Garlands of Gold

by Rosalind Laker

  Saskia nodded. She had been instructed in all these matters by her mother many times before and had them written down in the early pages of her red leather book. She could only suppose that her memory was being refreshed now that all she had been taught was about to be put into practice at last. Putting her arm about her mother’s waist Saskia supported her as they made slow progress up the stairs.

  On the second floor Diane had her own small parlour and adjoining it was a bedchamber where a truckle bed had already been placed at the foot of her four-poster bed. It was there that her daughter would sleep. She sank down on to a chair to rest until she could draw breath again more easily and resume her responsibilities once more.

  Saskia was dazzled by everything in her mother’s abode, for it was the first time she had ever been there. She began examining it all with delight. There were some pretty little ornaments and the chairs, although worn, were upholstered in yellow silk while the bed-drapery, far from new, was wonderfully woven with a pattern of flowers and trimmed with gilt tassels. On a side table was her mother’s Spanish strongbox, which she knew had been a gift from her Dutch father to Diane in the early days of their love affair. It was finely designed and had an intricate lock. Saskia supposed that he had picked it up somewhere on his travels. Without doubt her mother had expected it to hold love letters, but those never came. She had never seen it open, but supposed that Diane kept her savings in it. Fascinated, she traced her finger along the curlicues of its border pattern.

  Then Diane ended abruptly her daughter’s exploration of the room. ‘Take off that damp cap now and tidy your hair,’ she said sharply, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll find another one for you and also an apron to wear.’

  The apron and the cap were both lace-edged and the girl felt as elegant as any lady as she regarded herself in a mirror. Diane had changed out of her mud-splashed skirts and also replaced her rain-soaked cap with a fresh one of linen that she had taken from a drawer. Now she looked her daughter critically up and down before giving a brusque nod.

  ‘You’ll do for now,’ she said crisply, always sparing with praise. ‘Remember that you must address our employer as Mevrouw Gibbons at all times.’

  Turning abruptly on her heel, she led the way out of the room.

  It was only a short distance along a corridor to Vrouw Gibbons’ boudoir and there they entered into a flow of candlelight.

  A mildly pretty woman in her late forties, her face bare of any cosmetics at the present time, was seated in readiness at her toilet-table, a silk robe over her petticoats, and her hair already unpinned. As an infant she had been baptized Elizabeth, but her late father had always called her Bessie and that pet name had stayed with her. As an adult she liked to think she had the same regal grace as England’s good Queen Bess, who had reigned in England over a century ago, although she knew from the portraits she had seen of the royal lady that she herself was far more comely.

  With some surprise she viewed Saskia’s reflection in her oval mirror, not having expected to see a girl on the brink of beauty. Diane’s daughter was taller than average with a narrow waist, a taut and well-shaped young bosom, thick-lashed green eyes that were bright and sparkling, the cheekbones high and the chin determined, all with a vivacious look about her. She also had a creamy complexion and showing under the cap was gleaming hair full of reddish-gold lights that any woman would envy. Her mouth, full-lipped and well shaped, hinted at a passionate nature. Bessie Gibbons hoped it would not mean tantrums or, much worse, prove attractive to Grinling when he came home again from his travels. Young men were so susceptible and, from what she had observed, he was no different from all the rest. Neither was his English friend, Robert Harting, who was presently travelling with him.

  ‘Good evening, Saskia,’ she said in Dutch, inclining her head. ‘So you are going to do your best to please me at all times.’

  Saskia bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yes, mevrouw,’ she replied.

  ‘Now I know that you and your mother speak French when you are together,’ Vrouw Gibbons continued, ‘but here in this house we speak only Dutch. My husband, Heer Gibbons, has always considered it our duty to be true Dutch citizens in every way ever since he and I made Holland our home not long after we were married.’ Her voice flattened tonelessly. ‘Perhaps never to return permanently to our roots.’

  Saskia’s immediate thought was that this Englishwoman suffered from bouts of homesickness, although Holland had been her place of abode for many years and she had even lived for some time with her English parents in Amsterdam before marrying James Gibbons. Yet for Saskia it was easy to recognize the signs, for there were times when she had seen Diane suffering despairing bouts of yearning for her homeland. Vrouw Gibbons obviously needed cheering up and nothing pleased a woman more than a complete change of coiffure that suited her. In her notebook Saskia had made many little drawings of coiffures that she had tried on herself as well as on Vrouw van Beek, all of them her own original variations on the current mode of a wide look to a coiffure with the back of the neck left exposed.

  ‘I know how my mother usually dresses your hair, mevrouw, but if you would allow me,’ she said, ignoring an anxious gesture from Diane, ‘I should like to give you a completely new hairstyle this evening, but one that is also in fashion.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows, taken aback by this show of initiative, but intrigued at the same time. ‘Very well. But remember it is not for a grand occasion. Heer Gibbons and I are just dining at home with two close friends. Now let me see how you can apply cosmetics discreetly.’

  All the little pots and powders needed were lined up on the toilet table in front of her. Saskia knew them all, for she had mixed the contents herself. Immediately she began to work, applying a delicate amount of cream to the woman’s upturned face. Then a little colour was added to her fair eyebrows and lashes, followed by the softest bloom to her cheeks and a rosy hue to her lips. Finally powder was carefully applied, being pressed to her face by a pad without clouds of it flying about in the air. Now it was time for the woman’s hair to be dressed.

  Vrouw Gibbons indicated a wooden box that was on the toilet table. ‘Some of my daily hair combs and ornaments are in there. Use whatever you need.’

  Saskia paused before lifting the lid. It was exquisitely carved with a design of cherubs and ribbons, unlike anything she had ever seen before. ‘This is beautiful!’ she exclaimed, forgetting the golden rule never to comment on an employer’s possessions without invitation.

  ‘That is one of my son’s apprentice pieces,’ Vrouw Gibbons said casually, her thoughts centred on herself and her appearance at the present time, and then added almost automatically, ‘He is extremely talented.’

  ‘Yes, indeed! How proud you must be of him, mevrouw! These carved ribbons are so delicate that it looks as though the bows could be untied.’ Then Saskia heard her mother’s warning little cough in the background, reminding her not to make any more such comments. Hastily she raised the lid of the velvet lined box and took stock of the contents. Then she set to work, brushing the woman’s hair until it fell smoothly down her back. Carefully she divided the hair into three strands, twisting the centre one into a coil high on the back of the woman’s head, exposing her neck as was fashionable. Then, taking two strings of tiny glass beads from the box, she began arranging the side hair into short loops layered over the ears, intertwining the beads at the same time. She worked swiftly and silently while watched by Vrouw Gibbons in the mirror and by her mother from a chair at the back of the room. When she had fastened the loops invisibly with a skilful use of hairpins the result was both charming and flattering with the necessary width to the coiffure and a discreet sparkle from the beads.

  Taking up the hand-mirror, Saskia displayed the back and sides of the woman’s head to her in the toilet table’s looking-glass. Vrouw Gibbons turned her head critically to the left and to the right, touching the new coiffure with her fingertips. Then, after what seemed an age to Diane, who was on the edge of her
seat with anxiety, the woman smiled condescendingly.

  ‘That’s very pretty, Saskia. I like it. Now you shall assist me in dressing.’

  As the girl helped her into a cinnamon-hued velvet gown Vrouw Gibbons continued to be pleased. There was no fumbling with the back lacing from these agile young fingers, and now the care with which the girl was smoothing down the fashionably wide lace collar over her shoulders showed an alert attention to detail. For choice she would never have taken on a fresh young beauty to be a constant reminder of her own fading looks, which no longer dazzled as much as in the past. Yet that was not the reason why she had opposed for so long Diane’s request for her to take the girl into the household. It was simply that she had always had a mature woman to wait on her and had feared that with Diane’s daughter she would have to deal with inexperience and blundering incompetence. Even as late as this evening she had hesitated uncertainly before finally committing herself to giving Saskia a trial, although it was becoming apparent that Diane with her failing health would not be able to carry on alone much longer. It was no wonder that Diane had immediately rushed from the house to fetch the girl.

  Looking across at Diane in the mirror, she gave a little nod that conveyed her approval of Saskia and saw relief flood into the sick woman’s face. Now Diane could feel assured in the last months of her life that her daughter had a good home and perhaps even a secure future.

  Immediately, Diane rose from her chair to come across the room and open a jewel-box from the toilet table. Then she held it as she had done so many times before for Vrouw Gibbons to make her choice. It also had a beautifully carved lid and she did not want her daughter making any more inappropriate remarks, but Saskia was gazing at it in wonder.

  ‘Your son must have magic in his fingertips, mevrouw,’ she said in awe.

  ‘You have a vivid imagination,’ Vrouw Gibbons replied on a cool note as she selected a pair of topaz earrings. She did not want this girl flattering Grinling with such praise, however innocently. ‘I assure you that it is all done mundanely with skill and a chisel.’

  She exchanged a meaningful look with Diane. Over the years they had come to understand each other completely. Diane nodded. The Englishwoman’s message was clear. Saskia must be kept away from the son and heir. Then Vrouw Gibbons turned to the girl again. ‘My husband and I have a very busy social life and from tonight you shall attend me when I retire, which will spare your mother from keeping any more late hours.’

  Saskia bobbed. ‘Yes, mevrouw,’ she answered, glad that this woman seemed to have the same protective attitude towards her mother as she did herself.

  As Vrouw Gibbons went from the room and the door closed behind her Saskia spun around on her toes to Diane in jubilation. ‘I pleased her! Did you see that, Mama?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Diane said, her voice tired from the strain of the past hour, but then she added sharply, ‘I should have been most displeased if it had been otherwise. Now I’ll show you how to turn back her bed for tonight and where to place her night shift, robe and slippers.’ In the adjoining dressing room, which contained a hip bath painted with flowers, she indicated the close stool. ‘If she uses the close stool before going to bed or at any other time you ring the bell for a maidservant to come with a replacement container and the used one will be taken away.’

  Together they made the bed ready and then left the room to have supper, which was served in Diane’s own little parlour. Vrouw Gibbons was not late to bed and again was privately pleased with Saskia’s careful attention. That night Saskia wore one of her mother’s spare night shifts and slept well.

  Next morning Diane was in a state of collapse after the exertion of the previous evening and fell when she attempted to leave her bed. Saskia helped her back into it and then rushed to tell their employer what had happened. Deeply concerned, Vrouw Gibbons sent at once for the doctor. He came, an elderly man handsomely dressed in black velvet, his grey periwig curling all over his shoulders. The housekeeper accompanied him into the patient’s room, brusquely ordering Saskia out of the room to wait outside the door. When they emerged, the doctor, who looked grave, ignored the girl’s frantic questioning and the housekeeper cruelly thrust her aside.

  ‘Get out of the doctor’s way, girl!’

  He made his report to Vrouw Gibbons, who in her turn had to break the news to Saskia that her mother’s days were numbered.

  Diane never rose from her bed again. Everything possible was done for her comfort. She lingered for six weeks before she took her last breath, flickering out like a candle-flame. Bessie Gibbons shared Saskia’s grief, for Diane had been both friend and confidante in times of joy and trouble, once even saving her from what would have been a dangerous indiscretion. Even her husband, James Gibbons, a thin-faced, middle-aged man with kindly brown eyes that by chance were the colour of his favourite periwig, showed his compassion with gentle words to the bereaved girl.

  ‘This is a hard loss for you, Saskia, but time will heal and you will always know that you were blessed by having a good and caring mother.’

  ‘I thank you, mijnheer,’she answered in little more than a strained whisper, bobbing to him while keeping tears at bay.

  She was sobered by her mother’s death. It was as if a cloak of responsibility had fallen on to her shoulders. Her first act was to inform the housekeeper that never again was she to be given orders as on the morning of her mother’s collapse.

  ‘In future I shall be the one giving instruction in everything relating to VrouwGibbons’ toilette, her comfort and attire. Is that understood?’

  The housekeeper turned a fiery red with anger, but tightened her lips and bobbed a curtsy. On her own again Saskia breathed a sigh of satisfaction at the bold step she had taken, but she had had to establish her authority in the hierarchy of the servants’ world and show that she was no longer ‘only Diane’s daughter’.

  Saskia was grateful that Vrouw Gibbons, showing the kindness of which she was capable at times, had given her two other adjoining rooms to have as her own on another floor. As it was, it was very distressing to sort out her mother’s clothes and possessions, causing her to shed more tears.

  She unlocked the Spanish strongbox in her new accommodation. She found that it held a fitted tray in which lay a ruby pendant on a gold chain, which she had never seen her mother wear, and she wondered if it had been a gift from her errant father. If that were its origins, then maybe Diane had found it too painful a reminder ever to display on her bosom. Lifting out the tray, she found underneath her mother’s small savings in a little leather drawstring pouch. There was also a large key, although there was no label on it to give any indication as to where it belonged. She replaced the tray and noted that there was just the right amount of space left to accommodate her red book of beauty receipts. She placed the volume in it and locked the box up again. Now it was doubly secure from any spying eye.

  That same evening Vrouw Gibbons all unwittingly solved the mystery of the large key. ‘I have just remembered, Saskia,’ she said, ‘when your mother came into my employ she brought a travelling chest with her. It was taken up to the top attic where she had access to it, for it would have taken up too much space in her rooms.’

  ‘I believe I have found the key to it, mevrouw.’

  ‘Then tomorrow go up there and see if it contains anything you want to keep.’

  Next morning, as Saskia mounted the stairs to the top attic, she wondered what the travelling box would contain and why her mother had never mentioned it to her. Then on second thoughts she recalled that her mother had never really conversed with her on any matter, the few facts she knew about her father had been like getting blood from a stone. But in any case she did not think the chest would hold anything of much importance or else Diane would have felt compelled to speak of it to her. Her guess was that it held books or perhaps some of her baby clothes, although her mother had never been in the least sentimental.

  To her surprise it was a stout iron-bound wooden chest
that awaited her. It had been placed under a circular window that gave her plenty of light as she knelt down and inserted the key. The lock turned easily and slowly she raised the lid.

  To her astonishment it was packed full of tiny parcels, some wrapped in pieces of soft cloth, others in old French news-sheets or odd scraps of paper. Sitting back on her heels, she picked out one of the tiny parcels at random and removed the paper wrapping carefully. To her astonishment a beautiful little pot was revealed, suitable for containing any cosmetic cream or salve. The lid was delicately hand-painted with a spray of lilac. Putting it down on the floor beside her she opened another of the little parcels. This pot was slightly larger, but just as charming, although the rosebuds that covered it had obviously been painted by a different hand. Eagerly she uncovered yet another pot, which was of a rare fineness and from Japan, judging by the little figures with parasols standing together on a bridge. Holding it up to the light she saw that it was quite translucent and she marvelled that it had never been broken, which in itself was a tribute to her mother’s careful packing. Then came a rose water bottle and some perfume flasks, two of which had slightly dented gold tops.

  There was no doubt in her mind that most of the items were antique, although none was cracked. She took a guess that Diane had hunted for them among worthless second-hand goods on market stalls, in the corners of dusty shops, even perhaps in stinking rubbish. Had any of them been new their cost would have been beyond her mother’s slender purse. The floor around her began to be covered by the pretty objects as if flowers were springing up all around her.

  The striking of a clock in the distance forced her to halt in her discoveries, reminding her of her duties. A quick glance at a few of the news-sheets showed that some had been printed before her mother had left France. Others, wrapped around little pots of Delft china, were more recent, showing how her mother had continued the collection until her illness had begun to overtake her. It was impossible to estimate the number of items that were packed so closely together in the chest, but there were at least two hundred or perhaps even more.