The Golden Tulip: A Novel Part 3

With no sign of life at the front of the Visser house, Pieter van Doorne decided he must try the back and went to the slatted wooden door at the side. Painted blue like the shutters and the main door of the house, it opened as he lifted the latch. His footsteps rang along the flags of the pa.s.sageway within. The back door of the house was not the correct place to hand over the bulbs of a beautiful new tulip he had grown himself, they being worthy of a little ceremony, but there seemed no alternative. Normally he did not deliver his own wares, being far too busy and not through any sense of inflated pride, for he had built up his horticultural business the hard way and there was no humble task he had not carried out himself to establish it and ensure its success. It had happened today that he had found the staff on his market stall shorthanded due to illness and he had decided to do the delivery himself.

From the pa.s.sageway he emerged into a sizeable and pleasant courtyard with trees, a trellis-shaded alcove for summer eating at a table, benches set by it, and borders of well-tended flowers. A broom propped against the table and the piles of swept-up leaves suggested that someone had left the task to go indoors and would shortly return. The back door stood slightly ajar. Going across to it, he intended this time to give a shout, since knocking had failed to bring any response. The door swung back easily on its much-used hinges to reveal a long shadowy corridor, doors and archways on each side, which ran the considerable length of the house to a room at the front. Within the frame of an open doorway, he could see a rostrum draped with a Persian rug, showing that it was Master Visser's studio. Illumined by its windows, it held the look of a stage set for a performance. All this he took in at a second and then in the next moment a slender girl with flowers in her copper-bright hair, her green satin skirts swirling, came into sight from another part of the room. The curious acoustics of the long corridor funneled her clear voice to him as she addressed somebody else in the room whom he could not see.

"Aunt Janetje's letter arrived only ten minutes ago. I knew you'd enjoy reading it. How far have you got? Oh yes, you've come to the last part, where she describes a reception at the Pitti Palace. One day I'm going to visit her and see the splendors of Florence for myself!"

She flung back her head in ecstasy at the prospect, hugging her arms with her back arched. Pieter caught his breath at her unconsciously sensuous stance. He hoped she would look down the corridor and see him at the door. Instead she responded to some quip made by a man with a deep voice, whom Pieter guessed to be Master Visser himself. The girl's laugh was full-throated and merry. Twirling round, she stepped lightly up onto the rostrum, picking up a foliage-trimmed staff and a bunch of flowers lying there, and then stood in a graceful pose. "I'm ready, Father," she said, her gaze directed toward another part of the studio. Then, to his disappointment, the door of the studio swung closed, shutting off his sight of her as if her father had given it a push from where he stood by his easel.

Pieter grinned, shaking his head that he should have remained standing on this spot as if he had lost his power of speech at the tantalizing glimpse of that delicious girl. He did not think she would have been the one sweeping the courtyard and he would try his luck again.

"Hey!" he shouted, rapping the back door with his knuckles at the same time. "I've some bulbs here that I don't intend to leave on the doorstep!"

Down in the cellar, Griet, hunting for a sack in which to pack the leaves she had swept up in the courtyard, paused. Sighing with exasperation at the interruption, she shouted in reply as she mounted the stairs, "All right! I've heard you!"

Her irritability melted away as soon as she saw him. It was not often that anyone as personable came to the back door and his height and the breadth of his shoulders seemed to fill the whole doorway. Aware of being comely herself, she thrust out her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and smoothed her ap.r.o.n as she sauntered toward him, glad now that she was not trailing an old sack behind her.

"Good day to you, mejuffrouw," he said with a wide smile, holding a box out to her. "These are tulip bulbs for Master Visser. He ordered them at my market stall in the spring and asked for them to be delivered when it was time for planting. It was agreed there would be payment when they were delivered."

She took the box from him, knowing through long experience how to deal with those optimistic enough to expect ready cash for their goods, although she wished in this case she could have seen his account settled and gained a still wider smile from him. She liked the chiseled look of his facial bones that gave him such a striking countenance, the nose large, the jaw well set, and there was a tan to his complexion that came from the open air and the sunshine of the summer past.

"What is your name, mijnheer?" she asked, as much out of her own curiosity as the need to convey it to her master. Then, when he had told her, she added, "The master is at work in the studio and can't be disturbed." It was a phrase that came glibly to her lips whether it happened to be true at the time or not. "I will tell him you were here."

This was the point when those who had had to wait overlong for payment in the past began to show aggressiveness and set a foot squarely in the door. This young man merely shrugged, his lively, clear brown eyes under the straight brows holding a twinkle she did not understand, for it was not directed flirtatiously at her, which she would have liked.

"Very well," he said casually. "I can't call back today, but the account is in with the bulbs and I will collect the money next time."

She felt a sense of shame that she could not warn him he would probably have to come several times before he saw as much as a stiver. When creditors became ruthlessly demanding she could retaliate forcefully, seizing the first opportunity to slam the door in their faces, but she was certain that Pieter van Doorne was going to be a problem. He would remain polite but persistent, making it harder each time to turn him away without his just dues. Knowing the master, she was sure the most expensive bulbs to be had were in the box she had received. Although it was his personal debt, eventually it might prove to be a matter for Juffrouw Francesca to handle. Usually it was best to try to keep her out of it, because she would empty her own purse of whatever money she had, and it was always little enough.

"I thank you for calling. Good day to you, mijnheer."

As Pieter left by the way he had come, he smiled to himself. The maidservant had no idea how pleased he had been when she had not fetched a purse to pay him. If luck was with him he would meet the artist's daughter the next time he called at the house.

As he retraced his steps along the street, he felt stimulated by the first breath of October, which had left September behind only the day before. The linden trees by the ca.n.a.l were golden and some late blooms still persevered in the flower beds that ran parallel with the water. He had been born in Haarlem and his tulip fields lay southwest of the old town, but recently he had bought a house in Amsterdam. He had always felt at home in the city's hustle and bustle, its salty atmosphere with ships in the harbor making a forest of masts as far as the eye could see. Trade had caused the city to explode with wealth, and a political crisis in the Spanish Netherlands had brought an influx of Jewish diamond merchants, making Amsterdam the diamond center of the world. The Hague was still the capital and the seat of government, but it was overshadowed by flourishing Amsterdam. It was here that the Dutch East and West India Companies had established rich trade routes to every corner of the globe. Holland, with its fleet of three hundred thousand ships, was the master mercantile nation, respected by all her rivals, even England, with whom there had been two recent short, sharp naval wars. Every merchant ship was heavily armed to meet with any skirmish involving old enemies or the privateers that plagued the seas. This defense ensured less risk also for those who invested in cargoes, something he had done himself to great advantage through the city's Exchange. He would later this very day plow some of his profits back into the same stream.

If there was any cloud on the horizon it was in the threat that France represented to Holland's peace and prosperity. It was obvious to many that Louis XIV had set his greedy eyes on the richest prize in Europe and it was impossible to dismiss the conviction that sooner or later he would pounce. It was odd how powerful men never learned from history. The Spanish had tried for eighty years, from the previous century into the early years of this one, to make Holland their own, using cruelty to captives that stunned the mind, but in the end it was mighty Spain that had weakened itself by widespread wars and its struggles against a little country where so much of the land had to be protected from the sea by dikes.

When Pieter arrived again at Dam Square, he checked that all was well at his stall. From there he set off to a coffeehouse where he had made an appointment to meet a merchant in order to discuss some business before they both went on to the Exchange. He was aware of smiling to himself again, thoughts of that vivacious girl dancing in his head.

In the studio on the rostrum Francesca now had a parchment map of Italy to look at. Janetje had sent it as a gift to Hendrick one St. Nicholaes's Day, telling him she wanted to be sure her nieces knew exactly where she was living. Francesca's gaze always lingered on Florence, Rome and Venice, the three cities she most wanted to see one day.

It was as well that the request she had once made to have the portrait of t.i.tus hanging there had never been granted, for no matter what expression Hendrick might have wanted, her face could have shown only sadness when looking at it. In September last year t.i.tus had died of a fever after only six months of marriage, just knowing that his wife, Magdelena, was pregnant with the baby they had both wanted. Again Rembrandt had found solace in work, but this bereavement had finally broken him and he had become a very old man, his hair completely white and his health failing. At least Cornelia was a devoted daughter and he, at the age of sixty-three, could never have managed in that humble little house on Rozengracht, forgotten and ignored, if she had not been there to take care of him.

"If we hadn't gone out to sketch those spring flowers in April and May when we did," Hendrick said from the easel, "those silk flowers you're holding and those on your head would have made a poor Flora of you."

"I'm sure they would, Father!" She had dropped her babyhood name of Papa for him on the day she had shouldered the responsibilities of the household.

"Now your garlands look freshly picked, even to a touch of dew."

"Is this the final sitting?" Her tone was hopeful. It was always hard not to be the one with brush and palette in hand.

"No. There'll be one more. I'll not finish by midday."

"I could sit again this afternoon." She spoke purposefully. "Then it would be finished."

"I have an appointment," he answered in a falsely self-important tone that did not deceive her, merely confirming that he was set on pleasure. It was one of those times when he had decided to reward himself with a break from work.

"You have another appointment with Willem tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty. Wouldn't you like to have the painting ready to show him? I'm sure he's expecting it to be finished."

"Willem can wait another day."

She breathed deeply. "Father! You try his patience to the limit. He's one of the best art dealers in Amsterdam and all too often you treat him like a peddler!"

"He knows me well enough to realize I mean him no offense," Hendrick answered jovially. "He's my oldest friend."

"All the more reason why you should respect him and his efforts to sell your work." She chose not to remind him of Willem's constant and well-meant persuasion that he should paint subjects that would be easier to sell, because this matter, as well as Hendrick's whim in leaving work on the point of completion, were sore points between the two men. Nevertheless, it hung unspoken in the air and might as well have been said.

Hendrick changed one brush for another, taking a rich sienna onto its tip, and gave her a warning frown. "Don't nag me, Francesca. Your mother never did and I'll not take it from you. If you don't watch out you'll end up with a shrew's tongue." Then he grinned maliciously as angry color flooded into her cheeks. "Your temper is spoiling your complexion. Fortunately I have finished your face," he concluded smugly.

She knew it amused him to goad her whenever he had the chance to get back at her for trying to keep him at work longer than he wished. But how could she not when persistently he ignored unpaid bills and continued to live as nonchalantly as ever. Apart from the monetary side of it, there was the waste of his great talent. His debauchery was taking its toll on his eyesight and his hands. After a night's carousal in a tavern his fingers shook too much to do a stroke of work, even if his aching head had permitted it.

To let him know her displeasure she made no attempt at conversation again. He retaliated by whistling tunelessly under his breath, knowing it to be an irritating sound and one she could not tolerate when she was working at her easel in the studio with him. Not for the first time she thought what an overgrown, undisciplined boy he was at heart. He ignored his fifty years as if they had taken no toll on his looks and physique. Yet maybe that contributed to the una.s.sailable charm he could exert whenever it suited him. Very soon now he would tire of his whistling prank and make some promise to win her good humor. He never liked to be on bad terms with anyone for long.

"I'll tell you what we'll do to finish this painting in time," he announced cheerily ten minutes later.

"What's that?" It had taken five minutes less than she had antic.i.p.ated for him to have a change of conscience.

"I'll come home at a reasonable hour tonight, and early tomorrow morning we'll start work again. Then, by the time Willem arrives, the painting will be done."

He looked so confident, his big smile enveloping her, that she wavered in his favor. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It's only a matter of final touches."

"May I see the painting now?" she asked. He never liked his work to be viewed before the final stages.

"Yes," he said, standing back to study it. Then, emerging from the grip of concentration, he realized suddenly how much time must have elapsed since her last rest period. He did not like to have a clock in the studio, finding it distracted him. "You're overdue for relaxing in any case and I suppose it's getting near the time for the noon-meal bell."

She had put down her bunch of flowers and the staff to stretch her arms out before her, flexing her fingers. "I'm sure it is. I feel quite hungry."

Shaking out her skirts, she stepped down from the rostrum, her face alight with expectation. She had almost reached the easel when she swayed, all color draining from her face. Hendrick grabbed her in alarm. Since losing Anna any sign of illness terrified him.

"You've modeled too long without a break! Let me help you to the couch and I'll fetch Maria!"

"No!" Almost desperately she thrust herself away from him, recovering herself. "It was nothing. Maria mustn't be called-you know how she fusses."

He saw the rose was returning to her cheeks. In his thankfulness he was irritable. "You should have reminded me you needed a rest," he said testily, shifting the blame from himself.

"Yes, I should have," she answered absently, confused by that inexplicable sense of dread that had a.s.sailed her as she approached the easel. She considered herself to be practical and levelheaded, not given to whims and fancies, but for a matter of moments it was as if the studio had turned icy and there was a terrible threat to her that lay in the painting itself. Yet it was the work of a man who loved his children. How could it possibly portend any danger? Even the subject was close to her heart, for she was a lover of spring and its flowers, especially the tulip. Lifting her chin resolutely, she went to the front of the painting to come face to face with herself as Flora.

Instantly all her qualms fled. She uttered a little cry of relief and admiration. Before her was her father's best work for a long time and it had nothing to do with her being the sitter. When Hendrick painted like this he could have made a superb picture with a wooden post as the subject. Here was his masterly technique at its height in the fluid flow of the impasto. Anna's death had had a profound effect upon his work. His colors had become more somber and he had dropped the theatrical and overemphasized gestures of his figures to take up a more restrained and sensitive approach that had benefited his work enormously, enabling him to convey a whole new range of emotion. Here Flora gloried almost shyly in the gifts she was bringing, the shadows of winter falling away behind her, and a more subtle use of his beloved red and gold and hot orange caught the sun's brilliance in her hair. His varied and expressive brushwork was at its peak, the sweet, fresh flowers tumbling from her arms seeming to emit their fragrance, the silks and satin of her robes almost to rustle.

"This is how you should always paint, Father!"

"Do I not?" he queried with an edge to his voice.

Too late she realized she had spoken out of turn. It was not for her to refer even indirectly to paintings that had fetched a poor price or remained unsold. She met his glinting eyes and answered frankly.

"I only meant that this painting will keep us fed and it is comparable with your portrait of Mama." She indicated its presence on the studio wall with a graceful little gesture. "You've always said it was your best work. Now you have achieved it again. It's almost like a new beginning, Father."

Her straightforward answer showed she had meant neither criticism nor reproach. He nodded, always knowing where he was with her. Even as a child she had had that open and honest approach to life, that strength of character that did not break in adversity, but renewed itself on whatever had to be faced. He recalled how the pupils of her sea-green eyes had dilated at his bawling whenever her and her sisters' work had not pleased him. Her face had grown taut, but she had kept her stance solidly while the other two had run weeping from the studio.

"I'll demand a high price for it." Then he added what he knew would please her. "It should settle a number of tradesmen's bills."

She was looking at the painting again and spoke thoughtfully. "Maybe there would be some money over as well."

"What could be better than that?" He was glad she knew nothing of his current gaming debts or else it would have spoiled the moment for her. They were standing side by side and it would have been natural for him to rest a hand on her shoulder, but his fingers were aching painfully and he did not want to give their condition away through an involuntary spasm in his grip. It had hurt him when he had grabbed her, thinking she was about to fall, but in the confusion she had not noticed anything amiss. The trouble, whatever its cause, had made itself known during the previous winter with swelling in the knuckles, but with the summer it had gone again and he had never expected it to return. Then, after he had begun the Flora painting, the unwelcome aching had come back, coinciding with the crisper weather. It had slowed his work, but he was certain it would go again. On a surge of good spirits he chuckled mischievously. "I'd take any wager that we're going to make Willem's eyes pop."

She laughed with him, slipping her arm through his and looking up into his merry face. "What fun it will be! Let me be here with you when he views it."

"Indeed you shall."

At that moment there came the tinkling sound of the little bell being rung by Maria to summon everyone to eat. Francesca swung toward the door. "I'll change out of these garments before coming to table."

When she came down again to the dining hall everyone was waiting for her, n.o.body yet seated, for that could not be done before grace was said. Aletta's sharp glance under a sweep of lashes told her she had taken longer than had been expected. Today her sister was wearing a cap of starched linen, folded back from the brow and similar in style to the one Griet habitually wore in her position of maidservant. It framed Aletta's oval, well-shaped face with the stubborn little jaw, large eyes that could be gentle with love for her family but which could become flashing steel if she was angry with them or anyone else, and her mouth was curved and rosy.

Ever since the morning after the attack she was never seen without a cap, except in the privacy of the bedchamber. She had a drawer and a shelf full of caps, many embroidered by herself, which were little works of art in themselves, and a wide selection of others in varying styles, including a number made entirely of Maria's homemade lace, each lined in a different color. Every birthday and St. Nicholaes's Day brought her gifts of caps and she had one encrusted with pearls in Florentine work that had come from Janetje. All covered her whole head; even wisps of hair escaping at the nape of her neck were tucked up out of sight. She was becoming steadily more reserved, a very private person in all matters. Sybylla had once told her cruelly that she had the makings of an old maid and there were others who thought the same.

"I apologize for keeping everyone waiting," Francesca said, making for her place at the end of the long oaken table. She heard an impish tapping of a foot keeping pace with her swift steps and knew it could only be Sybylla. It stopped abruptly with an "ouch" of protest when Maria gave the offender a prod.

It was a poor repast that day, consisting of thin vegetable soup and the baker's blackest bread, certain sign of a low ebb in Hendrick's finances. In the general conversation, Sybylla managed to direct a private question at Francesca.

"Is the Flora painting almost finished?"

It was never advisable to question Hendrick about his work, because if it was not going well he would be moody about it. When Francesca nodded in reply, Sybylla sighed with relief and returned her attention to her soup. She was interested in the painting solely as a source of income for her father. Not once had she regretted the floundering of her own artistic talent, and the only painting that would have entranced her now was that of applying cosmetics to her face had it been allowed. At least she could do what she liked with her shining, corn-gold hair and she was forever dressing it in various styles, which sometimes drove Hendrick to exasperation point. He was never tactful when irritated.

"Is there some contest being held in Amsterdam as to which females can make themselves appear the most ridiculous?" he would demand, glaring at a ribboned topknot shaped like a steeple, or bunches of curls that danced high over her ears like cascades from a fountain. Then she would burst into tears and fly to her room, shrieking out that the women of Holland were always the last in Europe to follow French modes and she did not intend to be years behind the times.

What she said had been true in the past. It was not in the average Dutch woman's nature to squander on pa.s.sing frivolities, however comfortably off her circ.u.mstances might be, but over the past decade this had changed and the latest fashions from France led the way.

Sybylla always took note of elegant women whenever she went about in the city, yearning more than ever to rustle in rich garments, to have costly jewels and ride in a coach. Had she not loathed posing on the rostrum, partly because she and her father always started quarreling over her never keeping still, she would have gained some satisfaction in wearing the exotic garments from the studio chest, no matter that they were old and mended. But her feet never allowed her to sit quietly. It seemed to her that they were made for dancing and for setting out on new and adventurous paths. On the rare occasions when Hendrick had painted her portrait she had resented the results, for he never flattered his sitters and she did not consider he did justice to her fine looks. When she complained he took it as criticism of his work and that led to more trouble.

She was convinced that n.o.body in the house understood her. Least of all her father or else he would have gained rich patrons by painting the kind of pictures that were in demand and thereby earned enough to give her and her sisters handsome dowries to secure good marriages for them. What was more, he should be giving her special consideration after her disappointment over there being no betrothal. Her tears and anguish had been bitter enough at the time, but she was not pining deeply for Jacob. It had all happened and been over quickly, but it was galling to have lost such a prize. The Korvers were still her good friends and she was able to come and go at their house exactly as before, which was fortunate, for she liked having a bolt-hole when she knew Maria was after her to carry out some tedious domestic task.

She glanced at Hendrick as she pa.s.sed him the basket of bread that he had asked for. He talked at table these days and had no loss of appet.i.te. In all respects he was himself again, except that there was more gray in his hair than before losing her mother, a day that was too agonizing to think about.

When the meal was over Sybylla was the first to leave the dining hall out of curiosity to view the Flora painting. She moved fastidiously in the studio, not wanting to snag her skirt on the framed paintings stacked against one wall or soil her garments with dusty chalk or dollops of wet paint. When she reached her father's easel and saw the likeness of her sister as the G.o.ddess of spring, a wave of appreciation of its beauty almost conquered her uppermost desire to estimate what it was worth. If all Hendrick's work had such appeal all his financial troubles would be over and they need never have a peasants' meal of vegetable soup and black bread again.

Sybylla wondered if perhaps she should grit her teeth and offer to sit for Hendrick herself. If he promised she should have a new cloak out of the price her likeness fetched, she would do it. Otherwise there was no point in submitting herself to his grumbling about her not sitting still and the general ordeal. She should have some personal gain.

The sound of the door opening made her turn hopefully, but it was Aletta come to view the painting. "Is Father still in the house?" Sybylla asked at once.

"I think he's just gone out."

Sybylla went to check for herself, only to find her sister was right. Too late she saw Maria, broad as a barge, waddling determinedly in her direction. "There you are, child. Why aren't you in your ap.r.o.n yet? It's your turn to brush down all the drapes in the bedchambers."

Sybylla sighed wearily. She thought sometimes that women throughout Holland fought with broom and scrubbing brush to keep their homes spotless as resolutely as the menfolk, with sword and cannon, had once withstood the might of Spain. At least that freedom had been won, but dust and dirt never surrendered.

Throughout the quiet afternoon hours Francesca and Aletta worked in the studio on still-life paintings they had begun the previous week. In front of them, where they sat on stools at their easels, was a low table covered with a blue cloth on which were set in careful composition a number of items. Giving height to the arrangement was one of Anna's most treasured possessions, a nautilus as pearly as the faraway foreign sh.o.r.e from which it had been plucked to be set in silver on a finely fashioned stand. With it were a large hourgla.s.s, a bunch of black grapes lying beside a gla.s.s of wine and a fan with the light shimmering on its topaz-colored feathers. A pewter plate had been placed to jut out over the edge of the table and on it lay a lemon with a knife's blade wedged in it while a long strip of peel, already cut off, curled as it dangled down. Three late rosebuds, which Francesca had fetched from the courtyard's little garden, lay across a tumbled damask napkin. It was an excellent exercise for the effect of light and shadow on various surfaces and textures.

Francesca always included flowers in her paintings whenever possible. It seemed to her that few pictures were complete without blooms, much as Holland would have looked bereft without the abundance of flowers that flourished everywhere from spring to autumn. They blossomed profusely in beds along the ca.n.a.ls and streets, perfumed every garden, filled tubs and pots and, most dramatically of all, spread in glorious carpets of color in the bulb-growing districts along the coast north and south of Haarlem.

She and Aletta did not talk as they painted. The atmosphere was completely harmonious between them. It was never quite the same when Hendrick was there, his personality tending to vibrate through the air. Sometimes he did not so much as glance at their work and at other times, particularly when he was in a restless mood, he would stump across to them at all too frequent intervals and find fault, not constructively as in the past, but with undue savagery. Aletta was long past her crying days, but she still blanched at times. Francesca thought the explanation was that he was troubled by his conscience at no longer having the inclination to teach them as much as he should.

What had become clear to both girls was that they had reached a crossroads with regard to their work. Each was fully aware of the potential in her skills, but totally frustrated by Hendrick's increasing tardiness in giving them instruction. If they could have entered as apprentices in the studio of an independent master of repute it would have given them the opportunity to develop and advance beyond their present achievements.

The barrier to their joint aim was the fees involved and not that they were female, for in a studio it was only talent that counted. Francesca was a great admirer of the late Judith Leyster, who had studied with Frans Hals, as Hendrick had done, and Maria van Oosterwyck, a fine painter of flowers, who had been a pupil of Jan Davidsz de Heem.

In the studio the only sounds were those of Griet cleaning upstairs and the rattle of pa.s.sing wheels or the clack of wooden clogs in the street outside. Then Aletta broke the silence between them.

"There is only one solution."

Francesca was able to follow her sister's train of thought. She smiled but did not pause in her painting. "What is that? A public notice to announce that two would-be masters of a Guild will sing and dance in the streets for donations to raise tuition fees?"

"I was dreaming of something better than that," Aletta confessed with a smile. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could both find rich patrons able to recognize our talent and willing to foot all expenses until we were masters. That's what happened to many Italian artists."

"But Holland isn't Italy. The att.i.tude to art in that country is quite different. So many Italian painters and sculptors get commissions from the Church and from those holding political power. There is no munificence such as that here."

"How true that is!"

"Ideally we should complete our training under an independent master. Have we not discussed this many times? But I don't intend to be defeated by present circ.u.mstances and neither do you. Our path is one of hard work and more hard work. There are no shortcuts. The day Willem offers to sell our work we'll know that we're on the brink of true achievement and success."

"Like Father?" Aletta's voice was suddenly clipped in tone.

Francesca looked across at her. "He is as he is and not even Mama was able to change him. But you and I are both dedicated to our work to the exclusion of all else."

"So we must struggle on, must we?"

"Recognition will be all the sweeter when it comes."

"I suppose you're right." Aletta heaved a sigh as she continued painting. She was wondering what price this piece of work would fetch if she were able to sell it. A few stivers? Or, better still, a couple of florins. Suppose she could find a way of selling her work unbeknown to anyone in the household. She could h.o.a.rd whatever she received and, although it would take quite a long time, eventually she should have collected enough to attend the cla.s.ses some artists took turns in holding where their own pupils gathered with those of other studios for joint instruction in painting from life. Amateur artists, willing to pay, were allowed in small numbers to sit at the back, but they received the tutor's guidance in their turn. If she attended regularly she would gain much from this source, but she had to get some money first. It was a problem she had to solve somehow.

HENDRICK HAD NOT returned when they ate dinner that evening. Afterward Aletta sat in the reception hall, playing on the virginal accompanied by Sybylla on the viol. The sweet music could be heard in the parlor, where Francesca sat by the fire reading. Maria was in a chair opposite her, making lace on a cushion resting on her ample lap, the click of the bobbins providing an accompanying rhythm. When eventually Aletta and Sybylla said good night and went to bed, Francesca put aside her book to go restlessly to the window. She cupped her hands to one of the diamond panes and looked out.

"Father promised he wouldn't be late home," she said on a sharp note that ranged from annoyance to anxiety. "When he's been drinking, as I'm sure he has tonight, I'm always afraid he will topple into a ca.n.a.l."

Maria glanced up from her lacework. "Your mother used to worry about that too," she commented phlegmatically, remembering how often she had seen Anna waiting by that same window, "but the only time it happened the cold water sobered him up and when he broke the surface the first thing he saw was an old leather purse full of gold coins lodged in a crevice. Anyone but your father would have drowned, but that's the sort of good luck that happens to men like him." She almost said "rogues" instead of "men," but he was her employer and it would not have been the way to speak of him to his daughter, not even after all these years.

Surprised, Francesca turned back from the window. "I've never heard of that before. No wonder he can be so optimistic whenever trouble is staring him in the face. How old was I at that time?"

"About six months, if I remember rightly. That gold should have been a nest egg for him and your mother, but it all went on new gowns of saffron velvet and gold brocade for her and a painting for himself by a Venetian artist whose name I don't remember." She shook her head despairingly. "Money has always burnt a hole in his pocket."