The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  As the days went by the routine settled down. When Sybylla continued to accompany Francesca to the house every day, the novelty showing no sign of palling, it seemed time to mention the matter to Ludolf.

  “I hope you have no objection to Sybylla being here so often,” she put to him.

  He was quick to reassure her. “Indeed not. I’m extremely pleased that she should be here, because I can see that already my wife delights in her cheerful company. And who would not?”

  Francesca was equally glad that a friendship had been struck between his wife and her sister that took no account of the difference in their ages. Amalia had an interest in fashion that matched Sybylla’s own and they had long discussions about it and other topics, including the interests of the Visser family.

  “It’s splendid that Francesca should have obtained an apprenticeship in Delft,” Amalia remarked one day. “She must be a truly gifted painter.”

  “Oh, she is,” Sybylla assured her. “I wish you could see the painting she did of my sister and me playing in concert, Aletta at the virginal and I on my viol.”

  Amalia’s face lit up. “The viol? Are you telling me you play the viol? It was my mother’s favorite instrument and as a child I spent many happy hours listening to her playing.” She hesitated. “I suppose—would it be asking too much—I mean could you possibly play for me occasionally?”

  “Of course!” Sybylla was genuinely enthusiastic. “That would be marvelous, because I love playing. I’ll bring my viol with me in the coach tomorrow morning.”

  “Your sister’s lively company,” Amalia said to Francesca a few days later, “does me more good than any physic the doctor brings. She is like a ray of sunshine whenever she comes into my apartment and we share a love of music. I can’t tell you how much pleasure she gives me when playing her viol.”

  If Amalia needed to rest Sybylla would visit Ludolf’s library or wander about the house or garden, only his study and apartment closed to her. Once she happened to see Neeltje coming out of the study and locking the door after her. Sybylla, who was sitting curled up, her feet under her on a window seat, would have thought nothing of it if the woman had not glanced about swiftly before darting away, putting the key in her pocket. She did not notice Sybylla, who wondered if she should mention the incident to Amalia, for it was obvious that Neeltje should not have been there, but after consideration she thought better of it. For all she knew Neeltje had been there at Amalia’s instruction, finding out some matter of interest that Ludolf had no wish to disclose. Perhaps Amalia suspected him of having a mistress, which was more than likely. She had seen the sly way he looked at Francesca, and even with herself he was too fond of seizing any opportunity to slip an arm about her waist and glancing at her bosom as if he could see right through her bodice. She often felt his eyes following her naturally swinging hips when she left his presence.

  One of the times of day that Sybylla enjoyed best in the van Deventer house, apart from being with Amalia, was the noon meal, for there was always delicious fare served from silver dishes. Mostly she and Francesca were alone to eat, Amalia always taking her meals in her apartment and Ludolf frequently not at home. Adding to her enjoyment of being in this fine residence every weekday was the knowledge that Maria could not get at her for all those boring domestic chores.

  Francesca’s work went well until the morning when she was to meet Pieter. Then her glance strayed constantly to the clock. She had the studio to herself, Ludolf being elsewhere and Sybylla keeping Amalia company, which meant she had nothing to distract her except her own unwarranted rise of anticipation as the hour for his arrival at the house drew near. Slightly ahead of time she discarded her painting smock, checked her appearance in a mirror and then hastened downstairs to be in the reception hall when he came. She arrived exactly as he banged the knocker. A manservant went forward to open the door.

  There was Pieter on the doorstep, outlined against the sunny morning. He had not seen her yet, speaking to the manservant as he was admitted and giving his name.

  “Heer van Deventer is expecting me.” Then he did see her, dazzling her with his look of surprise and pleasure. She believed with regret that had she wished it, there could have been something very deep between them. As the manservant went to announce his arrival, she explained the reason for her presence.

  “I’m sorry, Pieter, but I can’t leave my work to meet you later today. I’m here on the understanding that I complete the portrait within five weeks and that means using every minute.”

  Before Pieter could reply, Ludolf’s voice rang out from the far end of the reception hall. “I wouldn’t think of being the cause of any disappointment to you, Francesca. Heer van Doorne is more than welcome to take the noon meal with us. Then at least in the time available you will have the chance to keep part of your appointment.”

  It was not what either of them wanted, but Pieter accepted the obviously well-intentioned invitation. Then Francesca returned to her work in the studio and he went out with Ludolf by another way into the garden. Upstairs she put on her smock again and went to the window. The two men stood in deep discussion at the top of a flight of steps leading from a stone-paved terrace, Ludolf’s gestures indicating that the position of the flower beds and lawns were not to his satisfaction. Now and again Pieter nodded, making notes in a workbook he had taken from his pocket and occasionally pointing in various directions himself. When the head gardener joined them Ludolf went back indoors. After a short conversation the gardener left and Pieter was on his own.

  Until then the wide brim of his hat had half hidden his face from her sight, but now he looked up sharply and unerringly at her window. It was as if some extraordinary communication between them told him from the first second that she was watching him, for he had not known where her studio was located or seen her go upstairs. He waved and she waved back before slipping away from the window, for he had work to do and she had hers.

  She stole a moment a while later to look out at him again. He was on one knee by a distant rose bed, examining the soil. Ludolf happened to enter the studio while she was at the window. He made no comment about her not being at her easel, simply taking his place in the carved chair. It had become a pattern of his sittings that he came to the studio whenever he had time to spare.

  “There’s half an hour left before the noon meal,” he said, settling himself comfortably. “I thought you could put my presence to good use.”

  “Even ten minutes is a help,” she replied, switching brushes and colors, having previously been filling in some background detail. He only changed into his black and gilt-braided clothes when he was able to sit for longer periods, but his hat was kept in the studio and he put it on each time.

  When the noon hour struck they left the studio and went downstairs together. Sybylla came from Amalia’s apartment and was the first to find Pieter waiting in the reception hall while passing the time looking at the paintings on the green silk walls.

  “Good day, Pieter! So you’re here, are you?”

  “I’ve been invited to stay for the noon meal.”

  “What fun!” She giggled mischievously. “Are we to sit together at table?”

  But that was not to be the case. Ludolf sat at the head with Francesca at his right hand and Pieter next to her. Sybylla was shown to a chair opposite Pieter, who gave her an impudent wink. He was telling her with-out words that the table was too wide and they were too far apart for her to misbehave this time. Her mouth twitched with barely controlled laughter. She was not able to calm it until she had had a sip of wine. Always a chatterbox, she was irrepressible today, more at ease through Pieter being present than she was when Ludolf was on his own with Francesca and her at the table.

  Francesca noticed that Ludolf never minded her sister’s garrulity in the least. He laughed at her joking remarks and even argued with her most amiably over some small matter. Sybylla was always at her most entertaining self when she held male attention.

  Pieter had no ch
ance to have a few words alone with Francesca, for when they rose from the table Sybylla took him to see Amalia, who wanted to discuss the landscaping of the garden.

  “I would like you to include a sheltered corner for me,” Amalia said to him. She was feeling better that day and was seated in a chair by the window, which was a rare treat. “I have not been outside since last summer, because unless there is a day without a breeze there has been no place for me to sit.”

  “I’ve already thought of that, ma’am.” He proceeded to point out through the window where he thought a little bower should be. She became quite animated as he spoke of a gently sloping terrace to eliminate stone steps, the protection of a wall and bushes, the shade of trees. Sybylla, listening intently, thought how closely he had considered the needs of an invalid, even planning that the bower should be close to the house for easy access and yet giving as much privacy as was required. Then Amalia echoed her thoughts.

  “It sounds perfect,” she said, pressing her thin hands together. “How soon will it be ready?”

  Pieter inclined his head slightly. “That depends on whether my plans meet with your husband’s approval. If they do, you may be sure that your bower will be finished first.”

  She had become subdued at the reference to Ludolf and nodded with dignity. “I would appreciate that.” Then she changed the subject, asking if he lived in Amsterdam, and he stayed talking to her for quite a while.

  When he left her apartment Sybylla went with him to guide him through the corridors and he interrupted her chatter to ask where Francesca’s studio was located.

  “Upstairs,” Sybylla replied, “but I can’t take you there now. Heer van Deventer is sitting for her again and he wouldn’t want you taking up the precious time he allows her. He’s a busy man.”

  He frowned. “Doesn’t your father object to Francesca being alone for hours with van Deventer in that studio?”

  She trilled with laughter. “Why should he? Vrouw van Deventer is always in the house. I’m here too, much of the time. Servants go in and out with coffee and refreshments and to mend the fire. In any case, when Francesca is at Delft she will be leading an independent life subject only to the rules of apprenticeship. Father knows she has a sensible head on her shoulders and can take care of herself or else he’d never let her go.”

  “How long is it now before she goes away?”

  Sybylla reckoned up. “Ten days and that’s not counting the day she leaves. Just before her departure Ludolf is holding a grand banquet. Father and I and my sisters have all been invited.” Her glance teased him. “Don’t you wish you could be there too?”

  He countered that easily in the same vein. “Only if I could have Francesca at my right hand and Aletta at my left.”

  She threw back her head and trilled again. “You’ll never forget that meal at our house, will you! You’re such a joy to torment, Pieter. You can count yourself lucky that I don’t want to marry you!”

  They continued to banter merrily until he was out on the steps of the house. As he went away down the street he turned in the direction of the Visser home. Sybylla was too talkative for him to have told her why he was going there and in any case it was a matter between Hendrick Visser and himself at this stage.

  Griet smiled widely when she saw it was he at the door. Then she shook her head when he asked to speak to her master. “He’s painting and he has a model on the rostrum, so he won’t see anyone who’s not expected. That’s true,” she added, as if he might remember the excuse she had given him when he had first come to the house with the bulbs and expected immediate payment. “Would you like to wait? All the three young ladies are out, but I’d make you tea.” She was hopeful he would accept.

  “I thank you, Griet, but I’ll come another time. Will there be a model here tomorrow?”

  She thought carefully, adding up how long her master had been painting his tax collector picture. “It’s difficult to say. The model wasn’t here for several days and this could be the final sitting.”

  “I’ll take my chance tomorrow, then.” If he had not fixed another appointment that day he would have waited, no matter for how many hours he had had to drink tea, for he had a sense of urgency about speaking to Francesca’s father as soon as possible. There was so little time before she left home. He wanted above all else to be able to visit her in Delft.

  LUDOLF WAS EQUALLY aware of the swift passing of the days. He had been congratulating himself on winning Francesca’s confidence and her trust after that first unwise move on his part. She was relaxed in his company now and had responded to his friendliness. He saw he had pleased her with his tolerance of her imp of a sister and she appreciated the frequent sittings he gave her. To lull any doubts she might still have about him, he always talked encouragingly of how she would enjoy being in Delft, her eyes shining as she listened to him while she painted. It was all part of his campaign to make the disappointment more acute when she discovered her apprenticeship there was not to be. That was going to be so easily managed and he dismissed as unimportant Pieter van Doorne’s interest in her. There must be several young men with an eye for her. Hendrick had spoken of having shown the door to would-be suitors at her request, and later conversations with Sybylla on her own had further endorsed his understanding that Francesca was dedicated to a future in art above all else. He believed the way clear for himself by the means he had planned.

  It was to be certain of this that he had offered hospitality to Pieter, wanting to view the situation at close hand. On the surface there had been nothing at all to suggest anything really serious between them, but there had been the incident of finding her gazing from the window. Yet that might have been only female curiosity to see what was going on.

  At least the trap for Hendrick was well and truly set now and when it snapped shut Francesca would be equally securely imprisoned by it. With his prior knowledge of Hendrick’s gambling weakness, he had let him win that first time at the Visser house. Then at his own home it had been arranged again, two of his cardsharp henchmen acting the gentlemen and Hendrick leaving with large winnings. Tonight was to be the denouement.

  IN THE EARLY hours of the following morning Hendrick sat ashen-faced in the firelight of the drawing room. He was bowed over, forearms across his knees and his hands hanging. The whole house was sleeping and he was alone in his torment. He had not been in such desperate straits since he had had Anna to turn to, when, without a word of reproach, she would calmly count up what could be sold this time. Another piece of her treasured jewelry would always top the list until that was all gone. They had quarreled about many things, including his gambling and womanizing, but at times of crisis she had turned her thoughts only to how she might save him from disaster. At least, through her father’s foresight, the roof over their heads had never been endangered. Unfortunately, because of a legal technicality that had been overlooked, that protection had not been continued for her children. It was why he had made a supreme effort since his bereavement not to be as reckless at gaming tables as he had been previously, comparatively minor debts always settled sooner or later.

  Until tonight! He groaned aloud. The evening had started off superbly. Ludolf and the two other players, Claudius and Otto, with whom Hendrick had played previously, arrived in good spirits in anticipation of the return card session. Both the newcomers to the house had admired his painting of Anna in the reception room, as people with an eye for art so often did. Following what they had already seen of his paintings in Ludolf’s home, it was obvious they would soon be wanting some of his work too. Francesca had set a buffet supper on a side table with several decanters of wine and then left them to begin their game in the drawing room.

  At first the size of the stakes suggested had almost made his eyes bulge, but luck was running in his fingers and he knew he could not lose. It was not time yet for that winning streak to start playing tricks and he could feel his own power.

  “Why not raise the stakes still higher, gentlemen?” he had s
uggested. He had seen that only Ludolf had not been taken aback, giving an approving nod, and the other two recovered themselves and agreed.

  How well the play had gone! The cards adored him. They purred as he fanned them out and if he had seen them switch suits to please his play he would not have been surprised. His winnings mounted from the first hand. By the time a break was taken for food, the glasses having been replenished by each to his own requirements during the game, he had two mountains of shining florins beside him and knew there would be more before the night’s end.

  It was after supper that everything began to go wrong. He would lose and then win again with the resurgence of power, only to be dashed unexpectedly in the next hand by rogue cards that ruined everything. His winnings began to diminish, but he was in a trap of his own hospitality, giving him no chance of withdrawing from the game on some pretext of having to leave, and more so by his own conviction that luck had not deserted him. He always sensed when that was happening, even though he might choose not to take notice, but that was not the case tonight. There was no trickery afoot with the three other players, for even when he dealt he lost in the same way.

  Eventually all his winnings had gone and he went on, getting deeper and deeper into the mire, Ludolf keeping him company, but then his patron had had the poorest cards all the evening. Sweat ran down into Hendrick’s eyes and his shirt was sticking to him. The perpetual pain in his knuckles began echoing in his chest, a sensation he had not experienced before, and he loosened the strings of his collar. Then, when he had a winning hand in his clasp again, almost making him weep with joy that his luck had returned in a way that would sweep him on to the whole night’s jackpot, they fell from his nerveless fingers as his chest seemed to contract and he began gasping frantically for breath, lurching back in his chair.