The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “My poor, dear sister!”

  “That’s why I’m never going home again, and I told Sybylla and Maria that before I left.” Aletta’s jaw jutted resolutely. “I asked Vrouw Wolff if I could stay here until I get employment that will provide me with a bed as well.”

  “But your painting!”

  Aletta looked stonily ahead of her. “That was a dream that has been shattered. At the moment it doesn’t seem to matter much. I can’t feel anything anymore. I haven’t for weeks, except to become angry with everybody at the least provocation. When the moment of the accident occurred I knew no fear. I didn’t care if I lived or died.”

  “Yet afterward you sorrowed for the injured and the dead.”

  “That must have been some last flickering part of me not yet snuffed out.”

  “Come to the studio with me tomorrow. I’ll be on my own, because Jan is away again. Just sit and absorb the atmosphere. After all you have been through you need to rest and go through a period of healing. Just to look at Jan’s beautiful and tranquil paintings will be a step toward restoring your spirits.”

  Aletta’s voice was hard. “I’ll never set foot in a studio again!”

  Francesca would never have believed it possible for Aletta to be so changed. All gentleness seemed to have been crushed out of her and she was like tempered steel. “At least come to the Mechelin Huis with me and meet Catharina. She is just the one to ask about finding employment for you. I’m sure Geetruyd would find you work scrubbing the floors of her almshouses and institutions, or cooking in the kitchens, but—”

  “I don’t suffer from Father’s excessive pride,” Aletta broke in sharply. “I’ll do any chore.”

  “I know you would and so would I if the need arose, but you have such talents that could be put to good use. You sew and embroider, dress hair like a professional, even though you never do more than brush your own and twist it up under your various caps, and you can play the virginal with your soul in the music as Sybylla does with her viol. You would be able to teach all those skills and perhaps eventually have a little school of your own.”

  For the first time since their meeting Aletta smiled, slight though the smile was. “You’ve always had the right words of cheer and comfort for me.”

  “I hope I’ve said to you what Mama would have chosen to say.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Now I think we should blow the candle out and sleep.”

  It was as if they were children again. Francesca drew the bed curtains after extinguishing the candle flame and they tucked down under the goose-feather quilt. Aletta’s last thoughts before she slept were of the injured young man. She uttered a silent prayer that he would live.

  In the morning, when it was time for Francesca to go to the studio, Clara was waiting as usual to play escort, although she knew Aletta was to accompany her sister. Francesca was so used to it that she never thought of there being any change in the situation, but Aletta did.

  “There’s no need for you to come today, Juffrouw Huys,” she said with such iron firmness that Clara stepped back automatically, having caught a resemblance to Geetruyd’s tone when no argument was to be brooked.

  “But I always do,” she protested, recovering herself.

  “In my father’s instructions to Vrouw Wolff,” Aletta countered, having been given all the details by her sister, “he insisted, as I’m sure you were told, that Francesca had no need of extra chaperonage when in the company of a member of her family and that included being with her sister.”

  “I think it was in the plural—sisters.”

  “A sister in the singular,” Aletta bluffed, not entirely sure on that point. “I’ll also walk home with Francesca when she has finished work.”

  “Won’t you be back for the noon meal?”

  “Not today. After I’ve delivered my sister I want to explore Delft.” Aletta took Francesca by the arm and set off at a brisk pace before there was any chance of Geetruyd coming to intervene.

  “Not this direction, but the other,” Francesca said with a laugh, drawing Aletta to a halt and turning her around to leave the crooked, narrow street at the east end.

  “I came by way of the west end of Kromstraat yesterday evening.”

  “So did I when I first arrived, but this is the quickest route.”

  As they walked along, Francesca pointed out Vrouw Thin’s home, which could be seen in the row of gabled houses from the bridge over the canal at Oude Langendijk. In the square Aletta wanted to know how more recently the New Church there was built in comparison with the Old Church, by which she had alighted from the hay wagon.

  “Well, the old one dates from the thirteenth century and the new one from the fourteenth. The Vermeers like to worship at the former, which means I rarely see them on Sundays, because I go to the latter with Geetruyd and Clara.”

  “Are you never free of those two women?”

  “Never for as long as I would wish.”

  When they reached the Mechelin Huis, Francesca was disappointed when her sister declined to go in with her.

  “Not today,” Aletta said. “It might not be convenient. In any case, as I said to Clara, I want to get some idea of my whereabouts today and to see the sights of interest.”

  “If you’re sure,” Francesca said uncertainly. “I finish here at five o’clock on these darker winter evenings and even for the last half hour I carry out sundry chores in the studio as soon as the light gets bad.”

  When Francesca had gone into the house, Aletta felt an enormous sense of relief at being quite alone and unknown to anyone, a stranger in a strange town. There was nobody to hail her, none to greet or chat with and, best of all, no further need to keep a bland countenance with a heart being torn apart when well-meaning acquaintances asked after her father, wanting to know if he had recovered from his ordeal. She had seen in every pair of eyes that awareness of the judge’s condemnation of her as a daughter. They were not to know of the self-punishment to which she had sentenced herself. Giving up painting, with or without Hendrick’s permission, was the only way she knew of atoning for all she had done.

  It was a damp, dull day with the cobbles everywhere still wet from the day before, but as yet there was no rain. She spent a long time in the New Church, where she viewed the spectacular tomb of Willem the Silent and the memorials to other members of the House of Orange. From there she went to the old palace, once a convent, where Willem the Silent had lived. She had not expected to see in the wall of the staircase the gaping holes where the bullets of his assassin had lodged. Having been in close contact with death the previous day, she felt the same chill of horror come upon her and she hastened from the building to cross the bridge of a narrow canal into the Old Church. There she sat in a secluded corner until that renewal of icy shock had subsided again. She thought of many things as she sat there, including what Francesca had told her of Jan Vermeer’s work. Perhaps, since he worshipped here, he had been inspired to capture in his paintings the same pure light that flooded the whole church through the great high windows of clear glass. The effect on pale walls and pillars devoid of ornamentation and the great carved pulpit with extraordinarily beautiful workmanship was breathtaking.

  When she left the church she bought a bun at a bakery and ate it on the premises. It was enough to keep her present small appetite satisfied and, well wrapped up in her hooded cloak, she walked along narrow streets and followed canals as she came to know her way about. But at four o’clock the rain, which had held off all day, finally descended and she ran through the heavy drops to Mechelin Huis. Catharina, who had heard about her unexpected arrival from Francesca, welcomed her in to hot tea and a warm fireside.

  Aletta, fearing what she might hear from the hard-faced Geetruyd about the victim of the accident upon her return to Kromstraat, asked Catharina if she had heard any news about the young man.

  “I have,” Catharina replied. “What happened is the talk of Delft today because the young man in question i
s the only son of one of the town’s wealthiest wool merchants. Only three months ago there was great rejoicing in the de Veere family when Constantijn—that’s the young man’s name—became betrothed to Isabella van Alewijns, the eldest daughter of a prosperous Gouda merchant in the cheese trade.”

  “How is he? Do you know?”

  “Alive. That’s all that can be said. I was told that his father has sent to Amsterdam for the best doctor in the city.” Catharina paused. “The news is grave. Both legs had to be amputated and Constantijn is fighting for his life. It is all so sad, because he excelled at sailing and every other kind of sporting activity.”

  Aletta sat motionless, staring into the fire. “It should never have happened,” she said bitterly.

  “That can be said about any accident,” Catharina said quietly. “For a moment of speed and folly, lives can be shattered.”

  “Where does Heer de Veere live?”

  “Do you mean the father or the son?”

  Aletta raised her eyebrows. “Have they separate establishments?”

  “I told you they were a rich family. Directly opposite this house, on the other side of the square, is the de Veere office and above it is the apartment that the young man occupies. His parents used to live there before they built a house out in the country, but Constantijn was taken to his own place last night, because it was considered too dangerous to continue transporting him any farther to his parents’ home.”

  They were sitting in the firelight and Aletta rose to go over to the window and look out across the square at the house opposite. Every window there was bright with candle glow from the office to the attic. So he was nearby. She had a sudden superstitious notion that if he died, so would she. Not perhaps in the physical sense, but to lose her true grasp on life and become cantankerous and lonely as Sybylla had long prophesied. She was aware from her recent behavior to being well on the way to that state.

  “Your sister has told me of the difficulties you have been having at home and that you hope to find employment in Delft,” Catharina said from where she sat.

  “Yes, I do.” Aletta returned to her chair. “Today I made a mental note of several possibilities. The baker’s wife seemed to be shorthanded and I came across a little shop selling embroidered items including caps, which I can say I’m quite expert at making. I should like to start work soon while I still have enough money to take a small room somewhere.”

  “Won’t you stay on with Vrouw Wolff?”

  “I couldn’t afford to, much as I would like to continue living in the same house as my sister.”

  “I’ve a suggestion. I know from all Francesca has told me that you are a clever young woman. I wondered if, as a temporary measure and until you get something more suited to your abilities, you would consider giving me a helping hand with the children. It would give you a breathing space and you wouldn’t have to rush into anything just because you need to get work quickly. I couldn’t afford to pay you very much and you’d have to share a room with Ignatius, who is nine months, but you would have some hours of liberty every week and nobody goes hungry in this house!”

  Aletta was keenly appreciative of the offer, but uncertain. “I understood from Francesca that your husband never wished to have another woman staying in the house.”

  “That’s true, but he is away at the present time and all matters are under my jurisdiction.”

  “I’ve had no experience in looking after children.”

  “But you like them, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but I want to be perfectly honest about everything. I should like to work here, but I seem to have little patience these days if anyone crosses me.”

  “All the better. My offspring need a firm hand.” Catharina lowered her voice confidentially. “I’m almost certain that I must be pregnant again. I’m not sure yet, but I’m queasy at the oddest hours. Elizabeth is a good maidservant, but she has enough to do and for once, just for my husband’s sake when he returns, I’d be glad not to have my mother fussing over me.”

  “When would you like me to start?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll move in tomorrow morning when I come with Francesca.”

  Later that evening Aletta wrote to Sybylla and asked her to send on the chest of belongings that had been left packed in readiness. Francesca kept to herself her doubts about how Sybylla and Maria would manage, but Aletta brought up the subject.

  “Maria won’t let go of the purse strings, no matter how hard Sybylla might try to get hold of them, and Griet will feel herself in charge, paying only lip service to the other two. I think we sometimes forget how long she has been with us, how much she has learned and what a competent housekeeper she has become. In spite of what Father said to me, I wouldn’t have left those at home in the lurch if I’d felt they couldn’t manage without me.”

  When Aletta moved into Mechelin Huis she found that her room, which was on the third floor and at the front of the house, gave her an uninterrupted view of the de Veere house opposite. Even as she looked out, a mud-splashed coach with tired horses drew up outside its entrance, which she guessed had brought one of the doctors from Amsterdam, and this was confirmed when a man in the customary black garb of a doctor hastened into the house. She tried to guess which was Constantijn’s bedchamber. Living quarters were most likely to be on the floor above the offices, which meant he would be lying behind the windows that were on a level with hers, the grandest rooms being usually at the front of the house.

  All the Vermeer children took to Aletta, although they soon found that she had a will of iron and would have discipline. They respected her for it, for they were then clear as to what the situation was and it was satisfying to have a framework of rules to kick against when they felt rebellious. By their natures they bore out to her, even as she had learned from her own childhood, that parents who showed love for each other bred affectionate children. They were a warmhearted bunch, incredibly naughty at times, but there was also a great deal of laughter in the Vermeer house, which Aletta enjoyed on the surface while inwardly she remained frozen and bereft. She liked Jan Vermeer as much as his wife, for he was most kindly toward her and in return she tried to keep out of his way as much as possible, although she supposed he had no objection to her being in the house since he knew it was a temporary measure.

  Catharina was not pregnant after all, but had been afflicted by some curious illness that made her giddy with pain in her head, forcing her to lie down. There were some days when she could not rise from her bed, but then she took a turn for the better and was full of hope that she would be well enough to bake and prepare for St. Nicholaes’s Day.

  “I’ve already started the baking,” Aletta said to her one morning, “and I’ve the girls to help me, teaching them at the same time. Even Beatrix has been removing the skins from almonds after they have been given a dip in hot water.”

  In the end Aletta did everything for the celebrations, including buying the gifts for the children, since Catharina was not yet well enough to do any purchasing herself. Aletta and Francesca also made or bought their own presents for all the family, and they sent a small package home by canalboat, which contained gifts from both of them to everyone there.

  “You had better not put my name as a half-donor on those fancy coat buttons for Father, or else he’ll never use them,” Aletta had said.

  “I’m doing it anyway,” Francesca said, “and when I go home at Christmas I’ll sew them on his best coat myself if it’s not already been done.”

  As yet Aletta had been kept so busy in the Vermeer household that she had not found time to look for other employment and in any case Catharina still had need of her. Not once had she been in the studio, but she had lingered many times in front of the paintings in the house, appreciating those by other artists as well as Vermeer’s. Totally detached, she viewed these works of art as if she herself had never painted, unable to feel the sense of loss that she was sure was crushing her inside.

&
nbsp; Almost daily there was some word spoken of the patient across the square. His mother was constantly at his bedside. Since he had lost so much blood she refused to allow anyone to bleed him further and two of several doctors had left in a huff. All sorts of potions were being prescribed to help him regain his strength, many with a vile taste, according to hearsay.

  “Do you remember the ingredients of the specially nourishing broth that Mama used to give us when we were ill?” Aletta asked Francesca after hearing of these vain attempts to restore the invalid.

  “Yes, I made it often enough after I was put in charge of the house-hold. It needs bone marrow and eggs with everything else, including just enough of the right spices to encourage the most jaded appetite. I believe I can guess what you have in mind.”

  “I thought you would. If we made the broth and presented it at the de Veere house on St. Nicholaes’s Eve, nobody could take offense or think our action presumptuous.”

  “I agree. That’s a splendid notion. I’ll buy all we’ll need.”

  “And I’ll ask Catharina if we may make it in her kitchen. I’m sure you don’t want to ask any favors of Geetruyd!”

  Catharina was only too willing and insisted that they used her spices, which saved expense. When the day came Francesca had to work in the studio, but she had written out the ingredients to present with the broth in case Vrouw de Veere should wish to make it again for her stricken son.

  That evening Jan accompanied Aletta across the square with the jug of broth, having offered to present her, for he knew Constantijn’s parents, who had bought paintings from his gallery several times. Francesca had already gone back to Kromstraat with Clara.

  “You take it as your gift,” she had said to her sister. “After all, you were the one who suggested it in the first place.”

  The entrance into the de Veere house was next to the one into the office. Jan and Aletta were invited in and on the first floor the two parents, a couple of about her father’s age, dignified and gracious, received them in a splendidly appointed room.