Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  When she knocked on Jan’s door, a servant answered. The woman, older and more worn than Carolein, pursed her lips and regarded Judith before inviting her inside. The servant called for Jan and then left Judith standing in the bright entry hall. The light here was gorgeous, Judith admitted. Even better than she had expected, based on his description. She knew he paid more in rent than she did, especially since his partner had moved out, and maybe the light was worth it. She held up her arm and examined the way the light drew her black wool into different shades. A touch of silver here, midnight black there. Not bad.

  “Have you come to cast shadow figures on my floor? I hear that’s a respected entertainment in the Indies.” Jan stood in the doorway to the left and wiped his hands on his painter’s smock. He was smiling.

  Judith snapped her arm to her side and then wished she had not.

  “If only that was what I had come for.” She gave a soft smile, and a knot in her chest softened. “But I’ve really come to ask you a favor. You said you had a fair amount of linseed oil. I hoped I could buy some from you. A little, to hold me over until the shipment gets in.”

  “There’s a shipment planned?” He took a step closer. She could almost touch him.

  “Well, no. I mean, I don’t know of one specifically.” She blushed. “But I assume one is coming. With so many painters here, someone will want to sell to us. Right?”

  Jan nodded and regarded her for a brief moment. His eyes flickered to the window behind her, and a woman laughed in the street. Judith didn’t breathe.

  “I’ll give you a jar. No, don’t argue, I don’t want you to pay, and that’s not negotiable. I’ll give you a jar. But that’s all I can spare. I don’t know when I’ll find any more either.”

  She held his gaze, but he did not smile. “Thank you,” she said, and her blood warmed even more than the day’s heat should have allowed. He wasn’t going to make her talk about Willem, she realized, and she wanted to kiss his cheek in gratitude. She hesitated. “Can I ask . . . where you found what you have?”

  He crossed his arms and looked at the floor. “Frans Hals. He helped me out. I can’t say more than that, Judith. I’m sorry.”

  “Something is going on, isn’t it?” She took a step closer to him. His golden mustache glowed above lips that were both soft and firm. She had known his face for so long that it had gone from novel to commonplace to, now, something new. She clenched her jaw to focus her thoughts on the oil. “There is something, I’m certain.”

  He kept his arms crossed. “Look, I can’t say anything else. I don’t know anything else. But you can try talking to Frans.”

  Judith crossed her arms to mirror him. “Certainly. I’ll ask him to kindly return my student while he’s at it. Did you know I had to pay a fine for that? We’re not exactly on the best terms.”

  “Then talk to Frans de Grebber. I’ve heard his name mentioned. And he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble with supplies.”

  She nodded though her stomach sank. She didn’t want to lie to her former master about Maria. And she dreaded learning he might not hesitate to lie to her, if doing so would protect his workshop and his prized independence. Jan raised a hand to indicate she should wait while he stepped away. When he turned to leave her, she noticed the muscular swell of his calves, and she blushed.

  He returned in a few minutes with a stoppered stoneware jar, probably about three weeks’ worth of oil. He handed it to her, and she gaped in mute gratitude. His fingers brushed hers as he passed her the jar, and she couldn’t make her tongue form her profound thanks quickly enough. If she mentioned the new painting she had in mind, he might understand. It was to be a merrymaking picture of a gambler laughing while, perhaps, cheating his friends. She might ask him how he would represent the delicate, easily broken ties of loyalty. Jan would understand what she was saying if she asked for his thoughts. Few people would, she realized.

  “This will help,” she began. He held up a hand and dismissed whatever she would say, and then made as if to leave her.

  She shifted the weight of the jar in her arms, and glanced in the direction of his workshop. “I wanted to ask you—what are you working on now?” she said.

  He turned to look at her. “Would you like to see?” He smiled and swung his arm wide, inviting.

  Judith placed the jar on the floor by the door and walked past him. As she did, she noticed a stray hair high on his cheek his razor must have missed a few days in a row. It was darker than the mustache above his lips, and she smiled. She was about to ask him the color of his beard when she remembered herself. She clamped her mouth shut.

  They entered his bright workshop, and Jan pointed at a canvas strung up on its stretcher on his easel. The grinning figure of a boy glowed in the center, and he held a cat in his hands. The left side of the painting still only had its dead coloring in, but Judith knew what image would emerge.

  “That again, Jan? You’re fond of those children.” She touched one finger, ever so lightly, to the painted boy’s sleeve.

  He smiled. “Hans is such a good model, I have to make the most of him before he outgrows me.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t lost my hat.” She pointed at a fur cap resting on a table. In the painting on the easel, the boy wore it.

  “Never,” he said in mock horror. “I will give it back, I promise.”

  “You do?”

  “What, you don’t trust me?” Again, that smile. Judith looked away.

  She pointed at the cat in the boy’s hands. “A cat held tightly makes strange leaps,” she said, quoting the adage.

  He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. It’s something I tell myself often. Maybe too often.” She looked at her hands. She was talking too much. “You’re right, I had better speak with Frans de Grebber. Only, I don’t know what to say about Maria.”

  “Will you tell him?” Jan took a step back and leaned against the wall.

  “No. I don’t know. She doesn’t want me to. But maybe I should.”

  “If it helps you get your oil, you mean.”

  Judith flinched as if he had slapped her. “How could you say that?”

  “I’m sorry. That was cruel.” He pressed his lips together and looked down at his thumb. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  She pressed the jar to her chest and looked at him. So he was still angry. Or Jan, like everyone else, had confused her fixedness of purpose with selfishness. His mouth was open, but he said nothing else. She turned to walk out.

  “Thank you for the oil,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll repay you however I can. If you need props, anything.” He stayed inside the workshop. “I’ll think about it,” he called in a weak voice. She let herself out.

  She walked home, where she stashed the oil under a table in her workshop. Downstairs in her bedchamber, she unhooked the pomander, placed it in its box, and buried the box at the bottom of her clothes chest. Then, without a word to anyone in her house, she left again to go to the De Grebber home.

  Chapter 31

  JUDITH TOOK THE SHORTCUT THROUGH the echoing Grote Kerk, where she could hear the prelate arguing with the man who swept the floors. What did it matter, she thought as she clicked her way across the stone floor, if dust collected in the corner? Surely such a small thing would not offend God, wherever He was. When so much filth accumulated elsewhere. The prelate, now behind her, argued strenuously to the contrary. She listened to the few words she could catch. Maybe she was wrong, and God did need perfection. Or at least the attempt. She stepped out into the muted light, dimmed by low, warm clouds, and she wondered what Maria’s God required. How much effort was enough. It was like asking how bright a candle ought to be to illuminate a model for a painting.

  She knocked on the green De Grebber door without having yet decided what she would say, and a fog of unease washed over her. Her stomach twisted. It was unlike her to be so unprepared.
She took a step back, and felt a sharp stone press at the sole of her shoe. The sound of footfalls came from inside as someone approached the door, and she straightened her skirt.

  Frans de Grebber opened the door. He was wearing a threadbare dressing gown that doubled as a smock, judging by the stray smatterings of paint at his sleeves. He frowned, and for a moment, Judith feared he had forgotten who she was.

  “Frans.” She was determined to address him as an equal, no longer an apprentice. “I’m here to talk about linseed oil.”

  He groaned and dropped his head back toward his shoulders. “It’s not for sale.” He looked at her and exhaled. “Not even to you, Judith. I’m sorry.” He put his hand to the door.

  “No, wait please. I’m not asking to buy any. I mean, I would, if you were willing, but that’s not why I’m here. I want to talk about the situation, that’s all. I heard you might know why the price is going up.”

  “Shouldn’t you be painting? Look at this light you’re missing. Perfect. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Even if you don’t have painting to work on, I do.” He moved to shut the door.

  “What! No, I—wait!” She thrust a hand out to stop the door from closing, and behind her, a cat hissed. “Maria. I have Maria.”

  He swung the door open, and his drawn face fell in upon itself. “What? Maria?”

  Judith’s shoulders sagged. She was detestable, and Jan was right. Her loyalty hadn’t lasted a minute. “May I come in, please?”

  He stepped back.

  She walked into the large entry room, the display space and family gathering room that had once felt more familiar than home, and she noted little had changed. A strange bit of nostalgia and loneliness filled her. The same paintings lined the dun-colored walls, and the same light fell from the large windows. But then a second glance revealed many of the paintings were crooked. All the frames were muted by dust.

  “What do you mean you have Maria? Is something wrong? You’re not holding her against her will, are you?” He took a step closer, and she could smell the bitter decay of his breath. He had slippers, usually only worn by women, on his feet.

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant. She’s staying with me. She was hurt. No, she’s fine now.” Judith’s stomach curdled with self-disdain. Jan’s words echoed through her head, and she pressed her hand against her temple. “Why don’t we sit somewhere, where I can explain?”

  He nodded slowly and led her to the set of chairs he used to host guests who came to view his paintings. Frans had never, in Judith’s experience, tried to even pretend to comply with Guild rules on selling only through approved channels. She took a moment to look around more closely. The paintings in the room, flanked by a window to the street and a fireplace, were nearly all the same history pieces and sample portraits she remembered from a few months ago. She had never liked the one of Daniel in the lion’s den, which still hung next to a window. The formalized figures, the fresh face of Daniel, and the glorious jeweled sky all diminished the horror Judith thought the real historical moment must have produced. Glossing over that authentic horror to produce something beautiful was more grotesque than any painted corpse. That was why she didn’t produce history paintings. She did not have the mind for it.

  They sat in a pair of straight-backed, wooden chairs, and Judith folded her hands. She cleared her throat and looked again at the paintings. She was wrong, she realized. There were at least two new ones. A portrait of Maria done a few years earlier, judging by the overlarge lace ruff at her neck, and a genre painting of drinkers at a table, an unusual theme for him. She blinked and leaned forward in her seat. One of the models was Gerard Snellings.

  “Is that Gerard Snellings? In the painting there. Peecklhaerring?”

  “Who?” He drew his eyebrows together and tried to follow her gaze.

  “In the merry company piece you’ve got there. The drinker. Is that Gerard Snellings?” She tried to keep the urgency from her voice.

  “Him? I suppose so, I don’t really . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he turned to her with a fierce gaze. “Look, I don’t want to talk about my models. My cursed models. Tell me about my daughter. Please.”

  “All right.” Judith took a deep breath. “Maria is fine. She was sick when I went to get her, when she arrived at my house. But she’s better now. She hasn’t been with us for long, only a week or so.”

  “A week you’ve kept this secret?”

  Judith’s cheeks burned, and she looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “Yes. She asked me to keep silent. Though she was going to tell you soon. She said so.”

  Frans sagged in his chair. Gray stubble gave his cheeks a shimmering, ghostly look. Judith reached out to pat his hand, but he drew his arm back.

  “I don’t know what I did,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear him. “And you know what, Judith? That relic? That cursed piece of bone, Heaven forgive me. The priest sent it back three weeks after she left. She got what we sent her to get, Judith, and she still fled. I don’t know where I went wrong.”

  They sat in silence. Outside, a passing mule’s hooves struck the paving stones, and somewhere nearby the tap of a hammer sounded. His pain was palpable, and she was helpless.

  “Can I ask about the linseed oil?” Judith said hesitantly. If Jan was right about her venal character, she may as well try to save her workshop.

  He took a deep breath. “Right. The oil. What a holy mess. Those fools.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He cocked his head and regarded her, and some of the color came back to his face. “If you haven’t figured it out, I’m not sure it’s worth it to discuss it with you.”

  She bit her lip. “Someone’s driving up the price. That much is clear. They’re limiting availability of the oil so people like me have to scrounge around and risk our workshops to buy the stuff. People who aren’t famous and are just trying to make it.”

  “And who would want to do that? No, who could do that?”

  She thought about the meeting she had overheard. “Well, lots of people use linseed oil for various—”

  “No. Don’t be foolish. You know this is about painters, you practically said as much. About too many painters trying to sell their art to a public flush with cash but swamped with options for spending it. Why buy a panel of painted wood when you can have a pewter stein? Or a map, to make you look worldly. Or, even better, a blossoming tulip, to make you look rich.”

  Judith picked paint off the inside of her wrist. Outgert von Akersloot had been at that meeting. “It’s the Guild leaders, isn’t it? They need to have everyone join the Guild, but they can’t have all of us selling.”

  He gave a crooked smile and crossed his arms.

  “How do you get by, then?” she asked. “Is it true you have oil?”

  “Listen. I don’t abide by this nasty plan. But I’m not getting involved one way or the other. I sniffed the fools out months ago. They tried to distract me with the relic and, I don’t know, maybe it worked. After a fashion.” He looked at his hands for a moment. “But I figured it out, and they had to sell to me. At the usual price. I’m not helping them buy it up, but I’m not printing pamphlets on it either. Not my business.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? I thought . . .”

  He shrugged. “Why didn’t you tell me about Maria?”

  From somewhere else in the house, a boy called for him, but he ignored it.

  “What can I do?” Judith asked. “I know I can’t report them. I realize my family has no credibility in this town. No one would believe me over Frans Hals and Pieter Molijn.”

  “And you have no proof.”

  “And I have no proof.” A story about snatches of a conversation overheard while crouched next to a known criminal would do her no good.

  He sighed. “Look, Judith. Like you said, people use linseed oil for a lot of things. There’s plenty of the stuff out there in the world. It will make its way to Haarlem.
These men have bit off more than they can chew. Wait it out. You’ll make it. Try some walnut oil instead, if you can afford it. This won’t last forever.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. She wasn’t worried about forever, she was worried about three weeks from now, when her jar from Jan would be empty.

  “And, fine. I’ll sell you a little of what I have. But I can’t go too far. I don’t get unlimited supplies, and I’m on a tight budget too.”

  Some tension dissolved from her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be by, soon, to see Maria,” he said with his eyes fixed firmly upon her. Judith nodded.

  Chapter 32

  AFTER WALKING A BLOCK FROM Frans de Grebber’s house, she stopped. Standing in the cobbled street, she pressed her fingertips against her closed eyes and cradled her head. It didn’t matter who was watching. She could paint, yes, and that was a relief. But for how long? And to what end, if someone else would have control over her ability to do so? Her workshop was supposed to bring independence, not bind her to the whims of men who meant her ill. Or, even worse, who would barely acknowledge her. And for this knowledge, she had broken a promise to her friend. She pressed at the flesh below her eyebrows, then took a deep breath and continued walking.

  A man in a floppy cap and a wool vest pushed a wheelbarrow of cabbages and a few artichokes down the street ahead of her. Distracted, Judith dipped her chin in polite greeting, but then jumped when she felt her foot connect with something soft. A cabbage tumbled across the street and landed in the muddy gutter. He had been chasing after the produce that had fallen from his pile, she realized. The peasant opened his mouth as if to curse, then closed it and glared at her. She apologized and grasped at her pocket for a penning, but he ignored her as he picked up the rest of his vegetables. She walked on, her breath ragged.