Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  “Yes, right where you told me.” She gestured at the small brick house behind her.

  “If by the compass emblem painted on a house on Gortestraat, I really meant the compass emblem painted on a house on Kleine Houtstraat, then yes, exactly.” He squinted up at the raining sky. “Come on, follow me.”

  “No, this is . . .” Judith started to protest that she had not mistaken the street, but he had already turned and walked back in the direction he had come from, toward the market square and the canal. She stepped out into the street, which was as wet as her spot alongside the wall, and followed.

  “I’m sorry to drag you through this,” Lachine called over his shoulder. The apology surprised her, and Judith said nothing. She was slower and trailed a few feet behind him. That might have been how he wanted it, she realized.

  He ran under the tiled awning of a bakery and entered. A row of round rye loaves were set out on display next to the door, and even in the damp they smelled delicious. Judith followed.

  Inside, the bakery was spacious. A large fire swirled in an open hearth, and two men worked kneading dough at a counter alongside it. A woman was cutting a pan of the hard, twice-baked zotinnenkoeken into rectangles to set on a display plate. She looked up at Lachine, who waved a greeting, and she returned to her work.

  “It’s better to do business somewhere dry. And private,” he said. “That’s my piece?”

  “I’m confident you’ll be pleased,” Judith said. “Shall I unwrap it?”

  “No, I haven’t the eye for that stuff. You used Gerard Snellings, right?”

  “Yes. As promised. You don’t want to see?” She hoped he would, so he could see what a likeness she had captured.

  He shook his head. Then he pulled a pouch out from inside his doublet and fished out a few coins.

  “Here. Pleasure doing business.” He dropped the coins, the exact amount they had agreed to, into her palm. With the coins in one hand, she leaned the painting toward him. But as he was about to take the panel, a boy ran into the store.

  He was dressed in a torn shirt soaked through with rain, and he looked to be about eight or nine years old. Panting, he grabbed the hem of Lachine’s plain shirt. Judith hugged her painting against her chest again.

  “The new boy,” he said. “He was watching at the dock, and he must have said something, I don’t know. But one of the men there, they’ve taken him, they’re beating him. You have to—”

  Before the boy could finish his sentence, Lachine ran out into the rain. Judith glanced bewildered around the bakery, where none of the workers looked up from their tasks. She still held the painting, as well as Lachine’s coins. He might accuse her of swindling him, and she knew she did not want such a man as her enemy. She ran after him.

  She stepped outside in time to see him turn up the street alongside the canal, toward the river. She paused and then followed. Her skirts pulled at her waist, and holding the painting gave her an uneven gait. Judith was glad, in a way, for the rain, which kept people out of the streets. Hopefully no one would notice her. And if the water damaged the painting, Lachine could only blame himself. But still she pressed it against her chest.

  Exhausted, she slowed to a walk. Ahead, she could see him reach the Spaarne River and hurry north, toward the Weigh House. Judith wiped the rain from her brow and glanced at the sailcloth. Water still beaded on it as the raindrops fell, and she exhaled in relief.

  When Judith reached the river, she heard a swell of men’s voices yelling. She kept close to the tall, brick buildings with their tiered frontages along the waterway, and approached slowly.

  Lachine faced two sailors dressed in loose linen shirts turned brown by the rain. He pressed his finger into the chest of one. Both sailors and Lachine erupted into shouts. Behind them, a third sailor stood with his boot pressed on the chest of a boy splayed out on the ground. A small, masted ship was docked alongside the river way, and about a dozen small barrels were stacked on the pavement. Further in the distance, Haarlem’s large-wheeled wooden crane reached skyward, as if to turn its nose up at their indecent behavior.

  One of the two nearest sailors pushed Lachine. Judith walked a little closer, and she saw the grimy messenger boy cringing at Lachine’s side. The boy on the ground watched the argument with wide eyes. Judith couldn’t tell if it was tears or rain that ran down his cheeks, but as she approached, she noticed a faint trickle of blood, diluted by the rain, winding its way along his face.

  “You’ve no business,” Lachine yelled.

  “We’ve got all the right,” responded a sailor in a floppy brown hat. “Just doing our work here, when we find this rat poking about.” He gestured back behind him to the third sailor.

  “And that’s got nothing to do with you,” added the second, this one with a day’s worth of golden stubble on his round face. He again pushed Lachine, whose face grew red. The man by the boy gave the child a kick, and the boy moaned.

  Lachine rocked back on his heels, as if he were calculating the situation. He clenched his fists, Judith saw.

  “Excuse me,” she called as she approached the group. All of them looked at her in surprise, except the man in the hat, who continued to glare at Lachine.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I couldn’t help but notice the impressive casts to your expressions. I know, so like a woman to push her way in where she has no business. But I’m a painter, you see. I’m always searching for exemplary faces. And the . . .” She paused, and made as if to count the men. “Three of you, you’re sailors, yes? I’ve never seen such perfect faces for showing life on the water. The sun, the honorable hard work, the waves. Have you ever sat for a painting?”

  She took another step closer. “Not you, though. I’m sorry.” She gestured at Lachine, who frowned for a moment before erasing his expression and moving away from the group. “That nose won’t do you any favors. But the three of you, let me see . . . Well, yes, particularly you there—in the hat. Oh, and you’ve got a boy with you? Let him up, let me see his face.”

  The man with his foot over the boy glowered, but his companion gave him a nudge. Still, he refused to lift his foot.

  “A lady painter, is that right?” He pressed a little harder on the boy’s chest. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  Judith laughed, and the man’s mouth twitched in surprise. “True, I’m something of a novelty. All the more reason to sit for me. Look, under this sailcloth I’ve got a painting I completed, on commission. I’ll show you.”

  Her fingers trembled as she fussed at the twine knots, and she didn’t dare look at Lachine. She prayed the rain would do no damage to her wood, and that Lachine would forgive the risk to the painting. He had already paid her, at least.

  Clumsily, she dropped the sailcloth on the ground, and then turned the panel around to show the sailors. The two closest widened their eyes in surprise and approached to see the painting more closely.

  “Now that’s something,” said the unshaven man.

  “A lively picture, that,” said the other. “Why, I’m sure I’ve seen the fellow.”

  “You probably have, if you’ve spent much time in Haarlem,” Judith said. She hoped the tremors in her arms weren’t making the painting shake.

  The man standing over the boy grunted, and then he lifted his foot. “Let’s have a look,” he said and walked closer. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran over to Lachine.

  “I’ve been wanting to do a sailing picture,” Judith said. “Perhaps something like three sailors sitting on deck, passing the time.”

  “We don’t do much sitting on this cursed river,” the man in the hat laughed.

  “But it’s not a terrible idea,” said the unshaven man.

  “Come see me,” Judith said. “I’ve got a workshop on Korte Barteljorisstraat, near the corner. And I pay my models, of course.”

  The third man’s eyes lit up at the mention of payment. “You’re there all the time? We haven’t
time this port call, have to hurry with the load of oil here, but next . . .” He kept his eyes fixed on the portrait of Gerard. Judith wished she could see her artwork too, as she held the panel in front of her like a shield. She wanted to see Gerard’s warm eyes and laughing mouth. Surely, if nothing else, the painting would make the sailors yearn for a drink.

  “I’m sorry again for interrupting,” she said. In her peripheral vision, she couldn’t see Lachine, but she didn’t turn her head. “I know you’re busy. I couldn’t resist. Will you help me? Come sit for a painting?” Her heart skittered at the thought of sharing a room with these three rough-hewn men, if they did take her up on her offer.

  The unshaven man ran a finger down his chin and looked at his companions. “I always knew I was a good-looking fellow,” he said and laughed. The man in the hat patted him on the back.

  “Look, the damn boy’s gone,” the third man growled. He glared at Judith, who tried to look alarmed.

  “And I had wanted him to pose too. A boy always adds good balance. Though I could still do a fine work with three figures. If you can’t bring him, that is.” She was losing track of her argument.

  “Jan, forget it,” said the man in the hat. “He’s a wharf rat. Next time we see him or that damned Frenchman, we’ll take care of them. Sorry,” he added to Judith.

  “I only wish I could paint sailors’ colorful language in addition to your faces,” Judith said with a smile. The rain dripped in a rivulet down her temple. She stepped back. “Don’t forget, will you? Korte Barteljorisstraat. Ask for Judith Leyster if you can’t find me.”

  The man with the blond stubble nodded and clapped his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Maybe if we hurry, we can be back in town in a week’s time.”

  “That’d be perfect,” Judith said. She picked up her sailcloth from the damp ground. Before they could say anything else, she turned and walked away.

  Her heart pounded as she walked back toward the canal with the ship and the stone Weigh House behind her. But no footsteps followed her, and she heard only the chatter of the raindrops falling on the roof tiles above her head. When she turned the corner, she leaned against the nearest building and hugged the painting to her chest. Lachine and the two boys stepped out from a doorway. The taller one held a rag to his forehead, and a rivulet of blood dripped out beneath it.

  “This way,” Lachine said, turning away.

  Judith stared in astonishment before gritting her teeth and following. He couldn’t even say a word of thanks? When she had intervened for no reason. And now she might have to pay three models, when she didn’t have the funds for a single one.

  She was fuming by the time they turned down a narrow street. Lachine and the boys entered a small inn pinched between two houses, and Judith stood outside glowering. The older boy opened the door and beckoned.

  “Fine,” she said, scowling, then entered.

  Inside, the smell of stale beer and old sweat hit her, and her eyes blinked in the dim light. She saw no other patrons. The room had no fire lit, and it was cold. She shook the rain from her sailcloth and draped it again over her panel. She couldn’t bear to look at it for damage.

  Lachine sat down at one of the few tables. He gestured at the bench across from him. The boys slunk off to another table, where they spoke in low voices.

  “That was clever work,” he said. “My boy is grateful.”

  Judith nodded. She slid the painting across the table, but Lachine ignored it.

  “He got here some months ago from Roermond, down south. After your prince kicked the Spanish out and orphaned hundreds in the process. Not that you’d care, but the boy’s had a tough go of it.”

  “Why would you say I wouldn’t care? I helped save the poor child.” She glanced over at the boy, who seemed to be smiling at something his friend had said.

  “Sorry. I’m used to no one caring about these orphans. I’m not used to polite conversation, either.” He smiled, and Judith was surprised to notice that his eyes were gray, not dark brown as she had thought. She was dismayed that she had made such a mistake.

  “And you do care about them?”

  Lachine shrugged. “I know what it’s like. I give them some work, pay them fair. Don’t stop them from getting coins elsewhere, either. Which is more than others might say.”

  “Others?”

  Lachine didn’t answer.

  “He was looking into that ship, wasn’t he? Which was filled with barrels of oil. Linseed oil, judging by the markings. Do you sell linseed oil?”

  Lachine laughed. “No. It’s my business to know things, and sometimes knowing things helps other men make their deals. That’s all I’ll say about that. Here are your coins to pay for those models, by the way.” He slid a small pile, perhaps eight, of silver schellings across the table.

  She pushed the painting toward him. “I hope it’s not damaged,” she said, and she couldn’t keep the apology out of her voice.

  He shook his head. “It couldn’t be.”

  He rested a hand on the package but still didn’t open it.

  “I’m surprised you don’t want to see it. Disappointed, even,” Judith said, blushing with the confession.

  His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to offend. I knew it would be a good likeness, and that’s all that matters. The painting is a gift, in a way, but I don’t care if it pleases. Wait, I’m not saying your skill doesn’t matter. I knew from the other painting that you could do the work.”

  Judith fingered the edge of the cloth. She loved the portrait, she realized, and was a little sad to see it go. She picked up the coins and stood.

  “Thank you for the commission.”

  “You know, lady painter, if there’s anything you ever need, maybe a bit of information—that’s about all we have. My boy Oloff would be glad to help.”

  Judith nodded and looked over at the boy, who gave her a faint smile.

  “I can’t think . . .” She paused. “There is one thing. My brother, Abraham. He left town in a hurry, and I don’t know why. Or where he went. Anything would help.” The room suddenly felt washed in cold, and she hugged her arms to herself to still her heart’s tremors.

  Lachine pressed his lips together. “I’ll keep that in mind. Pleasure doing business with you, Judith.”

  She dropped the schellings into her hanging pocket and left the dim tavern. Outside, the rain had abated. Still, she would have to change out of her soaked clothes when she returned, or she would catch a chill. She walked slowly along the canal and watched the ripples as well as the few remaining raindrops fracturing the reflected trees. Why was it so complicated, she wondered, to have what so many others had? A livelihood, a scrap of freedom to do as she pleased. The chance to paint whatever scenes and snatches of emotion she wanted. She shook her head. She was wrong, she knew, to think success came easily to others. She knew many journeymen painters had stumbled along the path to master. And they were men. Judith would simply have to work harder and try to put her worries about Abraham from her mind. He could make his way. She had to find hers.

  Chapter 14

  A WEEK PASSED, AND THE sailors did not come. Judith locked the door to her workshop and walked down the stairs and out of the linen-seller’s house. She had only a few blocks to walk, a turn toward the cathedral, and then down the street to the right before continuing straight, but she still had to hurry. She had delayed her departure for so long that now she feared she might be late. Judith clutched the stretched canvas, still tied to its frame, against her chest as she walked, her palms damp with sweat, and her fingers cramped with the tension of her grip. Firm, but not too tight, like hands holding a sleeping baby. She was grateful the rain had eased up for the moment, for the light, misting damp was easy to fend off. Her boots tapped on the paving stones as she walked. She wished Abraham were here to accompany her, but she had heard nothing from him since she last saw him two weeks ago, nor had she heard anything from Lachine. After thinking about it, she
wondered if her brother’s landlord had been wrong. Perhaps Abraham had signed with a ship, as he always dreamed of doing, and set off to make his fortune in the Far East. That he had done so without telling her made her want to yell, or vomit, or write him a dozen letters that he would never receive. But she found herself hoping he had sailed away. It was better than imagining him joining a band of highwaymen or sleeping in a musty barn while hiding from whomever he was fleeing. Or worse. Judith gritted her teeth. She missed him. But it was no good thinking of him, especially not today.

  She passed a seedy tavern as a peasant—identifiable by his short haircut—stumbled out. Judith angled the covered painting so it concealed the pouch hanging at her hip. She so rarely carried this much money with her.

  She glanced around as she walked. She should focus, not thinking about Abraham but observing the details of the day— the way people moved and expressed their emotions. Such observation taught her to better capture moods when she picked up her brush. But her thoughts were drawn back to the painting in her hands and the four she had left behind. Had she chosen wisely? Was this a fitting “master piece”? A work sufficient to demonstrate her worth to the Guild leaders? Then, there was the healthy dose of daring involved in her choice. She walked past a flower stand selling a few early blooms, and Judith shook her head. No, she would not worry about the message. Her skill, yes, that still gave her concern. But that was different from her worth.

  Guild meetings were, for the time being, held in the large, new house of Jan Bouchorst, deacon of the Guild this year. There was some talk of relocating to the Pand, a municipal building behind Town Hall, but Judith had heard nothing conclusive. Some leaders hoped for a dedicated building of their own now that the Guild was growing so large. Not too large for Haarlem’s market, she hoped. But large enough to accommodate some new artists.

  “Here we go,” she said to herself, and she knocked on the large door.

  One of Jan Bouchorst’s apprentices opened the door, and the sound of animated conversation rolled out behind him. She smiled at the boy and then tried to sweep the pleasant expression from her face in favor of something more authoritative. She nodded at him and walked past. She could feel the sweat pearling up under her blouse.