Garlands of Gold

by Rosalind Laker

  Tears filled her eyes at the thought of her mother’s sacrifice. How many hours of hard searching had gone into buying just one of the pots and how many cobbled streets trod to find yet another pretty item to be washed and dried and then carefully packed away. It showed how ambitious Diane had been originally for herself before a pregnancy had changed the course of her life, for these lovely goods could stock the shelves of a shop or be sold containing beauty products at a high price to those who could afford them. Then Diane, putting aside her own dream, had continued collecting for her daughter’s future.

  After Saskia had replaced all the pots and flasks that she had had time to examine she closed and locked the chest again, realizing at the same time that it held her true inheritance. It explained why her mother’s savings had been so small, for Diane had invested all she could spare in increasing her collection, clinging to the hope that her daughter would benefit greatly one day from the contents of the chest. Feeling a little dazed by her discovery Saskia made her way downstairs again.

  Later that day Vrouw Gibbons made a stipulation, which Saskia knew she must obey if she was to keep her employment.

  ‘Your mother,’ the woman said, ‘had a sideline in selling her beauty preparations elsewhere. I ignored the matter simply because she had been with me so long and I never had any fault to find otherwise. But it has to stop now. Anything you make will be only for me. Is that understood?’

  Saskia nodded. ‘Yes, mevrouw.’

  There was no other answer she could give.

  Her book was so thick with pages that were yet to be filled that she doubted if she would ever reach the last one, for her handwriting was small and neat, enabling her to list a number of processes on a single page. Yet she continued to make fresh entries in her book whenever she experimented and found a variation that seemed to be an improvement on a previous receipt. She had also begun another section, which had come about through observing how meticulously Vrouw Gibbons arranged flowers, how she organized suppers and banquets when she always made a beautiful setting for the table. Yet often Saskia wished she could add a touch herself and visualized how she would have arranged the candles and the flowers and the napery. So, since she was only able to view the finished table, there was consolation in writing up her own ideas into her book and making little drawings to illustrate them.

  Once when Saskia was seated with a sketch pad in the courtyard, being free for a little while from her duties, she was drawing sprigs of herbs plucked from the kitchen garden when Vrouw Gibbons came by. The woman stopped to look over Saskia’s shoulder and was immediately full of admiration for the sketch in progress.

  ‘How delicately and accurately you have captured your chosen specimens, Saskia,’ she said. ‘What else have you sketched?’

  Saskia had risen to her feet and the woman held out her hand for the sketch pad, which was given to her. With genuine interest Vrouw Gibbons looked through the various drawings, for there had been a great flowering of art throughout the Dutch Republic in recent years and paintings were bought avidly by the rich from the acclaimed masters while those of lesser incomes purchased the work of struggling artists, who were thankful to get whatever monies they could for their efforts. Even the humblest dwelling had at least one or two pictures on the walls.

  Vrouw Gibbons was proud that a number of fine paintings enhanced the rooms of her home. She was able to judge that Saskia’s sketches were not of any great talent, but they were charming in their own way. There were market scenes done from memory, two drawings of the Gibbons’ courtyard from different viewpoints, some of tulips and other blossoms, and several of the kitchen cat and her kittens.

  After perusing the rest of the sketches with a nod of approval Vrouw Gibbons handed the sketch pad back to her.

  ‘You are quite talented, Saskia. I should like you to make drawings of the house for me. Would you do that?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, mevrouw,’ Saskia replied gladly.

  After that day she did several drawings of the house, all of which pleased both Vrouw Gibbons and her husband, he having one framed for his office wall at his business premises.

  As the weeks went by Saskia’s red leather-bound book contained more and more fresh entries as she continued to experiment. Yet she was beginning to know Vrouw Gibbons’ every turn of mood and how to cope when the woman was tired or irritable. Vrouw Gibbons particularly liked a face mask that Saskia had devised from rose petals and was unaware that resting on the bed while it dried did her as much good as the refreshing effect on her features by the mask itself. She was totally unaware that new cosmetic methods were being tried out on her all the time, always with Saskia’s aim for improvement and reliance on pure ingredients. All that mattered to Bessie Gibbons was that she was always well satisfied with her appearance after Saskia’s ministrations.

  Two

  Although at first Saskia had not been aware that her relationship with her employer had started off on an uncertain footing, she had soon realized as time went by that there was something about her that the Englishwoman resented. Yet she could not think how or why she was failing in some way. Then one day she was enlightened as to the cause by the elderly Dutch nurse, who had stayed on in the house as one of the family after caring for the Gibbons children and then acting as lady’s maid to Bessie Gibbons until her bones had started to creak. That was when, to her relief, Diane had replaced her. The Gibbons children when young had called her Nanny Bobbins, because she was like many of her fellow countrywomen in being an expert lacemaker and whenever she had a spare moment bobbins were forever dancing under her fingers. She was still known by her nickname to everybody in the house.

  Fiercely proud of her birthplace in the province of Nord-Holland, Nanny Bobbins wore a plain starched cap for weekday wear, but always the stiffly starched lace cap of the region for churchgoing and festival days. It had lappets at the side, which were pinned up to give a square silhouette. In a land of beautiful regional caps it was one of the simplest designs, but most becoming, even for Nanny Bobbins’ withered old face, and she was presently making one for Saskia, a friendship having sprung up between them. One of the reasons why Saskia liked going to the nurse’s room, quite apart from her enjoyment of the old woman’s company, was that on display were many of Grinling’s very early pieces of carving from when he was a young boy. She loved looking at them and wished she could have a glimpse of his home workshop, which was a room near the kitchen quarters, but kept locked in his absence.

  Nanny Bobbins’ downstairs accommodation was off one of the many passageways that veined the tall house. She had been moved there from an upstairs room after her unsteady balance had caused her to fall on the stairs. One afternoon Saskia, coming there to mend a petticoat in her company, put down her sewing basket after entering to pick up one of Grinling’s carvings that she particularly admired. It was a full-blown rose so finely fashioned in pale lime wood that there was even a tiny dewdrop on one of the petals. She cupped it in her hands as she studied it anew.

  ‘How does he manage to give wood the fragility of flowers?’ she said in awe.

  ‘That is the young master’s God-given gift,’ the old woman replied, glancing up over her spectacles as Saskia replaced it. ‘But you had better watch out that you don’t get kicked out when he comes home.’ There was a warning note in her voice. ‘His mother might decide to get rid of you if you start praising his work too much to his face. It’s bad enough for Vrouw Gibbons that she has you flitting around her like a summer’s morning while she looks in her mirror and sees the wrinkles deepen and her waist thickening.’

  Saskia retorted indignantly. ‘You’re mistaken! I’ve no conceit about my looks and so that reason doesn’t apply to me in any way. I know she is often sharp-tongued, but it must be some other matter that makes her lose patience with me. My mother was beautiful and she never said that Vrouw Gibbons was difficult with her.’

  ‘That’s because they were the same age and in any case Bessie Gibbons was just
as lovely when she was younger.’

  ‘With my creams and lotions I make her look beautiful all the time,’ Saskia exclaimed in exasperation, sitting down and taking up her sewing. ‘Even her teeth are much whiter since I made up that new dentifrice for her with the crushed rosemary to use twice daily. What’s more, she does exactly as I have told her in rinsing afterwards with pure conduit water or white wine. She prefers the wine.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘So nobody would notice me in her shade if I were ever present at the soirées and parties that she and Heer Gibbons give so frequently. As for her son, I don’t want him!’

  The nurse chuckled. ‘Wait till you see Grinling. He’s a fine young man and not only talented with his wood carving, but in the sphere of music too. He plays several musical instruments and has a splendid singing voice, which you are sure to hear. But be wise and remember to keep away.’

  ‘I will,’ Saskia replied emphatically and put an end to that line of the conversation by looking across at what the nurse was sewing. ‘That is not the cap you are making for me. Is mine nearly finished?’

  The old woman gave a nod. ‘Yes, you should have had it for your sixteenth natal day, but that date has come and gone, so now it will have to be a gift from St Nicholaes.’

  ‘Oh, must I wait until the sixth day of December?’ Saskia protested in amusement, knowing she was being teased. ‘That is still three weeks away!’

  Nanny Bobbins’ eyes twinkled. ‘Maybe I will reconsider. Who can tell?’

  Two days later excitement rippled through the house as Heer and Vrouw Gibbons received a letter from their son that had been sent from the Italian border. It meant that allowing for the length of time it had taken to reach them he and his companions could be expected very shortly. Yet when he and his fellow travellers arrived home there was nobody to greet him, his father being at the Gibbons warehouse and his mother visiting a sick friend. Only Saskia, halfway down the stairs to the reception hall, witnessed their noisy arrival, which coincided with the first snowfall of winter.

  They had flung the door open from the street in a blast of cold air. Snowflakes whirled about them as they came clomping into the house in their fashionable bucket-topped boots, taking no heed of the spotless floor in the pleasure of their arrival. Laughing and shouting, scarlet and purple plumes fluttering on their wide-brimmed black hats, they swirled off their cloaks, seeming to fill the whole generous space of the reception hall. Grinling was nineteen years old, his friend a year older, but with the experience of travel on them they would no longer be the same youths who had left Rotterdam some months ago. In their wake came the tutor, a tired look on his face and with a wearied stance, but he was already giving directions to the porters carrying in the first of several large travelling boxes.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ one of the young men shouted with all the authority of belonging there before happening to glance up and catch sight of Saskia standing motionless on the stairs. She was without a cap, being on her way down to try on the new one that Nanny Bobbins had ready for her. She was unaware that a hanging lamp, which had been lit to counteract the dullness of the day, was illumining her seductive, chisel-cheeked beauty and making a red-gold harvest of her hair against the shadows of the stairs. Long lashes deepened the shade of her alert green eyes.

  ‘Your parents are out, mijnheer,’ she said, amazed to feel her heart lift joyously as she looked down into merry, very blue eyes in a face wide, well-boned and tanned with a broad and powerful nose, his chin strong, his grin wide and white-toothed, his hair dark brown and tumbling in curls about his shoulder. This then was Grinling Gibbons of the breathtaking skill with a chisel. ‘But please allow me to welcome you home.’

  ‘Indeed you may! We have never met before. Are you a cousin, friend or neighbour to be here in my parents’ absence?’

  ‘I’m Juffrouw Saskia Marchand, your mother’s personal maid.’

  He raised his eyebrows mischievously. ‘How fortunate for my mother! Allow me to present my friend, Robert Harting, born a citizen of England, but temporarily of Rotterdam.’

  She knew already from Nanny Bobbins that Robert Harting’s late father had been among Charles II’s most loyal army generals and had brought his young son with him when he had accompanied the king into exile. But that had been some years ago now and the boy had become a man.

  With a curious shiver, almost of apprehension, she knew instinctively that from the first moment Robert Harting had been watching her closely from under the wide brim of his hat. His black-lashed dark eyes were narrowed in a burning stare of such intensity that she put a hand involuntarily to her throat. She was momentarily unnerved by it, feeling gauche and awkward, and deeply resenting the way in which he was regarding her, a compressed line to his well-cut, experienced mouth that clearly knew its way in the world. Obviously it did not suit his stiff English pride to be presented to a servant of the household. He was not truly handsome, but he had an energetic and virile presence as if he could master any sport in the field or in the saddle. Then he surprised and annoyed her still further by sweeping off his hat and giving her an exaggerated bow far beyond anything remotely suitable for a household employee.

  ‘I’m honoured, mejuffrouw,’ he said strongly.

  She inclined her head stiffly and then turned quickly away to give a greeting to the harassed-looking tutor, not wanting him to feel left out. ‘I bid you welcome back to Holland, mijnheer.’

  He acknowledged her words with a wearied nod. By now the housekeeper had come rushing into the hall. It was clear she had been taking a nap, her cap slightly askew and strands of her hair awry. She had brought other servants with her and Grinling was greeting them all as the men among them began assisting with the boxes. Saskia darted quickly down the remaining stairs and slipped away to the nurse’s room.

  ‘So they’re home,’ the old woman greeted her. ‘I heard the commotion.’

  ‘You are right,’ Saskia declared, throwing herself down into a chair where she swung her feet up and then down again in a rustle of petticoats. ‘Grinling is a fine young man and I retract what I said before. I do wish he could be for me, but –’ she added hastily, seeing the old woman’s frown – ‘he is out of my reach and I know it. I certainly would not want his friend, who clearly was offended by Master Grinling presenting me to him. He made a most mocking bow to me.’

  ‘You mean young Robert Harting, do you? Remember that he’s English and their ways are different from ours. Heer Gibbons thinks he keeps a thoroughly Dutch household here. Yet in the daily routine he has never let me take a place at his table whereas a Dutch master – unless it was a formal occasion – would happily sit down to eat with loyal servants and never think himself lowered by it.’

  Saskia gave a nod. ‘My English teacher, Mistress Seymour, told me all about life in a grand house in England. I don’t think I should like it there.’

  The old woman gave her a sharp look. ‘But you must make the best of it when the time comes. I believe that sooner or later Heer and Vrouw Gibbons will return to England, even though they have lived here all their married lives.’ She paused, seeing Saskia’s startled expression. ‘Why else do you think your mother wanted you to learn English? She knew all about Bessie Gibbons’ bouts of homesickness and never underestimated the woman’s ability to get her own way eventually about going home to settle again in her native land.’

  ‘Where did the mistress and Heer Gibbons meet each other? Was it in England?’

  ‘Yes. She grew up there, but then her late father moved here to become an importer of tobacco and brought her with him. It was surely the reason why Heer Gibbons followed to set up as a silk merchant here in the Dutch Republic, which was how he came to marry his sweetheart here in another land.’

  ‘But she could always visit her birthplace. She has done it in the past. My mother accompanied her on two or three trips when she went to stay with relatives living there.’

  ‘Yes, but think of all the great disasters that have kept Vrouw Gi
bbons away from her homeland for periods much longer than she would have wished. There was that terrible plague that knocked people down like ninepins and even reached our shores, although mercifully not to the same extent. Then there was the dreadful Great Fire of London when the house she had inherited from an aunt was among the thousands of homes destroyed. Worst of all for her was when our Dutch forces were twice engaged in war with England. Each time she was in terror that she would never get back to her homeland again.’

  ‘I had not realized that her homesickness was so acute.’

  ‘Love of one’s own country is deep inside everyone, but for some it is more powerful than it is for others. In Bessie Gibbons’ case it is most surely because she spent a happy childhood as well as her early, most impressionable years as a young girl in England. The result is that her heart has never left there.’

  ‘So, in spite of living here all these years, she is still very much an Englishwoman?’

  The old woman chuckled. ‘Yes, but I’m proud to say that young Grinling is as Dutch as a windmill or a piece of Gouda cheese. He has been addressed as Master Grinling ever since he finished his apprenticeship and became a fully fledged craftsman. You must remember to address him always with respect.’

  ‘Oh, I will indeed.’

  Nurse Bobbins twisted in her chair as she turned to the little sewing-table at her side and pulled open its drawer. ‘But we have something else to discuss now.’ Carefully she took out the dainty lace cap she had finished and also the oorijzer, a metal brace to which it would be attached and kept in place. ‘Let us try this on you now before Grinling comes in to see me, which I know he will.’

  Saskia clasped her hands together in her excitement as she sprang to her feet and then dropped to her knees by the old woman’s chair to make it easier to be fitted. First came the oorijzer, which settled comfortably on her head. Nanny Bobbins’ old hands fumbled, but soon the cap was ready for the lappets to be fastened up at the sides with silver pins. With the task done Nanny Bobbins let her hands drop back into her lap.