“How kind of you,” Heer de Veere declared heartily when Aletta had explained the purpose of her visit. Previously she had only seen him from a distance as he went in and out of the building and now, at close quarters, she could see the strain in his face over the tragedy that had befallen his son.
“Your thoughtfulness is more appreciated than you could ever realize,” his wife said to her. “Friends and neighbors have been wonderful with their support and to think that you, whom I know to have been in the stage wagon at the time of the accident, should come with your offering for our son’s well-being touches me deeply. I have seen you and your sister come and go at the Mechelin Huis during the many hours when I’ve sat by the window while my son has slept.” She dropped her gaze to the recipe for the broth that Aletta had given her with the jug, which had been sent to the kitchen. “I do believe this recipe is very similar to one that my grandmother used to make and that I have been unable to find. I know it to be good.”
“How is your son now?”
The woman exchanged a look with her husband as if it were getting harder all the time to answer such queries. “He is still desperately ill and sleeps most of the time.” Her voice caught on a tremulous note. “My greatest fear is that when he is stronger he will lose his mind.”
Heer de Veere interrupted quickly. “My dear, I’ve advised you not to consider that terrible possibility.”
“But how can I not?” she exclaimed emotionally, both to him and to their visitors. “Constantijn has put up such a fight to live, but once he discovers his legs have been amputated he will suffer the most dreadful mental torment. He was such a sportsman, you see.”
Jan nodded compassionately. “There was none to match him on ice or in a kaatsen team bashing that hard leather ball.”
The woman dabbed her handkerchief to each eye. “But that can never be again.”
Both Jan and Aletta saw it was time to take their leave. Vrouw de Veere thanked them again for coming. “I’ll go up and give my son some of your broth. It should be heated and ready by now.”
Heer de Veere saw the two visitors to the door. He echoed his wife’s thanks, but did not suggest that either should come again, which they had not expected in any case. After they had gone he went with slow steps back upstairs. He had been glad of the little diversion of a visit for his wife, for they were both stunned by more bad news to bear, news that had been received only an hour before but that they would have to keep to themselves for a while yet.
Before going to bed that night Aletta stood for a few moments at her window, as she always did, to look across at the one level with her own. Vrouw de Veere had shown such interest in the broth that she was sure it would be made up again and regularly if Constantijn should be like other sick people in appreciating its flavorsome goodness.
“You must live, Constantijn de Veere,” she whispered aloud. Then she closed the curtains again and went to look at Ignatius sleeping in his crib. He was a good baby and rarely woke at night. She leaned over to tuck his quilt closer about him, and a little necklace of coral, hanging over the end of the crib, rattled gently. It was an heirloom, such as was owned by most families and always handed down to the newest baby, for coral was known to have healing qualities and could ward off illness. During the day Ignatius wore it under his bodice, but when he was old enough not to snatch at it as babies did he would wear it outside his gown until his fifth birthday, when he was breeched, or Catharina had another baby, whichever was the sooner.
If at her home the Visser coral necklace had not been handed down to Sybylla, who had it in a drawer until she should have children, it would still have been in Aletta’s possession and she knew she would have taken it across the square and asked for it to be put under Constantijn’s pillow, as was sometimes done when an adult was sick. But since she did not have it she must trust to the wisdom of his doctor and the recipe for the broth. Neither detracted in any way from the strength of her prayers for him every Sunday in the Old Church, which she attended with the Vermeers, nor from those she said before she went to sleep at night.
PIETER WAS ON his way to Delft. After St. Nicholaes’s Night the year before when he had taken the hyacinth to Francesca’s home, he had no intention of not seeing her this year as well. He had chosen to go on horseback, for after much rain a recent cold snap had hardened the roads and the puddles had become glittering ice.
He had seen Francesca only once since he had called at the Vermeers’ house during the birthday party. It was during the time when Hendrick was still in prison and Aletta had implored him not to let her sister know of their father’s predicament. The arrangements for the meeting had been made through Gerard. Francesca had been waiting for him by the helm-roofed towers of the east gate that August morning. As he had ridden into sight, she had come running across the bridge to meet him, a slender figure in a green gown and a straw hat. She carried sketching materials, which provided the official reason for her being out all day, although she had taken Catharina into her confidence.
He had set her up on his horse and they had ridden out into the countryside where they could be alone. It had been an idyllic day with a picnic he had brought with him, which had included a bottle of wine. He had watched her make sketches of the sparkling canal and the cornfields beyond, distant harvesters to be seen and a red windmill seeming to preside over the whole tranquil scene. He had feasted his eyes on her lovely face composed in concentration on her drawing, the sunshine trapped in her glorious hair and the vulnerable beauty of the nape of her neck just above the white cambric collar.
There had been more tender moments when they had lain side by side, exchanging lovers’ whispers in the high grass that was full of wildflowers and aflutter with butterflies, wings as jewel-bright and transparent in the sun as stained glass. He had kissed her mouth, her face, her throat and the nipples of her pale breasts, aching to possess her. Once he had buried his face in her lap with such yearning, his arms clasped about her hips, that he had felt her quiver and gasp with desire. But she had raised herself to take his head between her hands and drawn him up to kiss his lips lovingly, her wide-open eyes telling him that the time was not yet, no matter that she might long for it as much as he.
When the hour had come for them to go their separate ways again she had given him a drawing of herself that Jan had done in a matter of minutes at her request. It was of her head and shoulders, an exquisite likeness and quite small. She had preserved it from creasing by placing it in a leather folder of the same size. He tucked it into his jacket next to his heart.
“Please convey my thanks to Master Vermeer,” he had said, his arms about her. “When is he going to paint you?”
“Catharina would like him to do so, because when he does have some rare time in which to paint it is not always convenient for her to leave everything to sit for him.”
“Well, then?”
“He would never take working hours away from me.”
“Then paint a self-portrait.”
Her smile teased him, but not her eyes. “Not yet,” she had said with the same warmth of promise with which she had restrained his passion earlier. Shortly afterward they had begun their regular if intermittent correspondence, his obliging friend, Gerard, always letting him know when a trip to Delft was in the offing. It was an exchange of love letters. Never before had he set down his innermost feelings as he did to her and they had both found that the old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder was true, except that the deepening and enriching of the love they already felt for each other went far beyond mere fondness.
Now, on this winter evening, he rode into Delft at dusk. Sounds of merrymaking and children’s laughter came from most of the houses as he rode past along the narrow streets. He planned to stay at the Mechelin tavern. It would be the first time he had stayed overnight in Delft, having left the town before nightfall on both previous occasions, putting up at hostelries on the road home. Now he had become more confident that all the time he rema
ined unknown and unrecognized in Delft he would incur no danger to Francesca.
The tavern was crowded and he had to wait before the landlord’s wife at the desk could give him her attention. “I’m sorry, mijnheer,” she said in answer to his request for a room, “but this is St. Nicholaes’s Night and every room is taken by those coming home for family celebrations. You will find it is the same with every hostelry in the town.”
“Can you recommend a private house where I might find accommodation?”
“Again I have to say no on this night. But wait a moment.” She leaned back from the desk until she could see her husband and shouted to him, “Has Vrouw Wolff any vacancies left?” When he shook his head she shrugged her shoulders apologetically at Pieter. “That is how it is with every house that normally obliges us with an overflow.”
“At least may I leave my horse in your stables?”
“Certainly. They are a short distance away, but you’ll find an ostler outside who will take your horse there.”
After removing the saddlebag, Pieter left his horse in the ostler’s charge and took the few steps that led him to the front of the well-lit Mechelin Huis. His intention of surprising Francesca was certainly going awry. She had told him that Catharina had promised that when he could call again they should have some time on their own together. Now he had to complicate matters by asking Catharina if he might spend the night under her roof, if only in a chair. He felt it was an imposition to ask, but he himself would never have wanted anyone of his acquaintance to spend a freezing night in a doorway and he was certain she would be of the same mind.
He asked for Catharina as soon as he was in the entrance hall and Elizabeth, rosy with happiness over the gifts she had received, having been treated as generously as if she were one of the children, bobbed to him. “I’ll tell the mistress that you are here.”
He and Catharina had not seen each other before, for it was only her husband whom he had met on his first visit to her house, but she welcomed him as if they were well acquainted.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Pieter. What a happy surprise Francesca is going to have! You can join our party without any worry, because we are only close family this evening. My mother is here, but she knows the situation and will not give away your presence in Delft. Where are you staying?”
He then explained his predicament. Normally she would have invited him to stay without hesitation, but she had gained special permission from Geetruyd for Francesca to stay the night and she was uncertain about having two people passionately in love with each other under her roof at the same time. She knew if she and Jan had been spending the night in the same house during their courtship days nothing would have kept them apart. Then the solution came to her.
“I’ve thought of something.” She left him for a matter of minutes and then returned, her crescent smile wide. “I’ve spoken to my mother without Francesca hearing and she is willing that you should stay at her house, where she has plenty of room.”
“I’m most grateful.”
“Now I’ll tell Elizabeth to show you where you can wash and tidy up after your journey. Meanwhile I’ll organize everything so that all the party can join in your surprise arrival, just as it was last year in Amsterdam. Francesca told me about the hyacinth!” Although they were on their own she whispered to him as to how he should make an entrance and he agreed willingly.
After washing, he changed into a clean shirt from his saddlebag and put on a fresh cravat of plain linen. Having already removed his riding boots, he put his feet into buckled shoes. He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve and was ready to play his part in Catharina’s reorganization of his sudden appearance at the St. Nicholaes’s Night celebrations. Elizabeth was to give her mistress a prearranged signal.
At the party Aletta and Francesca were sitting on the floor playing a game with the children in which a ring was passed secretly from hand to hand while the child in the middle, who happened to be Beatrix, tried to locate it. She was quite wild with excitement. Looking around the circle on the floor, Beatrix pounced on Francesca’s hand like a boisterous puppy. “You have it!”
She was right and it was the moment Catharina had been waiting for. “That means Francesca must pay a forfeit!” she announced merrily, clapping her hands to make herself heard above the mirth. “She shall be the first to be blindfolded in a game of chase-and-capture.”
Francesca submitted willingly to having her eyes bound with a clean kerchief by Jan. Then all the children joined in spinning her around until she lost all sense of direction. They were nimble and dodged her. She was certain she almost had someone within her grasp when lace flicked across the tips of her fingers as she had her arms stretched out before her. Too late she realized the trick that had been played on her as she felt the cooler air of the adjoining room on her face and the communicating door slammed behind her, muffling the sounds of the party. Laughing, she fumbled at the knot at the back of her head.
“Let me do it for you,” Pieter’s voice said, releasing it.
The blindfold fell away and her delighted eyes absorbed the sight of him for no more than a matter of seconds before she was in his arms. It was the hammering of the children on the other side of the door, demanding her return, that eventually brought an end to their kissing.
“This time I’m able to join the party,” he said as he led her to the door.
Catharina watched them enter together. She saw how they looked at each other with the eyes of lovers for a brief moment before they turned simultaneously to smile at those in the room, and she thought them more blessed than they probably realized. Only those who had experienced the constant threat of being parted forever, whether by parental opposition or any other kind of catastrophe, fully appreciated love and life together when eventually it was achieved. Jan was already welcoming the new arrival. What a perfect evening it was turning out to be!
Aletta had gone forward eagerly to greet Pieter, who kissed her hand and her cheek. Catharina, still watching, saw something in Aletta’s face that might have been love too, but it was only there for a fleeting moment and was gone almost as soon as it had appeared.
When the party was over Pieter and Francesca had a little while alone to exchange their gifts and make their own loving farewell. He gave her a necklet of pearls, which was of the fashionable length to be worn high about the throat, a single drop pearl hanging from it, and he fastened it on for her.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, looking at her reflection in a mirror. “I’ll treasure it always.”
She had a gift for him. It was a small painting of the view taken from the sketch she had made on the August day they had shared together. Within its frame he saw again the canal asparkle with sun-diamonds, the cornfield and the windmill beyond.
“It’s splendid, and you’ve signed it!” He peered closer at her signature. “There’s a tulip within the signature. How apt!”
“Jan gave me permission to sign it. As my master everything I paint belongs to him and he has sold most of my work, but he allowed me to keep this one for a token sum, so it’s not a costly gift that you have received.”
“You’re mistaken.” He looked fondly at her. “It’s the first painting of yours that I’ve ever owned and that makes it beyond price to me.”
From the entrance hall Catharina called tactfully through the door that was standing ajar. “My mother is ready to leave, Pieter.”
At Vrouw Thin’s house he was given a good bed in a warm room. In the morning, although he rose at an early hour, the servants were about and he was served a hearty breakfast.
“Snow is on the way,” a manservant warned while pouring out steaming coffee for him. “I was born on a farm and I know all the signs of bad weather. It’s my belief that a blizzard is not far distant.”
A few flakes were falling when Pieter went to collect his horse at the stables, but there was no wind and it was less cold than on the previous day. He covered the many miles back to Haarlem with
out any delay, relieved that the forecast had so far not proved to be right.
Haarlem Huis was always at the center of activity, even in winter. The most constant chore was that of cosseting the orange trees, a careful check on the lamps thrice daily ensuring a steady temperature, whatever the degrees of frost might be outside the orangery. Pieter was planning to build another such orangery very shortly, for this expensive tree was much in demand.
Whenever business elsewhere caused him to be absent from his bulb fields more than he would have wished, at least he could be sure that all would be efficiently run while he was away, for he had an excellent manager, who lived on the site in the old farmhouse. It had been the van Doorne family home until Haarlem Huis had been built on the profits of the short, sharp spell of tulipomania, from which Pieter’s late father had emerged successfully.
Pieter, well satisfied with his own investments in cargoes, was able to follow the latest shipping reports even from Haarlem Huis, for Holland had more newspapers in circulation than the rest of Europe put together. He was reading one of several that he took regularly when Gerard called in at Haarlem Huis to see if there was a letter ready for him to take to Delft.
“Not this time,” Pieter said after they had settled at the fireside, each with a glass of wine. They had been friends since their school days and were totally relaxed in each other’s company. “Neither Francesca nor I expected you to be going there again before Christmas and what we would have written is to be said instead when we see each other very soon now in Amsterdam. I’m banned from calling at her home, but we shall meet at my house.”
“How did your trip to Delft go?”
“Extremely well.”
“Good fortune must be smiling on you.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Pieter replied firmly and raised his glass while Gerard did the same.
But the toast was to no effect. Neither Pieter nor Francesca was able to get to Amsterdam for Christmas. A great blizzard swept across Europe, blocking roads and causing many of those trapped by it to freeze to death.
The Golden Tulip Page 40
