The Golden Tulip (53 page)

“I accept the commission,” Hendrick stated firmly. Then, because enough time had elapsed for him to overlook Pieter’s role in Aletta’s misdeeds over her paintings, he stopped working and addressed him more civilly. “I thank you for coming. It could not have been easy for you. Had I been in your shoes I would never have come to this house again.”

“I had a dual purpose in coming.”

Hastily Hendrick held up a hand. “Don’t ask me to let you renew your courtship of Francesca, because nothing you could say would move me on that.”

“I didn’t expect it since Ludolf van Deventer has forbidden it.”

Hendrick looked taken aback. “Why should you suppose he has anything to do with my decision?” he blurted.

“Until you clear yourself of debt to him he will continue to dictate to you about Francesca.”

“So you’ve worked that out.” Hendrick let his shoulders rise and fall resignedly as he spoke in a dry and wearied voice. “I thought you might.”

“The man is evil!”

“Do you suppose I don’t know that?” Hendrick sat down on a stool, a hangdog expression on his face. “I would never have stood between you and Francesca. Far from it. You proved yourself to me by shouldering the expense of her tuition without wishing her to know anything about it. To me that showed you loved her unselfishly. Different from that devil!” he exclaimed on a rush of pent-up bitterness. “He makes a show to me of considering her in all matters, but already he has tried in vain to switch her apprenticeship. Can you guess why?” He did not wait for a reply. “He thought that after ending one apprenticeship with all its rules and regulations about no marriage for pupils and so forth, he would marry her before she took up another! Except that it wasn’t to be an alternative apprenticeship he had planned for her. It would have been private tuition as a married woman!”

“Francesca would never marry him!”

Hendrick’s chin had sunk low on his chest. “Not by her own free will.”

Pieter was seized by a terrible suspicion. “What do you mean by that?” When the artist did not answer, he went forward and shook him vigorously by the shoulder. “Have you contracted her to him? Is that it?”

Hendrick put a hand over his eyes. “I had no choice,” he admitted miserably. “If I had not agreed he would have put me in prison for debt under a sentence of many years.” He confided in Pieter the sum that was owed.

Pieter breathed deeply. “When do you intend to be honest with Francesca about what you have done?”

Hendrick jerked up his head. “Not yet! To my dying day I’ll be grateful to Vermeer for refusing to release her. At least she still has some carefree months ahead of her. It is my fervent hope that she will need the three years instead of only two before she gains the membership of the Guild. Perhaps by then the situation will have changed.”

“In what way?”

Hendrick’s voice lifted on the thought of what his youngest daughter might inadvertently do for him. “Sybylla is being escorted here, there and everywhere by a van Jansz, his married sister acting as chaperone. Everything is in the bud as yet, but the signs are promising. With time I hope to prevail upon a rich son-in-law’s generosity.”

Pieter thought Hendrick was foolish to raise his hopes in that direction. The van Jansz family was not known for being charitable to others. “Which van Jansz is Sybylla seeing?”

“Adriaen van Jansz. Do you know him?”

“Not personally. I designed a garden for an acquaintance of his once on the Golden Bend.” Pieter was not prepared to say more on the subject. The client had been a married woman with whom Adriaen van Jansz had been involved since he was seventeen. She was twice his age and the husband was old and complaisant, the result being that the affair had caused a scandal in certain circles for a considerable time. It had provided his fellow officers with a succession of bawdy jokes, but he had never paid much attention to the name of van Jansz and there was too much else to discuss without dwelling on Sybylla’s chances now. “What if Ludolf should tell Francesca of the marriage contract?”

Hendrick answered confidently. “He won’t. Not now that he has to wait longer than he had anticipated for her. I know from what he has said he thinks to win her as a willing bride. It’s hard to suppose that such a man is capable of love, but it can’t be denied that he is infatuated by her.”

Pieter paced slowly over to the window, deep in thought. At the present time he had too many commitments to raise the sum required to settle Hendrick’s debts together with the interest, which would have been mounting up. Had it not been for a large colonial investment he had completed recently, he might have scraped it together, but it would not end there, for inevitably a long and expensive battle would follow in the courts to break the marriage contract, with no guarantee of success, especially when Ludolf could show that he had saved Hendrick from bankruptcy and prevented him and his family from being turned out into the street. It seemed to Pieter that his original plan to get Francesca away to Italy still remained the only way by which to save her.

“I shall be making a visit to Delft as soon as it proves possible,” Pieter said, returning to the middle of the room. “There’s no need to look alarmed. Ludolf won’t be hearing that he has a rival. With the busy tulip season ahead I can’t make definite plans yet. All my various stalls will need to be supplied.”

“With amateur paintings too?” Hendrick questioned sarcastically, a sore wound reopened.

“Not this time. If necessary I shall speak to Aletta, but as Francesca has most surely told you, her sister has not sketched or painted anything since she left her. But if she had work to sell I would gladly give her the opportunity again.”

Hendrick frowned angrily, rising to his feet. Then his temper subsided almost as quickly as it had come. He had not forgiven Aletta, whom he now saw as a heartless daughter who had deserted her father, and anyway Ludolf was too much a constant thorn in his flesh for him to have much anger left over for anyone else. “That subject is a closed book in this house. I wish you well with your new stall, but for mercy’s sake keep away from Francesca. Just through caring for her you present the greatest threat to her present safety. Don’t endanger her, Pieter.”

“It would cost my life first.”

They parted on restored good terms. Two hours later Pieter was back at Haarlem Huis. With spring fully arrived again it would be only a short time before his bulb fields burst forth into color.

Chapter 17

H
AVE YOU HEARD WHAT
C
ONSTANTIJN DE
V
EERE HAS DONE
now?” Geetruyd asked Francesca, her tone showing she had gained another snippet of gossip at a meeting of regentesses.

“I hope it is something that will benefit him.” Francesca knew, as everybody in Delft did now, that Constantijn had had himself carried out of the house on the square into a hired coach and gone off into the night, letting nobody accompany him.

“It turns out that he went to his country house just outside of town on the night of his departure. While still in the coach he called for the housekeeper and dismissed her and all the domestic staff except for an old maidservant who was there in the time of his grandparents, from whom he inherited the place. Most of the rooms have been shut up and he’s living there on his own while the elderly woman cooks and cleans. He sees nobody. The gates are kept locked and a guard with dogs keeps everyone away, even Constantijn’s own parents. After all the selfless hours his mother spent at his bedside! Obviously he lost his mind as well as his legs in that accident.”

Francesca saw the situation in another light and spoke with deep feeling. “I only hope he hasn’t taken to his bed to die.”

“Perhaps he has.” Geetruyd’s voice did not hold a note of pity.

“My sister will be very sorry to hear all this about him. Aletta has taken such an interest in his progress.”

“I have been slightly involved myself. The old maidservant wants someone to fetch and carry and do the scrubbing of floors and so forth. At this morning’s meeting at the orphanage my fellow regentesses and I considered her request for an orphan and turned it down. That house with a madman is no place for any of the young ones in our care.”

Francesca made no comment, for she was thoughtful, an idea having come to her.

In the morning she sought Aletta out before going to the studio, ignoring Clara, who tried to keep within earshot. As she had expected, her sister had heard the same news about Constantijn shutting himself away. Aletta had something more to add.

“It is said that it was only after all the domestic servants had left that he allowed the coachman to lower him onto the steps of the house before driving away. The old maidservant could never have lifted him, which means he must have levered himself up the flight to get indoors. The next day he sent for the man who used to coach him in his ice racing and other sports, and who now keeps guard.” Aletta’s face was tragic. “When Constantijn de Veere showed such courage on that first night, why couldn’t he sustain it instead of making a hermit of himself?”

“You have a chance to ask him.”

“What do you mean?”

Francesca explained and Aletta’s eyes widened when she heard of the work she might get there. “I’ll go today. I can’t risk anyone else applying for the post there before me.”

“What of the children’s lessons?”

“I’ll speak to their mother. Only yesterday she asked if I had secured any other employment yet, because they will be starting school next week.”

Later that morning Aletta was on her way. She had packed up all her belongings in readiness for transport, determined that somehow she would secure this new post. She left the town by the East Gate and knew she had a walk of two miles ahead of her. When eventually she left the road it was to follow a graveled drive flanked by elm trees which brought her half a mile farther on to the locked gates of an old house of mellow brick with many windows. A flight of wide steps led up to the entrance. Even as she reached for the iron bellpull of the gates a great barking went up and two snarling dogs came rushing across the graveled courtyard to throw themselves against the ironwork. She stepped back quickly. A gruff voice called them to heel and a big burly man in good clothes roughly worn, his cravat askew, his coat incorrectly buttoned, inquired her business.

“I’m the new maidservant,” she claimed boldly.

“I’ve heard nothing about that. You must have come to the wrong house.” He turned away and went striding off.

She clutched at the railings and called after him. “The de Veere housekeeper sent to the orphanage for someone to help with the work! Ask her! She’ll confirm it!”

He halted and turned about to come back to the gates, taking out his keys. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I knew an orphan was expected, but I thought one of the regentesses would arrive in a coach with a child. Where’s your baggage?”

“That will follow.”

He saw that she edged away from the dogs as she came through the gates. “These won’t hurt you. They’re hunting dogs and I’ve trained them to keep guard. Pat their heads. Show you’re friendly. You’ll only find them dangerous if you start running away from them and then they’ll see you as prey.”

She was unused to dogs, except for the little one in the baker’s house. It wore a collar of bells, which was to avoid accidents underfoot with the elderly father, who lived with the family and was blind. Summoning up her courage she patted each of the guard dogs and when they responded with an enthusiastic wagging of tails she was reassured. “What are their names?”

“Joachim and Johannes. I’m Josephus. How’s that for a trio?” He laughed heartily, relocking the gates. “And you?”

“Aletta Visser.”

“Come with me, Aletta, and on the way I’ll give you a few tips to remember about the outdoor rules. The master never comes down to the front of the house, but that doesn’t mean you can swan about here when you feel like it. Secondly, he doesn’t go out into the garden at the rear of the house either, but as his windows look out on it he won’t want to see you taking a shortcut to the orchard or the kitchen garden. You’ll keep to the paths allotted to the servants of the household, which are hidden from sight of the main windows by tall hedges. At the present time there’s only Sara, you and me and the gardeners, who don’t live on the premises and are gone by three o’clock in winter and by five at this time of year.”

“Does Heer de Veere ever go outside?”

“No, he doesn’t and you call him the master when you speak about him. He stays in his own apartment all the time. Old Sara will tell you why.”

“I already know.”

“Then don’t ask foolish questions. He doesn’t go out for two reasons. The first is that he can’t walk and the second is that he won’t be carried. Common sense should have told you that.” He had brought her to steps that led down to a door at basement level. “You go in there. If old Sara is not about you shout for her.”

Aletta found herself in the most neglected kitchen she had ever seen. There was a mountain of unwashed plates and dishes and cutlery stacked beside a bowl of cold and greasy water on the washing-up table by the pump. The copper pans, which should have reflected light like mirrors, had not seen a polishing rag for many a day. An iron pot of boiling water was steaming away pointlessly on the firebox, causing condensation to run down the walls of Delft tiles, which had a charming pattern in yellow, russet, green and blue of fruit and herbs and vegetables. The floor tiles had not seen water for some time and the white ones were almost indistinguishable from the black. Then the door opened and a harassed-looking woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties rushed across to the boiling pan to remove it to the cooler ledge at the side of the firebox. She was neat and clean in herself, but a long strand of gray hair had escaped from her folded cap. She was about to tuck it back when she sighted Aletta. Promptly she threw up her hands in dismay.

“Oh, my! You’re an older orphan than I expected!”

Aletta realized that the battle to secure a position here was not yet won. “I’m not an orphan, Sara. My father is living. Surely my being eighteen is all to the good. I’m better able to do hard work than any child could manage.” She removed her cloak as a gesture of determination to stay.

“But the master won’t like it!” Sara was agitated.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a young woman, of course. Until he became betrothed there used to be plenty of females coming and going in the grand rooms of this house, but he wouldn’t want any woman to see him now.”

“You see him.”

“That’s different. He remembers me from his childhood. I used to smuggle his favorite foods to him whenever he’d been sent to his room without supper for one of his mischievous antics. His grandparents were stricter with him than his own parents, but I’m softhearted where children are concerned and didn’t like to think of him being hungry.” Sara straightened her shoulders determinedly. “You’ll have to go. Now. Before he knows you’ve been let through the gates.”

Aletta stood her ground. “The orphanage isn’t going to send you anyone. I know that for a fact. And,” she added, glancing about disparagingly. “it seems to me that I’m greatly needed here. This is a Jan Steen kitchen if ever I saw one!”

She was using a phrase that had crept into the Dutch language through the popularity of paintings by Jan Steen, who drew a moral from disorderly domestic scenes. Sara, knowing the criticism to be just, sank down on the nearest chair, her face crumpling. “I know it is, but I can’t manage everything. There used to be a fully trained staff here until he sent them away. I could manage well enough cooking and cleaning for him, Josephus and me, if he didn’t ring that bell of his a hundred times a day. I’m up and down stairs all the time. Occasionally in one of his rages he will break everything in the room. Sometimes he rips up his sheets in his fury and then I have to replace all the bed linen.” She shook her head despairingly. “So you see, you have to go. He gave me permission to have a child to help me, but he’d never tolerate you in the house. I daren’t disobey him. I tell you, I’m fast reaching my limit.” She clapped weary fingers over her eyes.

Aletta looked about for a caddy of tea, spotted it and put a spoonful of the precious leaves into a teapot. After ladling some of the steaming water into it, she left the tea to draw while she found two cups. She was about to hand a cup to Sara when in the outer kitchen a bell jangled. The woman jerked nervously in her chair.

“There he is again. I’ll have to go.”

Aletta put a restraining hand on her shoulder, continuing to hold the cup in front of her. “Let him wait another minute. You drink this and I’ll answer his bell.”

“But I told you—”

“He’ll either tell me to get out or he’ll let me stay. Give me the chance!”

The tea tempted Sara and her back ached. At least if the girl answered this summons, whatever the outcome it would save her one trip up those stairs. “Very well, but be warned. He has never thrown anything at me, but there’s no telling what he’ll do when he sees you.”

“I’m not afraid. Tell me how to find his room.”

Aletta went from the kitchen and reached the hall. It was quite a grand house but not pretentious. Plenty of good carving, some paintings of what were no doubt ancestors, including one of a military man in a handsome frame carved with banners, drums and bugles, and fine displays of Chinese porcelain. Upstairs she found Constantijn’s door without difficulty. She knocked and entered an anteroom furnished with a writing table, a painted cupboard and a chest from the Zuider Zee area and a gilded clavichord. Another door led into the bedchamber. Once more she tapped before going in.

She was immediately assailed by a winey aroma that reminded her unpleasantly of her father’s drunken bouts. For the moment Constantijn was hidden from her by the high end of the couch on which he lay fully dressed with a table to hand on which stood an elegant glass with a tall, twisted stem and a silver-topped wine flagon. A fire burned in the grate and although the flames were bright enough now there was a smoky atmosphere as if previously a gust of wind in the chimney had sent smoke billowing into the room. A four-poster, neatly made and hung with yellow silk curtains, was set between two windows, both of which were closed. Constantijn did not turn his head, merely indicating the flagon with a forefinger.

“Fill it up again, Sara,” he said in slurred tones. She looked down at him as she picked up the flagon, but his eyes were shut and he was too drunk to sense there was a stranger in the room. When she returned to the kitchen Sara sprang up anxiously from her chair. “What did he say?”

“He only asked for the flagon to be refilled.” Aletta held it up. “He didn’t notice that I wasn’t you. How often does he drink like this?”

“Whenever he’s weary of reading or tired of beating Josephus at chess or cards. Then boredom sets in and he drinks himself into oblivion. After he arrived that first night he drank himself into a stupor that lasted for days.”

“So he’s not drunk all the time?”

“Not yet, but his bouts are becoming more frequent. You had better fetch that wine. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You’ll find the door to the cellar in the outer kitchen. Take any bottle from the wine racks there. It’s only when he’s sober that he states a preference. Otherwise he doesn’t care.”

“When did he begin this present drinking session?”

“When he woke this morning. He had had either a poor night’s sleep or one of those nightmares when he thinks he’s running or skating again. Twice he’s hurled himself out of his bed in his sleep and I’ve found him on the floor.” Then Sara gave a startled exclamation, for Aletta had rinsed out the flagon from a bucket of water and was now ladling fresh water into it. “What are you doing?”