The Golden Tulip (31 page)

He strolled back to the reception hall expecting to see Amalia in the brocaded chair that had been placed ready for her, but she was not there. This was surprising, for normally she liked a considerable rest after the exertion of moving from her apartment and before the first coach would draw up outside. He had sent his own coach to fetch the Vissers, but when he had established Francesca in a house of her choice—where she could paint to her heart’s content when he was not there—she should have a coach of her own. While she was in Delft any serious rival who might seek her favors could be easily disposed of on a dark night. Neither was there any chance of a runaway marriage, because no son or daughter under the age of thirty could marry without a parent’s consent and Hendrick would be hamstrung over that.

Ludolf’s thoughts switched again to Amalia. Where was she? He looked impatiently down the corridor along which she should come, but she was not to be seen. It would be at least twenty minutes before the first guest could be expected and as yet only the menservants on duty were at their posts in the entrance hall that led to the reception hall. Usually if she needed to be carried from her apartment to the reception hall in the sedan chair, Neeltje would come to let him know, but that annoying creature, who had made such an unwelcome appearance in the library, must still be with her mistress. Normally he never went to Amalia’s apartment on these occasions, knowing that sometimes the simple effort of dressing was enough to make her rest again for a while. Never once had she failed in her duties as hostess, except during those periods when she had been totally bedridden in the doctor’s care.

He paced up and down. It was important that Francesca, arriving for this occasion of splendor, should see him, a well-built, still virile man, totally uncomplemented by this thin, fragile wife at his side, who would appear almost waiflike in spite of her grand clothes. Francesca could not help but excuse him further for his behavior that morning and would pity him being tied to a poor wretch who could give him neither sexual comfort nor children. It was one thing to see Amalia as an invalid and another to see her failing to match a husband and host of his standing.

Realizing that his increasing annoyance had brought about a need for him to relieve himself, he went from the reception hall into a corridor that ran parallel to that leading in the direction of Amalia’s apartment. On the way he met four maidservants hastening to take up their posts for collecting the guests’ outdoor garments.

“Hurry up!” he snapped brusquely before entering the privy room. When he came out again a quick glance into the reception hall showed him the maidservants giggling quietly together, their backs turned to him and Amalia’s chair still empty. Fuming, he decided he would fetch her, or at least discover the reason for her delay. He took a shortcut through the library, which brought him out by her apartment. When he flung open her door he was amazed to find her still lying prone on the couch and making no attempt to rise. Since she was alone he let his wrath fly.

“In the devil’s name, why aren’t you in the reception hall instead of lying here?”

Fear had leaped into her strained, white face at his furious tone. “I lack the strength to move, Ludolf. My legs won’t support me at the moment.”

He came and loomed over her where she lay. “Where’s Neeltje?” he demanded. “Why hasn’t she sent for your sedan chair?”

“She was worried about me and has gone to Dr. Mattheusz’s house.”

He saw she did look extremely unwell, as happened during her lapses. It maddened him that it should have occurred on this evening of evenings. “What about that special potion? It always sees you through half the evening and I excuse you the rest.”

“I was clumsy and spilt it. That’s why I’ve sent Neeltje for more.”

“How long has Neeltje been gone?”

“Only about ten minutes.”

She had no inkling that her simply given information should come like a revelation to him. With a terrible rise of exhilaration he saw that, without warning or the least forethought on his part, fate had presented him with a unique and totally unlooked-for opportunity to rid himself of the main barrier that all along had stood between Francesca and him. Every one of the devious ways he had thought of to get around it could be cast aside. The servants were busy. None had seen him come here. Neither could Neeltje return under another quarter of an hour.

“Never mind, Amalia,” he said thickly and on a dangerously gentle note. “You did right to send for the potion. I’m very pleased that you did.”

Those were the last words she was ever to hear. Even as terror swept through her at the sudden glint of murder in his eyes, he snatched the satin cushion from under her head and a second later was holding it pressed down over her face. Her arms flailed helplessly, her cries muffled.

She struggled longer than he had expected. Then abruptly she became limp, one slim hand dangling. Slowly he lifted the cushion away. She might have been sleeping. Apart from a slight dishevelment of her hair and a smear of carmine left by her lips on the cushion there was no sign of violence. He raised her head and slipped the cushion back into place. Then he turned her face sideways into it, making sure the smear was exactly level with her lips. He tidied a strand or two of her hair, smoothed her skirt where it had become twisted in her struggle and then stepped back from the couch. He felt excited and released, intoxicated with liberty, but he had yet to return to the reception hall without being observed.

Swiftly he went to the door and opened it a crack to look out. The corridor was deserted. He slipped out of the apartment at once and closed the door silently after him. Within seconds he was in the library, where he drew breath and wiped the ball of his hand across his brow. He had murdered before and killed more men than he could recall with his sword during the years he had absented himself from Holland, but surely no death could have been less premeditated than that of his own wife. He had done the one thing he had vowed never to do, but then he had never supposed such perfect circumstances would deliver her into his hands.

Leaving the library, he hastened back to the privy room. Once inside he listened until he heard another clack of heels. Then he emerged, adjusting his coat. There had been witnesses to his going in there and this witness to his coming out again was the maidservant who had her own way of obliging him. She had a raw cut on her lip where he had probably bitten her and one eye was swollen and closed, purple as a plum, while her kitchen attire showed she was to be kept out of the guests’ sight. She stopped to let him go by, but her gaze was reproachful. He slid a pearl ring from his little finger and slipped it down her cleavage. Then he patted her cheek meaningfully before strolling on into the reception hall. Almost in the same instant the first guests were being admitted and he was there to welcome them.

Half of those expected had arrived when Hendrick appeared with his daughters. The artist’s face was so hangdog with anxiety that Ludolf could have laughed. He went forward swiftly to clap a hand on Hendrick’s shoulder and speak in a low voice into his ear.

“Take heart, my friend. All is not lost. The promissory notes are mine.”

Hendrick’s relief was like the sun coming out. From a dragging walk he seemed to bounce on his toes. Ludolf’s hooded lids hid the incredulous look in his eyes at the change in the man. Hendrick was still as deep in the mire as before, but the fact that he believed himself in debt to a more tolerant person had created the most extraordinary upsurge of good humor. But Ludolf had no time to think more about the father when there were the daughters to greet, and Francesca in particular. From the moment of her entry her desirable beauty had hit him as it always did. She was attired in a currant-red velvet gown she had not worn in his presence before. The effect of it with her brilliant hair, dressed this evening with seed pearls wound into the coil, was dazzling. Out of caution he greeted her sisters before turning to her.

“My dear Francesca, you do me more honor by coming this evening than you could ever know.”

She read the apology in his words, but was not softened by it. The incident in itself had been nothing. Ardent young men had embraced her and sought her kisses many times in the past and in reality there should have been no difference in this incident. But there had been and it lay with Ludolf himself, impossible to define and pinpoint, except in the certain knowledge that he was a man too sophisticated and ruthless to be easily diverted from whatever he wanted.

“Where is Amalia? I can’t see her anywhere and I’m most anxious for Aletta to meet her.”

Ludolf looked around and raised his eyebrows as if in surprise that his wife was not present. “Is Amalia not here yet? No, I can see her chair has been put back against the wall. When she has not appeared by a certain time it means she has decided not to be present after all.”

Francesca became anxious. “Then she is not as well as she had hoped to be?”

“I fear not.”

Aletta, who with Sybylla was still at Francesca’s side, shook her head regretfully. “I’ve heard so much about your wife,” she said to Ludolf, “and I was so sure that I was about to meet her at last.”

He leaned toward the sisters in order that other guests should not hear. “I daresay she would like to see the three of you on your own for a few minutes later on. Her nonappearance usually means she is not up to talking to many people throughout a whole evening.”

Francesca was uncertain. “We wouldn’t want to tire her still further.”

“Amalia has told me that your company and Sybylla’s never fail to lift her spirits.” His gaze switched to Aletta. “And I can be sure that you would be as welcome as your sisters.” Briskly he stepped back with an extravagant gesture. “There are many here wanting to meet you this evening. Now let me present a few of these people to you.”

He saw them into one group and then left them with another, returning to greet more arrivals. Just as the last of his guests had been welcomed, Ludolf saw that a number of them had gathered in front of the imposing fireplace and were admiring and discussing his portrait. “Ah, my friends,” he said, crossing the hall to join them, “I see you have discovered this remarkable addition to my collection of paintings. Now let me introduce the very gifted young artist who has recently completed this striking work—Francesca Visser, daughter of Master Visser, who I’m sure is known to you all and whose abilities she has undoubtedly inherited.”

He would have taken Francesca’s hand to lead her forward, but she moved swiftly to avoid his touch. There was a general clapping of hands, exclamations and congratulations, which she acknowledged with a graceful curtsy.

Ludolf would have liked to take Francesca into the banqueting hall, but wisdom had prevailed ahead of this evening’s unexpected development. It would only cause offense if he did not take in the wife of the city’s most prominent burgomaster. When all were seated at table he saw that Francesca was much farther down than he would have wished, but perhaps it was as well in the present circumstances.

It was from then onward that he began to keep check of the passing of time, having estimated that by now Neeltje should have returned. He kept expecting a manservant to approach him unobtrusively or, if the doctor had decided to check on his patient’s condition, for that little man to appear from the corridor. Perhaps even Neeltje might rush in hysterically, with tears streaming. He was quite pleased that he would be in everybody’s gaze when the message was eventually brought for him to go to Amalia’s room. His expression would be either that of gravity at the summons or of absolute shock, according to the manner in which it was delivered, and he was fully prepared. He had done many things in his life and a spell of acting as a lad with a band of strolling players had stood him in good stead throughout the years.

At first he was in high spirits. Amalia’s empty place at the far end of the table might have been a silent accusation to any other man, but Ludolf had only to raise his eyes to see
The Goddess of Spring
hanging on the wall behind the vacant chair and the thought of who was to replace her made his blood sing. After the first course he did have Amalia’s chair removed together with the place setting, which emphasized to the company that until then he had hoped his wife would make a last-minute appearance.

Francesca was seated on the opposite side of the table to her sisters and none of them were near enough to converse, but all three were marveling at the change in their father. He was now in the most buoyant of moods, eating more heartily than he had done since he had first cut his hands, flirting outrageously with the women on his left and right, both of whom were responding to him, and his roar of laughter at any joke frequently punctuated the general buzz of conversation.

Ludolf noticed the glances the sisters gave toward their father and then at each other with smiles and puzzled raising of eyebrows. He could have explained everything. His paid henchman Claudius was present that evening and had been most cordial to Hendrick, which came easily to him, for he had served a prison sentence as a confidence trickster, after which Ludolf had decided the rogue would be useful to him, coming from Antwerp as he did and being unknown in Amsterdam. Otto had not been included in the guest list, for even after the number of years that had elapsed, Amalia might have recognized him as one of the so-called merchants introduced to her during their courtship.

Francesca was happy to see her father enjoying himself. Perhaps this social occasion had turned the scales for him in such a way that from now on he would be his own self again. She could see that her sisters were also having a very good time. Aletta was in animated conversation with the gentleman on her left. This evening her hair was concealed by a gold-beaded cap and in profile only a small, shining V of her tresses showed drawn back from her brow, coral earbobs setting off her elegant neck. As for Sybylla, seated farther along, she was being her usual exuberant self, although there were no handsome young men present such as she had hoped to meet. An older man in a dark periwig, aged about forty-five, was seated next to her and had that familiar besotted look that Sybylla could induce in any male face whenever she tried.