The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “No chance of that. He has other means by which to live and doesn’t confine himself to painting, but Willem thinks most highly of his work. So,” he added to Ludolf, “you have my most profound apologies that your commission can’t be undertaken by my daughter.”

  “Is that so?” Ludolf’s manner had chilled. “That is a very great pity. It is a blow to all my expectations.”

  The significance of his words was lost on Francesca, who could have thrown her arms about her father’s neck for his spurning, with such a wonderful disclosure, Ludolf’s high-handed assumption that she would jump at the chance he had offered her. Apart from anything else, she would never have trodden deliberately on her father’s exclusive territory. There were none more wary of his pride than his own household.

  Unsuspected by her, the momentum of Ludolf’s threat had hit Hendrick hard. Had he and his daughter obliged the man’s whim all would have been well, but a second refusal in one evening would not be tolerated. Sweat began to gather on Hendrick’s forehead. He fought for calm and would have drummed his fingers on the table as his thoughts raced to find a means by which to solve this crisis, but pain in his knuckles shot through his fingers and he covered them quickly with his other hand. He did not realize that Francesca had noticed the involuntary tremor of his fingers or that he had made her aware of how often recently she had seen him take that action of cushioning his knuckles. Hendrick cleared his throat. “I regret to hear that. No offense was intended.”

  “I did not suppose that it was.” In spite of Ludolf’s conciliatory acknowledgment the same iciness persisted in his voice. He glanced at the clock as if he might be changing his mind about staying for cards after all. It was a clear indication that if he went he would be taking his patronage with him.

  Panic rose in Hendrick. Suddenly he saw Ludolf as a bastion between himself and a poverty-stricken old age. The specter of Frans Hals existing in his last years on charity and poor Rembrandt’s pitiful end haunted him in his depressed moments, as did those of other artists he had known who had been reduced to ignominious circumstances. The old fears surged through him once more. He liked living with a certain dash and it was clear that the luxuries of life would be plentiful under Ludolf’s patronage. The cost was his pride, but for once in his life he must sacrifice it. He could not let everything that had been dangled before him that evening slip through his fingers, the painful condition of which was likely to get worse as the years advanced. A tolerant patron, as Ludolf had shown earlier that he could be, would never hasten work when the end result would be all that was desired.

  “I don’t see this situation as an impasse,” he said in an attempt to sound at ease. “Francesca’s departure for Delft needn’t be hurried.” Deliberately he ignored the look of alarm that had flown into his daughter’s face. “No date has been considered yet as to when she will be leaving Amsterdam. There would be time for her to paint you first.”

  Francesca cried out in protest. “Such a portrait could not be rushed.”

  “The time will simply be extended until it is finished.” Hendrick beamed at his guest. “That’s settled then. I can promise you’ll not be disappointed in the result, mijnheer. I shall personally add any necessary touches. Naturally it won’t be the masterpiece you would have had if I were able to undertake the commission, but Francesca has a gift for capturing likeness that is commendable.” Then he reached over to her, acting a show of enthusiasm, and clasped her wrist harder than he had intended. The burning needles of pain driving into his fingers almost made him grimace. “Thank our new patron, Francesca.”

  She had felt him wince and, under her lashes, she saw at close quarters that there was a slightly swollen look about his knuckles, nothing that was noticeable in the normal way, but following that involuntary tremor it was a sign that meant a great deal. Torn by regret, she felt her will to refuse the commission dissolve away in pity and filial love. How long had he been concealing this rebellion of the joints that was every artist’s fear, linked as it was to cold studios and drafts and sketching when chill winds blew in from the sea. No wonder he did not want this commission to go by, whatever the toll on his conceit. The least she could do for him was to achieve her best work to date. She swallowed hard, smiled at him and then turned her head to meet Ludolf’s waiting gaze.

  “I thank you, Heer van Deventer,” she said, feeling like an obedient child instead of a grown woman with an independent mind.

  He was smiling benignly, his eyes very bright. “I suppose we need to discuss details.”

  She knew he was referring to the pose he should adopt, the color of his garments and so forth. The financial side would not be mentioned between them, for whatever was received would go to Hendrick. “We can fix a time one day that is convenient for you.”

  “Why not when I come to view your father’s paintings by daylight? That can be tomorrow. I’m eager to see them.”

  Since arriving at the house Ludolf had formed his own opinion of Hendrick and summed him up as a bombastic, self-satisfied fellow who would be easy to manipulate. He had in his possession at home a full report from an investigation into the artist’s background that gave gambling as his weakness. It was Ludolf’s policy never to do business with anyone, not even the simple commission of a painting, without knowing all about the person he was dealing with. He had good reasons. There were shadows in his past that he never wanted to stir up again by chance. The knowledge he gained also gave him a tremendous advantage and he compared it to having seen the hand of an opponent in a game of cards before play began.

  Francesca was the unknown for him in this house. He was magnetized by her. Her allure was almost beyond physical endurance. It was difficult to keep his eyes from her, the racing of his blood so fast that it was a wonder it did not thunder in his veins like a river in spate. He felt like a man who had been denied the sight of a woman for decades. He wanted to eat and drink her, drown her mouth in his and turn her every way until there was no part of her not known to him. Countless women had aroused him fiercely throughout the years, but never before had he been so fascinated and enthralled, weak as a youth in love for the first time. Had he not been able to disguise his feelings he would have given himself away when he sighted her standing in the stair hall, candlelight falling on her pale, oval face and flaring red-gold sparks in her hair. Although he was already more than familiar with her likeness as Flora, her sensual and unusual beauty in the flesh had all but driven the breath from his lungs. In those few seconds the alarming realization had dawned that he had become totally obsessed by her.

  He had had to keep an expressionless face again in the dining hall when Hendrick had declined the commission for himself. Instantly it had become apparent how it would be possible to be alone with Francesca, not once or twice, but for as many hours as it would take in sittings for her to paint his portrait. His ruse had worked and from it all he desired would come. It was many years since he had set out to seduce a chaste virgin. It could be argued that at fifty his sexual mores had grown too sophisticated for such a young man’s game, but there was an exception to every rule and she would be a delight to teach and would be quick to learn.

  “I’ll bid you good night once more,” she was saying to him.

  “Good night to you, Francesca. We shall meet again tomorrow morning.”

  He would have liked to walk with her to the stairs, to have seized her in the shadows and taken her violently against the wall, thrusting himself into her warm, moist depths while kneading her breasts, his hungry mouth swallowing hers. As she went through the archway his hooded gaze devoured her until she had disappeared from sight. He took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from his pocket and, unseen by Hendrick, wiped his sweaty palms.

  Upstairs on the third landing Francesca found Sybylla waiting for her and she was given no chance to speak. “I listened! Isn’t it marvelous news about the apprenticeship!”

  “Yes, it is.” Francesca laughed happily as she was pulled by the hand into her sist
ers’ bedchamber. Aletta, already in her nightshift and robe, rushed to embrace her.

  “You deserve this wonderful chance more than anybody! All my felicitations!”

  “It will be your turn soon!”

  Aletta stood back and held her by the arms. “It’s a heavy chore for you having to paint that man first,” she said sympathetically, “but it shouldn’t take you too long and then you’ll be away. Think of that all the time he’s sitting on the rostrum.”

  “I will!” Francesca hooked her arm through Aletta’s and they sat together on the edge of the four-poster bed. “I could see Father felt obligated to fulfill his new patron’s wish.”

  Sybylla, having removed her gown, bounced onto the bed in her petticoats and knelt beside her sisters. “Where’s the money coming from for the tuition? Has Father had a huge win at gaming?”

  “I think he’s had some small wins over quite a long period, because he has kept my household coffer regularly supplied. It’s my belief that my apprenticeship is being financed by the sum Father received for The Goddess of Spring.”

  “Would that be enough?”

  “There is also a little money of Mama’s that was placed in trust for each of us when the need arose. I expect my share will be added.”

  Sybylla’s face lit up. “I never realized I had a dowry. How is Aletta’s apprenticeship to come about?”

  “That’s obvious. When an artist has a rich patron his work is far more sought after. Father can count on a bigger income from now on.”

  “I still hope Master Vermeer is paid in advance,” Sybylla stated bluntly, “because you know what Father is! We’ll probably have creditors at the front and back doors again within a month of your going away, Francesca.”

  Aletta gave Sybylla a push that sent her backward across the bed. “Stop that talk! We don’t want Francesca to go off to Delft full of worry.”

  Francesca’s expression changed to one of anxiety and concern. “Do you suppose I haven’t thought of that? I’ll organize everything and try to cover any emergency before I leave, first for you, Aletta, and then for when Maria takes over. I’ll make sure that Father agrees that this is how it shall be or else I’ll not take the apprenticeship. Having a new start last autumn with creditors paid and money in the household coffers has enabled me to keep abreast with all expenses. Although Father is still gaming, he does seem to have made an effort as he promised and kept to modest stakes. Now at least when he loses it is not a disaster.”

  Sybylla was back on her knees again. “Neither of you has spoken about letting me be in charge when you’re both absent,” she pouted. “Why should it be Maria?”

  Aletta answered her crisply. “Because you and Father would throw all his money away between you in no time at all. You both need keeping in check.”

  “That’s unfair!”

  “No, it’s not. It’s the truth and you know it. You’re always trying to wheedle the fripperies you want from him.”

  Sybylla’s face blazed. “I never received that new cloak, did I? That’s how much he listens to me!”

  Francesca could see a sharp quarrel was soaring up between her sisters. “Be quiet, Sybylla! You’ll be heard all over the house and we’ll have Maria coming from her bed to see what’s the matter.” Having silenced Sybylla, she spoke again to Aletta. “We’ll talk about all this again tomorrow, but you wanted to ask me something, didn’t you? Come along to my room with me now.”

  Aletta shook her head. “It was nothing important.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see the frantic signals that Sybylla was making behind Francesca’s back, indicating that she should go. “It was a question that has more or less answered itself.”

  Francesca looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. Go to bed now and sleep well.”

  As soon as Francesca had gone from the room Sybylla sprang from the bed. “I thought you were going to tell her of your plans.”

  “What happened this evening took away any chance of her agreeing with them.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Aletta slipped off her robe and climbed into bed. “She would say that my need to sell my pictures was eliminated by my forthcoming apprenticeship.”

  “I suppose she would be right.”

  “Yes, she would be,” Aletta sighed. “Now finish getting undressed and come to bed. I can’t sleep until the candle is blown out.”

  Sybylla came to the bed to stare hard at her on the pillows. “You don’t think your apprenticeship is certain, do you?”

  Aletta hesitated. “Mine isn’t settled with a studio like Francesca’s. Until it is I feel I must carry on with what I’m doing.”

  “You’re being pessimistic.”

  “I see it as being realistic.”

  “You always have wanted everything cut and dried. That’s why there’s nothing romantic in you. You never expect to find anything waiting round the corner for you, not even love.”

  Aletta rolled up her eyes. “Spare me your philosophizing at this hour.”

  Sybylla was pondering another point and paid no attention. “I suppose it’s just possible that Father said you’d be getting an apprenticeship later on to make sure Francesca accepted hers. She would never have agreed otherwise to preferential treatment with you the loser.”

  “Don’t malign Father on that point. He always means what he says at the time. It’s not that I don’t think he wants me to have my chance, it’s simply that he may not be able to arrange it for me when the time comes.” Aletta sat up abruptly. “You must keep what I’ve said to yourself! Francesca must not suspect my uncertainty. You are quite right in thinking that if she should start questioning Father it could end up with her refusing to go to Delft.”

  “I won’t breathe a word. I haven’t given the secret of your commissions away and I’ll keep all that’s been said here to myself too.”

  Aletta lay awake long after Sybylla’s regular breathing showed that she slept. She had known that as soon as Willem had been mentioned in connection with the arranging of her sister’s apprenticeship it would be secured. He was the most reliable man and would make no false promises about what could be done, but for herself it was a different matter. Her apprenticeship depended on her father’s work pleasing Ludolf van Deventer indefinitely and there was no guarantee of that. Only yesterday Hendrick had started a painting of a tax collector. Who would want such a picture? Tax was a sore point with everybody and with the rich most of all. He had alienated so many would-be patrons in the past with his temperamental outbursts and his inflated pride. No matter how good his intentions, or how deep his love for those involved, circumstances of his own making all too frequently defeated him.

  She was not looking forward to the morrow. Facing Pieter without having spoken to Francesca was going to be difficult. All she could hope was that he would understand how the events of the evening had created a barrier that she had not anticipated and would be satisfied with her promise that as soon as Francesca’s apprenticeship was confirmed she should be told everything.

  Aletta had another thought. Sybylla was wrong about there being no romance in her. She was fully aware of Pieter as just the man whom she might have loved, for she admired everything about him from his looks to his kindness and his integrity, but she must close the door on those feelings and turn the key. Only a fool would fall in love with a man whose heart was almost certainly centered on her sister.

  Chapter 8

  PIETER RECEIVED THE NEWS FROM ALETTA OF FRANCESCA’S apprenticeship in Delft with surprise and mixed reactions. “I understand this is a wonderful chance for her,” he said thoughtfully, “even if I deeply regret it means she will be leaving Amsterdam. Nevertheless, I still cannot agree to anything being done behind her back. She has to know.”

  In desperation Aletta pleaded. “It may only be for a short time that I have to keep her in ignorance, and maybe not. I can’t make any promises about that. For all I know, my apprenticeship may never materialize
and then without those classes I should have lost every chance I ever had to reach the standard for which I am aiming.” She put her hand on his arm where they sat again in the coffeehouse, her face desperately anxious. “Please, Pieter! Give me a time limit of twelve months if you must, but in mercy’s sake don’t take from me the one opportunity I have to get where I want to be.”

  He could be hard and obdurate when there was need, but in this case her argument was such that the just side of his nature questioned his conscience about refusing her. He knew what it meant to be able to fulfill an ambition and had he been denied the career he had chosen he would never have gained satisfaction in life. Although his silence while he considered her plea was of little more than a minute’s duration, it seemed like an hour to her. Finally he gave a slow nod of his head.

  “You shall have that section of my stall. I’ll not set a time limit, because it’s immaterial whether it’s a week or a year when we are both keeping from Francesca what she has a moral right to know.” He frowned ruefully, although he had spoken without reproach, simply stating a fact. “This business sets me at a disadvantage with her. The conspiracy between you and me will be at the back of my mind every time I see her.”

  She was glad he was not looking at her at that precise moment or he might have seen the searing regret twisting her face that he should care so much about keeping her sister in the dark. “I know that.”

  “I admire her,” he said as if she might not have grasped fully how he felt.

  She managed a cheerful smile. “That’s to be expected. She’s a fine person. You granted the favor to me originally because I happened to be her sister, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ll not deny it.”