The Golden Tulip (8 page)

If there was any cloud on the horizon it was in the threat that France represented to Holland’s peace and prosperity. It was obvious to many that Louis XIV had set his greedy eyes on the richest prize in Europe and it was impossible to dismiss the conviction that sooner or later he would pounce. It was odd how powerful men never learned from history. The Spanish had tried for eighty years, from the previous century into the early years of this one, to make Holland their own, using cruelty to captives that stunned the mind, but in the end it was mighty Spain that had weakened itself by widespread wars and its struggles against a little country where so much of the land had to be protected from the sea by dikes.

When Pieter arrived again at Dam Square, he checked that all was well at his stall. From there he set off to a coffeehouse where he had made an appointment to meet a merchant in order to discuss some business before they both went on to the Exchange. He was aware of smiling to himself again, thoughts of that vivacious girl dancing in his head.

In the studio on the rostrum Francesca now had a parchment map of Italy to look at. Janetje had sent it as a gift to Hendrick one St. Nicholaes’s Day, telling him she wanted to be sure her nieces knew exactly where she was living. Francesca’s gaze always lingered on Florence, Rome and Venice, the three cities she most wanted to see one day.

It was as well that the request she had once made to have the portrait of Titus hanging there had never been granted, for no matter what expression Hendrick might have wanted, her face could have shown only sadness when looking at it. In September last year Titus had died of a fever after only six months of marriage, just knowing that his wife, Magdelena, was pregnant with the baby they had both wanted. Again Rembrandt had found solace in work, but this bereavement had finally broken him and he had become a very old man, his hair completely white and his health failing. At least Cornelia was a devoted daughter and he, at the age of sixty-three, could never have managed in that humble little house on Rozengracht, forgotten and ignored, if she had not been there to take care of him.

“If we hadn’t gone out to sketch those spring flowers in April and May when we did,” Hendrick said from the easel, “those silk flowers you’re holding and those on your head would have made a poor Flora of you.”

“I’m sure they would, Father!” She had dropped her babyhood name of Papa for him on the day she had shouldered the responsibilities of the household.

“Now your garlands look freshly picked, even to a touch of dew.”

“Is this the final sitting?” Her tone was hopeful. It was always hard not to be the one with brush and palette in hand.

“No. There’ll be one more. I’ll not finish by midday.”

“I could sit again this afternoon.” She spoke purposefully. “Then it would be finished.”

“I have an appointment,” he answered in a falsely self-important tone that did not deceive her, merely confirming that he was set on pleasure. It was one of those times when he had decided to reward himself with a break from work.

“You have another appointment with Willem tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty. Wouldn’t you like to have the painting ready to show him? I’m sure he’s expecting it to be finished.”

“Willem can wait another day.”

She breathed deeply. “Father! You try his patience to the limit. He’s one of the best art dealers in Amsterdam and all too often you treat him like a peddler!”

“He knows me well enough to realize I mean him no offense,” Hendrick answered jovially. “He’s my oldest friend.”

“All the more reason why you should respect him and his efforts to sell your work.” She chose not to remind him of Willem’s constant and well-meant persuasion that he should paint subjects that would be easier to sell, because this matter, as well as Hendrick’s whim in leaving work on the point of completion, were sore points between the two men. Nevertheless, it hung unspoken in the air and might as well have been said.

Hendrick changed one brush for another, taking a rich sienna onto its tip, and gave her a warning frown. “Don’t nag me, Francesca. Your mother never did and I’ll not take it from you. If you don’t watch out you’ll end up with a shrew’s tongue.” Then he grinned maliciously as angry color flooded into her cheeks. “Your temper is spoiling your complexion. Fortunately I have finished your face,” he concluded smugly.

She knew it amused him to goad her whenever he had the chance to get back at her for trying to keep him at work longer than he wished. But how could she not when persistently he ignored unpaid bills and continued to live as nonchalantly as ever. Apart from the monetary side of it, there was the waste of his great talent. His debauchery was taking its toll on his eyesight and his hands. After a night’s carousal in a tavern his fingers shook too much to do a stroke of work, even if his aching head had permitted it.

To let him know her displeasure she made no attempt at conversation again. He retaliated by whistling tunelessly under his breath, knowing it to be an irritating sound and one she could not tolerate when she was working at her easel in the studio with him. Not for the first time she thought what an overgrown, undisciplined boy he was at heart. He ignored his fifty years as if they had taken no toll on his looks and physique. Yet maybe that contributed to the unassailable charm he could exert whenever it suited him. Very soon now he would tire of his whistling prank and make some promise to win her good humor. He never liked to be on bad terms with anyone for long.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do to finish this painting in time,” he announced cheerily ten minutes later.

“What’s that?” It had taken five minutes less than she had anticipated for him to have a change of conscience.

“I’ll come home at a reasonable hour tonight, and early tomorrow morning we’ll start work again. Then, by the time Willem arrives, the painting will be done.”

He looked so confident, his big smile enveloping her, that she wavered in his favor. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s only a matter of final touches.”

“May I see the painting now?” she asked. He never liked his work to be viewed before the final stages.

“Yes,” he said, standing back to study it. Then, emerging from the grip of concentration, he realized suddenly how much time must have elapsed since her last rest period. He did not like to have a clock in the studio, finding it distracted him. “You’re overdue for relaxing in any case and I suppose it’s getting near the time for the noon-meal bell.”

She had put down her bunch of flowers and the staff to stretch her arms out before her, flexing her fingers. “I’m sure it is. I feel quite hungry.”

Shaking out her skirts, she stepped down from the rostrum, her face alight with expectation. She had almost reached the easel when she swayed, all color draining from her face. Hendrick grabbed her in alarm. Since losing Anna any sign of illness terrified him.

“You’ve modeled too long without a break! Let me help you to the couch and I’ll fetch Maria!”

“No!” Almost desperately she thrust herself away from him, recovering herself. “It was nothing. Maria mustn’t be called—you know how she fusses.”

He saw the rose was returning to her cheeks. In his thankfulness he was irritable. “You should have reminded me you needed a rest,” he said testily, shifting the blame from himself.

“Yes, I should have,” she answered absently, confused by that inexplicable sense of dread that had assailed her as she approached the easel. She considered herself to be practical and levelheaded, not given to whims and fancies, but for a matter of moments it was as if the studio had turned icy and there was a terrible threat to her that lay in the painting itself. Yet it was the work of a man who loved his children. How could it possibly portend any danger? Even the subject was close to her heart, for she was a lover of spring and its flowers, especially the tulip. Lifting her chin resolutely, she went to the front of the painting to come face to face with herself as Flora.

Instantly all her qualms fled. She uttered a little cry of relief and admiration. Before her was her father’s best work for a long time and it had nothing to do with her being the sitter. When Hendrick painted like this he could have made a superb picture with a wooden post as the subject. Here was his masterly technique at its height in the fluid flow of the impasto. Anna’s death had had a profound effect upon his work. His colors had become more somber and he had dropped the theatrical and overemphasized gestures of his figures to take up a more restrained and sensitive approach that had benefited his work enormously, enabling him to convey a whole new range of emotion. Here Flora gloried almost shyly in the gifts she was bringing, the shadows of winter falling away behind her, and a more subtle use of his beloved red and gold and hot orange caught the sun’s brilliance in her hair. His varied and expressive brushwork was at its peak, the sweet, fresh flowers tumbling from her arms seeming to emit their fragrance, the silks and satin of her robes almost to rustle.

“This is how you should always paint, Father!”

“Do I not?” he queried with an edge to his voice.

Too late she realized she had spoken out of turn. It was not for her to refer even indirectly to paintings that had fetched a poor price or remained unsold. She met his glinting eyes and answered frankly.

“I only meant that this painting will keep us fed and it is comparable with your portrait of Mama.” She indicated its presence on the studio wall with a graceful little gesture. “You’ve always said it was your best work. Now you have achieved it again. It’s almost like a new beginning, Father.”

Her straightforward answer showed she had meant neither criticism nor reproach. He nodded, always knowing where he was with her. Even as a child she had had that open and honest approach to life, that strength of character that did not break in adversity, but renewed itself on whatever had to be faced. He recalled how the pupils of her sea-green eyes had dilated at his bawling whenever her and her sisters’ work had not pleased him. Her face had grown taut, but she had kept her stance solidly while the other two had run weeping from the studio.

“I’ll demand a high price for it.” Then he added what he knew would please her. “It should settle a number of tradesmen’s bills.”

She was looking at the painting again and spoke thoughtfully. “Maybe there would be some money over as well.”

“What could be better than that?” He was glad she knew nothing of his current gaming debts or else it would have spoiled the moment for her. They were standing side by side and it would have been natural for him to rest a hand on her shoulder, but his fingers were aching painfully and he did not want to give their condition away through an involuntary spasm in his grip. It had hurt him when he had grabbed her, thinking she was about to fall, but in the confusion she had not noticed anything amiss. The trouble, whatever its cause, had made itself known during the previous winter with swelling in the knuckles, but with the summer it had gone again and he had never expected it to return. Then, after he had begun the Flora painting, the unwelcome aching had come back, coinciding with the crisper weather. It had slowed his work, but he was certain it would go again. On a surge of good spirits he chuckled mischievously. “I’d take any wager that we’re going to make Willem’s eyes pop.”

She laughed with him, slipping her arm through his and looking up into his merry face. “What fun it will be! Let me be here with you when he views it.”

“Indeed you shall.”

At that moment there came the tinkling sound of the little bell being rung by Maria to summon everyone to eat. Francesca swung toward the door. “I’ll change out of these garments before coming to table.”

When she came down again to the dining hall everyone was waiting for her, nobody yet seated, for that could not be done before grace was said. Aletta’s sharp glance under a sweep of lashes told her she had taken longer than had been expected. Today her sister was wearing a cap of starched linen, folded back from the brow and similar in style to the one Griet habitually wore in her position of maidservant. It framed Aletta’s oval, well-shaped face with the stubborn little jaw, large eyes that could be gentle with love for her family but which could become flashing steel if she was angry with them or anyone else, and her mouth was curved and rosy.

Ever since the morning after the attack she was never seen without a cap, except in the privacy of the bedchamber. She had a drawer and a shelf full of caps, many embroidered by herself, which were little works of art in themselves, and a wide selection of others in varying styles, including a number made entirely of Maria’s homemade lace, each lined in a different color. Every birthday and St. Nicholaes’s Day brought her gifts of caps and she had one encrusted with pearls in Florentine work that had come from Janetje. All covered her whole head; even wisps of hair escaping at the nape of her neck were tucked up out of sight. She was becoming steadily more reserved, a very private person in all matters. Sybylla had once told her cruelly that she had the makings of an old maid and there were others who thought the same.

“I apologize for keeping everyone waiting,” Francesca said, making for her place at the end of the long oaken table. She heard an impish tapping of a foot keeping pace with her swift steps and knew it could only be Sybylla. It stopped abruptly with an “ouch” of protest when Maria gave the offender a prod.

It was a poor repast that day, consisting of thin vegetable soup and the baker’s blackest bread, certain sign of a low ebb in Hendrick’s finances. In the general conversation, Sybylla managed to direct a private question at Francesca.

“Is the Flora painting almost finished?”

It was never advisable to question Hendrick about his work, because if it was not going well he would be moody about it. When Francesca nodded in reply, Sybylla sighed with relief and returned her attention to her soup. She was interested in the painting solely as a source of income for her father. Not once had she regretted the floundering of her own artistic talent, and the only painting that would have entranced her now was that of applying cosmetics to her face had it been allowed. At least she could do what she liked with her shining, corn-gold hair and she was forever dressing it in various styles, which sometimes drove Hendrick to exasperation point. He was never tactful when irritated.