“We’ll go to Maria first thing in the morning,” Jan said at the threshold of her room. “Sleep well.” He grasped her hand lightly, the second time he had touched her bare skin that day. Judith smiled and, for a moment, thought it wouldn’t have been terrible if there had been only one room available. She pulled her hand away.
“You as well.” She shut the door behind her and, after a moment listening to Jan’s steps fade down the hallway, she collapsed, still wearing all her clothes, onto the hard straw mattress. She had one and a half days left.
THE NEXT MORNING, Judith and Jan stepped outside the inn shortly after dawn. The air was still cool and smelled damp. Along the street, men were hauling heavy bags out of wagons and piling them around wooden stalls. Each time a worker dropped a bag, a white cloud of dust rose up.
“Must be the lime market,” Judith said.
“They make good use of it here.” Jan gestured at the elegant buildings they passed. They walked along the canal and crossed a larger, intersecting canal, where the finely ornamented building frontages looked as if they had been carved in marble. Far more refined than most of Haarlem’s brick homes and shops. What kind of paintings did the merchants of Den Haag buy?
“How long was it you worked with Frans Hals?” The words came out before she had decided to say them, and she pressed her lips together.
“Funny thing to ask. I started about the same time as you, and stayed on another year and a half. So nearly two years total. Why?”
“I . . . I was wondering about how he ran his workshop. If one of my students left me for him, maybe there’s something I should know. About how he’s better.” Her chest constricted at the lie and the reminder of Willem’s abandonment. He hadn’t left because Frans Hals ran a more organized workshop. He had left because his parents were ashamed that he apprenticed himself to a woman.
Jan shrugged, then he gave her a warm smile. “You shouldn’t worry about it, Judith. But if you want to know, the workshop was pretty disorganized. You remember. Students coming and going at all hours, even past curfew.”
“I was thinking of his records. I try so hard with mine, but maybe he has a better manner.”
Jan gave her a queer look, and her stomach twisted. “You’re more organized than any painter I know, certainly Frans Hals. I doubt half of them can read, and Frans probably doesn’t even keep a ledger book. His writing table was covered in notices, and he seemed to lose the key to his lockbox nearly every other day.”
“Where did he usually keep the key?”
“What, are you planning on breaking in?”
Judith blushed, and Jan laughed.
“It was a joke,” he said. “I had to borrow a prop from him recently, and I’ll be returning it when we get back. Do you want me to ask him anything?”
Judith shook her head.
Jan held her gaze for another moment, until Judith looked down at her brown boots.
“Now, where are we exactly?” he wondered out loud.
They followed another narrow canal past more homes and some open garden plots. A hanging sign for a tavern showed a jovial man lifting a tankard.
“Have you ever had a buyer request a particular model?” she asked Jan, who was frowning as he looked over the streets.
“Other than himself or his wife? No. Not that I’ve had many commissions at all. Now, I’m sure the place she was staying was past this smithy. Or was it to the right?”
“I had one who demanded I use a certain man, and then it turned out the man was terrified of the same fellow who had commissioned the painting. And some months later, my model disappears. Dead, I mean. In a fight. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Jan glanced at her. “Maybe. Seems more likely a coincidence. The people we hire to model for us aren’t usually the most respectable.”
A boy ran by with a basket of eggs on his arm.
“But the man who paid for the commission, now he tells me he was involved in some linseed oil business. Or he’s trying to figure it out.”
“Linseed oil?” Jan stopped walking and faced Judith directly. “The price is outrageous now.”
“I know. There’s to be a sale soon, I think, and that should help. What if my model died in relation to that sale?” Her shoulders trembled with a wave of nerves, and she squeezed her arms around her chest.
Jan shook his head. “How could that be? People die. All the time. Though I’m glad to hear of a sale, very glad.” He ran his fingers down his mustache. “Ah, there’s the main market. Just past that.”
They walked through the central market square, noisy with the stomping of horses and the clatter of peasants still assembling their wooden stands. The town’s kermis had only finished three days earlier, but already Den Haag’s citizens needed fresh produce and meat. They passed the brick Grote Kerk, with its peaked roofs and belltower. Two blocks later, they came to a street packed with houses. The low morning sun couldn’t reach into the narrow street, and all the darkened windows looked the same.
“The papists’ district,” Jan said. He knocked on a door.
A hunched old man opened it.
“Eh?” he said. Then, before Jan could speak, he recognized him. “Come on in. None too soon.”
He led them into the house and to a back room. Even before they crossed the threshold, the stench of excrement overwhelmed her. Judith held her sleeve to her nose and blinked in the low light.
“My wife has tried to keep her clean, but she has fouled herself so much, we struggle . . .”
He approached Maria, who lay silently on a straw pallet on the floor. He crouched down and laid a hand gently on her head.
“You have friends here,” he said in a soft voice.
Judith took another step forward. Maria glanced wildly around and cringed as Judith approached. Then she pinched her eyes shut.
“She hasn’t spoken since she arrived. I’m not sure if she sees this world or the next,” the old man said. He stood slowly, using the wall for balance, and shook his head. “We pray for her every night. There is no priest in town, but if there were, I would have asked for unction. The poor thing.”
“Is it that bad?” Judith asked quietly. She glanced at Maria, who seemed to have fallen asleep, and in the low light, Judith could barely make out the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pressed his lips together. “Only God knows. And I’m sorry, but we couldn’t afford a doctor, so she’s had no letting. Not even a purgative. Please forgive us.”
Jan pressed the old man’s hands between his. “You have been generous to host a stranger. We’re grateful.”
“Thank you,” Judith whispered before getting down on her knees. She laid a hand to Maria’s forehead, but then pulled her fingers back as if she had touched a flame. Maria’s skin burned with heat, yet she looked pale. She was on her back, with her face turned toward the center of the small room, and her eyes were closed. Judith wriggled her fingers into Maria’s clenched palm.
“I’d like to bathe her,” Judith said. “We need to remove this filth.”
The old man nodded. “I’ll fetch Betje.”
The men left the room, and Judith wished she had asked for a candle, even before a bath. Here in this dark room, Maria’s colors faded toward black, as if death were claiming her by first leeching out the luster from her hair and the blush of her cheeks. Even her once-blue skirt looked somber.
Together, Judith and Betje, the old man’s small but determined wife, stripped Maria of her sleeves, bodice, tunic, and skirts. Layer by layer, her friend seemed to shrink before their eyes until nothing was left but the linen underclothes, heavy with black filth.
“We should burn these,” Judith said without moving to take them off.
“You’ll want to take them off first to do that.” Betje stood back, her arms crossed.
Judith nodded. She closed her eyes and pulled the shift down Maria’s shoulders, then untied the knot at her waist and stripped
the sodden skirt from her hips.
“Do you have another bucket?”
Betje left the room.
Judith let her eyes flit up to look at Maria, but only in fractured glimpses. A ridge of pale ribs, or a scrim of downy hair along her thighs. Without the clothes, her body seemed to reclaim its light, at least a little.
Maria had stirred occasionally in the process, but as Judith began to draw a wet cloth across her body, she whimpered.
“I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s cold. But it’s for the best. I’ll be quick.”
Betje came back, and Judith pressed the fouled underclothes into the bucket.
“We should get rid of these, quickly. The stench will drive you mad otherwise. The rest, perhaps we can wash? I can pay if you know a washerwoman.”
“She’s a sweet girl, your friend,” Betje said with the bucket in her hand. “She was only trying to help, you know.”
“How?”
“Listen to her name. Maria. She wanted to give the world something to heal, to cleanse our sins. Waste of time, most likely. But she was trying.”
The old woman left, and Judith returned to wiping the cloth across Maria’s skin.
“We’ll get you through this,” Judith whispered. “You’re strong, Maria. You’re not ready to surrender your soul yet.” She wanted to say more, to say how if Maria died, Judith would have no one left. No one that she trusted with her heart and soul, no one who could understand her without explanation. But it was selfish to think of what she would lose. How typical of her. Judith rocked back on her heels, away from Maria, and wiped away a tear. Then she pressed her eyes together, tried to steady her breathing, and went back to her work.
Betje returned with a pile of clothes in her arms.
“This was my daughter’s. The skirt might be a little short, but it’s clean. She never wore the bodice. I’d be glad for Maria to have the whole thing.”
Judith stood. “You are a kind woman.” She took the clothes into her arms. The fabric was rough-woven but smelled of lavender.
By the time she eased Maria into the clean skirts and bodice, the room had grown warm, and faint sun fell through a high window in the back wall. Judith mixed some ale and water that Betje had given her and dribbled it over Maria’s lips. She groaned as Judith lifted her head, but she opened her mouth as if to take the liquid. Judith poured a bit more, swallow by swallow, before lowering the other woman’s head to the mattress again.
“Judith.”
Jan stood in the doorway. “Betje told me she was dressed. I have to go now; the return carriage leaves soon. Can we bring her? I’m sure you’ll want to get back.”
Judith stood and pressed her hands against her aching back. Her head swam, and she closed her eyes to steady herself. At home, she had painting to do. There was another auction in two weeks, and she hoped to ready three more works. Large ones this time, to better capture the eye. Even better, a tailor had expressed interest in one of her merrymaking pictures. She needed to talk to him again and see if she could broker a sale on her own before he turned to one of the other artists in town. And Lachine was waiting for her.
“She’ll be better at home. If something happens,” Jan added.
Behind him, Betje stepped into the doorway.
“You’re thinking of taking her?” the old woman asked.
Judith looked at Maria. “Do you want to come with us? Back to Haarlem?”
“You shouldn’t move her,” Betje said.
Maria was silent, though her eyes moved from one woman to the other. Judith sat down next to her.
“I’m sure your father misses you,” she said.
Maria drew in a rasped breath and shook her head. She forced out a brittle moan.
“Not him,” she managed to say. She closed her eyes. Maria made no further noise, but her fingers trembled against the rough skirt.
“You shouldn’t move her,” Betje repeated.
“What choice do we have? I can’t stay here. My workshop . . . and Jan too.” Judith shook her head. “I don’t know if we can move her, but we should try.” Judith wished she could be the friend who stayed, who worked by Maria’s bedside for nights on end. But she knew she couldn’t. Already she could feel the pull of her workshop and the weight of Lachine’s threat. As much as she hated herself for it, she couldn’t resist. The best she could do for Maria was to take her back. Betje turned and disappeared back into the dark house without another word. Judith pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes.
After a moment, she poured a little more of the diluted ale against Maria’s lips, then helped maneuver her arms so Jan could hoist her up.
“She’s lighter than I thought,” Jan said. “She must have lost a lot of weight.”
They passed carefully through the dim house, which Judith now saw was modestly appointed but clean. The old man held open the door, and Judith saw a porter with a small cart waiting out front.
“May God bless you,” the old man said to her as she passed. “You are a good woman.”
The praise made Judith’s throat tighten. She was anything but. She pressed his hand in a silent farewell.
In the daylight, she could see Maria’s pale skin. Her long cheeks had grown sunken, and there was a pink rash over her hand and up part of her neck. Maria’s eyelids fluttered as the cart bounced over the cobblestone streets, and Judith gritted her teeth at every bump.
“Should we take her back?” Jan whispered. “What if she dies on the way?”
Judith shook her head. “Then she should be home. In either case.”
At the eastern gate, they found their carriage alongside a tree-lined canal. It was not yet midday, and a few vendors selling cakes and cured sausages wandered the quay. Jan bought three cakes and two sausages, and then paid for all their tickets. The driver looked askew at Maria and tried to negotiate a higher price, but there were no other travelers that day. Jan prevailed.
As the carriage trundled along, Maria began to moan and turn. Judith’s heart stuttered, and she offered her friend a bit of bread. Maria only moaned louder, until her cries became discernible.
“No, no. Father, no,” she repeated, interspersed with fearful groans.
Judith smoothed her hair back and tried to console her. She pressed a little bread between Maria’s lips as her head bobbed according to the carriage’s movement. Maria let the crumbs fall from her mouth and only cried louder.
“I think she’s worried about her father,” Jan said. “That we’ll take her there.”
“Is that it? Maria, I won’t. Not if you don’t want.” She ran her hand down Maria’s hair. “I’ll keep you at my house. Care for you there.” Judith whispered her promises a few more times, and finally Maria grew still.
Her face had reddened during her fit, but as she calmed, her skin grew pale. Heat seemed to waft off of her. Suddenly, Maria belched, and a rivulet of yellow vomit hung from her lips. Judith gasped and dabbed at it with her sleeve. Maria slumped to the side, onto Judith’s lap.
Judith hugged Maria to her chest to keep her from pitching onto the floor.
“Christ’s blood,” Jan said. “Is . . . is she alive?”
Judith held her breath and tried to loosen her grasp a bit. The moment lengthened. Finally, she could perceive a light rise and fall in Maria’s chest.
“Yes. But barely, I think. She was fiendishly hot, but now she feels cold.” She lowered her head to Maria’s. “Stay here, Maria. Stay here.”
Chapter 27
WHEN THEY TOOK HER FROM the carriage after traveling all day, Maria was barely breathing. Her body seemed even lighter than hours earlier, as if her soul had already departed. Jan carried her in his arms through Haarlem’s darkening streets, and he arrived at Judith’s house dripping with sweat.
Without a word, Carolein helped them carry her up two flights of stairs to the loft, where she hastily arranged spare blankets into a sort of bed.
“I hadn’t exp
ected this. I’ll find a straw mattress tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your help,” Judith said. “See if the cloth merchant will sell us the length on credit, and I can help you sew it up.”
“Judith, I can’t stay any longer,” Jan said, his eyes dark with worry. “I have that sitting to conduct. The man won’t forgive me a second time.”
“Jan, I can’t thank you enough.” Judith took his hand briefly in hers. It was warm and still damp with sweat.
“I’ll check with you later. To see how she’s doing,” he said quietly. He glanced at Maria, who lay still on the floor.
“She’ll do well here,” Judith said. She wished she could believe it.
That night Judith could not fall asleep. Her ears strained to hear the house’s noises and conjured Maria’s voice from them. And as her eyes tried to pull shapes from the heavy darkness, she thought of Lachine. She had only half a day more, and still no idea what she would tell him. After hours of tossing and turning, she gave up. She got out of bed, lit a candle, and started sketching in her tafelet by candlelight. From memory, she roughed out Lachine’s face, Frans Hals’s workshop, and her own front door. As her hand moved, her mind calmed. And a plan began to form.
She slept a few hours before dawn, until the waking city’s noises began to shiver through the walls. After a quiet breakfast and a quick visit to Maria, who slept fitfully on her blankets in the loft, Judith left the house.
When she had nearly reached Frans Hals’s house on Jacobijnestraat, a few doors before the street ended at the elegant old canal, she took a deep breath. This house, yet another rental, was new to her. Frans had probably moved at least twice since she had sat in his workshop, eight or so years ago, and though rumor claimed his debts chased him, he always managed to find a well-lit home on a pretty street. This house had two large windows facing the street, and two dormer windows in the roof.
A small boy in worn pants, which ended in a fray around his calves, ran past.
“Boy!” she called. He stopped. “Come here. Take this letter and deliver it to that house. If you do, and I’ll be watching, I’ll give you two pennings. Only don’t say it was from me. Understand?”
Light of Her Own Page 18