The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  Later in the evening when she was on her own with Hendrick she told him of the agreement that had been made. He nodded and patted her hand, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. His unrelieved melancholia was having a dampening effect on the whole household and was worrying Aletta and Sybylla as well as Francesca. It had been hoped that his spirits would lift when he began painting again, but this was not proving to be the case. Francesca was reminded all too vividly of his state of mind after her mother’s death. She tried to talk to him about his dreadful gloom.

  “Take heart again, Father,” she urged. “Damaging your hands as well as the painful swelling in your fingers was a frightening experience for you, but they have healed and are becoming more mobile every day. I believe that the special concoction of herbs that Maria made for you to drink each morning is having more effect than the treatment with warm oil.”

  He gave a heavy nod. “I know.”

  “Just try to remember that we have no worries at the moment. Everyone is well, which is more important than anything and we are not in debt. You have an enthusiastic patron in Ludolf and you told me yourself that the two gentlemen with whom you played cards expressed an interest in your work. It seems as if it is the start of a new stage in life for you.”

  She was not to know that every word she spoke pierced him through. He managed what he supposed was a ghastly smile, but she did not seem to notice anything amiss. “Don’t let any mood of mine blight your excitement over going to Delft,” he insisted, still smiling. “I rejoice that you are to have your great chance. I’m a little low at the present time, but all will soon be well again.”

  “Indeed it will!” She thought she detected a spark of his old optimism in his voice and took it to be a good sign. He had made an effort to smile again, forced though it was.

  He was relieved when, after a little more conversation, she left him to himself. There was so much he had to think about. He had heard nothing from Ludolf. Almost hourly he had expected word to be sent, but nothing had happened. All day he had worked on his tax-collector painting, but each brushstroke had been almost automatic, for he kept an ear primed for a knock on the door, having instructed Griet to bring him any message immediately.

  He stole a glance at the clock. At this hour tomorrow he would be in the midst of the festivities at Ludolf’s house and he did not doubt that Otto and Claudius would both find a chance to challenge him about his debts to them. His whole future was hanging in the balance. He gazed into the parlor fire. Why had Ludolf not been in touch with him?

  LUDOLF ENTHUSED OVER his portrait to Francesca and applauded it exuberantly as if it had been unveiled for him in a public place. “Your work should be displayed in the best public gallery in Amsterdam!”

  “Oh no!” she protested, shaking her head.

  “But you have captured me exactly. My bad points are there as well as my good ones and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.” Stepping forward, he lifted the portrait in its newly carved and gilded frame from the easel. “Now you shall see where I intend to hang it.”

  Together they went downstairs to the reception hall, where a pair of library steps had been placed by the marble-canopied fireplace. A French landscape, which had hung above it previously, had already been removed and propped against the wall. Ludolf went up the steps and hung his portrait in its place.

  “Is it straight?” he asked her.

  “Not quite. Adjust the top right-hand corner. Yes! That’s it!”

  He climbed down again and stood at her side, looking up at the portrait with her. “What do you think?”

  There was no doubt but that it made a striking impact on the eye. The austere composition, Ludolf posed in a broad-based triangle, gave drama to the portrait. That face of marred good looks was all the more arresting through having been painted without any concessions, further dramatized by the plumed black hat and the flow of periwig, the white lace collar, the sheen of velvet, the glitter of braid and jeweled rings, all against crimson drapery. The whole picture was set off against the dark green silk-paneled walls of the reception hall with the white marble canopy below and the snow-bright plasterwork of the ceiling above.

  She had had Hendrick’s permission to sign the painting if she made her signature inconspicuous. In the lower right-hand corner it was just visible. Only if one peered closely was it possible to see that the “r” of Visser swept downward to curve at the end and enclose a tiny cream-colored tulip.

  “You’ve done me much honor by hanging my work in such an important place. Everyone who comes into the house will see it,” she commented.

  “That’s what I want. I’m particularly pleased that it will be viewed by so many people this evening.”

  She went across to the French landscape. “Where shall you hang this one now?”

  “Help me decide.” He snatched it up. “Let’s go from room to room until we find the right place.”

  Although the house was newish it followed in many ways the style of older houses, having a number of small rooms leading off corridors, frequently at different levels on the same floor and linked by steps. Either he or she found fault with every place in which they tried the painting, he holding it up against the wall until it became quite a joke between them. Buoyed up by her own private happiness that her task was done, that the start of her apprenticeship was now only hours away and, equally important to her, that she and Pieter were still to meet and retain their friendship, she laughed easily and readily, able this morning to forget that she had no real liking for this man whose face she had come to know so well. She declared herself reminded of childhood games of hide-and-seek as they went up and down steps and seemingly around in circles. Finally they settled on hanging the landscape in the library, trying a new place they had missed when in there before.

  “Yes! That’s just right,” she declared, studying the position of the picture, and she stepped back to view it from farther away. She had not known that Ludolf was standing close behind her and her heel came down on his foot. For him it was more than he could bear after weeks of restraint. The fragrance of her hair and skin was in his nostrils and something seemed to explode in his head. Before she could turn, laughing, to apologize he seized her by the arms as if to support her being off balance, and jerked her back against him. Her spine became rigid, her mirth swept away by an overwhelming fear of this man whose face she could no longer see, all too aware of his quickened breathing.

  “I hope I didn’t hurt your toe,” she voiced with apparent calmness in an attempt to level the situation. “You may release me now.”

  But his hands did not loosen their grip. “Francesca,” he breathed against her hair, “I’ll never release you.”

  To her alarm it sounded like a vow. She felt as if the library had become a trap, for she was shut in here with him away from the rest of the house. The prospect of being kissed by him was abhorrent to her, but a far greater dread was mounting, the fear that he would use his powerful strength to put his hands on her flesh, combining with still more terror, unnamed and unfocused, that was chilling her whole body.

  “You’re creasing my sleeves,” she protested mundanely in a further attempt to defuse his mood, certain that if she struggled to free herself he would whip her around and into his embrace. If she kept her wits that could be avoided. “And you’re bruising my arms with your hold. Let this game be finished.”

  To her relief he obeyed her, but even as she would have stepped swiftly away he had cupped his hands over her breasts and buried a passionate kiss into her neck.

  “No!” she cried out frantically, plucking desperately at his hands. Neither she nor he had heard the library door open or knew that Neeltje was present until that moment when she spoke. “The mistress wishes to see you, Master.”

  Francesca felt a tremor pass through him as though even in the instant of being discovered in his indiscretion he could scarcely bear to loosen his limpetlike clasp. Then freed by him, she whirled away and saw him turn abruptly toward Neeltje l
ike a towering giant with a temper-ridden visage that would have quailed any but the strongest-willed, his whole frame shaking.

  “This is not your mistress’s apartment,” he roared threateningly. “How dare you come creeping in here!”

  Francesca stepped forward quickly, not at all sure that he was not about to strike the woman to the floor. “Would you fetch my cloak, please, Neeltje? I’m leaving now.”

  “Yes, mejuffrouw. Would you care to accompany me?” It was as if nothing untoward had been witnessed or interrupted by the woman.

  Ludolf spoke harshly. “Francesca! Wait!”

  She paused in the doorway to look back at him coldly. “Didn’t you hear what Neeltje said? Amalia is waiting to see you. I would never come between husband and wife on any occasion!”

  Neeltje trotted slightly ahead, her soft-soled house shoes making no sound on the marble floor. Francesca thought it odd that the woman had made such a timely appearance in the library, almost as if it had been planned to the second. No word was exchanged between them until Neeltje had put the cloak about Francesca’s shoulders.

  “You will be back for the banquet this evening, won’t you, mejuffrouw?”

  “I don’t know.” Francesca was tying the strings of her cloak. That intense fear of Ludolf had not subsided and she could not wait to get out of this house as quickly as possible. She could still feel his squeezing hands on her.

  “You must, mejuffrouw. That is, if you care anything for my mistress.”

  Francesca stared at the woman. “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t come to the banquet this evening, you who have painted the portrait that is to be displayed to some of the master’s most important friends, what is Vrouw van Deventer to think? Do you suppose she doesn’t know how attracted her husband is to other women? She imagines she keeps everything to herself and normally I wouldn’t have spoken to you in this way, but I don’t want her to have the least suspicion about what happened between you and the master today.”

  “I’m thankful that you came.”

  “It was not by chance that I arrived when I did. I know his nature. There have been young maidservants in this house who have had to leave, the reason always kept from my mistress. I owe you an apology for not coming sooner, but I had to remind Vrouw van Deventer of something she wished to speak to her husband about, which gave me a plausible excuse for interrupting.”

  “I’ll always be grateful for your consideration.”

  “I did it for my mistress as much as for you.”

  “I realize that, but it doesn’t change anything. In view of what you have told me, I’ll come to the banquet this evening, but I implore you to see that my place at table is nowhere near the head of it.”

  “I’ll do my best, mejuffrouw.”

  With her cloak about her shoulders, Francesca crossed the reception hall, making for the entrance door, which had been opened for her so many times during the past weeks. Now when she had almost reached it, the manservant ready to swing it wide, Ludolf’s voice rang out to her.

  “Francesca! Pray do not be late this evening. You are my guest of honor.”

  She did not turn, but lifted her chin, choking back all she could not say. “I’ll be on time,” she promised crisply. Then she swept out of the house.

  He smiled to himself. So once again she was to be more forgiving than he had expected her to be. All the consideration and kindness he had shown to her previously during her time in his house, all at great cost to his own emotions, had paid off. As an artist’s daughter she had shown herself to be more worldly than most young women of her age, obviously able to grasp that there were times when a man’s self-control broke when tempted by the proximity of a beautiful woman. Desire for her still ran hot in his veins.

  He turned for the stairs and on his way spoke quietly to the manservant on duty, giving a summons that was to be obeyed by the person concerned. While the man went on the errand, Ludolf continued up the flight and along to the studio. Francesca’s easel still stood in its place, ready to be returned to the supplier as arranged. She had packed up all the materials the previous evening and they were neatly stacked, the brushes cleaned. He sensed her everywhere around him, able to see her face, her slim form and the sweep of her skirts whichever way he turned. His obsession for her throbbed in his brain and gripped his loins. He paced the floor until a certain maidservant, buxom and prettier than the rest, came into the room.

  Out of habit she locked the door behind her, even though it had not happened in this room before. She pulled up her skirts and looked at him inquiringly, hoping he was not in an ill mood, because bruises were not always easy to hide. He knocked aside the screen and gestured toward the bed. Then he followed her to it. Talk did not come into their arrangement. He had obscene signs for everything.

  AMALIA STARTED TO dress early that evening. Neeltje had to do everything for her, from slipping her diamond earbobs into her lobes to kneeling to place her feet right into her satin shoes, for she lacked the strength to do anything for herself. How she was going to get through receiving the guests she did not know, although Ludolf allowed her to sit in a chair instead of standing at his side in the reception hall. When she had to move he would support her with a strong arm to her place at the opposite end of the table to his. Throughout the feast he would appear to keep a fond eye on her, occasionally lifting his glass in a silent toast to her alone, and all the time she would go through with the masquerade, her breeding and upbringing, and even her natural good manners, preventing her from upsetting others with any indication that all was not as it appeared.

  “How do you feel now, ma’am?” Neeltje asked anxiously.

  “Am I ready?” Amalia had kept her eyes closed while seated before her mirror, as if by concentrating on feeling better she might achieve it.

  “Yes, ma’am. Shall I help you to stand now?”

  “Wait a moment. How long have I?”

  “A while yet before you have to leave your apartment. I meant only to see you through to the couch in your dayroom.”

  “That will also lessen the distance I’ll have to walk to my door when the time comes,” she said, making a little joke.

  Neeltje helped her to stand and she saw herself in a full-length mirror. Her seamstress had recently had a wicker frame made on which to fit her garments, so that she was spared the ordeal of standing. Now she was seeing herself in the new gown for the first time. Ludolf had surpassed himself in his selection. The gown was of a rich orangey-pink taffeta, which gave its own warmth to her skin, and it parted from waist to hem, cut in such a way as to reveal an ivory underskirt, ornamented with wide bands of gilded braid running down the middle and along the hem. It rustled enchantingly. If only it had been a gift of love from him instead of a smug tribute to his own generosity toward a sickly wife for others to see. How often she had heard the whispered adjectives “devoted” and “adoring” applied by others to his attitude toward her.

  “A step at a time, ma’am,” Neeltje urged gently.

  Her pace was slow and she saw the couch beyond the open double doors of her bedchamber as distant as if it were a thousand miles away. How was she ever to reach it? She knew she was going through one of her low periods when the least exertion was really too much for her, but Ludolf had insisted on her presence and her sense of duty compelled her to obey him.

  They reached the couch at last. She sank back against the cushions while Neeltje arranged her sleeves and skirts to avoid unnecessary creasing. “I thank you, Neeltje. What should I do without you?”

  “Shall I leave you now until it’s time, ma’am?”

  “Yes, but allow an extra quarter of an hour to see me through to the reception hall. Your master likes me to be in my chair there well before the guests are due and I don’t want to hurry.”

  While Neeltje went to tidy the bedchamber, replacing lids on cosmetic jars and putting away discarded garments, Amalia lay gazing at the Pieter de Hooch painting that could always transpo
rt her back to her childhood home. Daily it had become a greater source of comfort to her as she imagined she was going along its passageway, holding her mother’s hand, to the sunlit street that could be glimpsed at the end of it.

  But that was all in the past and she must bring herself back to the present and the ordeal of the banquet ahead of her. If only she could lie here until the morning she would have more strength again. There was a curious pattern to the rise and fall of her condition. She could have been carried about the house in an indoor sedan chair had she wished. Ludolf had had one made when her strange illness had first come upon her, but the doctor had advised that she should walk whenever possible, fearful that she might lose the use of her legs. Perhaps this evening she should take a dose of the potion prescribed for such emergencies. She did not like to take it and her doctor did not encourage it, for it made her strangely light-headed, but it did release some inner strength in her, enabling her to believe she could walk any distance and even run, although that was a mere illusion.

  She reached for her casket of medicines, but in taking care not to disarrange her sleeves she misjudged the lifting of it as she had on one or two previous occasions. A sharp cry broke from her as it crashed to the floor, scattering its contents. As Neeltje hurried in from the bedchamber, Amalia saw that the flask of the potion she needed had cracked and the liquid was spreading into a dark patch on the floor.

  Upstairs Ludolf left the ministrations of his valet, well pleased with his appearance. His new clothes, ordered specially for this occasion, fitted him perfectly. The long coat of corn-colored heavy silk was slightly curved in at the waist, flaring fuller at the knee-length hem, and was fastened with twenty gold buttons. There were more gold buttons on the deep, turned-back cuffs, and a cascade of Flemish lace at his throat was newer than the wide collars that many men still wore. His breeches were of velvet in the same shade as his coat and there were large chased gold buckles on his shoes. He was proud of having kept his figure, and if his stomach was less hard-muscled than in his rougher days, at least he had no paunch. His wigmaker had informed him that the new periwig, now caping his shoulders, was made entirely of a virgin’s hair, which amused him, and he had made a lewd joke that startled the fellow, who was not attracted to the opposite sex.