“What are you doing up there? Is there no end to your pranks, Constantijn? You said you were going to dive into the mob, not dally about here! You’re wasting time! We want to be on our way!”
He grinned at them from where he stood and made a mock-placating bow. “Calm yourselves! My business is done. I’m ready to go.”
He sprang from the bench, slid his arm about the waist of the loveliest girl in the group and led the way out. They were gone like a flock of parrots, slamming the door after them.
All the time Aletta had stood as though frozen. Now she relaxed slightly and, risking discovery again, decided she could not resist looking through the window after hearing Constantijn’s descriptions of the gathering within as a mob and a melee. She wondered what his surname might be.
On tiptoe, and holding the sill with her fingertips, she could just see into the heart of the Exchange. It was a huge rectangular courtyard, open to the sky, where a noisy throng of men milled about, some shouting or arguing or simply standing, heads lowered, in deep and private consultation with a fellow investor. More than a few were giving way to the most extraordinary histrionics. Hats and wigs were being torn off either to be waved triumphantly or thrown to the ground and stamped on, according to whether good or bad news had been received. She was used to explosions of temperament from Hendrick and Sybylla in her own home, which usually upset the entire household, but it was thoroughly entertaining to watch such displays from a detached viewpoint. Foreigners who thought her fellow countrymen to be dull and placid fellows should be allowed to peep through this window as she was doing. They would soon revise their opinions!
There was Pieter threading his way through the crowd. She sprang down from the bench, caught her heel in a petticoat hem and fell full length on the floor. She just managed to scramble to her feet before the door opened and Pieter came into the anteroom with a broad smile.
“You’re here at last,” he greeted her. “I had begun to think you had decided I wouldn’t be of any help to you after all.” His glance took in the severe furnishings of the anteroom. “It’s not very comfortable here. I suggest we go elsewhere to talk.”
She hesitated. “Did I take you away from anything important?”
“Not at all. My business is finished here for today.” Side by side they went out of the Exchange and down the steps to the street, he asking on the way about the health of her father and sisters.
“They are well. I didn’t tell anyone that I was meeting you today or else I know they would have sent their compliments.”
They soon reached a tavern where the enterprising landlord had turned one of his rooms into a coffeehouse for people of both sexes, unlike the segregated clubs for coffee drinking, which were a fashionable quirk. He held the door for her. “Here we are.”
The superb fragrance of freshly roasted coffee beans met them as they entered the warm atmosphere. The drinking of coffee was no longer the privilege of the wealthy and coffee was starting to rival the more expensive China tea. Here, as in every coffeehouse where mixed company was served, all who waited at the tables were female. The place was very busy, but a waiting maid showed Pieter and Aletta to a booth with high-backed settle seats. From it they had a good view of the large copper coffeepots from which coffee, flavored with cloves, cinnamon or ginger according to taste, was poured from little taps. Aletta had never been in a coffeehouse before, because it was cheaper to drink beverages at home.
She lowered the hood of her cloak. Her customary cap that hugged her head and kept her hair under strict control was of cream linen today with a modest edging of lace. Pieter thought it more suited to an older woman. She was too young to detract from her fine features with such severe headgear. Had the cap been of velvet, or silk with beads or embroidery designed to flatter, it would have been a different matter.
“I should like the cinnamon-flavored coffee,” Aletta replied when he asked her what her choice would be.
“Sweetened with sugar or honey?”
She chose honey and he ordered his own to be unflavored and unsweetened. He also asked the waiting maid to bring a selection of the gingerbread and cakes that were made on the premises. While they waited for it all to be brought to them she ventured a question.
“What made you decide to buy a house in Amsterdam?”
“Through certain business interests I like to be in close touch with the Exchange, and it may surprise you to know that winter can be a busy time for me. It’s when I see people who want their gardens newly designed and made ready for the spring, and since I get a great deal of my work from Amsterdam it seemed sensible to have a pied-à-terre here.”
She smiled at him. “In your own way you are an artist too, but in earth and trees and flowers instead of pigments and oils. Do you like that side of horticulture?”
“Immensely. People sometimes take time to make up their minds, wanting more variations planned on paper than they need, but that is all part of it.”
As they chatted he tried not to reveal that he was taking note of her sibling resemblance to Francesca. It came and went in a flicker of expression almost too swift to register and in the way her lips curled slightly before a smile broke forth. But there was nothing in Aletta’s gray-green eyes of the allure he had glimpsed in Francesca’s. The girl sitting opposite him was contained within herself, small and composed with some inner defense to keep her from the emotional upheavals that usually afflicted young women. Aletta’s prim air seemed unassailable. How was it possible for the same parents to have produced both her and Sybylla? They were as different as chalk and cheese. Perhaps Francesca was a little like both her sisters, with the calm of one and the passion of the other. Whatever the true facts, he knew her now to be the woman for him.
The coffee came with the cakes and gingerbread still warm from the oven. “Now,” he said, when he and Aletta had taken their first sip from their cups and sampled a bite of cake, “tell me why you came to see me today.”
She began by telling him of her aim to be a master of a Guild. How and when that would be achieved she did not know, but somehow she would fulfill her dream. Meanwhile there were classes she wanted to attend. As she talked he thought it inexcusable that Hendrick Visser should not be helping his daughters by making them officially his apprentices and seeing them through the whole of their training. It revealed the total selfishness of the man behind the joviality.
“I’ve been taking commissions unknown to my father,” Aletta continued, “and introducing myself by using my mother’s maiden name of Veldhuis to conceal my identity. I doubt if any of my patrons would have heard of Hendrick Visser, because they are not in the range ever to buy from his dealer, but I had to be sure that no chance meeting gave me away. Father talks to all and sundry wherever he is.” She went on to tell of the paintings of houses, workshops, interiors and even the fish stall she had done.
He looked amazed. “Have you any spare time at all?”
“Almost none, because I use every spare minute to build up a stock of pictures to sell whenever it should prove possible. It’s with such money I’ll be able to attend those drawing and painting classes I’ve already mentioned.”
“Where is this work to be sold? In picture shops?”
“No. I did approach several, but it was the same in every one. They’re flooded with stock and nobody would look at mine.”
“Where else, then? Many taverns display pictures for sale.”
“That would be far too risky. My father has drinking companions in every tavern in Amsterdam. Some of them have been to our home and should I be seen in such places they would recognize me.”
“I see your difficulty. What does Francesca advise?”
“She doesn’t know and mustn’t suspect, because she would say I’ll never be a painter if I don’t devote my time to serious work.”
“Is she right, Aletta?” They had dropped into the use of Christian names almost without realizing it.
“What I am doing is serious enough fo
r me, but the kind of work she means awaits me in plenty at those classes. In the meantime I’m learning and improving even by the rough means of speed that I’ve chosen. I can tell whenever I paint in the studio now that I have acquired more skill. Even my father had a good word to say about my painting of the hyacinth. But Francesca is going from strength to strength. Recently her work has become quite beautiful. She seems to have leapt a gap that was keeping her back.”
“What would the reason be?”
“Father takes the credit for having resumed his teaching of her, but I think it’s a natural progression. Like a fledgling taking wing.”
“Does he think highly of her work?”
“He does, but he is very sensitive about his own. Francesca must never become his rival, at least not in his studio.”
“Could that happen, do you think?”
“I believe she is destined to be a splendid artist. She did a painting of Sybylla and me that was so good that Father’s agent, Willem de Hartog, is getting it viewed for an independent assessment of her work.” She took another sip of coffee, savoring the treat she was having.
“If,” he queried, “your father has resumed his teaching of Francesca, why aren’t you benefiting from it too?”
“I’m not often in his studio, because I have my own upstairs. He gets irritated enough having to instruct Francesca and to deal with two of us again would be too much for his temper. After my mother died he reverted in his grief to doing only what he wanted to do, and it has stayed that way. I understand. It has nothing to do with his love for Francesca or for me.”
“You are very tolerant.” He regarded her in a friendly and encouraging manner. “Perhaps you should explain now the full purpose of this meeting. We haven’t come to that yet and my guess is that you have mapped out a role for me to play in this plan of yours for class attendance.” His grin was merry. “Am I to sell your paintings for you?”
It was said in jest, for he believed she had been leading up to asking for a loan to let her attend classes, and he had made up his mind that she should have it. To his dismay she seized on his remark avidly, her usual calm expression changing to one of thrilled and overwhelming relief.
“Oh yes! I never expected you to offer. I dreaded asking you. Just a few at a time along with the bulbs and flowers at any one of your stalls in Amsterdam or elsewhere.” The words were tumbling from her joyously. She scarcely drew breath. “You’ll take a commission from every sale as if you were a real art dealer. It won’t be much, but it will mount up as my share will with time.” Then her voice trailed away and her eyes became stark as he threw up his hands and shook his head regretfully.
“I’m deeply sorry, Aletta. I fear I misled you with an ill-timed joke. I had no idea that was what you wanted of me.”
“What were you expecting?” she asked flatly.
“The request for a loan. I would have met you on that.”
She shook her head. “That’s out of the question. When I start my lessons I’ll have no time to paint anything for sale and there would be no way of paying you back. I must have the money in hand first.”
He sighed and leaned both arms on the table. “I have no time to sell pictures and neither have my assistants. You know how busy stalls are on market day. Why not rent one for yourself for a day? You’d probably sell out. I’ve seen picture stalls doing a good trade.”
“I can’t do that.” The anguish of her disappointment was catching at her throat. “I’d be in the public eye. My father seldom goes to the flower market, but people who know me do and in no time I’d be in the deepest trouble. Worst of all, it would be the end of any classes for me.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I see your difficulty. Do you know anyone else who would be willing to sell for you in return for commission?”
“I daresay our maidservant’s sister would do it. I know she would be glad of a little extra money. But as I said, a stall is out of the question.”
“Suppose you were allotted a small space at the end of one here in Amsterdam. Would that be enough?”
Her whole face became suffused with hope again. “Do you know someone who would be agreeable to that?” When his smile provided a clue she clasped her hands and brought them up against her chest. “You, Pieter! How can I ever thank you?”
“Wait a moment,” he insisted in a serious tone. “If you do decide to employ your maidservant’s sister, it must be understood there can be no encroaching by your pictures beyond the space allowed.”
“There won’t be!”
“Good, but I haven’t finished yet. You’ll have to agree to a special condition.”
His expression was so implacable that she lowered her hands to her lap again. “What is that?”
“You will tell Francesca about the arrangement. I’ll do nothing behind her back.”
She looked long at him, seeking the reason in his eyes. “I’m not proud of keeping anything from her, but I fear she will never approve. She would not give me away to my father, but she’d want me to go back into the studio, although she knows I’ve always found it difficult to work at his side.” Then she bit deeply into her lower lip, which was suddenly tremulous. “Even if I could persuade her to agree to my plan I realize now I can’t accept your offer. How foolish I was to trouble you in the first place.”
He leaned toward her. “You’re thinking that you couldn’t pay rent for a section of my stall as well as letting someone else receive commission, because you’d make no profit at all. But, if you are willing, I’ll take your painting of the hyacinth in lieu of any rent.”
She raised her face again with an expression of disbelief. “You haven’t even seen the painting yet.”
“I’ll take a chance.”
For the first time tears glinted in her eyes. The rise and fall of her hopes had not made her weep, but his generosity at this point had moved her. “I think you’re the kindest man I’ve ever met.”
He smiled and picked up the platter of cakes. “Take another of these and don’t exaggerate. I’ll order more coffee too.”
She took one to allow herself time to regain her composure. “I’ll speak to Francesca at the first suitable moment.”
“You may not find her as obdurate about this matter as you fear.”
Her lips compressed ruefully. “You don’t know what she’s like when she is against something. Nothing will sway her.”
“Would it help if I discussed it with her?”
“No.” Aletta was firm. “I have to do this on my own.”
“Then let’s meet here again next Friday. By then you will have had time to speak to Francesca.”
“Come back home with me today and see the flower paintings. If all works out well, I wouldn’t want you to think you’ve made a bad bargain.”
“I’ve no fear of that, but I can’t come today.”
“Next week, then?”
“That would suit me well.” He hoped, but would not ask, that he would see Francesca also.
Aletta had no chance to say anything to her sister that day. Upon her return home she was met by Griet with the news that the pregnant neighbor, whom she herself had helped up from the ice that morning, had gone into labor. Maria had hobbled in next door to be with the woman while Francesca had rushed for the midwife and then for the husband from his place of business. Afterward there were the young children of the family to be fed and cared for.
It was late when Francesca and Maria finally came home. Aletta in her nightshift looked over the banister.
“What happened?”
Francesca raised a tired face. “It’s a girl. She’s very tiny and we pray that she will live.”
“Oh yes! Who’s with Vrouw Zegers now?”
“Her mother and her married sister have arrived from their village.”
Maria patted Francesca’s shoulder. “You go to bed now, child. It’s been a long time since this morning.”
For five days there was suspense over the infant’s chances of surviva
l. During that time Francesca was in and out of the house next door, helping however she could. Then, miraculously, the baby began feeding properly and all was well.
No sooner was this crisis over than a woman cousin of Hendrick’s arrived to stay two nights in order to attend a wedding. Hendrick did not like her, nor did she have any patience with him, and the atmosphere was tense. All this time Aletta was watching for a chance to speak quietly to Francesca on her own, but the moment was never right.
It was during this cousin’s visit that Sybylla came perilously near to disclosing Aletta’s secret ahead of time. The cousin, who dressed in the best of fabrics with taste and style, had some valuable jewelry and wore it discreetly in turn. After watching her leave for the wedding in a hired sleigh, Sybylla had spoken scornfully.
“Why did she wear only those topaz earbobs and a single brooch. If I’d been her I’d have worn all my jewelry today for everyone to see. What’s the use of having lovely things if you don’t show them off and make everybody jealous! That’s what I shall do when I’m rich.”
Aletta, her nerves taut, turned on her. “Can’t you think of anything except wealth and how to flaunt it?”
Sybylla was indignant. “How can you say that? Nobody is more greedy for money than you!” Then the sudden drained look on Aletta’s face made her bite back whatever else she would have said.
“Don’t talk foolishly, Sybylla,” Francesca said from the table where she was writing in the housekeeping ledger. She had not glanced up or else she would have noticed the tension between her sisters. “Aletta is the last one at whom you should throw that accusation.”
Later, when they were upstairs in their bedchamber, Sybylla apologized to Aletta, who answered patiently.
“I was at fault too. I appreciate your keeping to yourself what I have here.” She pushed open the communicating door into the studio-parlor. Her easel stood by the window, and stacked around the three walls were the extra pictures she had painted and was storing as stock. Most were on wood, which many artists preferred for being tougher than canvas, particularly if their work was to have rough handling between markets or auctions before sale. She had had a windfall of wood when she had painted a view of a carpenter’s home and he had a store of pieces of plain paneling that he had removed from an ancient house. It was too thin for reuse for its original purpose and he had sold it all to her for a guilder, cutting it into suitable sizes as part of the bargain. There was still more in his cellar for her when she was ready to collect it, since, having no storage space, she could only take a little at a time. He had wanted to deliver the wood to her, but she was quick to decline the kindly offer. She dared let nobody discover her address.
The Golden Tulip Page 16