Wings over Delft

by Aubrey Flegg

  She wasn’t hungry. Annie would leave her alone. Mother was in bed, and Father was in Amsterdam. She climbed into her box bed, pulled the curtains that closed the little bedstee, and went to sleep curled up like a dormouse.

  It was dark when Louise first woke. The house was quiet. Even the creaks and snaps made by the new wood as it adjusted to the changing temperature had ceased. She felt battered but refreshed, her mind floating clear. For a time she just lay there, looking up towards the ceiling of the box bed, and wondering if she would fall asleep again. Then she drew back the curtains, slipped out, draped a rug over her shoulders, and tiptoed to the window. The outside shutters were thrown back against the wall and the windows were folded in. She rested her elbows on the windowsill and breathed the night air. The dark hung in front of her, black as an unmarked slate. This is my slate, she thought, and I won’t let anyone write on it: not Annie, not Reynier … nobody.

  Gradually she began to make out the outline of the trees about the powder store. From far away she heard a song … a nightingale? No, a blackbird. Then the bird faltered, considering perhaps whether it had woken too early. She held her breath. There it was again! A little more confident this time, a call that ran its course. She imagined the bird, way out there to the east, cocking its head and wondering if the sun had heard it, and if it should call again. It was in full song now, and other bird voices were taking up its lead. The sound swept closer and closer, until it poured like a wave over the town walls. Only then did the wise old thrush that lived in the trees about the powder store follow the blackbird’s lead and raise its head and sing its heart out.

  Louise looked about in surprise; the tender green leaves on the trees still hid their colour, but daylight had come. The old thrush was beginning its song again; theme and variations. ‘Yes, old bird, I heard you,’ she said and stretched. Then she clasped her hands and held the world in the circle of her arms. She imagined the wave of birdsong sweeping on around the globe; in a minute it would reach the sea. Then what? It would leap the water to the islands beyond, to England, and Ireland, and then on out over the silent seas.

  I will be true. I will be true to myself, she promised. I will tell Father that I do not love Reynier, that it is all a mistake. He will understand. I don’t want to marry anyone. We will make our telescope together and explore the stars and he will tell me about his philosophers. And Pieter will come and he can tell Father about his empty glass. Then we will take turns to look at the moons about Jupiter and see Saturn’s arms.

  Goosebumps rose on her skin as the chill of the morning air seeped through her rug. She hurried back into bed and fell into a deep second sleep.

  She was woken for the second time by the clatter of hooves on the newly paved road outside. To begin with, she listened with detached interest. There was often traffic to and from the allotments in the morning. Suddenly she was sitting straight up in bed. Those weren’t cart-horses, they were riding horses. Father! She hopped over the board at the side of the bed, seized a light wrap from the back of the door, flew downstairs, and nearly collided with Annie on the landing below. Annie slept in what should have been Louise’s bedroom, but Mother had felt that it was too much for the old nurse to climb the steep stairs, so Louise had happily taken the attic room for herself.

  ‘Oh, Mistress Louise,’ Annie called, ‘you can’t go down like that, Mr De –’ but Louise was past her and away. She was already rehearsing what she would tell Father. The front door was still open as she came hurtling down the final flight of steps. Father stood in the doorway, outlined against the light. He was holding Mother, enveloping her inside his great travelling cloak. Too late, Louise noticed that there was someone else – a man – standing behind Father in the doorway. She faltered to a halt, her bare feet skipping on the cold marble.

  ‘Louise,’ Father laughed. ‘You are like a bird looking for a place to land. Come … come to Father. I need a kiss from you, too.’ He stretched out his arm like a heron’s wing. Louise darted across the floor and felt it close about her protectively. She buried her face in his shoulder and breathed the smell of fine wool that has been wetted many times and as many times dried in sun and air. Father was home and everything was all right. Then she remembered the man at the door, and looked up, straight into the eyes of Reynier’s father, Cornelis DeVries.

  ‘I’ll be off now, Andraes. We have a lot to think about and to plan. Till the great day, goodbye.’

  The man turned and clattered down the steps. What? What had he said? What ‘great day’ was this? But Father was enclosing her again.

  ‘Louise,’ he said, ‘I’ve got our lenses, and I have met a really wonderful man, I must tell you all about him.’ Mother, nestling beside her, felt as light as a sparrow – two birds under the same wing. ‘Oh, please God, spare her,’ Louise prayed on impulse; they were all so happy together.

  Back in her room, Louise dressed with care. Pieter had told her she would not be needed in the studio that morning, as they would be preparing it for her portrait. She had a dress from last summer, a bit faded, but it was yellow and spring-like. Father liked yellow. She added a blue overskirt, which she then tucked up at her waist. This was for Annie, to show that she was also prepared for sober work. She hung her new green silk near the window where it could freshen up and the creases could shake out. Then she ran downstairs, hungry for news and for breakfast.

  She heard his voice as she reached the door of the dining room and hesitated, listening. Father was talking about his trip home from Amsterdam. ‘I stayed with the barge as far as Leiden. The breeze had all the windmills spinning, they made the town look exactly like a centipede crawling along.’ Her mother’s rare laugh tinkled. He saw Louise hesitating in the door. ‘Come on in Louise … breakfast.’

  From the array of food on the sideboard Louise helped herself to bread, some slices of meat, cheese and a mug of small-ale. Father was still detailing his travels, ‘I had to overnight in The Hague on business and met Cornelis there.’ He paused, was he looking at her? She didn’t turn around, she wanted to hear more. ‘So! Am I to expect a visit from young Reynier when he gets back, Louise?’

  This was the moment to tell him, to get it over with. She turned; Annie was looking at her. No, not here … this was private; it was between Father and her. She sat down, pretending not to have heard, but her face flared. She could feel their eyes on her: Annie’s, Mother’s. The moment was slipping away. Why was she so impotent? Then Father said, ‘All in good time! All in good time,’ and the opportunity had passed.

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Father went on, ‘Cornelis is suggesting that we bring our two potteries together. It makes a lot of sense, you know. He will take over the tiles and tableware, while we in Eeden’s will concentrate solely on the fine Chinese ware. Think of it,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll never have to paint another blessed windmill!’

  Louise stared at her plate, poking at the finely sliced ham. So, the plan really would be important to Father, not just a business deal. He had always wanted to be free to do this fine work. Father was the finest painter of Chinese designs in all Delft, but each pot took weeks to throw and paint. They commanded good prices, but it was the everyday Delftware that put the bread on the table. Louise’s heart sank. Reynier had said this very thing, but she hadn’t wanted to hear. And she could make Father’s dream come true. All she had to do was say ‘yes’ to Reynier and she would be Father’s fairy godmother.

  There was a disturbance that Louise hardly noticed. The kitchen maid came in and whispered to Annie that Good-wife Drebbel was in the hall and wanted a word with her.

  ‘Louise, did I ever show you the two pieces of original carrack porcelain that your grandfather bought fifty years ago, when the first boat came back from China? I have kept them hidden up till now, a little insurance policy to get me started if I ever had the chance to concentrate on the really fine ware.’ The blood was pounding in Louise’s ears. ‘I will be able to copy these now. The designs alone are worth hundreds of guil
ders; I was afraid someone else might steal the designs if I produced them before.’

  Why was he saying all this? Was he saying, ‘thank you for giving me this opportunity’? For a moment the room darkened and she thought she might faint. How could he be so blind? He who had always seemed able to look into her mind and read her thoughts; surely he could see that he was breaking her heart? She’d let Reynier into her life in order to preserve space for him; she didn’t want suitors, she didn’t want Reynier, she wanted him. Now a new apprehension was growing; was this the norm, was this how all girls felt before marriage? Waves of panic, like the shivers that announce a fever, were chasing through her. She reached for a hard-boiled egg from the basket on the table. She raised her spoon and brought it down on the egg, only to gaze in disbelief at the mixture of crumbled yolk and splintered shell fragments in her palm. Father got up to assist Mother back to her room. Still Louise did not move; it was only when she heard his voice in the hall that rebellion boiled up inside her. It was her life, and nobody had the right to dictate it. She thrust back her chair.

  ‘Father,’ she shouted, blundering towards the hall. It was now or never. She pulled open the dining room door, but she was too late. She heard the street door slam. She wanted to run after him but Annie was blocking her way.

  ‘You lied to me, you Jezebel!’ Her old nurse was shaking with fury, like a peacock when displaying. ‘Goodwife Drebbel has told me everything. It is one thing to sneak past me, but to parade yourself unchaperoned in the market place, to let young men kiss you like the whore of Babylon; it is a disgrace.’ Louise felt her mouth opening and closing. At last she found her voice.

  ‘But Annie, that was Rey –’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Master Reynier left a week ago.’ Louise shrugged; there was no arguing with Annie in this mood. ‘And then who did you go off with?’

  ‘I was accompanied by Mr Kunst; the Master charged him with seeing me home.’

  ‘And how long did it take him to do that?’

  ‘I wanted to look over the walls, that’s all. I’ve been cooped up all winter!’

  Annie shifted her line of attack. ‘How can you treat that poor boy like this?’

  ‘Who, Annie?’

  ‘Master Reynier, of course! It’s bad enough being sent away just when your engagement should be announced.’

  ‘There is no engagement, Annie!’ Louise was almost shouting.

  ‘You can’t keep things secret from me; of course there is an engagement, he told me –’

  ‘He didn’t tell you. He told you that he was going away because of the rumours about us, you’ve got it all wrong.’ But Annie knew better.

  ‘Ever since you were children together he has looked after you.’ She wagged her finger in Louise’s face. ‘And young Miss that you are, you accepted it!’ That hurt Louise. ‘Such a gentleman he’s turned into, and such nice manners.’

  ‘Annie, you’ve been trying to make us fall in love since we were in nappies!’

  ‘Love!’ The word almost exploded from Annie’s mouth. ‘What has love got to do with it? It is God that makes a marriage, not love.’ Louise’s heart sank, when Annie and God teamed up there was no stopping them. ‘Do you think that God thinks only of Miss Louise Eeden? What about your father? His whole future is dependent on you. Everyone in Delft is on ten-terhooks at the merger of the two great potteries.’

  ‘But that is business, Annie!’

  ‘Do you think then that God has no hand in business? Has he not guided the ships of our brave sea captains as they ploughed and sowed the oceans for the riches that make our nation great? Are God and business to be held at bay just because Louise Eeden refuses to bow to His will?’

  Louise made one last bid for reason. ‘But Annie, I’m not marrying a sea captain!’ That was levity, and Annie’s God was without humour. Her final blow struck home, low and hard.

  ‘Think of your poor mother, Louise. Will she survive an-other winter like the last? Even now she coughs at night. I hear her, but you are too high and mighty in that attic of yours. Couldn’t you let her see you married before she is gathered? Who knows what the Lord has prepared for her?’

  Rage and tears rose like twin fountains inside Louise. Annie was right; Mother could not last. Louise had seen, but denied, those bright red spots of colour on Mother’s cheeks that made her look so pretty; the terrible beauty of the consumption that was eating away at her from inside. But how dare Annie suggest that God would have anything but open arms and a loving embrace for Mother!

  Annie stepped back from Louise and put her hand to her mouth, as if only now realising what she had said. She made an ineffectual gesture of appeasement as Louise thrust past her and thudded blindly up the stairs to her room. There Louise sat motionless, looking unseeing at the wooden panels on the wall and breathing through her mouth until it felt as dry as summer’s dust.

  The worst part was admitting to herself that Annie was right: right about Father, and right about poor Mother too. That comment of Annie’s about Mother had been a slip of the tongue. Annie loved Mother – she loved them all – which was why she was so hard on them, and on herself too. Poor Mother, she had once been so strong, so gay, and so indestructible. When Louise was little, they would walk together out beyond the town walls, Mother laughing up into the wind, while her cloak billowed and her beautiful fair hair streamed behind her. Reynier would sometimes come too, but he seldom lasted more than the first broad field. Then they would be on their own, and while Louise picked wild flowers and jumped puddles, Mother would sing nursery rhymes and the folk songs of the Lowlands. They didn’t talk much, but they shared the wonder of everything from the bright pink of the ragged robin, to the chestnut brown tufts on the lance-like rushes that grew beside it in those marshy places. They would wait patiently, hand in hand, for a butterfly to open its wings … peacock? … red admiral? Or they would spend long minutes following the rasping cry of a corncrake as it moved invisibly through the high meadow grass.

  Then, one April, far from home, they both got soaked to the skin in an icy shower. Louise soon warmed up when they got back to the house, but Mother didn’t. She went straight to bed and she stayed there; Louise was kept away. Eventually she evaded Annie’s guard, crept into her mother’s room, and slid into bed beside her. Resting her head on her mother’s burning chest, she heard a crackle, like the rustle of dry tissue, accompanying every laboured breath. Spring passed; it shouted for Mother to get up and get better, but she remained in her room. Summer came and went. Gradually Louise came to realise that her mother was now an invalid and that their walks together in the countryside were a thing of the past. Louise was just ten.

  She had to stop thinking for a while as she clenched her eyes against her rising tears. She took a deep breath and turned her mind deliberately to the subject of Reynier. As so often happened when she thought about him, her own inadequacies rose to the surface like bubbles from the canal. She was constantly at odds with Annie, while he always treated her with the most courtly respect. Annie pretended to disapprove, but in fact loved the attention. Thoughts of Pieter and what Reynier had said about him intruded – he really did look like a puppet, and he did get his strings crossed. She tried to remember how awkward he had been when they had climbed together on the walls, but all she saw were Pieter’s hands drawing pictures for her in the air. A treacherous glow of happiness spread through her. Verdorie nog aan toe – don’t be a fool, she told herself. This was ridiculous, comparing an acquaintance of a few hours to Reynier, whom she had known all her life. She closed her eyes and measured the words out in her mind. She would learn to love Reynier, for Father’s sake, and to make Mother happy.

  She opened her eyes. The wooden panels still stared blankly back at her, but inside she felt a brittle calm. She congratulated herself on the clarity of her thoughts. If Reynier repeated his proposal, as he surely would when he returned, she would accept him. Until then there was nothing she could do or say. She was certain now that the merge
r of the potteries depended on her, and she would do anything for Father’s happiness. Mother’s health would improve as the weather got warmer; she would tell her of her decision then. Louise considered the details of her plan; there was only one thing more that had to be done. She went over to her table. Her elegant little portable desk had become submerged under books, sketches for their telescope, and a homemade cardboard astrolabe that had collapsed. She pulled the desk forward. It opened down into a wedge-shape, sloped for writing. She unscrewed her inkpot, found a piece of crisp paper under the flap of her desk, inspected the nib of a rather chewed quill, and began to write.

  I, Louise Maria Eeden … She paused to think … do swear in the name of all truth, that, if asked, I will accept a proposal of marriage from Reynier Anthonie DeVries and will, until his return, hold myself as so engaged.

  She signed the letter, dated it: 21st April 1654, and stood up, wondering what to do with it. This was private to herself, but she wasn’t equipped for keeping secrets. Her little desk certainly wasn’t private. There was nowhere in her room … then she had an idea. Inside the windows were shutters, folded back on themselves. She crossed the room and pulled at one of them. It stuck and then opened, releasing a smell of new wood and fresh paint. No one would have cause to open these until the bitter frosts of winter. Her note would have done its work by then. Resin was oozing from a knot in the timber. She pressed the note against it till it stuck, and then closed the shutter firmly. Even as she did so she heard a voice inside her head. Six months of borrowed time, Louise, it whispered, then added, a lot can happen in six months.

  She had completed her pledge only just in time.

  Lenses

  Chapter 7

  Louise got through the day, fortified by her new resolution and an unaccustomed feeling of virtue. Annie was a shadow of her usual self; her remark about Mother clearly weighed on her. For a while Louise rather enjoyed her discomfort and even tried a sniff or two, but scoring off Annie this way was no fun. Other people might apologise, but Annie could no more apologise than water could run uphill. In the end Louise had pity on her, waylaid her in the pantry, and gave her wrinkled cheek a quick kiss.