The Golden Tulip (49 page)

He threw back the quilt and left the bed to start dressing. She watched him luxuriously. He still wore red silk underwear. After the passage of time she might have expected him to look faintly ludicrous in it, but he was still a formidable man with nothing about him to raise the slightest ridicule. His hair, which he wore cropped for convenience under his periwig, had receded slightly and had some wings of gray in it, but baldness was still far from him.

“You still haven’t told me why you’ve come to Delft,” she said, hoping it was simply to see her, although she did not expect that to be the reason. There was not a grain of sentiment in him. His reply confirmed it.

“It’s time you and I talked about branching out on a new tack of getting to know what the defenses are at Muiden and other places where the sluices control the sea water. There was deliberate flooding to keep the enemy at bay during the Spanish war and it’s a method of defense likely to be used again. However, I have a legitimate reason for being here in your house, if not in your bed! Being the patron of the artist whose daughter is staying with you, it would be expected that I should inquire after her welfare from you in order to report back to her father.”

She sat up, holding the quilt to her. “I believe in caution and still more caution. Of course we need to talk this time and you can’t be here too often for me, but we were wise before and must continue to be. Although the minimum period of mourning for Amalia is over for you, there can be no question of us marrying until your spying for France and my involvement in it has achieved its purpose.”

He was arranging his collar in front of a mirror, his back to her, and he was thankful she could not see his shift of expression. Marry her! Did she still expect that after all this time? It was she, more than he, who had always spoken of it. If she had inherited her old husband’s wealth, as they had both expected and had been the major factor in their getting rid of the old man, he would have made her his wife instead of Amalia. It had been his full intention, for he had seen how they might mold their future together, but when he had returned from the sea to discover she had been left almost nothing, he had looked elsewhere for a bride. Geetruyd was still pleasurable to bed, and was extremely useful to him as the kingpin of a house where information could be received and dispatched under perfect cover, but that was all. She would come to terms with his marrying someone else as she had done before. He had never found her difficult to manage and he did not expect any complications now. He turned and smiled at her approvingly.

“Tell me about Francesca,” he said, sitting down to pull on his knee hose. “As I said before, her father will want to know how she is behaving and whether she sees much of her sister.”

“I’ve had no trouble with her after the first day or two. I find her agreeable and quite like her company, but whether she is conducting any correspondence against her father’s wishes is impossible for me to say. There is a limit to how much control I can exercise. At least I know no such letters addressed to her have arrived in Delft and frankly I don’t believe she is receiving them by any other means. She acknowledges my rules for a peaceful existence, totally unlike so many girls I’ve had here, but then she has her painting to absorb her. I’ve heard from Master Vermeer himself how hard she works. Whenever she goes out with Aletta I always insist that Clara go with them. In all, I’ve had nothing serious with which to upbraid Francesca. She always asks my permission before visiting with the Vermeers or seeing Vrouw Thin.”

Ludolf was dressed, even to his periwig, and he jerked his cuffs into place. “Surely you’ve had to keep a few young men at bay?” he queried casually.

“No doubt if Francesca had encouraged them there would have been plenty, but that hasn’t happened. The first letter I made her write as soon as she came here was to that young man, van Doorne, putting an end to any possible visits from him. She wrote it was only friendship between them and now I’m sure that was so.”

“Good.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Her father will be pleased.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To pay a call on Master Vermeer. It is on Hendrick Visser’s behalf. When it is over I’ll walk Francesca back here. There’ll be no need to send Clara today. Then this evening I think we should all go out for some entertainment—a
musico
or a concert, maybe a play. What is on in the town?”

“There’s usually a
musico
at the Mechelin, but I couldn’t be seen there.”

“But such evenings of music and dancing are always in a room separate from the taprooms.”

“Nevertheless, it would do my reputation no good with my fellow regents and regentesses to be seen anywhere near a tavern. They are narrow-minded beyond belief!”

He accepted her argument, for although wine and ale were to be had in every household, it was the drunkenness that took place in taverns that was condemned and kept many away, not the alcohol itself.

“Where else could we go?” he asked.

“There’s a concert at the Town Hall.”

“Excellent. That’s what we’ll do, then. Francesca might like Aletta to come too.”

“I’m sure she would.”

When Ludolf opened the entrance door into the gallery at Mechelin Huis he was surprised by the length of the room and how well lit it was by the windows on each side of the door that reached to a high ceiling. He presumed that the man setting a painting into a frame was the one he had come to see.

“Master Vermeer?”

Jan put down his work and came forward, interested to see a prospective customer who was new to him. “That is I.”

“Allow me to present myself, Ludolf van Deventer.”

The name meant nothing to Jan, for Francesca had never mentioned Ludolf to him or his wife. “In what may I interest you,
mijnheer
? Do you wish to look at what is on the walls here or have you a special kind of picture in mind?”

“It’s not a work of art that I require,” Ludolf said, although he glanced with mild interest at what was on the wall nearest him. “I have other business with you.”

Jan’s immediate and decidedly gloomy thought was that this well-dressed stranger was a lawyer sent by one of those to whom he owed money. “What might that be?”

“You have a pupil. Francesca Visser.”

“Indeed I have.”

“I’ll come straight to the point. I’m here to buy her out of her apprenticeship. She is to be placed in another studio in Amsterdam.”

Jan perched his weight against the end of the long table and folded his arms. “I’ve heard nothing of this from Francesca,” he said coolly, thoroughly offended.

“She doesn’t know yet. It is to be a surprise for her.”

“Is that so? And on whose authority do you act?”

“Her father’s. I saw him only yesterday before I left the city.” Ludolf was glancing at more paintings as he strolled leisurely down the gallery. Then he paused to take a folded paper from his pocket and toss it across the table for Jan to pick up. “Read his wishes for yourself.”

A few steps farther along Ludolf halted before a painting. It was a riotous tavern scene and the laughing, red-faced man raising his tankard was not unlike Hendrick. Yet the artist had had anything but a merry face when summoned to Heerengracht the previous day.

“Francesca won’t like your interference,” Hendrick had said, glowering, “and the same amount of money already paid will have to be returned to the source from which it came.”

“That is no problem. Just put your signature to this document, giving me the necessary authority to take the matter in hand. My clerk has drawn it up for you.”

“What if I refuse to sign?”

Ludolf had not bothered to answer and after a second or two Hendrick had picked up the pen. Once again the artist had taken warning.

Jan spoke. “Whom does Heer Visser have in mind as a new master for Francesca?”

Ludolf turned and took up the paper that had been replaced on the table. “Pieter de Hooch.”

“Ah. I knew him well when he lived in Delft. His work was remarkable then for his harmonious, rich colors and the tranquillity of his domestic scenes.”

“I was told that your style influenced him.”

“That’s as may be. Is he willing to take her?”

“Only with your agreement.”

“That was to be expected. Neither he, as an old friend and fellow artist, nor any other painter of repute would filch an apprentice from another studio, whether that pupil was almost fully trained, as Francesca is, or simply a beginner. Have you found out if she is willing to make such a change?”

Ludolf scoffed smilingly. “One doesn’t consult a woman. She will accept whatever is arranged for her.”

“You think so? What made her father decide on de Hooch?”

“For the reason I just gave you. Your style and his are not all that far apart, which will make the transfer easier for Francesca than if she were to be placed with anyone else.”

“I don’t understand Master Visser’s motive. Surely he is aware that de Hooch’s work has changed in his new surroundings? It has become mechanical and mannered in his bowing to popular taste for grander scenes with men and women in French silks and satins.”

“He is still the best choice.”

“No!” In a blaze of fury Jan slammed a fist into his palm. “Even if I were prepared to let Francesca go, which I’m not, I’d refuse to see her fluid style and her individual control of light broken down and lost!”

Ludolf frowned and tapped a finger on the table. “I don’t want that sort of aggressiveness. Perhaps I haven’t made it clear that you are to be well compensated for the lost year or two you would otherwise have given her.”

“She is not up for sale!”

“You’re twisting my offer. It was not made in that vein. I have her interests at heart too. But it will not be long before she is a wife and mother. Painting can never be more than a hobby for her. So what can a change of style matter?”

Jan, supposing that this man had caught some gist of Francesca and Pieter’s eventual marriage plans, decided it would be wiser for their sakes to make a show of ignorance on that point. “Her personal life doesn’t come into this discussion. It matters to me”—here Jan rammed a thumb to his chest—“that she may reach the ranks of our best contemporary artists and I’ll not see her chance thrown away.”

Ludolf’s face was thunderous. “Enough of this argument. I’ll pay you double what you would have received for three years! Plus another two thousand guilders to cover any sales you might make of her work! Don’t tell me you don’t need the money, because I never do any business without finding out everything it is possible to know about the one with whom I’m dealing. You owe your baker so much it was only through borrowing from your mother-in-law that you narrowly missed having to give him a painting in lieu of your debt, which is still not fully settled. I’ll not trouble to list all the other debts you have outstanding in this town. The Great Blizzard kept away potential customers from other towns, adding to your financial difficulties.” Ludolf paused for breath and straightened up, for he had leaned forward menacingly when speaking, an old trick when intent on intimidating, which he had learned long ago. His voice evened out. “Now we have bargained long enough. I’m a generous man. How much do you want?”

“You’ve already had my answer.” Jan spoke with icy ferocity, not raising his voice. His control exacerbated Ludolf’s anger.

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Leave my premises!”

“Not before I’ve seen Francesca! She’ll not go against her father’s wishes.” Ludolf believed now that Francesca herself might prove to be his trump card.

“Oh? So she’s to be brought into this after all, is she? Do you suppose you can browbeat her into changing course?”

“Surely you wouldn’t keep her against her will?”

“In her case it would be for her own good, but should she prove adamant about taking up this new chance, I might feel obliged to reconsider.”

“Now you are being sensible.” Ludolf could feel mastery of the situation coming back into his hands. “Send for her.”

“No, I’ve a better idea. I want her to make up her own mind independently, without any persuasion from me or coercion from you.”

“You have a blunt way of stating my part in it,” Ludolf remarked caustically, “since I represent her father.”

Jan shrugged. “You can scarcely expect me to pick my words! Now, next to the studio is a room that goes up through two floors, much as this gallery does, and there is an aperture with a wooden balustrade from which it is possible to look down into it from a parlor at mid-level. I’ll take you up there and you can watch and listen while I tell Francesca her father’s wishes. You must make no interruption until she has made her decision. Is that agreed?”

“If you do not attempt to influence her in any way.”

“You have my word.”

Jan took Ludolf to the room with the balustrade, a common enough feature of Dutch homes with a variance of floor levels. He did not like what he was having to do, but on second thought it had seemed the fairest way. For all he knew, it might cause Francesca much distress not to follow her father’s bidding. Should she ask to be released from her apprenticeship in order to return to Amsterdam, Jan knew he would agree to it, but he would not accept the compensation. It had not been offered as a normal settlement, but as an insulting bribe.

Francesca was surprised when Jan opened the studio door and asked her to step into the next room for a few moments. She left her work at the easel and went to him. It struck her how serious he looked.

“I have just received a disturbing request from your father, Francesca.”

When he told her what was proposed she let her hands rise and fall in disbelief. “This is outrageous! My father has always been inconsistent, but this is going to extremes. I can only guess he has sold a painting for an exceptionally large sum and the money is burning a hole in his pocket. Why else should he think of taking me away from here and putting me to Pieter de Hooch’s studio? I’ll not go! Nothing shall make me!”

“You must think this over very carefully,” Jan advised.

“I have. Surely you wouldn’t force me to abide by such a thoughtless whim?”