Yet even that took second place beside the knowledge that Pieter, as an officer in the reserve, his duty done in Delft, which he had most surely meant by saying all was well, would be going to the fighting. His safekeeping came above all else. She wished with all her heart that she could have lain with him once more before war took him away.
Francesca and her fellow inmates, who numbered twenty-three, heard about the success of the armed confrontation at the de Veere house, for local news and that of the war was given to them daily, all part of a scheme to awaken a sense of responsibility. For the same reason clothes were made for the poor and turns were taken in soup making for any who came hungry to the door. Francesca was saddened to know of the death of Josephus, who had been a friend to her sister and had done so much to help Constantijn.
She guessed that by now Aletta would have notified their father about this incarceration. Many times when a door opened she looked up from her work in the hope of seeing Hendrick with his broad red face and wide girth come striding in, full of indignation about what had happened, to snatch her away. But that did not occur. A fellow inmate explained why.
“When one of us is considered to be so wicked that even our parents can’t be trusted to have charge of us, we are put under the authority of the city of Delft. That has probably happened in your case, even if it was no more than a romp in the hay. What did you do anyway?”
“It’s too long and complicated a story to relate, but of one thing I’m certain. I wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t aroused needless jealousy in another woman.”
The day Francesca should have submitted her paintings came and went. She heard nothing from Pieter or her family because those newly admitted were allowed no correspondence, except on compassionate grounds in the case of illness or bereavement in the family, until a period of six months had elapsed. The war news was not good. The French army, as if leaving nothing to chance, was taking every place whether important or not in their steady advance toward Amsterdam, which they intended to reach before sweeping south to The Hague and, if surrender had not been signed before then, Delft as well. Yet there was hope. The Prince had moved with his staunch little army into a strong position of defense, which it was hoped might soon change into one of attack. During a temporary absence of van Golpen from Delft, another regent, whose sympathies were with the Prince, supplied the information that apathy and disagreement were melting away among many who had been against the House of Orange, but there were still far too many pockets of nonresistance where the French were welcomed, either through fear or concern for personal wealth and position or, in the case of Dutch soldiers, lack of adequate weaponry and good command.
Francesca came to know her fellow inmates well. There was much willfulness, tempers and screaming hysterics, especially among those parted from men they loved, whom their families had forbidden them to marry. She was full of compassion for them, not concerned with the rights or wrongs of any case, but understanding their heartache. Even more pathetic were girls, finally broken by incarceration, who were coming to terms with having to marry their parents’ choice of a husband after long defiance had proved in vain. All those in her section were from what were known as good homes, most from well-to-do backgrounds. In another part of the building were young prostitutes, who were kept segregated until such time as they were considered reformed, and Francesca only saw them when they waved from barred windows whenever she and her fellow inmates strolled for exercise for one hour twice a day within a walled garden.
When she was given duties of digging and weeding she was at her happiest since coming into custody, even though she had been assigned to the vegetable patch and not to the flower beds. One glorious morning she paused in her work to turn her face to the sun. To be out of doors on such a day made her yearn to be sketching and painting again. She watched swallows swooping overhead, dark against a pure sky blue—azurite mixed with just the right amount of lead white paint. She smiled, certain that Hendrick would have added a wispy cloud or two.
“Francesca!” It was one of the women in charge striding toward her. Francesca sighed to herself. She had been caught loitering. That would mean a punishment of going without supper, or some such petty penalty.
“Yes, mejuffrouw?” she replied sharply, expecting a further reproof for her tone, but there were times when she did not know how much longer she could endure the injustice of her incarceration. There was no cruelty in this place—all in authority were quietly spoken and extraordinarily patient and kind in many ways—but the rules were as inflexible as the bars on the windows.
“You are wanted in the board room.”
There were several doors to be unlocked by jangling keys before the room was reached. Francesca was instructed to knock and go in. She had learned through previous disappointments not to expect anything more than an interrogation as to her attitude and state of mind by the regentesses of the board, which took place at regular intervals. This time when she entered there were no white-capped, black-gowned ladies seated at the table. Instead Aletta and Jan Vermeer stood waiting to see her. She uttered a cry of joy and her sister rushed to embrace her.
“We’ve come to take you away!” Aletta exclaimed happily. “A letter ordering your release came from the Prince of Orange! Pieter put a request through to him!”
“How kind and generous of the Prince when he has so much to do and think about!”
“He knows how you served him and our country.”
“It was so little.” Francesca turned to Jan. “It’s good of you to have come too! I’ve had no chance to draw or paint.”
“I know. I tried to get materials in to you, but it was not allowed.”
“I realized that.” She was eager to collect her belongings and leave, but there was one question she had to ask her sister first. “How is Pieter? Do you know where he is?”
“Read for yourself.” Aletta handed Francesca a letter. “It came with the Prince’s order that your freedom be restored to you.”
Francesca could not resist reading it through as soon as she returned to her quarters to pack. It was a love letter always to be treasured. All she would be able to tell the others was that he was with the Prince, but he had not stated his exact whereabouts. She feared he was in the thick of the fighting.
Her packing was soon done, because she had only those items she had brought with her on the night she had arrived. She changed quickly out of the institution’s garments and into her own clothes. With a bundle looped over her arm she returned to her waiting sister and her master. The three of them rode to his house in the de Veere coach. Francesca was starved for family news. She learned that all was well with Hendrick and Maria. What was more, Aletta had heard again from Sybylla.
“She wanted to let me know she was pregnant. I think she was longing to tell one of us her good news and this time she gave me her address in Rotterdam. I was able to let her know that she and Hans have nothing to fear from the van Jansz family, which was a great relief to both of them. They have been living in fear of discovery.”
“Will they be coming back to Amsterdam?”
“No. Sybylla has Father’s touchy pride and she wants to wait until the whole affair has completely blown over and been forgotten.” Aletta chatted on, filling gaps. Geetruyd had never been found. Ludolf was to have been arrested as a major spy, but no trace could be found of him and it was believed he was with the French forces. “So you are safe from that dreadful man at last, Francesca!”
Jan hoped in his own thoughts that Francesca had been spared the wretched marriage, but everything depended on whether France could be kept from overrunning Holland. Pieter had told him that Geetruyd had revealed once to Francesca that Ludolf believed himself to be destined for high places, which surely meant at least a ministerial position in a Dutch puppet government under Louis XIV. Then none would be able to withstand Ludolf, Francesca least of all.
Catharina and the Vermeer children were waiting at Mechelin Huis to welcome Francesca
back again and a feast had been prepared, at which Constantijn was to join them. As yet Francesca had not mentioned her lost mastership and neither had Jan, but as so often in the case of children, Beatrix was unable to hold back a secret and she blurted it out, the shushing from her mother and her older sisters coming too late.
“The Guild liked your paintings, Francesca!”
Wide-eyed, Francesca looked to Jan for confirmation. “Did you submit my work on my behalf?”
“I did,” he admitted smilingly. “We had planned a special surprise during which to tell you, because the children have written and prepared a song about it for you. It is to prelude our sitting down to table.”
She turned to the younger children and to Beatrix, who had hung her head in shame at her own foolishness in speaking too soon. Francesca tilted the child’s chin upward with a fingertip. “Do you know, Beatrix, I’m glad to have been told first. It will make the song twice as enjoyable. May I hear it now?”
The young ones scampered to the virginal and were arranged in their places by the older girls while Catharina seated herself at the keys. The song was simple and amusing and tuneful. Francesca clapped heartily. Then she spoke to Jan again. “Please tell me what happened on the day I should have been before the Guild Committee.”
“I gave a full explanation as to why you had been shut away. Not all those on the Guild Committee are for the Prince, but art has no boundaries or politics, race or creed, and your work was judged on its own merits. As you know, no decision is ever made on the day itself, but I was hopeful. Then I had to approach them again when notification came for you to appear on the set day in May. Again they were considerate in view of the quality of your work and said they would see you as soon as you were released, whenever that might be.”
“I can’t thank you enough!”
“There’s no need for thanks. You have worked hard and your painting more than deserves a mastership.”
Constantijn had arrived by then and he came to greet her, managing his legs and his crutches even more deftly than he had done when she had last seen him, but she was dismayed to see that he had a bruise down the side of his face and a black eye. He grinned at her concern.
“I took a tumble down the stairs,” he explained. “I smashed a crutch but I have a replacement. I’m touched by your sympathy, Francesca,” he joked. “I get none from your sister. She simply brings me another crutch she has in reserve and tells me to get up again.”
Francesca met Aletta’s gaze and they exchanged a look of understanding. There were many ways of showing love.
FRANCESCA STAYED WITH Aletta and Constantijn while awaiting a call to the Guild after they had been informed of her release. She was shown how and where the armed conflict between the Prince’s men and the traitors had taken place. Constantijn had been keeping watch and alerted all the servants, giving them firearms. One advance intruder was wounded and another roped up when the three who had come through the old gates were driven up the side gates with no attempt at cover, those with the whips believing they had nothing to fear. Then Constantijn opened fire and after that Aletta and the women kept firearms from the cache primed with gunpowder, ramrod and ball. It was all over very quickly, for Pieter and his men approached from the old gate, and although one traitor made a dash for it he was caught eventually, two were killed and the rest surrendered. Tragically Josephus had already been fatally wounded.
Francesca went with Aletta to put flowers on his grave. She also visited Clara, with whom she had no quarrel. She found her quite content and busy baking pies.
“I didn’t know what to do when I heard from Pieter van Doorne that Geetruyd was a traitor and had fled justice,” Clara exclaimed. “I think I went around in circles, because I was so lost and frightened, but Weintje saved my senses. She said that if Geetruyd had gone and was never coming back, the house was mine. If I was agreeable she would continue to run the house as accommodation for travelers on condition her sweetheart could live here too as soon as they were married.” The little woman beamed and clasped her floury hands together. “I’m so happy, Francesca. Weintje and I are partners and I’m allowed to help. We have only good travelers, respectable men and often married couples, who are sent to us by the landlord of the Mechelin tavern, and all is going well.”
It was noticeable that Clara had lost her hunted look, for previously she had lived in constant dread of reprimands and slighting remarks from Geetruyd, who had always considered her incapable of doing anything properly. Now she had come into her own simply by being allowed to do whatever she could do well, including pie making, all with praise from Weintje where previously Geetruyd had poured scorn.
Francesca opened her purse and brought out Ludolf’s betrothal ring. “My sister took this with my other trinkets and possessions when she collected them from here after I had been taken into the House of Correction. It should have been Geetruyd’s and never mine. Since she has literally left you her house and everything in it I would like you to take this ring. Keep it for a rainy day. I should like to think it was capable of doing some good.”
Clara was excited and Weintje was called. The maidservant added her thanks. “I will see that Juffrouw Clara keeps the ring secure. We are going to do well here, because neither I nor my husband-to-be is afraid of hard work. I hope all will go well for you, mejuffrouw. You deserve it after all you had to put up with here.”
Francesca was not allowed to leave before she had sampled one of Clara’s cherry pies, which was delicious. Weintje’s attitude toward Clara had become that of a niece protective toward an elderly aunt. Francesca could foresee only mutual benefit coming from the relationship.
Another source of pleasure for Francesca was that Aletta was painting regularly again. Although her work showed that she was badly in need of tuition, the same vital force was there waiting to be touched into an authoritative control of light and color and movement. Francesca’s eye was experienced enough now to see that her sister would never be a great artist, but she would be worthy of a mastership. Aletta was to begin her apprenticeship on the day after Francesca went before the Guild.
“Master Vermeer said he must see one apprentice safely launched into a mastership before he starts work with another,” Aletta explained.
When the important day came, Francesca, through the generosity of Constantijn and her sister, had a new outfit to wear. The wide-brimmed straw hat, trimmed with white ribbons, turned upward from her face at one side and her gown was of strawberry-colored silk. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and swept into the grand hall where the president and the dignitaries of the Guild awaited her. They sat at a long table facing her. A single chair, not as high-backed as theirs, had been placed ready for her in front of them. Her six paintings were on display easels and her drawings and etchings laid out on a side table.
The president, a gray-haired man in a velvet hat and crimson robes, greeted her. “Good day to you, Juffrouw Visser. Pray sit down.” He indicated the chair facing him and when she had seated herself he continued. “Your work has aroused the interest of us all. There are a number of questions we wish to put to you.”
It was not an ordeal. They talked to her of technique and subject matter and her answers appeared to satisfy them. Finally they all rose, she doing likewise, and the president took up a roll of parchment from which the seal of the Guild hung on a scarlet ribbon.
“Juffrouw Francesca Visser, I present you with documentation of your mastership of the Guild of St. Luke. You have my most sincere congratulations. You may have been born in Amsterdam, but you will always be a daughter of Delft.”
“I’m honored, mijnheer.” She received the document from him and then curtsied deeply. Dazed with happiness, she received the congratulations of the rest of the Committee and then walked with light steps from the room. In the anteroom there were more congratulations to come from Jan and Catharina, as well as from Aletta and Constantijn, who had been waiting there. Within an hour her work was back
at Jan’s studio and with joy she put her signature to each painting, incorporating a tiny tulip in a deep golden hue. It was almost too small to be seen, except by peering closely, but Aletta’s sharp eyes noted the shaded color she had chosen for the bloom.
“Why gold?” she asked. “It was cream when you signed Ludolf’s portrait.”
“This is a new beginning and a link with a certain time when as far as I could see the tulips were gilded by the sunrise.”
Aletta asked no more questions. Whatever lay beyond that moment did not belong to anyone other than Francesca and the man she loved.
FRANCESCA READ PIETER’S love letter many times over. He had advised her to go home to Amsterdam as soon as she had obtained her mastership and she was making ready for her departure from Delft. Aletta was against her going.
“Surely you would be safer from the warfare here in Delft? Every day we hear more of the French advance toward Amsterdam.”
“Pieter would never have wanted me to go there if he hadn’t thought it best. In any case, I want to be home with Father and Maria. They need me now with Sybylla away.”
“I would come with you on a visit if I could. But I can’t risk an upsurge in the war cutting me off from Constantijn.”
“I agree. Your duty is to be with him and to make the most of the teaching you will receive from Master Vermeer.”
Francesca found it hard to part from her sister and also from the Vermeers. Each of the children had drawn a picture or made a little gift for her, an embroidered bookmark and a purse from the two older girls. In the studio she had a few minutes alone with Jan. He was about to start a new painting entitled An Allegory of Faith. She did not doubt it would be as beautiful as the rest of his work.
The Golden Tulip Page 66
