“I know. I visited there last autumn.”
“I’ve not been there myself. Now how do you feel?”
“Much better and rested.” Her private regret was that she had lost that precious piece of salted beef, which would have fed the family at dinner for two nights and would have made a good broth for two or three meals more.
“I think you should wait here for Heer van Doorne to return,” Vrouw de Hout said quite firmly. “I’ll look out and see if there is any sign of him.”
Francesca was in no hurry to leave. She hoped that Pieter had suffered no injury and she would like to see him to be sure, as well as to thank him for his timely rescue. Vrouw de Hout returned to the parlor. “We can carry on talking for a while yet,” she said, drawing a chair closer to the fire. “My own parlor is on an upper floor, which is virtually a little apartment all to myself. I’d like to show it to you sometime in the future when you are feeling stronger.”
“I’m not feeling in the least weak, I do assure you. It was a shock to be in such a frightening situation, but I’ve recovered from that now.”
“You did indeed have a lucky escape.”
“I hope nobody was seriously injured.”
Vrouw de Hout looked across to the window as a shadow passed across it. “We shall soon know. I believe that is Heer van Doorne now.”
She hurried to the front door and Francesca heard Pieter’s voice. Rising from her chair, she stood facing the door. As he entered the room he smiled to see her on her feet. He had lost his hat, but seemed unharmed.
“I’m glad to see you recovered, Francesca!”
“And I to see you safe. Whatever was the cause of the attack on that young man?”
“He was a Frenchman drinking in a tavern and boasting of the size of his king’s armies. Several Dutchmen there took offense and one accused him of being a spy for Louis. A ridiculous suggestion, of course, as no genuine spy would openly proclaim his allegiance, but in the people’s present mood it was like a match to tinder, and after a scuffle the Frenchman took flight. The cry of ‘French spy’ was taken up and more joined in the chase. He’s recovering now in a safe house and I’ve a feeling he will be leaving Amsterdam at nightfall.”
She had sat down again and he took the seat that his housekeeper had vacated, she not having returned to the room after seeing him into the house.
“I can’t thank you enough for having come to my rescue.”
“I must say I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you in the midst of that battling throng.”
“Were many people badly hurt?”
“There were a few cracked heads and broken limbs, but nobody was killed.”
“How many hours of duty do you do?”
“The rota is flexible for someone such as myself who has business commitments in another city. These corps of militia were formed for a serious purpose in the days when our forebears were fighting the Spanish, but now we are local keepers of the peace with few calls on our arms. Pray God it remains so.”
“Do you take the French threat seriously?”
“I’m afraid I do. In my opinion Louis is too set on expanding his borders to listen to placating words from de Witt. Nevertheless, no Frenchman shall be mobbed in the streets of our cities and this case today is the first we have had to deal with.”
“I hope it is the last.”
“So do I.” He gave her a broad smile. “Especially if there’s any danger of your getting involved again. I might not be at hand another time.”
She smiled in turn. “I should be getting home now.”
He was on his feet again. “I’ll take you. Allow me a minute to fetch another hat.”
When they arrived at her home she took him at once to her father, knowing that he would wish to thank him too. Hendrick was horrified to hear of the danger to which his daughter had been exposed and full of gratitude to Pieter for saving her. He would have sent for wine, but Pieter insisted he had to report back to the militia headquarters immediately. Hendrick saw him to the door, still repeating his grateful thanks, while Pieter bowed his farewell, giving Francesca an intense look as he left.
After telling Maria there was no salt beef for dinner that evening and seeing Griet, who was also in the kitchen, go without a word to take some vegetables from the cellar for soup instead, Francesca went up to her bedchamber to change her torn garments. She was shaken to realize that it was not her escape from being trampled by the mob that was foremost in her mind, but the look in Pieter’s eyes as he turned to go down the street.
As Willem had anticipated, it proved difficult to find a buyer for the painting of The Beggar and the Jewel. It was one of Hendrick’s best works, equal to The Goddess of Spring, making it one of those tantalizing brushes against genius that had punctuated Hendrick’s career. But the picture was completely lacking in public appeal. The beggar’s suffering was too acute, the starkness of his misery creating unease even in the least sensitive of those who viewed it. Willem was himself aware of the painting’s power to disturb. It was a picture too uncomfortable for anyone to live with, and although several serious collectors considered it, they still turned away without making an offer. Others covered their inner reactions by objecting to the size of the jewel, as he had known they would in any case, but for once Willem knew that Hendrick had been right and he himself had been wrong. The very blatantness of the gem accentuated the torment of the starving man unable to grasp it. Eventually he sold the painting for a paltry sixty florins, knowing it to be hugely undervalued, but on a personal level he was thankful to get it out of his house.
Still The Goddess of Spring remained veiled in his gallery. He had removed all the paintings previously displayed there into another room, where they could be viewed equally well. By letting Hendrick’s painting be on its own the mystique was increased and its importance emphasized. Yet he knew he must not let his ploy run on too long, and he judged the exact time to have come when he could let those who had made the six best offers for it come to the gallery in turn. With luck he would only have to show it to one. He sent an invitation to the first on the list, a gentleman who lived in the grandest residential area in Amsterdam on Heerengracht, the Gentlemen’s Canal, which was also known as the Golden Bend as a mark of the wealth of those who lived there.
IN THE SHADOWS of Willem’s gallery a well-dressed man in a wide-brimmed hat and sweeping blue cloak, holding a fashionably tall cane, stood waiting impatiently for the first sight of the painting that was hidden by the curtain drawn across it, as valuable works often were when there was need to protect them in a sunny room. Here in the gallery the shutters were closed today, candles giving some illumination, for the art dealer intended to reveal the painting in the full light of day with increasing drama.
“Pray sit down, mijnheer,” Willem invited, knowing full well how to prolong suspense.
Ludolf van Deventer took the large chair set squarely in front of the curtained work of art, watched the art dealer go without haste to the first shutter and fumed inwardly at the deliberate dawdling. For weeks he had been intrigued by the talk of this work that might, or might not, be sold. He had wanted to make it his from the first hearsay. Greed was in his whole nature, possessions all-important to him, such as often happens with those who have started life with nothing. His offers to purchase the painting unseen had been turned down each time, increasing his determination to have it. With all knowledgeable Amsterdam speculating about this new Flora, it would give him increased prestige to become its owner, an important factor being that it was by an artist of the same city and he needed to play up his interest in all things Dutch. This was not the time for him, a Dutchman born and bred, to reveal in any way his secret allegiance to France. No matter that everything French was increasingly fashionable, a trend he had followed earlier than most, he had too much at stake not to be seen as a staunch patriot. Anonymously he was even trying to trace a collection of old Dutch paintings that he had sold very foolishly ten years before.
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At the same time he continued to associate with those wealthy burghers and merchants favoring friendship with Louis XIV. Naturally they were fearful of war, wanting to maintain their prosperity at all costs. Yet they were fools! Did they imagine that a Catholic king as strong and autocratic as Louis would not weigh them down with taxes or let their Protestant ways remain unchanged and undominated? Ordinary Dutch people, jealous of their freedom and willing to fight for it, spoke openly of the French menace, but they had no one in authority to voice their viewpoint and their threat to Louis was minimal.
He alone was on the right path. By working undercover for France now he would lose nothing and gain everything when Louis was master of the Netherlands. There would be a glittering ministerial post and rewards beyond measure. Power was everything! He had hopes of eventually becoming Louis’s choice as the Stadholder, able to govern from the palace at The Hague. But all that was in the future. The immediate matter was the purchase of this painting about to be revealed to him.
“Come, come, Heer de Hartog!” he snapped impatiently. “I’ve waited long enough.”
Willem had unfastened the second set of shutters and the gilt-leather walls of the gallery had begun to gleam and glow with touches of light, the perfect setting for a picture of importance.
“You are the first to see this painting since it came into my hands,” Willem said smoothly, moving on to the next window.
“Most obliging of you,” Ludolf replied drily. After the figure he had already offered for the work it was not surprising he should get priority.
The last window completed the flooding of the gallery with light. Willem went across to the little silk curtain covering the painting and with a final flourish he drew it back. “I present Flora, the goddess of spring.”
Long habit enabled Ludolf to keep his face composed, but his hand tightened convulsively on his cane. Inwardly he was stunned, not only by the splendor of the painting but by the extraordinary beauty of Flora herself. It was by no means the classic symmetry of features normal to the feminine ideal, but there was a fascinating blend of the sensual with the ethereal that fired his senses.
“Who is she?” he demanded throatily.
“That I shall reveal only to the purchaser,” Willem replied blandly.
“Damnation to you! You know I will have the painting!” Ludolf sprang up and went to study the face of Flora more closely.
“I’ve had a higher offer than the last one you made.”
Ludolf turned a hard and glittering gaze on him. “Name your price.”
Willem smiled to himself. This was the best deal he had made for many years.
WHEN WILLEM WENT to see Hendrick the next day, the angry words they had exchanged when they had last seen each other were uppermost in his mind. But the artist was his usual self and greeted him without the least animosity, although there was a sharp complaint about the meager sum the painting of the beggar had fetched.
“I’ve made a sale that will more than make up for that,” Willem replied. They were in the family parlor, where he had found Hendrick sprawled out in a chair by the fire. It was an all too familiar sign that he had slackened off work with a spate of cards and dice.
“The Goddess of Spring?” Hendrick’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“Yes. You will be pleased to hear that after all my hard work I landed a buyer who may prove to be a very big fish indeed.”
Hendrick jerked forward in his chair. “How much?”
Willem was determined to hold him to his daughter’s training. “Enough to give Francesca two years’ tuition in Delft, with bed and board as well as a box of new clothes. There is also a sum over that, in itself twice as much as any figure I’ve managed to raise on any one of your paintings before.”
Flinging back his head, Hendrick uttered a huge bellow of triumphant laughter, slapping his hands on his broad knees. Dame Fortune was smiling on him again. He had done well at cards recently and now this bounty was to be poured into his coffers. “You’ve done splendidly, Willem! We may have had our differences in the past, but I doff my hat to you. When you use your wits you know how to sell the works of a great master!”
Willem’s lips twitched wryly at Hendrick’s excessive display of self-satisfaction, but he also nursed intense regret that this fine artist could not be classed in that exclusive category. “I’ve still more good news to tell.”
“You have?”
“Yes, the buyer is a rich ship broker. His name is Ludolf van Deventer. He has commissioned you to paint his portrait.”
Some of Hendrick’s exuberance waned. He lowered his head and shifted uneasily in his chair, reminding his companion of a bull at bay. “I’m not sure. You know I’ve never liked to paint portraits to order.”
Willem knew that only too well. Many commissions in the past had come to nothing through Hendrick offending the sitters by bellowing at them for fidgeting or else becoming too bored with their faces to finish the work. “If you make a special effort this time I think you can be sure of this man’s patronage for a long while to come. He also bought that little painting of yours of the head of a Trojan warrior that I had on display. Your work interests him.”
“Hmm.” Hendrick lodged an elbow on the arm of his chair and rubbed his chin. “What sort of fellow is he?”
“A man who has had to make his own way in life and is now at an age when he wants to enjoy his hard-earned money. Why not invite him to dinner? His wife would not accompany him, as she suffers from ill health and never goes out. If you spend an evening with him you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether or not you feel able to accept the commission.”
“I suppose it would be a good idea.” Hendrick still looked uncertain. “He’s rich, you say?”
“Very rich.”
Hendrick heaved a sigh. “Well, I’ve thought several times that I should give Aletta her chance of tuition—that is, if her work merits it. At the moment she’s acting like a recluse with her painting, but she’s at a foolish age.”
“Aletta has never seemed anything but sensible to me. I’ve always liked her work. When your finances permit she should be placed in a studio too.”
“Then I’ll invite van Deventer here.”
“One thing more. I’ll be leaving soon on a tour of studios throughout the provinces, during which I’ll be staying in Delft to settle Francesca’s apprenticeship with Vermeer and the Committee of the Guild. I must impress upon you to continue to keep matters to yourself. I have to allow for any unforeseen snags.”
“Very wise.” Hendrick tapped a finger against his nose. “Not a word until you are back from Delft with good news.”
When Willem left the house he was confident that everything had been arranged for the best.
Chapter 7
ALETTA SAT IN AN ANTEROOM AT THE EXCHANGE, WAITING TO see Pieter. She was breathless, having run part of the way to get to the building before its closing hour. She had left home in good time, but she had not gone far when she had seen a neighbor, who was pregnant, slip and fall in a street left treacherously muddy by the thaw. She had rushed to help her up and then, seeing that Vrouw Zegers was much shaken, she had walked her slowly back home. Since their houses were side by side, Aletta had found herself starting out again with half the time to reach the Exchange, but she had reached it with a quarter of an hour to spare.
She looked down at her skirt hems. As she had feared, there was mud on them where they had trailed on the wet road. The thaw that had produced these conditions was welcome nevertheless. It had set in early, allowing crocuses to burst forth in cushions of purple before February was over and once more boat traffic was able to move along those waterways that were impossible to keep open with savage winter weather. Yet the winters were not as harsh nowadays as they had been during the past hundred years when the canals had been frozen through to the end of March at times. It was far from warm yet, but the sun was gaining strength every day as if determined to be ready for the first day of spring
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Aletta was the only one in the anteroom, but a thunderous rumble of male voices came from some inner part of the Exchange. A messenger servant had been sent in to fetch Pieter to her. Her glance went to a high inside window and she wondered what might be seen of this male sanctum from there. Her curiosity overcame her. Telling herself sternly that she was behaving as Sybylla would have done, she climbed up onto the bench below the window.
Before she had even raised herself on tiptoe to look through it, the door of the anteroom burst open and a vigorous, well-dressed and good-looking black-haired young man in a red-plumed hat came striding in. She flushed deeply at being discovered in such an ignominious position, wanting to curl up with embarrassment, but he was smiling approval, greenish eyes twinkling.
“What an excellent notion!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, leaping up onto the bench beside her. “I saw you through the glass panels of the door and decided to follow your example.” Being tall, he was able to look through the window with ease. “This is a position of advantage, isn’t it? There’s somebody I want to make sure is here today without bothering to go into that melee to search for him. Yes! He has come. There’s my banker, old van Jansz, doing all the donkey work on my behalf!”
He did not seem to notice she had not added anything to his stream of talk and any further chance was stemmed, much to her relief, as a swarm of half a dozen young men and women, a riot of color in their silks and velvets and plumes, came through the door he had left open into the anteroom. At the sight of him standing on the bench they exclaimed loudly, each shouting a protest.
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