a doorway after setting down the traveling chest. Francesca went to him, loosening the ring of her stocking purse with the intention of paying him, but Geetruyd held up a restraining hand and paid him herself.

"I have received a fund out of which to pay sundry expenses," she explained. Then to Weintje, who was hastening out of the room to let her mistress and the new arrival enter, she said, "Bring a vase for Juffrouw Visser's violets."

Francesca was pondering over this fund and could only suppose that Willem had suggested to her father that a little extra cash should be provided, because she could not believe that Hendrick would have thought of it by himself. He certainly hadn't mentioned it when he had given her a bag of money for her purse, saying that it included her share of what was due to her from Ludolf's portrait. She had noticed that the bag was heavy and had expected to find a number of stivers in it, but on opening it only seconds ago she had been amazed to see that it contained quite a number of florins.

Her paneled room with its brocade-curtained four-poster did not have much light, for it had only one window and that looked down into the street. Yet it was furnished with all she would need, including a silver-framed mirror and the luxury of a Persian rug on the floor by the bed.

Geetruyd was eyeing her speculatively. "I was told you are a responsible young woman dedicated to art and, if I was not misled, I think you and I should get on well together." She moved across to the door and paused there to look back over her shoulder. "I'm leaving you to unpack. Weintje will bring you a cup of tea to refresh you after your journey. When you are ready you will find me in an east-facing parlor that is directly below this bedchamber. We shall have a talk before supper and I'll outline my duties toward you. I have undertaken to become your chaperone throughout your time in Delft, and it will be to our mutual advantage if we erase any possible difficulties from the start."

Half an hour later Francesca went in search of the east-facing parlor. She looked closely at every picture on the way. Mostly they were etchings of Delft, including one of Willem I's magnificent tomb in the New Church, the high tower of which she had seen on her way from the final stage post. Clearly depicted at the feet of the effigy of the Prince of Orange was his faithful dog, who had pined for him, refusing to eat, and who had died soon after his master. If ever she should be directed to paint a picture of that man it would be with his dog frisking along at his side.

The talk with Vrouw Wolff did not consist of an exchange of views, for Francesca had to listen to a number of stipulations laid down by her father in a letter to which the widow referred. Among everything else she was amazed to hear that she was not to a.s.sociate socially with any male. Vermeer's home and studio were only a short walk away, but in the mornings and at the end of the day she would be escorted by Geetruyd's cousin and companion, Clara Huys.

"You'll be meeting Clara at dinner," the widow said in conclusion after adding that she herself would accompany Francesca to any social gatherings she deemed suitable. "Is all that understood?"

"Indeed it is!" Francesca was thoroughly displeased by what had been dictated to her, although upon reflection she saw now that her father had really not been quite sane over these past weeks, for he would never have set down these rigid rules in a normal frame of mind. Regretfully, it was also typical of him that he should have avoided telling her all this directly, but had left the unpleasant task to somebody else. "Since this is how my father has mapped out everything for me at the present time, I must abide by his wishes. However, I'm sure that after I've been here for a while and he has become used to my being away from home, he will relax these absurd rules."

"Don't count on that."

"Whether it happens or not, there is one person whom I will see on my own. I made that clear to my father and I had his agreement. The name is Pieter van Doorne."

Vrouw Wolff had Hendrick's letter on her lap and now she unfolded it to glance at it again. "Yes, it is as I have told you. No exceptions are to be made."

"That's not possible!"

"See for yourself!"

Francesca took the letter handed to her and saw in her father's own hand exactly all that Geetruyd had said to her. "This letter is an expression of anxiety about me. He has not been himself recently. He will soon rescind these instructions."

The widow took the letter from her again. "Until that time-if it should ever come-I shall carry out all that has been requested of me to the best of my ability."

"You can't stop me from seeing Pieter!"

"You're mistaken." Geetruyd regarded her calmly. "It is obvious to me that the young man is an unsuitable suitor from whom your father wishes to protect you. Among the inst.i.tutes and almshouses of which I am regentess is a home specially for wayward young women. I am the consultant on how they should be treated when special means are needed. If you should disobey me I would have you incarcerated as a disobedient daughter to let you cool your heels and come to your senses."

Francesca sprang furiously to her feet. "You're mad! Punishment has been virtually unknown in my home. Father would never condone such an extreme and wicked penalty!"

Now the widow became equally fierce, bounding to her feet and shaking a finger in Francesca's face. "Don't dare ever to insult me again! I'm your father's representative and as such will do everything in my power to keep you on the path he wishes you to tread. Recall what you read in his letter. Did he not write that I was to have complete authority over you since he knew whatever decisions I made would be for your own good."

"You've misconstructed the whole situation. My relationship with Pieter is set on a course of friendship and nothing more!"

"I've heard that before! You're not the first young woman I've had to protect against her own foolishness. That is why you were sent to me."

Francesca made for the door. "I'm not spending a night under this roof! I'll seek refuge with the Vermeers and tomorrow I'll make other arrangements for my accommodation."

"You'll do no such thing!" Geetruyd moved with surprising swiftness to slam shut the door that Francesca had been opening. "I will have the guards from that home of correction after you in no time at all. It's located nearby. You'd miss the first day of your apprenticeship and perhaps a whole week, or a month, according to how long it might take you to become repentant. Should you ever try to see Pieter van Doorne after all the warnings I've given you I'll have you shut away for a minimum of eight weeks. How will your training fare then?"

Francesca had become ashen, unable to think immediately of any way out of this totally unreasonable state of affairs. "I'll write to Pieter tonight telling him about this tyrannical rule you have imposed on me and I'll send it in the morning."

"You may write that one letter to him, putting an end to meetings and any further correspondence, and I shall read what you have written before it is sealed."

"This is intolerable. If you think I'll submit to censorship-"

Geetruyd cut in. "It only applies to this one letter. I've no wish to act as a gorgon toward you. Everything can be perfectly harmonious during your time with me if you simply take notice of the rules I expect you to obey."

Angrily Francesca opened the door and hastened away up to her room. There she paced the floor, thumping her fist in fury against a bedpost and anything else that came into range as she struggled to come to terms with the conditions by which she was being forced to live. She felt trapped! Caged like an animal. All the joy with which she had approached this time of coming to Delft had evaporated. With everything falling to pieces around her would she find other setbacks waiting for her at Vermeer's studio? What if he should prove to be as temperamental as her father? Suppose he had only taken her on as a pupil for the money and not because he believed her work had promise. He had had no experience as a tutor and might find it impossible to convey his knowledge through no fault of his own. Not once had she contemplated any of these aspects of her apprenticeship. Instead she had seen it as a blissful fulfillment of her dreams, never imagining that anything could go seriously wrong.

Again she thumped her fist, this time on the top rail of a chair, and she followed it up with another against the window frame. She scarcely dared to allow herself to think of Pieter, whose visits were now banned. Downstairs in the east parlor she had been confident at first that Hendrick would not want these restrictions on her exercised for any real length of time, but if he should have become slightly crazed by his melancholia would he ever consider her case logically?

She came to a standstill and drew a deep breath. Losing her temper was no solution to solving what she had to face. Always she had tried to be practical when meeting difficulties and it was particularly important now. She would write to Pieter as Geetruyd had directed, but follow it up with a second letter explaining the situation. Later when Hendrick began to emerge from his dark state of mind, which she was sure he would with time, she could enlist her sisters' help and Willem's to get her released from her bonds. Even then it was likely Hendrick would have to be pressed continually to get results. Kind at heart, he would genuinely intend to do as he was asked, but if absorbed in a current painting he would have no thought for anything else. In a cheerful frame of mind he would toss off matters that he took to be exaggerated-as when he was told tradesmen would wait no longer for their bills to be settled-and it was highly likely he would regard the restrictions imposed on his daughter in Delft in the same light. There was also the hurdle of his not liking to write letters. It was to be hoped that Aletta would compose the necessary letter to Geetruyd and that he would sign it. She had been surprised upon seeing how fully he had written to the widow. A few hastily scrawled lines were all she had ever seen from his hand before.

A tap came on the door. She whipped it open and saw a very small, nervous-looking woman, no longer young, who was full of little fluttery movements, twitching at her collar and then at her rings. Once she must have had reasonably good looks, but the pa.s.sing years had darkened the pigmentation about her sunken eyes and flecked her complexion as well as the back of her hands. Her wispy hair, showing beneath her starched cap, showed traces of pale gold amid the gray.

"I'm Clara Huys." Her shyness was such that it gave her a cowed look as if she expected constant hostility on all sides. "I hope you're going to be happy during your time with us."

"I thank you, but I'm afraid certain things will have to change before that is possible." Francesca stood aside for her to enter, but she declined.

"I've come to call you to dinner."

"I'm not sure that I'll be welcome at table."

"But you will! When my cousin Geetruyd has had her say she doesn't keep on about it."

Francesca knew that Clara was supposed to be watching over her, but there seemed to be no malice in the woman and even an apparent wish to be friendly. "Then I'll come," she said. "It's an old tradition that troubles should be put aside when sitting down at table and I'll abide by that."

"That's sensible behavior. Try always to do what is right in this house and then all is peaceful."

At dinner, which was good and plentiful, Geetruyd chatted as naturally as if the scene between Francesca and her had not taken place. It was obvious she had no wish for sustained unpleasantness and what had happened was an incident on its own. Francesca maintained her courtesy and talked in return. Only Clara did not open her mouth, except to say "Please" and "I thank you" like an obedient child when a dish was offered to her. It was too early yet to be sure, but it seemed to Francesca that Clara had surrendered her whole personality and, being a gentle person, had been molded by her more dominant employer into the role of a shadow in this house.

After dinner Francesca wrote to Pieter, telling him of the new rules about their relationship that she was forced to obey. She had propped her drawing of him, done on the night when he had brought the hyacinth to her home, against the vase of violets, the fragrance of which made her feel close to him, although the words she was writing were to keep him away. She hoped he would read between the lines and realize the letter had been written for another pair of eyes.

Mercifully Geetruyd did not devour the contents of the letter, but only glanced through it in a crisp, businesslike way. "That's well done." Then she sealed it. "I shall see it's dispatched tomorrow. You can look forward to the first day of your apprenticeship without any other task being put on you. Now good night and sleep well."

As soon as Francesca had gone to her own room Geetruyd sat back in her chair and gave a little sigh. It was never easy during the first weeks of looking after someone's wayward daughter in need of discipline.

Yet, if she judged rightly, Francesca was more intelligent than most of the girls that had been in her charge, some of whom she had had incarcerated for their own good. Moreover, Francesca had a dedicated purpose for being in Delft and would be sensible enough to avoid any folly that might interrupt her apprenticeship. It should not take long before there was submission to the rules of the house and then all would run smoothly for the rest of her stay.

There was nothing unusual in Ludolf's messenger coming to give such short notice about the girl. It was usually a crisis that triggered off the banishing of a daughter to more capable hands. Since Ludolf was the patron of the artist concerned, it was natural that he should have been called upon to help arrange stricter accommodation after some sudden alarm on the father's part over Pieter van Doorne, whom Francesca had been most anxious to see. And unchaperoned, indeed!

What had been startling was the news that Ludolf sent, together with his urgent request for her to take the girl in, that Amalia had finally died. Her immediate thought had been that he was free at last! When his aim for political power and position were fulfilled, he and she would be able to take up again where they had left off and on a very different basis.

It was a long time since they had first met and too long since she had last seen him, although they were in touch through what might be called business matters. It was due to his generous payments that she was able to enjoy some of the luxuries of life, although at the same time she was proud that everything she owned came from her own hard work. Nothing had come to her easily.

Her brute of a father had married her off when she was fourteen, neither knowing nor caring how she would fare with her old husband in Rotterdam. Dirck Wolff had been parsimonious to the extreme, begrudging money for everything. She was his third wife and soon became no more than a housekeeper, poorly clothed and poorly fed, and he kept a stick at hand with which to beat her if she spent a stiver more than he had allowed at market.

She was twenty-five and had been married to Dirck for eleven wretched years when she had met Ludolf, suntanned from seafaring and well dressed, being ash.o.r.e again after months at sea. The attraction between them had been instant.

It had been so easy to meet. Her old husband liked to keep at the fireside or shut himself away counting his money. There was a hostelry with a rear entrance in an alley where she could enter with little chance of being seen. It was where Ludolf had taken her for the first time. Never before had she seen a man in red silk undergarments and she had been amazed to learn that such male finery could be had in several magnificent colors. It further astonished her when he removed everything he had on before making love to her and expected her to do the same, which she had done quite shamelessly. All that had happened had been a revelation to her, including her response to him, and before she left his arms she was in love with him.

Often he was away for a year or two at a stretch, although there were also times when his ship needed repair or some other cause had arisen when he could reappear after three or four months, which meant that every day she awoke in the knowledge that she might see him again before nightfall. It had sustained her through the bleakness of her marriage and it was he who had eventually rid her of her old husband. She had admitted him into the house after dark while Dirck snored by the fire. Ludolf, entering the room silently, had slit his throat. She felt faint with horror once the deed was done but had kept her head, her own alibi well prepared. As soon as Ludolf was well away from the house and she could be sure he had reached the safety of his ship, which was sailing at dawn, she began screaming and rousing the neighborhood.

In the will she had been left only the house and half its contents; the rest, with all Dirck's money, went to his adult children, whom she had never seen. Having previously arranged with Ludolf where he could find her again, she left Rotterdam and moved to Delft, where she rented the house in Kromstraat. There she had set out to establish herself as a respectable member of the community.

It was a far more natural state to her and suited her temperament, for respectability brought its own strength and protection. There was nothing hypocritical in her service to the community, for she had always had a sense of duty drilled into her, first through filial obedience to her father and then, still young enough to be malleable, by her husband's demands that put her at his beck and call.

It had been no surprise when Ludolf had married Amalia, because she understood his motive. At the time she had been agonizingly jealous, but throughout the years he had made intermittent visits to see her and their pa.s.sion was undiminished. Then, when they had set up their line of work together, it had been advisable for him to stay away and not to correspond, although she did send him reports by those whom they could both trust.

"I bid you good night, Geetruyd." Clara had put her head into the room.

Geetruyd stirred in her chair. "Are you still about? You need your rest. Don't forget you have to escort Francesca in the morning."

"I'm looking forward to it."

As Clara went up to the next floor, Geetruyd went downstairs to check that all was securely locked for the night. One of her first actions upon coming to Delft had been to take Clara as a companion, not caring to live alone, for at that time she had dreamed too often of that horrific occasion in Rotterdam. She had plucked Clara from an orphanage where she had grown to adulthood from birth and ostentatiously given her a home. Her charity had not gone unmarked by the board of regentesses and had stood her in good stead later. Clara, a meek creature, already cowed by a particularly strict regime, had been easy to manage from the start and was gratefully loyal for having been removed from inst.i.tutional life.

Going upstairs to bed, Geetruyd paused by Francesca's door. There was no sound of tears. Some girls cried themselves to sleep for nights after first leaving home. Stifling a yawn, she went into her room.

Francesca had not heard footsteps pause outside her door. She had expected to lie awake, but after climbing into bed and sinking down between the lavender-scented linen into the soft feather mattress, she had realized for the first time how exhausted she was, not only from the journey but from the stress of all that had happened since her arrival. It was as if she had only just closed her eyes when Weintje came clumping into the room with a container of hot water to put on the tile-topped table.

"It's six o'clock, mejuffrouw. Breakfast is at half past," she said on her way out.

Francesca leapt from the bed, stripping off her night shift as she went. Today was the day! All her doubts and trepidations had vanished with a good night's sleep. She bathed herself with the hot water, put on fresh undergarments and then dressed her hair before putting on one of her new and practical gowns in violet and deep blue.

When ready she went downstairs to the dining hall. As at dinner the previous evening, Geetruyd was perfectly amiable throughout breakfast. Again Clara said nothing, but she was waiting by the entrance door when Francesca came with her tapestry bag holding a clean smock, palette and brushes. Remarking on the fine weather, they fell into step, Francesca looking about her with interest. They turned into the opposite direction to that by which Francesca had entered Kromstraat with Geetruyd the previous afternoon and came into a street that led them across a bridge over the ca.n.a.l at Oude Langendijk and then on into the large market square. At the east side was the great New Church, looming in its mellow hues with the tower piercing the sky, while facing it to the west was the magnificent Town Hall with its giltwork aglitter in the sun, its bloodred shutters flung wide at all its many windows. Gabled houses, many of some grandeur and others with shops at ground level, lined the north and south sides. As in Dam Square in Francesca's own home city there was a busy scene with stalls set up and people thronging around them.

"There's Master Vermeer's house!" Clara pointed to a corner house on the north side of the square close to the church. "The narrow alleyway running alongside, leading out of the square, opens into the little street of Voldersgracht, where he was born. He can look out of his back windows into it."

"It's a large house," Francesca remarked as they approached it across the square. "At least double the frontage of its neighbor."

"That's because half of it is the tavern, known as the Mechelin, and the residential half on the corner side is usually referred to as Mechelin Huis. Master Vermeer's late father, Reynier, was a silk worker and dealt in art as a sideline. The family went through hard times, but eventually Reynier prospered and he bought the Mechelin and turned it into a thriving tavern. Probably whoever built the house originally had lived in the town of Mechelin, or why else should that place name be in the pediment?"

It was clear that the little woman enjoyed pa.s.sing on all this information. Her face was animated with bright spots of color in her cheeks as if she were blushing at this position of importance her role as guide was giving her.

"Do you remember Reynier Vermeer?" Francesca wanted to know.

"Indeed I do!" Clara's hands flapped at the memory. "Such a boisterous man! He would use his fists to deal with troublemakers in his taproom and then toss them out into the square. His son had to help him at times."

The house and the tavern each had its own entrance. By the lack of symmetry it was apparent that the latter had been inserted when the property was first turned to a commercial purpose. The door was painted green like the shutters and stood open, a buzz of voices from within showing that business was already in progress. The residential half had a very fine old door of dark oak, its bronze knocker gleaming. The white stoop was damp from its morning scrub, as was the individual pavement of gray tiles that fronted the property, those of the tavern no less clean.