The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  She had reached the door and paused to look over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”

  “I thank you most sincerely.” His voice was puzzled. “Why should you do so much for me?”

  She met his gaze steadily. By his own will he had broken his bonds. He had renewed his contact with the outside world through Pieter and it was only a matter of time now before he left his apartment and afterward this house and then moved back to Delft in his recovered self-respect. Soon he would no longer have any need of her.

  “My motive has never been entirely unselfish,” she admitted, coming back into the room. “I gave up being an artist when I left Amsterdam. In that accident by the bridge I was in the stage wagon with which your coach collided. I can’t remember exactly how my resolve began, but after seeing you injured and out of your senses that day I became convinced that my own life would never come to rights again until you were restored to yours.”

  “So I have been holding you back?”

  She smiled. “Not anymore. I believe we are both now on the mend.”

  “Sit down and tell me what happened in Amsterdam.”

  She obeyed and told him everything. When she had finished both were aware that the coldness between them had melted away again. “So now I may feel able to sketch a little sometimes.”

  “There’s still something else I want to know. Since I love you with all my heart, surely you can tell me why you are dedicated to wearing a cap?”

  Her breath caught in her throat at his statement. His eyes were full of love and she trembled, dipping her head to avoid his intense gaze. Haltingly she explained the fear that had been on her for so long. “Now you know everything about me,” she concluded in a whisper.

  “So that night on the stairs you didn’t scream in revulsion of me personally?”

  “No!” Her head shot up in dismay that he should have supposed such a thing. “That could never be! I love you!”

  Her confession was out before she could stop it and sent color sweeping up into her cheeks. Such joy suffused his face that she was almost dazzled by it. He held out his arms to her.

  “Then come here to me, darling Aletta, where you will always belong.”

  She remained sitting quite still for a few moments and then slowly she put up her violently trembling hands and removed her cap. Deliberately she shook the pins from her hair until it tumbled down around her face and down her back. He could see the enormous effort it had cost her and he loved her all the more for it. Now at last she came to him in a sudden little rush to fling herself across his chest and throw her arms about his neck. He crushed her to him and their kissing was long and passionate. She drew away from him only once and that was to take his hand and place it at the side of her face to guide his fingers into her hair.

  “Marry me,” he murmured urgently. “I have loved you for so long.”

  “I will,” she answered lovingly, placing a finger against his lips to silence any protest, “when you can stand beside me in the church.”

  “What a little shrew you are, my sweeting.”

  She smiled, surrendering to his kisses again. The accusation of shrew had lost all its previous meaning, for he had turned it into an endearment.

  From that day forward there began for Constantijn a time of trial and error in his attempts to walk, Aletta and Josephus constant in their encouragement. There was pain and stress, headlong falls and countless bruises. Once he cut his forehead open against a corner cupboard, blood dripping everywhere, and on another occasion he tipped backward and knocked himself out, but at no time did he falter in his determination to master the cumbersome legs. In spite of the soft padding in the cups, agonizing blisters developed on his stumps until the flesh was raw, but as soon as Josephus had changed the dressings on them he rebuckled on the legs and began again. He no longer stayed in his own apartment, but stumped and reeled and staggered and fell along the gallery and in and out of the other rooms on the same floor.

  Although often exhausted by the exertions of the day, he took turns with Josephus in keeping watch in case the intruders should return, but the snow remained unmarked and it was gradually accepted that Pieter’s opinion was correct that nothing more would happen until the thaw of spring.

  IT CAME AS a shock to Sybylla to learn that she was expected to move into the van Jansz house to be under her future mother-in-law’s supervision for the final two weeks before her marriage.

  “But you won’t be there!” she protested to Adriaen.

  “No, of course I can’t be. I’ll be at my sister’s house.”

  “But why can’t I be married from home?” She had imagined Francesca helping her dress for her wedding just as Mama would have done if she had still been here. Griet, almost as excited as she would be herself, would be in attendance, picking up anything that was dropped. And what of dear old Maria, who had arranged with Hendrick that her chair should be placed in the reception hall where she could see the bride come down the stairs? Adriaen had already promised that one of the coaches should take Francesca and Maria to the church. He did not know that Griet would be included. In the van Jansz household there were many servants and it would have been unthinkable for any one of them to be allowed such a privilege.

  “Dearest girl,” Adriaen replied, “this is no ordinary wedding. You have proved already that you are able to win the hearts of all, even that of the Grand Pensionary when he dined at my father’s table, but my mother wishes to show you exactly how to manage a fine house and a large domestic staff, such as we are to have, and where better than in my childhood home?”

  “Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. She was proud of the house on Heerengracht in which they were to live, even though she would have wished it to be more than five doors away from his parents’ domicile. Not that she had had much say in its furnishing and decoration, for Adriaen—on his mother’s advice—had engaged an advisor to decide everything. “But I want Francesca to help me dress for our wedding. Nobody else!”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  They were on their own in an anteroom, the door into the neighboring drawing room left ajar for propriety’s sake, his parents there with guests. Sybylla kept her voice low, as did Adriaen, which meant that Vrouw van Jansz would not be able to overhear their conversation, however much she strained her ears.

  “There is something else,” she said on an artfully wistful note.

  “Tell me, my little love.”

  “What a sweet man you are!” She gazed at him beguilingly, thinking to herself that he was as handsome as her father’s plaster cast of Apollo. “We need to talk very plainly.”

  He wondered what was coming. One never knew with Sybylla. She had already told him that she did not want to start a family until she had worn out fifty pairs of dancing shoes. But since he intended to have a son as soon as possible her dancing days were numbered until after that event. “What is it that you want to discuss?”

  “When are you going to settle my father’s debts and set my sister free?”

  “I’m not,” he replied with equal directness, able to see that the time of prevarication was over. “I had hoped that during these past months of our betrothal, and as the future wife of a banker, you would have come to realize that money can’t be handed out on a whim.”

  “It’s my sister’s whole future that is at stake!”

  “Don’t dramatize. She has a wealthy man passionately in love with her. After the announcement van Deventer made to all of us at his dinner party, he let it be known to everyone of importance that Francesca is to be his bride. There is no way that the betrothal can be broken off now.”

  “It could be if only you would loan my father the necessary sum.”

  “That is out of the question. Van Deventer has the greater claim on the loyalty of the van Jansz bank.”

  “But Ludolf was a privateer and did dreadful things!”

  A closed expression came over Adriaen’s face. “It is not the bank’s policy to question an investor’s pas
t or how he made his money. I shall forget what you said.” He had his arm about her waist and now he cuddled her close to him, kissing her temples, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. His voice became soft and persuasive. “Think how you’ll appreciate having your sister living nearby.”

  She moved her mouth to meet his in a more ardent kiss, for she enjoyed his kissing. One thing that particularly annoyed her about Hans was that he had never attempted to kiss her, although she had given him enough chances. Now Adriaen was murmuring all sorts of wonderful promises while in one part of her mind she was calculating how many months there were left before her sister went before the Guild. During that time she herself would be handing over the greater part of her allowance to Hendrick to enable him to pay off Ludolf month by month. Adriaen need never know.

  When she confided her plan to Hendrick the next day, explaining that it was the only course left open, he exploded with wrath against the van Jansz family.

  “That money-grabbing, miserly, France-loving bunch!” he roared, shaking his fists. “They’ve no right to call themselves Dutchmen! To think that they should make their wives sacrifice themselves to look after deserving relatives!”

  “Calm down, Father,” Sybylla said impatiently. “They don’t. It’s my choice and the only way we’re going to get Francesca out of that awful marriage. You’d better not say anything to Ludolf about repayment until you have the first installment in your hand.”

  He calmed down. “I wish I could contribute financially to lessen your burden. I’d sell Rembrandt’s painting of Titus if it would bring anything worthwhile, but Willem told me not long since that three or four hundred guilders would be as much as it could fetch.”

  “That’s less than a week of my future allowance! I would never want you to sell it anyway. It’s been in our home for as long as I can remember and Mama was always fond of it.” She gave him a hug and a kiss. “Everything is going to be all right. Just leave it to me.”

  HANS FINISHED THE Civil Guard painting. Sybylla went to see it the day before it was due to be moved out of the church into its place at the militia’s headquarters. She found Hans folding up the paint-blobbed linen cloth on which the easel had stood all the time.

  “Is the mouse in the painting now?” she asked eagerly.

  “It is.”

  She gazed low and high at the great painting, feeling she had come to know every bright eye and laughter wrinkle and fat jowl of the men depicted there, but still she could not locate the mouse.

  “I can’t see it!” She was desperate.

  “Keep looking.” He had put the folded cloth on the worktable and was packing up his belongings, which he had already sorted out from the pigments and oils and other materials that Hendrick had supplied.

  “You should give me a clue!”

  “No, you must use your eyes intelligently.”

  “That’s not fair. Why can’t you be agreeable? This is my last chance to find the mouse before I leave home for the van Jansz house.”

  “The painting will be on show to the public at the militia headquarters until the New Year.”

  “What good is that to me? I’ll have no time to go there and anyway it wouldn’t be the same as coming here.” She tried wheedling. “Be good, Hans. You promised you’d tell me.”

  “On your wedding eve and not before.”

  “You’re infuriating! You know I’ll not be allowed to go anywhere that day now that I’ll no longer be at home.”

  “Then maybe you’ll never discover the mouse’s whereabouts.” He stood ready to leave.

  Tears were spilling from her eyes. “You’re cruel!”

  He smiled wryly, remembering how she had tormented him with her flirtatiousness, her seductive wiles and her gibes about the wealthy life she was going to lead. “I haven’t intended to be. I wish you well, Sybylla. May you have all the happiness your heart desires. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day. I bid you farewell.”

  A sob clamped her throat. Her plea came brokenly, almost in a whisper, showing she knew how useless it was to utter it. “Don’t go!”

  He was already near the church door out of earshot and he left without looking back.

  At the van Jansz house Sybylla’s instructions from Adriaen’s mother took up several hours a day. It was like being under Maria’s rule again, except that now she did not dare answer back. She began to yearn even more for her wedding day, when, after the ceremony and the early part of the celebrations, Adriaen would whisk her away to their own home.

  He called to see her once every day, but now his mother never left them alone. Sybylla was at a loss to understand why. Did the woman fear that at this late stage passion might sweep them away? Or was it that her maternal jealousy was reaching its peak? Unexpectedly one morning Adriaen’s sister, who had arrived with him, mentioned they were on their way to view the splendid new group portrait at the militia headquarters, which everyone was talking about.

  “You must be very proud of your father’s achievement, Sybylla,” she said with condescension.

  “I should certainly like to see the painting in its final setting,” Sybylla expressed hopefully.

  “Then come with Adriaen and me.”

  Sybylla’s faint hope that Hans might be there vanished when she saw that her father had added his signature to the painting, which was his right, and Hans would never receive any credit for his share of the labor. She overheard several remarks that endorsed her own opinion that the five guards Hans had painted in full were by far the most vibrant and alive in the painting. Not that she was paying any attention to the overall picture, for she was looking frantically, here, there and everywhere, for the elusive mouse. She bit her lip with frustration when she had to leave without success.

  Chapter 22

  FRANCESCA LEFT DELFT FOR HER CHRISTMAS TRIP HOME TO Amsterdam the day before Sybylla’s wedding eve. She carried with her Constantijn’s formal request to Hendrick for Aletta’s hand and messages from his parents expressing their goodwill. Uppermost in Aletta’s mind was the dread that Hendrick would refuse to give his permission in order to punish her still more, but Francesca could not believe he would go to those lengths and had promised to speak to him on her behalf.

  For herself Francesca was glad to get away from Delft for a little while. There had been a strange atmosphere in Geetruyd’s house ever since Clara had disclosed her knowledge of the marriage contract. The following morning Geetruyd had been quite composed, nothing in her manner to hint at the emotional shock she had suffered, and to all appearances everything had carried on as before. Yet there was a subtle difference. Francesca felt she was being watched anew as closely and as strictly for some unknown purpose as in her first weeks at Kromstraat. It was a thoroughly uncomfortable sensation and yet there was nothing she could single out as direct evidence.

  She had heard from Aletta that Pieter had said she was to be told everything about the discovery of firearms at the de Veere house, for that was something he dared not tell her in the brief notes they exchanged. In one of those he had asked her to redouble her efforts with regard to her sketching, which she knew to mean it was more important than ever that she should let him know if the man she had drawn should come to Geetruyd’s house again.

  The journey home was speedy on the hard-packed ice. Nevertheless, when she arrived there it was too late in the evening to call at the van Jansz house uninvited to see Sybylla and she had to wait until morning. Hendrick and Maria vied with each other in being the most pleased to see her, and to her enormous relief Constantijn’s request was well received, even though it was for the wrong reason.

  “Let them wed whenever they will,” Hendrick said carelessly. “Draw up a letter of consent for me to sign before you leave again, Francesca. At last I’ll be rid of all responsibility for a wayward daughter.”

  “But, Father!” Francesca exclaimed indignantly. “You shouldn’t—”

  Maria cut across her words. “Help me to bed, will you, my dear? You two can talk agai
n afterward.” As soon as they were out of Hendrick’s earshot the old woman confided her reason for interrupting. “You’ll be wasting your breath trying to make him see sense about Aletta. I’ve tried so often, but he won’t listen and is as stubborn as a mule.”

  “Aletta committed the unforgivable sin of hurting his pride at a time when he had other troubles. Does he never speak well of her even after all this time?”

  “That’s easy to answer. Her name never crosses his lips for good orill. He’s so proud of Sybylla and her forthcoming marriage to a van Jansz that he has no thought for anyone or anything else.”

  “What do you think of the match?”

  “Sybylla has got what she wanted,” Maria replied philosophically. “But it’s well your dear mother is no longer here, because she would not have been happy about it.”

  In the morning Francesca went to the van Jansz house with a wedding gift of a Delft tulip bowl, to which both she and Aletta had contributed. Sybylla came flying to meet her as soon as she was announced, forgetting all Vrouw van Jansz’s instructions on how to behave in front of servants.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Francesca!”

  “And I to see you,” Francesca replied, made almost breathless by the tightness of her sister’s embrace. She was startled to see how strained Sybylla looked, but she supposed it had not been easy spending two weeks with Vrouw van Jansz.

  “I’ve so much to show you, Francesca.” Sybylla’s jubilation sounded slightly hysterical. “My wedding gown, my jewels, all my new clothes and the wonderful home that Adriaen and I are to live in!”

  “I want to see everything, but are you well?” Francesca asked with concern, for Sybylla was clinging to her like a child.

  “Yes, I’m just tired. Since I came to this house I’ve not been sleeping well. Adriaen’s mother is a gorgon,” she whispered, “and she criticizes my appearance and finds fault with everything I do until I could scream.”

  “You’ll soon be free of her now. Only twenty-four hours left. Show me your wedding gown.”