The Golden Tulip (15 page)

“You’re an artist too?”

“So is my sister Aletta. There are three painters under this roof, but only one master.”

He gave her an encouraging nod. “Perhaps one day there’ll be three masters.”

“That’s what Aletta and I hope for most of all.”

“With all sincerity I wish you both well.”

“I thank you.” She thought he meant what he said. “I shall paint the hyacinth when it blossoms.”

He looked pleased. “What an honor for it!”

Aletta’s voice broke in as she came with a silver-lidded flagon of wine in one hand and a glass for him in the other. “There is beer if you prefer it.”

“I thank you, but I’ll take the wine.”

He had risen to his feet to hold the glass as she poured. “It’s quite potent,” she warned him seriously.

“I’ll remember that, Juffrouw Aletta.”

She looked directly at him as he spoke her name and she returned his smile. Sybylla had conjured up her own reason for his visit, which she had already divulged to Aletta. Whether there was any truth in it or not did not matter to Aletta since she was not the one singled out for his interest. It was always Francesca or Sybylla who magnetized men’s eyes, and that suited her. Yet she liked this man for his friendly air. He had been particularly courteous when Hendrick had presented him, but it had been natural to her that she should add her thanks for the gift he had brought to her home.

“I’ll be back when your glass needs refilling,” she promised.

“That’s most obliging of you.”

Aletta held her flagon up questioningly at Francesca, who indicated she had a full glass on the shelf behind her. As Aletta left again Francesca would have twisted round to lift the glass, but Pieter reached for it and handed it to her as he sat down again. He raised his own glass to her, the wine ruby red, the glass sparkling.

“To you,
mejuffrouw.”

On her visit to his Haarlem home he had seen with satisfaction that at close quarters her eyes were green and lustrous. The currant-red dress she was wearing this evening echoed dramatically the glints in her coppery hair. In her lobes were gold earbobs that shone against her milk-white skin. She put both her fine-looking sisters in the shade, although the youngest was so ripe for plucking that at a touch she would be off the branch.

“Your good health,” Francesca said in reply to his toast.

“It was most hospitable of your father to invite me to stay this evening.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at a loud burst of laughter that followed a joking remark made on the other side of the room.

“Did you celebrate earlier today with your own family?” she asked.

He frowned somberly. “I regret to say I have no close family now. I had two younger brothers, but they died with my parents within four days of one another.”

“What a terrible tragedy!” Her voice was full of deep compassion.

His jaw flexed. “The plague took them all. That was seven years ago. I was at university at the time.”

“Did you continue your studies?”

He shook his head. “That was impossible. I had been bequeathed the family home and the farm, which I ran for a few weeks while I formulated my plans and settled my future. Botany had been my source of study at the university and horticulture my interest from boyhood. My father had always allowed me to have an orangery. Gradually I changed the layout of the land and converted farm buildings into greenhouses as well as erecting new ones. I also built the new orangery, which you saw the day you came there.”

“It must have been hard work to get everything in order.”

He shrugged with a smile. “The results have been worth all the effort. The soil is good and each spring my land turns to ribbons of tulips and hyacinths. I grow other flowers too, but in lesser quantities.”

She had seen such carpets of flowers, the colors almost taking one’s breath away. “I always think it’s a sad sight when the barges transport huge mounds of those glorious tulip heads to dump them.”

“They have to be cut off the stems the first year if the bulbs are to be a commercial proposition. Did you ever thread some of those blooms together when you were a child?”

“Yes, we did,” she replied with enthusiasm. “A friend of my late mother used to bring us a huge basket of them. My sisters and I would sit in the courtyard and choose from all the different colors to make garlands to wear on our heads and hang around our necks. I still like to see those tulip chains draped over doorways and festooning wagons and sailboats.” She gave a little laugh. “I remember always wishing I could lie on a bed of those blooms!”

Her words innocently conjured up such a seductive image for him that he needed to change the subject. “You’re still nursing that hyacinth on your lap. Let me put it aside for you.”

“I don’t want it out of my charge now that I’ve been entrusted with it,” she declared lightly, but with seriousness behind her words. “You must have made this Feast of St. Nicholaes an outstanding one for all your new customers by giving them such bounty.”

His hesitation before he answered her could only have lasted for a matter of seconds, but during that lapse their eyes held and the realization dawned on her forcefully that no other customer had received anything. His reply, skirting her remark, confirmed indirectly what Sybylla had whispered to her.

“Most of my customers have been established with me for quite a while.”

She returned her attention to the plant in order to hide her racing thoughts, her lashes lowered. “How often should the earth in this pot be moistened?” she asked quickly, “and where would be the best place in the house for it to stand?”

It was entirely new to her to have a plant in the house and that was the general rule. Flower beds, public and private, might blossom and flourish everywhere in season, delighting the eye on all sides, but blooms were rarely brought indoors. The fastidious Dutch housewife had no place for a film of dusty pollen or dropped petals on her spotless surfaces. It was why paintings of flowers were so popular, giving the beauty without any of the mess, quite apart from the exorbitant cost of choice blooms.

When she had received from him all the advice she needed, Francesca seized on the chance the hyacinth had given her to break up their conversation. “I’ll go now and put this plant in a good position.”

He stood up as she left the bench. “May I come with you?”

Before she could answer him, Hendrick and two other men had stepped in to draw him into conversation about garden landscaping. She heard him say it was something he specialized in before she carried the potted plant away from the chatter and laughter into the quietness of a side room. There a candle lamp gave a soft light and a fire glowed in the grate.

Carefully Francesca placed the Delft pot on a side table under the window where it would get plenty of light while being out of any draft. She could hardly wait for it to bloom. What a subject for painting at this time of year! Then she became thoughtful as she remained standing by the table with her fingertips resting against the sides of the Delft pot with its blue-and-white pattern. Sybylla had been right. Francesca knew as surely as if Pieter had told her himself that this plant had been a ploy to gain an entrée into her home and further their acquaintance. To herself she commended him for his initiative, although, despite her attraction to him, it was misguided. Had her display of enthusiasm for his winning the race on the river led him to believe she would welcome this move of his?

She turned her head to where a Venetian mirror hung on a side wall and saw her own reflection within the gilded frame like a painting in a candlelit setting. The face of the girl she saw there was not exactly troubled, but there was disquiet in the countenance. According to Maria, she was long overdue for courtship and kissing, but she had made her decision. Work and more work made an antidote to natural physical desires.

Just recently, for no reason that she could think of, Hendrick had taken a fresh interest in her work, although she knew it was an effort for him, and he had given her some tuition that had been most helpful. It was not on a regular basis and only when he was in a good mood, but she was grateful for it and felt she had made some advancement. She did not want disruption in her organized existence from Pieter van Doorne with his determined chin and penetrating eyes. This same evening she must squash any designs he might have on her time, for she had none to spare. She would be polite, but more distant. By this means she had discouraged a would-be suitor last year and the same young man was among the company in the reception room this evening, his newly betrothed with him. She turned with a swish of red velvet and lace-edged petticoats to go back to the merrymaking, but Pieter stood in the doorway.

“Sybylla told me where to find you.”

Francesca realized that it was just the sort of thing her mischievous sister would do. She indicated the plant where it stood on the table. “I’ve found a good place for the hyacinth, as you can see.”

He went across to it and she guessed it was not so much to check on where it stood as to delay her leaving the room. As she had half expected, he turned from it to rest his weight against the edge of the table, more than ready to prolong the time with her.

“I have a confession to make,” he said quite seriously.

So he was about to confirm what she already knew. “Oh? What could that be?”

“I used this hyacinth as an excuse to meet you again. There was no chance to talk last time and even less on the two previous occasions.”

“One, don’t you mean?”

He shook his head, smiling. “No. I saw you the first time when I stood delivering the bulbs. I could see right through to the open door of the studio. You were in costume with a wreath of flowers on your hair. It was just a glimpse and then your father pushed the door closed.”

She gave a little laugh, her eyebrows raised. “You are full of surprises, Heer van Doorne!”

“Call me Pieter, please. May I address you as Francesca?”

She shrugged lightly. “If you wish.”

“Tell me more about your work, Francesca.” He glanced about the room. “I’m certain none of these paintings is yours. I know that one over there is a Seghers.”

“That’s right.” She recalled her mother’s distress over Hendrick’s extravagance when he had come home with it from an auction. In the past his acquisitive nature had made it impossible for him to turn away from anything he wanted and the house was full of paintings, contemporary and otherwise, that he had been unable to resist. The Seghers had caused one of those sharp quarrels between her parents, which had ended in the usual way upstairs. Now, in adulthood, she understood fully how much her mother had loved Hendrick, Anna’s forgiving, generous heart unable to hold out against his wiles. “The only work of mine hanging in this house is in Maria’s bedchamber. I would not dream of letting any of my paintings take a place beside the works on these walls even if my father allowed it.”

“But the day will come.”

She regarded him with amusement. “How can you possibly know that?”

He thrust himself away from the table and came across to her. “I don’t, but I’m sure about it. Will you show me your painting of the hyacinth when it is done?”

It was a request she could not refuse. “Yes, of course,” she said willingly.

He took a step closer. “I should like to see you often, Francesca.”

This was her chance to stem their acquaintanceship before it advanced any further. “I have little time to myself. When I’m not painting I’m dealing with domestic matters.”

“But there is always the spare hour. Everybody needs some relaxation. We could go to the theater—there’s enough to choose from in Amsterdam—and to concerts. We could talk and walk and really get to know each other.”

She had never been more tempted. His height, his smile and the sheer attractive physical presence of him threatened to blot out everything else for her. “I think not,” she managed to say and was saved from any argument by the notes of the virginal striking up melodiously from the reception hall. “My sisters’ concert has begun. Let us go quickly!”

She led the way and, looking through the archway into the reception hall from the stair hall, she saw that everyone was well settled and listening attentively. Not wanting to disturb anyone with a late arrival, she indicated the stairs.

“Let’s sit here,” she whispered to Pieter.

She had expected him to sit on the tread above hers, but he chose to squeeze in beside her, his hip and thigh against hers. Two of the audience had already glanced in their direction and she decided to stay where she was to save any further distraction. She set her mind to concentrate on Aletta’s solo piece and away from this virile young man.

Aletta’s piece came to an end and there was enthusiastic applause. Then she and Sybylla began to play together. Sybylla’s viol produced a soft resonance and was really an instrument more suited to Aletta’s temperament than to hers, for even when the music was fast it sounded placid. Perhaps that was why it appealed to Sybylla, who was unable to moderate her own emotions, but at heart she was a true musician. She had her eyes closed as she played, lost in the music, the bow in her hand held from underneath with her fingers touching the stick, each note beginning and ending in gentleness.

Francesca’s artist’s eye was struck by the picture her sisters made and her fingers itched for paper and pencil. Tonight, no matter how late the guests left, she would make a sketch while this view of her sisters was sharp in her memory. Then in the days ahead she would set them on canvas. Aletta would be seated at the virginal, which was painted green and decorated with Dutch scenes on the raised lid. The back lacing of her figured silk gown was as straight as her spine, her oval face reflected in the mirror sloping from its nail in the wall above the instrument. Sybylla, who though not having received either of the new garments she had hoped for, would appear as now, wearing Maria’s gift of a deep lace collar, which had been added to her rose silk gown shortly before the guests’ arrival. It lay on her shoulders, delicate as frost.

Then, shattering Francesca’s concentration, Pieter took hold of her hand. He must have felt her whole body jerk in reaction, for when she would have pulled her hand away his cool, strong clasp tightened and her hand was trapped, palm against palm, fingers entwined. She sensed that he glanced sideways at her, but she kept her gaze rigidly on her sisters, nothing to show the effect the meeting of his hand with hers was having on her. She had no idea that handholding could be so sensual or so curiously intimate, aided as it was by the shadows in which he and she sat and the little distance that shut them off from the rest of the gathering. Even the music helped, as if it were being played specially for them. Her pulse was racing and when he moved his hand slightly, making a caress of his clasp, she was aware more strongly than ever of some intangible bond by which he was seeking to draw her wholly to him.