The Golden Tulip (18 page)

He alone was on the right path. By working undercover for France now he would lose nothing and gain everything when Louis was master of the Netherlands. There would be a glittering ministerial post and rewards beyond measure. Power was everything! He had hopes of eventually becoming Louis’s choice as the Stadholder, able to govern from the palace at The Hague. But all that was in the future. The immediate matter was the purchase of this painting about to be revealed to him.

“Come, come, Heer de Hartog!” he snapped impatiently. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Willem had unfastened the second set of shutters and the gilt-leather walls of the gallery had begun to gleam and glow with touches of light, the perfect setting for a picture of importance.

“You are the first to see this painting since it came into my hands,” Willem said smoothly, moving on to the next window.

“Most obliging of you,” Ludolf replied drily. After the figure he had already offered for the work it was not surprising he should get priority.

The last window completed the flooding of the gallery with light. Willem went across to the little silk curtain covering the painting and with a final flourish he drew it back. “I present Flora, the goddess of spring.”

Long habit enabled Ludolf to keep his face composed, but his hand tightened convulsively on his cane. Inwardly he was stunned, not only by the splendor of the painting but by the extraordinary beauty of Flora herself. It was by no means the classic symmetry of features normal to the feminine ideal, but there was a fascinating blend of the sensual with the ethereal that fired his senses.

“Who is she?” he demanded throatily.

“That I shall reveal only to the purchaser,” Willem replied blandly.

“Damnation to you! You know I will have the painting!” Ludolf sprang up and went to study the face of Flora more closely.

“I’ve had a higher offer than the last one you made.”

Ludolf turned a hard and glittering gaze on him. “Name your price.”

Willem smiled to himself. This was the best deal he had made for many years.

W
HEN WILLEM WENT
to see Hendrick the next day, the angry words they had exchanged when they had last seen each other were uppermost in his mind. But the artist was his usual self and greeted him without the least animosity, although there was a sharp complaint about the meager sum the painting of the beggar had fetched.

“I’ve made a sale that will more than make up for that,” Willem replied. They were in the family parlor, where he had found Hendrick sprawled out in a chair by the fire. It was an all too familiar sign that he had slackened off work with a spate of cards and dice.

“
The Goddess of Spring
?” Hendrick’s eyes sharpened with interest.

“Yes. You will be pleased to hear that after all my hard work I landed a buyer who may prove to be a very big fish indeed.”

Hendrick jerked forward in his chair. “How much?”

Willem was determined to hold him to his daughter’s training. “Enough to give Francesca two years’ tuition in Delft, with bed and board as well as a box of new clothes. There is also a sum over that, in itself twice as much as any figure I’ve managed to raise on any one of your paintings before.”

Flinging back his head, Hendrick uttered a huge bellow of triumphant laughter, slapping his hands on his broad knees. Dame Fortune was smiling on him again. He had done well at cards recently and now this bounty was to be poured into his coffers. “You’ve done splendidly, Willem! We may have had our differences in the past, but I doff my hat to you. When you use your wits you know how to sell the works of a great master!”

Willem’s lips twitched wryly at Hendrick’s excessive display of self-satisfaction, but he also nursed intense regret that this fine artist could not be classed in that exclusive category. “I’ve still more good news to tell.”

“You have?”

“Yes, the buyer is a rich ship broker. His name is Ludolf van Deventer. He has commissioned you to paint his portrait.”

Some of Hendrick’s exuberance waned. He lowered his head and shifted uneasily in his chair, reminding his companion of a bull at bay. “I’m not sure. You know I’ve never liked to paint portraits to order.”

Willem knew that only too well. Many commissions in the past had come to nothing through Hendrick offending the sitters by bellowing at them for fidgeting or else becoming too bored with their faces to finish the work. “If you make a special effort this time I think you can be sure of this man’s patronage for a long while to come. He also bought that little painting of yours of the head of a Trojan warrior that I had on display. Your work interests him.”

“Hmm.” Hendrick lodged an elbow on the arm of his chair and rubbed his chin. “What sort of fellow is he?”

“A man who has had to make his own way in life and is now at an age when he wants to enjoy his hard-earned money. Why not invite him to dinner? His wife would not accompany him, as she suffers from ill health and never goes out. If you spend an evening with him you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether or not you feel able to accept the commission.”

“I suppose it would be a good idea.” Hendrick still looked uncertain. “He’s rich, you say?”

“Very rich.”

Hendrick heaved a sigh. “Well, I’ve thought several times that I should give Aletta her chance of tuition—that is, if her work merits it. At the moment she’s acting like a recluse with her painting, but she’s at a foolish age.”

“Aletta has never seemed anything but sensible to me. I’ve always liked her work. When your finances permit she should be placed in a studio too.”

“Then I’ll invite van Deventer here.”

“One thing more. I’ll be leaving soon on a tour of studios throughout the provinces, during which I’ll be staying in Delft to settle Francesca’s apprenticeship with Vermeer and the Committee of the Guild. I must impress upon you to continue to keep matters to yourself. I have to allow for any unforeseen snags.”

“Very wise.” Hendrick tapped a finger against his nose. “Not a word until you are back from Delft with good news.”

When Willem left the house he was confident that everything had been arranged for the best.

Chapter 7

A
LETTA SAT IN AN ANTEROOM AT THE
E
XCHANGE, WAITING TO
see Pieter. She was breathless, having run part of the way to get to the building before its closing hour. She had left home in good time, but she had not gone far when she had seen a neighbor, who was pregnant, slip and fall in a street left treacherously muddy by the thaw. She had rushed to help her up and then, seeing that Vrouw Zegers was much shaken, she had walked her slowly back home. Since their houses were side by side, Aletta had found herself starting out again with half the time to reach the Exchange, but she had reached it with a quarter of an hour to spare.

She looked down at her skirt hems. As she had feared, there was mud on them where they had trailed on the wet road. The thaw that had produced these conditions was welcome nevertheless. It had set in early, allowing crocuses to burst forth in cushions of purple before February was over and once more boat traffic was able to move along those waterways that were impossible to keep open with savage winter weather. Yet the winters were not as harsh nowadays as they had been during the past hundred years when the canals had been frozen through to the end of March at times. It was far from warm yet, but the sun was gaining strength every day as if determined to be ready for the first day of spring.

Aletta was the only one in the anteroom, but a thunderous rumble of male voices came from some inner part of the Exchange. A messenger servant had been sent in to fetch Pieter to her. Her glance went to a high inside window and she wondered what might be seen of this male sanctum from there. Her curiosity overcame her. Telling herself sternly that she was behaving as Sybylla would have done, she climbed up onto the bench below the window.

Before she had even raised herself on tiptoe to look through it, the door of the anteroom burst open and a vigorous, well-dressed and good-looking black-haired young man in a red-plumed hat came striding in. She flushed deeply at being discovered in such an ignominious position, wanting to curl up with embarrassment, but he was smiling approval, greenish eyes twinkling.

“What an excellent notion!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, leaping up onto the bench beside her. “I saw you through the glass panels of the door and decided to follow your example.” Being tall, he was able to look through the window with ease. “This is a position of advantage, isn’t it? There’s somebody I want to make sure is here today without bothering to go into that melee to search for him. Yes! He has come. There’s my banker, old van Jansz, doing all the donkey work on my behalf!”

He did not seem to notice she had not added anything to his stream of talk and any further chance was stemmed, much to her relief, as a swarm of half a dozen young men and women, a riot of color in their silks and velvets and plumes, came through the door he had left open into the anteroom. At the sight of him standing on the bench they exclaimed loudly, each shouting a protest.

“What are you doing up there? Is there no end to your pranks, Constantijn? You said you were going to dive into the mob, not dally about here! You’re wasting time! We want to be on our way!”

He grinned at them from where he stood and made a mock-placating bow. “Calm yourselves! My business is done. I’m ready to go.”

He sprang from the bench, slid his arm about the waist of the loveliest girl in the group and led the way out. They were gone like a flock of parrots, slamming the door after them.

All the time Aletta had stood as though frozen. Now she relaxed slightly and, risking discovery again, decided she could not resist looking through the window after hearing Constantijn’s descriptions of the gathering within as a mob and a melee. She wondered what his surname might be.

On tiptoe, and holding the sill with her fingertips, she could just see into the heart of the Exchange. It was a huge rectangular courtyard, open to the sky, where a noisy throng of men milled about, some shouting or arguing or simply standing, heads lowered, in deep and private consultation with a fellow investor. More than a few were giving way to the most extraordinary histrionics. Hats and wigs were being torn off either to be waved triumphantly or thrown to the ground and stamped on, according to whether good or bad news had been received. She was used to explosions of temperament from Hendrick and Sybylla in her own home, which usually upset the entire household, but it was thoroughly entertaining to watch such displays from a detached viewpoint. Foreigners who thought her fellow countrymen to be dull and placid fellows should be allowed to peep through this window as she was doing. They would soon revise their opinions!

There was Pieter threading his way through the crowd. She sprang down from the bench, caught her heel in a petticoat hem and fell full length on the floor. She just managed to scramble to her feet before the door opened and Pieter came into the anteroom with a broad smile.

“You’re here at last,” he greeted her. “I had begun to think you had decided I wouldn’t be of any help to you after all.” His glance took in the severe furnishings of the anteroom. “It’s not very comfortable here. I suggest we go elsewhere to talk.”

She hesitated. “Did I take you away from anything important?”

“Not at all. My business is finished here for today.” Side by side they went out of the Exchange and down the steps to the street, he asking on the way about the health of her father and sisters.

“They are well. I didn’t tell anyone that I was meeting you today or else I know they would have sent their compliments.”

They soon reached a tavern where the enterprising landlord had turned one of his rooms into a coffeehouse for people of both sexes, unlike the segregated clubs for coffee drinking, which were a fashionable quirk. He held the door for her. “Here we are.”

The superb fragrance of freshly roasted coffee beans met them as they entered the warm atmosphere. The drinking of coffee was no longer the privilege of the wealthy and coffee was starting to rival the more expensive China tea. Here, as in every coffeehouse where mixed company was served, all who waited at the tables were female. The place was very busy, but a waiting maid showed Pieter and Aletta to a booth with high-backed settle seats. From it they had a good view of the large copper coffeepots from which coffee, flavored with cloves, cinnamon or ginger according to taste, was poured from little taps. Aletta had never been in a coffeehouse before, because it was cheaper to drink beverages at home.

She lowered the hood of her cloak. Her customary cap that hugged her head and kept her hair under strict control was of cream linen today with a modest edging of lace. Pieter thought it more suited to an older woman. She was too young to detract from her fine features with such severe headgear. Had the cap been of velvet, or silk with beads or embroidery designed to flatter, it would have been a different matter.

“I should like the cinnamon-flavored coffee,” Aletta replied when he asked her what her choice would be.

“Sweetened with sugar or honey?”

She chose honey and he ordered his own to be unflavored and unsweetened. He also asked the waiting maid to bring a selection of the gingerbread and cakes that were made on the premises. While they waited for it all to be brought to them she ventured a question.

“What made you decide to buy a house in Amsterdam?”

“Through certain business interests I like to be in close touch with the Exchange, and it may surprise you to know that winter can be a busy time for me. It’s when I see people who want their gardens newly designed and made ready for the spring, and since I get a great deal of my work from Amsterdam it seemed sensible to have a pied-à-terre here.”

She smiled at him. “In your own way you are an artist too, but in earth and trees and flowers instead of pigments and oils. Do you like that side of horticulture?”

“Immensely. People sometimes take time to make up their minds, wanting more variations planned on paper than they need, but that is all part of it.”

As they chatted he tried not to reveal that he was taking note of her sibling resemblance to Francesca. It came and went in a flicker of expression almost too swift to register and in the way her lips curled slightly before a smile broke forth. But there was nothing in Aletta’s gray-green eyes of the allure he had glimpsed in Francesca’s. The girl sitting opposite him was contained within herself, small and composed with some inner defense to keep her from the emotional upheavals that usually afflicted young women. Aletta’s prim air seemed unassailable. How was it possible for the same parents to have produced both her and Sybylla? They were as different as chalk and cheese. Perhaps Francesca was a little like both her sisters, with the calm of one and the passion of the other. Whatever the true facts, he knew her now to be the woman for him.

The coffee came with the cakes and gingerbread still warm from the oven. “Now,” he said, when he and Aletta had taken their first sip from their cups and sampled a bite of cake, “tell me why you came to see me today.”

She began by telling him of her aim to be a master of a Guild. How and when that would be achieved she did not know, but somehow she would fulfill her dream. Meanwhile there were classes she wanted to attend. As she talked he thought it inexcusable that Hendrick Visser should not be helping his daughters by making them officially his apprentices and seeing them through the whole of their training. It revealed the total selfishness of the man behind the joviality.

“I’ve been taking commissions unknown to my father,” Aletta continued, “and introducing myself by using my mother’s maiden name of Veldhuis to conceal my identity. I doubt if any of my patrons would have heard of Hendrick Visser, because they are not in the range ever to buy from his dealer, but I had to be sure that no chance meeting gave me away. Father talks to all and sundry wherever he is.” She went on to tell of the paintings of houses, workshops, interiors and even the fish stall she had done.

He looked amazed. “Have you any spare time at all?”

“Almost none, because I use every spare minute to build up a stock of pictures to sell whenever it should prove possible. It’s with such money I’ll be able to attend those drawing and painting classes I’ve already mentioned.”

“Where is this work to be sold? In picture shops?”

“No. I did approach several, but it was the same in every one. They’re flooded with stock and nobody would look at mine.”

“Where else, then? Many taverns display pictures for sale.”

“That would be far too risky. My father has drinking companions in every tavern in Amsterdam. Some of them have been to our home and should I be seen in such places they would recognize me.”

“I see your difficulty. What does Francesca advise?”

“She doesn’t know and mustn’t suspect, because she would say I’ll never be a painter if I don’t devote my time to serious work.”

“Is she right, Aletta?” They had dropped into the use of Christian names almost without realizing it.

“What I am doing is serious enough for me, but the kind of work she means awaits me in plenty at those classes. In the meantime I’m learning and improving even by the rough means of speed that I’ve chosen. I can tell whenever I paint in the studio now that I have acquired more skill. Even my father had a good word to say about my painting of the hyacinth. But Francesca is going from strength to strength. Recently her work has become quite beautiful. She seems to have leapt a gap that was keeping her back.”

“What would the reason be?”

“Father takes the credit for having resumed his teaching of her, but I think it’s a natural progression. Like a fledgling taking wing.”

“Does he think highly of her work?”

“He does, but he is very sensitive about his own. Francesca must never become his rival, at least not in his studio.”

“Could that happen, do you think?”

“I believe she is destined to be a splendid artist. She did a painting of Sybylla and me that was so good that Father’s agent, Willem de Hartog, is getting it viewed for an independent assessment of her work.” She took another sip of coffee, savoring the treat she was having.

“If,” he queried, “your father has resumed his teaching of Francesca, why aren’t you benefiting from it too?”

“I’m not often in his studio, because I have my own upstairs. He gets irritated enough having to instruct Francesca and to deal with two of us again would be too much for his temper. After my mother died he reverted in his grief to doing only what he wanted to do, and it has stayed that way. I understand. It has nothing to do with his love for Francesca or for me.”

“You are very tolerant.” He regarded her in a friendly and encouraging manner. “Perhaps you should explain now the full purpose of this meeting. We haven’t come to that yet and my guess is that you have mapped out a role for me to play in this plan of yours for class attendance.” His grin was merry. “Am I to sell your paintings for you?”

It was said in jest, for he believed she had been leading up to asking for a loan to let her attend classes, and he had made up his mind that she should have it. To his dismay she seized on his remark avidly, her usual calm expression changing to one of thrilled and overwhelming relief.