“I’ll walk you there.” Pieter took his greatcoat from a peg and thrust his arms into it. Then he put on his hat and carried the basket for her as they went out of the office together. It was a crowded market day with plenty of traffic. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the old-fashioned but well-polished coach waiting for Aletta with Josephus on the box.
“You didn’t tell me you were riding in style today.”
“It’s the coach Constantijn’s grandparents used to ride in. I could easily have walked in and out of town, but he always insists that Josephus take me these days.”
Pieter put the basket on the seat for her and helped her into the coach. There was no glazing in the windows, but leather blinds helped keep out the drafts. He wished her happiness for the Feast of St. Nicholaes and the blessing of Christmas. She gave him her good wishes in return.
When they had exchanged a wave she let the leather blind fall back into place and the coach went bumping away over the cobbles. Pieter stopped to talk to someone he knew and was on his way back to the office when a sudden commotion occurred just ahead. He saw that a drunken wagoner, who had been leaving the market after delivering goods, had whipped up his horses carelessly, startling them both with an unexpected sting of the whip’s end, and they had lunged forward to send the wagon into the side of a cart. No damage was done, but the wheels had locked.
Immediately Pieter ran with some other men to lend his strength in lifting the two vehicles apart. It was all over very quickly. The wheels were separated and the horses soothed. The wagoner, bawling his thanks to everybody, drove off down the lane leading into Voldersgracht while the two carters, sitting side by side in the cart, continued quietly on their way out of the square, disappearing from sight beyond the Old Church. Pieter sauntered thoughtfully toward his office, wondering what it was about that commonplace incident that had left a question mark in his mind. Inside the office the clerk looked up and saw the distorted image of his employer through the small leaded panes of the upper half of the door. Then abruptly it vanished again.
Pieter was on his way at a run to the stables to fetch his horse. It had come to him what had been unusual about that incident. Carters and wagoners were notorious for their rough language if anything riled them, particularly if their horses or vehicles were harmed in any way, and frequently resorted to fisticuffs, always to the merriment of any crowd who immediately gathered. Such a fight could have been expected from the drunken wagoner, who had been brandishing his fists in readiness, as if he had been the innocent party. Yet the men on the cart had not uttered a word of rebuke, merely concerned that the load on their cart had not been jerked loose under its covers by the impact. Their horses had shown sweaty signs of having been driven hard, but they had come into the square at a slow pace and had left again in the same manner. There was nothing out of the ordinary in that, but combined with the uncharacteristic behavior of the carters it demanded investigation.
As always on a market day, a good many farming carts and other vehicles were rolling in and out of town. Geese, newly purchased at the market, flapped their wings and squawked out of Pieter’s path as he rode through and then a flock of sheep slowed him down. Two separate herds of cows further hindered him, one ambling along the road and the other crossing it from one field to another. The distance he had to ride before sighting the cart he was looking for showed that the man with the reins had resumed the former speed of his horses in spite of the hazards of livestock and the difficulty of passing other vehicles in places where the winding road narrowed.
He could see how swiftly the two men ahead were bowling along and he matched his speed to theirs at a distance. He no longer thought of them as being carters by trade, certain they were engaged in some special business of their own. They might be thieves having no connection at all with the mission to which he had been recruited. Twice the companion of the man who was driving looked back at him, although it was impossible to distinguish his features. Then Pieter realized they were testing him, driving still faster and then slowing again to see if he altered his distance to any degree. He made his own speed irregular and when they settled to a steady pace again he was sure he had reassured them.
Suddenly the road formed an S bend through woodland and when he thought to come in sight of the cart again it had vanished. He spurred his horse into a gallop and discovered a crossroads. There was no way of telling which direction the men had taken. He studied the surface of the roads, but it was rock hard and there was nothing among the old tracks to give a clue. Undeterred, he searched diligently, taking one road until he could see the open countryside beyond the trees and then returning to search in another direction. Once he saw a cart in the far distance and galloped hard after it through a maze of farm lanes, only to find it was not his quarry. Finally he was forced to turn back to Delft.
That evening in the Mechelin he conversed with many local people, but he learned nothing except that the cart did not come regularly to Delft, although one man was certain he had seen it twice before.
“When was that?” Pieter asked casually, buying his new acquaintance as well as himself another pint of beer.
“The first time must have been last spring,” was the reply, followed by a slurp of beer.
“And since then?”
“About two months ago. Not long after the kermis.”
“How can you remember that particular cart? It’s no different from any other that is painted green with red wheels.”
“I’m a whip and thong maker and I made and sold the whip that’s on that cart. You know my place of work. Come and see me tomorrow and I’ll show you how to spot my whips anywhere.” The tankard was drained. “I thank you for the beer. You shall have a swig of my homemade brew in return. It’s the best in all Holland.” With a guffaw the whip maker left.
Pieter went to see the whip maker the next day, and found that the homemade beer proved to be extremely potent. He grinned appreciatively after the first swig as he stood in the man’s workshop with windows that faced the road along which both he and the mysterious cart had passed the day before.
“How can you find a barrel strong enough to hold this brew?” he asked, wiping some foam away from his mouth.
The whip maker enjoyed the joke. “It’s not easy. Now you take a look at the handles of those whips for sale in that rack over there and then you’ll know why there’s no mistaking a whip of mine.”
The whips were standing upright with the thongs tied. After setting down his tankard, Pieter took one and examined the handle. It was bound in thin strips of soft leather in an intricate pattern that in no way detracted from the smoothness of the grip. One strip was stamped in gilt, enhancing the general effect, and others in the rack had variations of design.
“These are examples of splendid craftsmanship,” Pieter commented. “They must be very expensive.”
“They are. That’s why it stuck in my memory when a carter bought one of them. Never before have I sold one of those whips to any but the well-to-do, who want their coachmen to be smart in every detail. I went outside to take a closer look at the cart itself, expecting it to be something special, but as you know, it was far from that. Why are you so interested anyway?”
“I once had a cart like it at my Haarlem bulb fields,” Pieter answered truthfully. It had been an old one used on the farm before he had replaced it with another.
“So you think this might be yours? Stolen, was it?”
“Maybe. It was stored in one of the brick barns. All I can say is that I’ll be glad if you’d let me know if you see it again.”
“Indeed I will.”
Pieter took Francesca’s sketch from his pocket. “Was this the carter who bought the whip?”
The whip maker studied it and shook his head. “No.”
“Could it have been his companion riding with him?”
“I can’t say. I didn’t pay him any attention.”
Back in his own office Pieter studied a map of the area he had h
anging on the wall. His gaze followed the lanes leading out from the crossroads, as he wondered where he had lost the cart. The most likely solution was that the two men had hidden themselves and their cart in one of the farm stables or behind a barn out of his sight. At least he could be sure that if the same cart came this way again, the whip maker, who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, would be on the watch and quick to inform him.
ON THE MORNING of the Feast of St. Nicholaes, Aletta exchanged small gifts with Sara and Josephus. Presents arrived in abundance for Constantijn from his parents and relatives, but several were more suitable for a bedridden invalid and defeated the purpose for which they had been sent. He would give his own gifts to the domestic staff in the hour before dinner, a tradition of the house from his grandparents’ time. He had already handed over purses of money to Aletta for her to give to the gardeners. Sara was preparing a meal of his favorite dishes and Aletta had selected the best of the wines to serve with each course. She had already made up her mind to change that evening into one of her special gowns, unworn since she had attended events in the company of Francesca at the Vermeers. Normally in her role as housekeeper she dressed soberly with plain caps, although she wore dark silks in the evening and usually a more flattering cap of lace with a lining in a contrasting hue.
When the hour came she selected a lilac-blue velvet that was far from new, but which had always suited her. She brushed her hair well, pinned it up again and put on one of her party caps, which was covered in small glass beads. Lastly she took the Florentine bracelet and fastened it around her wrist. It was the first time she had worn it since trying it on after Francesca delivered it in the spring. She felt quite exhilarated to be dressed up again and her footsteps were light as she returned to the kitchen. Sara threw up her hands at such elegance and Josephus agreed she was a pretty sight to behold.
When everything was ready for the dinner, Aletta told Sara and Josephus to go to Constantijn for their gifts. As a housekeeper she would receive hers from him on her own. She knew what he had for them, because he had entrusted her to make the purchases and also those for his parents, which she had dispatched in good time. When Sara and Josephus returned to the kitchen they were well pleased with his generosity. Then it was her turn. She had a present for him and took it with her.
Constantijn eyed her up and down with raised eyebrows of surprise. “You’re looking very grand this evening.”
“Only in keeping with this feast day.”
He picked up a brocade-covered box from the table at which he was sitting and handed it to her. “Pray accept my St. Nicholaes gift.”
“I thank you.”
As she put out a hand to take it, while at the same time offering hers to him, he noticed the gold bracelet on her wrist. His brows clamped into a frown and he seized her fingers in a viselike grip. “Where did you get this geegaw?”
“It came from Florence.”
“I can see where it was made,” he retorted, thin-lipped. “A lover’s token! Name the man who gave it to you for this St. Nicholaes’s Day!”
She sighed with exasperation. “Don’t start imagining that marriage is going to take me away from here. My aunt Janetje sent it to my home in Amsterdam and Francesca delivered it to me in the spring.”
“Why haven’t you worn it before?” He was still suspicious.
“It’s not suitable for daily duties. Today is an exception.”
He simmered down, releasing her hand, and let her take the brocaded box from him.
“I spoke hastily,” he said, which was the nearest he had ever come to an apology.
“At my home we always opened gifts together. Please take the one I have here for you.”
With a bow of his head he accepted the linen-wrapped gift tied with a ribbon, and thanked her courteously. While he unwrapped a book on great voyages she lifted the lid of the brocaded box to find a silver-topped crystal flask of the most costly perfume, which he could only have ordered through Josephus, and she appreciated the element of surprise he had planned for her. When they had both expressed their genuine pleasure in their respective gifts, she had dinner served to him.
Unexpectedly Constantijn did not appear to enjoy very much Sara’s carefully prepared meal and he drank the wine as if he did not recognize the vintage in the glass, his mood singularly odd. Aletta was relieved when he had finished eating and everything could be cleared away. All that remained was to fetch him a glass of brandy. Had he not been in such an unpredictable frame of mind she might have brought him the bottle on this special day, trusting in his restraint, but instinct warned her against it.
“Would you like a game of backgammon?” she asked him when she had put the brandy in front of him, it being the hour they usually settled to playing some game of chance.
“No. I want to be entertained in another way.”
She thought he meant music. “What pieces would you like this evening on the clavichord?”
“Forget about music. Pray stand in front of me where I can see you well.”
She obeyed uncertainly. “Do you wish to sketch me?”
“Not at the moment.” He was looking at her under his brows. “I only wish to admire you. It’s a long time since I’ve been in the presence of a well-dressed and comely young woman.”
A faint blush ran along her cheekbones. After she’d been standing before him for a minute she became increasingly uneasy. “May I go now?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Take your cap off.”
If he had asked her to strip she could not have been more deeply shocked. “Indeed I will not!”
“Why? Caps are for wives and old women—not for a fine-looking girl. You should be wearing flowers or ribbons instead. I can’t believe you sleep in that turban in which you appeared in the middle of the night after I’d seen those lights in the distance.”
She regarded him suspiciously. She had wound up her tresses in a length of silk each time he had roused her and Sara and Josephus from their beds. “Did you play that trick just to make me come here with my hair down?”
“Not the first or second time.” He grinned savagely. “And not that night two or three weeks ago, but maybe the rest of those summonses.”
“So you ruined the night’s rest of two old people and mine just for that? Your selfishness has no bounds!”
“I’ll wake all three of you night after night from now on if you don’t take off that cap.”
She flushed. “You have no right to ask me. Please stop!”
“Isn’t anyone ever going to see your locks?”
“My husband, in the unlikely event that I should marry.”
“I’ll marry you.”
The color faded from her face, which took on a paleness that was almost ashen, her eyes sparkling with fury. “How dare you!”
“Wait!” he thundered wrathfully as she stalked for the door. “Do you think I couldn’t husband you just because I have no legs?”
She paused, shaking with anger from head to foot. “I haven’t the least doubt about your manhood, but I will not be made the butt of your mockery anymore!”
“I’ve asked you to be my wife! What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything! If you were now as you were before the accident you’d have the choice of any number of beautiful women and you’d never give a glance in my direction. I will not be asked because you think I’m the only woman available or ever likely to be! You can’t even remember where we first met and it wasn’t in this house!”
She rushed from the apartment and her heels went tapping away at speed down the stairs. He lay back helpless in his chair, raging at his fate that prevented him from going after her. What had she meant about a meeting prior to her coming here? He searched his memory, but all he recalled was the faint impression that he had seen her before when she had first come into his room.
She did not return to turn down his bed as she always did, Sara arriving instead. Suddenly he was scared that Aletta had packed and left.
If she had he would send Josephus after her.
“Where’s Aletta?” he demanded as Sara smoothed the sheet into place.
“Indisposed, master,” Sara replied.
The relief that Aletta had not taken flight overwhelmed him. At present she was angry with him as she had been on many previous occasions when he had clashed with her, but she never sulked. She would come to wish him good night as usual. Not once had she missed doing that since her first night here. He waited optimistically, watching the clock, but when the hour grew close on midnight, he knew she was not going to appear. Glumly he prepared for bed. He read for a while, but his thoughts kept drifting from the pages to Aletta until he realized he was taking nothing in from the book and closed it abruptly.
It was when he had snuffed the last candle that he saw the same sequins of light in the far trees that he had seen before. The old panic rose in him. His friends had decided that the Feast of St. Nicholaes was a suitable time to renew their efforts to see him! He reached for the bellpull hanging conveniently by his bed and jerked it hard while at the same time he shouted at the top of his voice. At night the bell rang in Josephus’s accommodation over the stables as well as on the landing outside the bedchambers where Aletta and Sara slept. But nobody came. He snarled with rage. Aletta had played her old trick of disconnecting the bells, as she had done during the early days of her being in the house. Well, he had pistols handy, which he could fire over the heads of those oncoming friends of his. That should stop them in their tracks. But as he leaned over to pull out the drawer at the side of his bed he saw the lights had gone out again. He passed a hand across his eyes. Was it due to his imagination playing tricks with him after times of stress? There was a drive that passed through the woodland where the light appeared, but it was within the walls of his estate and none had access to the old gates there. Nevertheless, he would send Josephus to investigate in the morning. Anger against Aletta renewed itself. How dare she prevent those bells ringing! Now sleep was far from him. There was only one way of keeping at bay the melancholia that came in the small hours and that was to be found in a bottle of brandy.
The Golden Tulip Page 59
