The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  In the coach Hendrick thought that if the situation had been contrived to be as awkward as possible for him it could not have surpassed these circumstances. How did one begin to ask a man short of time for a huge loan with all the distractions of a busy street passing by? To add to everything else, Ludolf had a sheaf of important-looking papers in his hand, at which he kept glancing and which were obviously uppermost in his mind.

  “Ludolf,” he began, and then hesitated.

  From the opposite seat, Ludolf looked across at him. “Well? Speak up, my friend. What is it?”

  The amiable courtesy could not veil a slight impatience. Somehow Hendrick found his voice. “First of all I should like to thank you for not having mentioned my ill fortune while we dined today, or during your sittings with Francesca.” He had thought that a good way to start, but now he was not sure of anything anymore.

  “I know the prim attitude most women hold toward gambling losses,” Ludolf replied with a shrug. “It’s best to keep them in ignorance of occasional bouts of ill luck.” He chatted on flowingly about how he tried to keep from his sick wife whatever he thought might distress her. Frantically Hendrick awaited his chance to speak again. Had he not known his patron for the kindly man he was, it would have been possible to believe the delay in letting him speak was deliberate. Perhaps it was! Anyone as rich as Ludolf would have become adept over the years in thwarting appeals for money. Then, even as Hendrick felt it was impossible to go on with what he had intended to say, Ludolf gestured encouragingly.

  “I’m talking too much. Pray pardon me. As I daresay you’ve noticed,” he added with a touch of humor, “the only time I’m silent is when I’m concentrating on play at the tables. We really must have another evening of cards again soon—not just on the evening of the banquet, when the players in the card room will be an assorted bunch, but us four keen players on our own again. That should give you the opportunity to recoup your losses.”

  “That chance can’t be mine.” Hendrick clasped his shaking hands together. Into his artist’s mind there sprang a picture of how he must look and the title of such a painting came with it. The Abject Borrower. “I’m in a most terrible predicament. I’ve not yet settled my debts to our fellow players and I can’t foresee any time in the near future when I’ll be able to!”

  Ludolf looked extremely grave and he put the sheaf of papers on the seat beside him as he leaned forward. “This is a dreadful admission to hear. I had no idea that this was what you wanted to speak to me about. I thought—Well, no matter now. How did this situation arise?”

  Although Hendrick gave the best explanation possible, saying that he was carried away by the excitement of the game, it sounded weak and feeble even to his own ears. No matter what he said, nothing could take away the fact that his playing for stakes beyond his capacity was tantamount to theft. Moreover, settling gaming debts quickly was a matter of honor, and failure to do so meant ostracism and disgrace in any gaming circle. He struggled on and when he had finally managed to utter his request for a loan he lapsed into a stunned state of misery, seeing how deeply he had shocked his patron, who was perhaps his patron no longer.

  Ludolf sat back in his seat, shaking his head slowly as if words failed him at this lamentable disclosure. When eventually he did speak it was in a slow and weighty voice.

  “It is entirely against my principles to lend money for gaming debts. No man such as you with a family should jeopardize his responsibilities in such a foolhardy—I will say criminal—way. And to such a vast sum! A fortune, mijnheer,” he emphasized, as if Hendrick might not be fully aware of it.

  A rebellious streak in Hendrick made him want to retort that it would not be a fortune to Ludolf, wallowing in wealth, although it was to him. “I know,” he croaked, closing his eyes to shut out the black abyss waiting to drag him down. Refusal was in Ludolf’s every intonation. “I’m a lost man if you don’t help me.”

  There was a seemingly endless silence before Ludolf spoke again and then more leniently. “You’ve been a fool, but you’ve placed your problem before me and as your patron I must think how best to solve it for you.” He stroked his pointed beard as he looked unseeingly out the window as if deep in thought, fully aware that the distraught artist was waiting on tenterhooks. “My first move must be to purchase your promissory notes. That would lift from you the immediate need to sell your home and give you breathing space.”

  Hendrick almost wept with gratitude. “What can I say? This—”

  “Wait!” Ludolf frowned at him sternly. “There is no guarantee that either Claudius or Otto will sell. They may feel an example should be made of you and take you to a debtors’ court. If I should be successful in taking over your debts,” he added after a pause of meditation, “I would set conditions and expect some collateral.”

  “Anything I have is yours.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, on my oath! I ask only to keep my paintings of Anna.”

  Ludolf nodded. “I’ll give you my word that I’ll leave no stone unturned to do my best for you and your family. I’m thinking particularly of Francesca, who must be uppermost in your mind in the midst of all your troubles. When do you intend to tell her that her apprenticeship is not to be?”

  Hendrick was glad to have something good to tell. “That has been spared me. Her stay in Delft is already financed. Whatever happens to me won’t touch her.”

  With a sense of shock Ludolf saw his intended grip on Francesca loosened. “In what manner did that come about?” he barked harshly.

  Hendrick thought miserably that surely his personal dignity had suffered enough. There was no need to let Ludolf know the true source, and in any case Pieter had wanted it kept between themselves. “Anna left all three of our daughters some money that was her own,” he said, which in itself was a truthful statement. “That’s how I’m able to keep Francesca from knowing anything about my present straits and I’m going to try to keep it that way for as long as possible. Once she is installed at Vermeer’s studio she will be compelled by the law governing apprenticeship to fulfill her indenture time, however much she may wish to be at home with me during what may be difficult days.”

  At any other time Hendrick might have noticed Ludolf’s reaction to what had been said in the sharp flare of nostril and ugly twist of the mouth, but neither his sight nor his reason was wholly under his command in his present taut and anxious state. With an almost puppetlike jerk of the arm, Ludolf snatched up his sheaf of papers and spoke in a clipped manner. “We have reached my warehouse. You had better alight here at the gate.” He tapped fiercely with his cane for the coach to stop.

  “How soon shall I know if you’ve been successful?” Hendrick asked, making no immediate move to alight, although he could see his patron was impatient for him to be gone.

  “I’ll send a messenger to your house when I’m ready to see you.”

  “And the debt itself, if all should go well? How am I ever to repay you?”

  “This whole affair must be taken one step at a time.” Ludolf’s face was hard and expressionless. “We can discuss what is to be done next—whatever the outcome—after I’ve made my attempt to salvage you from this sordid catastrophe. Now good day to you.”

  Hendrick stepped out of the coach. As the door shut and Ludolf was carried forward into the cobbled yard of his warehouse he hurled the papers from him. As they fluttered about he slammed a fist into the palm of his hand and swore viciously. He had planned everything down to the last detail, but he had not allowed for an unexpected fund to weaken his total hold over the situation.

  DURING THE FREQUENT sittings Ludolf had plenty of time to reconsider his strategy toward Francesca in view of the unexpected hitch. Since there was nothing he could do to prevent her going to Delft he would make sure that she was lodged where she could be available to him when the time came. In fact this turn of events could prove to his advantage in the end, for it was inevitable that she would be homesick at first and he would be th
e comforting friend visiting her until such time as she succumbed to him as his mistress. It was fortunate that he had connections at Delft, which he did visit on business of his own from time to time, and therefore none would question him calling to see the daughter of an artist whose patron he happened to be, Amalia least of all. Knowing his wife as he did, he could be sure that she would want news of Francesca, and she would be innocently pleased that he should apparently go out of his way to see the girl.

  His eyes slid under their lids in Francesca’s direction. As always he marveled at his own patience in stalking her, but he needed more from her than he had ever wanted from any other woman. Once she was his mistress he doubted if his obsession would ever be slaked. He almost resented her for the savage pull on his senses, the madness she had inflicted in his blood, and it caused him just as much satisfaction to contemplate how he would punish her for it as it would be to pleasure her.

  He returned his gaze to where he was supposed to be looking. She had not said anything about his erring from it and he supposed she was busy painting his wig or the fine linen cravat at his throat or some other part of his raiment. One of the marks he could count up to his own favor in this heady pursuit of her was that she had addressed him early on by his Christian name, which had been at his request.

  “You may rest now if you wish, Ludolf.”

  He smiled across at her, thinking that maybe it would not be long before she was whispering the reverse of that invitation in the night hours.

  Chapter 10

  ON THE EVE OF THE BANQUET FRANCESCA STOOD BACK FROM her portrait of Ludolf and studied it critically. She could see her own faults, which she must strive to correct during her apprenticeship, but the overall likeness that she had captured should please him. During the hours they had spent together she had come to know him well enough to realize he would not mind that she had shown his ruthlessness, for in conversation he had made it clear that he enjoyed power and business intrigue. In her painting she had also revealed his sharp intelligence while the sly twinkle in his fierce eyes betrayed an appreciation of bawdy humor. The whole portrait had been a challenge in more ways than one and she was thankful it was finished. She wished she could call Ludolf in to see it now, which would save her coming back in the morning, but as he was absent from the house this afternoon he had told her he would view it first on the morrow.

  When she had cleaned her brushes and removed her smock, she tidied her appearance and then left the studio. Normally she spent an enjoyable half an hour with Amalia before going home, drinking tea with her, but today Neeltje waited at the foot of the stairs.

  “My mistress begs you to excuse her, but she is unable to see you today.”

  “Is she very unwell?”

  “No,” Neeltje replied. “She is saving all her strength for her appearance at table tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s sensible. Give her my good wishes.”

  As Francesca left the house she thought it was fortunate that Sybylla had not visited today, but had been occupied at home preparing what she would wear at the banquet. It had given Amalia all day to conserve her strength. Rain was pelting down and she ran down the wet steps to the waiting coach and was quick to get into it. Its door had not yet been closed when there was a slight scuffle outside. Leaning forward, she saw that the coach servant holding the door was trying to push Pieter away.

  “It’s all right,” she exclaimed quickly. “I know this gentleman. But I’m getting out to walk with him.”

  The coach servant looked worried. “Pray pardon me, mejuffrouw. Anyone of your acquaintance has the right to ride with you.”

  “I know.” She was stepping out, Pieter having put out his hand to her. “You were only doing your duty, but this has nothing to do with that.” It was obvious to her why Pieter had come and she did not want to talk to him in Ludolf’s coach, almost as if somehow it would taint their conversation. This instinct reminded her of her first impression of Ludolf. All her efforts over the past weeks to overcome her initial dislike of him were swept away and she realized how her dread of him had never lifted. She drew closer to Pieter than she had intended and he threw his cloak over hers for added protection. Rain was running off the wide brim of his hat, but she was close enough to him to escape the drips.

  “I was lucky to catch you at this moment,” he said. “I understood from your father that you usually leave a little later.” Beside them the coach rolled away.

  “I do. There was a slight change of program today.”

  “I was far down the street when I saw you come out of the house and I sprinted all the way. I had to talk to you on our own. I called at your home half an hour ago and Master Visser told me that you would be giving me your decision about my seeing you in Delft. I’ll take you to a hostelry out of the rain.”

  “No, we can’t talk with other people around. Let’s walk.”

  “I’ll not see you soaked. Come home with me.”

  She agreed. They hurried along, heads down against the increasing downpour, and finally they broke into a run along the last stretch of the street that brought them to his house. Vrouw de Hout came hurrying to take their wet cloaks, pleased to see Francesca again, and having a pair of buckled shoes ready for Pieter to change into. She darted away to return a minute later bringing Francesca a pair of house slippers from a cupboard of such footwear kept for guests in almost every home.

  Pieter took Francesca through to the same parlor she had sat in after his rescue of her from the mob. The curtains were drawn against the early twilight and there was a good fire burning. This time she did not sit down, for Pieter, after closing the door behind them, held her lightly to him within the circle of his arms. Her face, upturned to his, bore an expression of intense seriousness.

  “How shall I begin?” she said as much to herself as to him.

  “Be totally frank with me.”

  “That’s how I would want to be now and at all times.” She wished that his eyes were not looking so deeply into hers and that she was less conscious of his physical presence so near her. “I value your friendship most highly, and I will even say most dearly, but there is no room in my life for commitment in courtship or in any other way, except that which I hold for my work. I have an aim to fulfill, which has been with me since I was a child and there is no turning away from it.”

  “I understand that and also I know of your hopes of living in Italy for a while.”

  “I don’t remember mentioning that to you.”

  “You haven’t. But the day I delivered the bulbs and saw you for the first time there in your father’s studio, you were speaking to him of your dreams of going to Florence one day. I’ve not forgotten the enthusiasm with which you spoke of it.”

  She spread her hands outward a little and then put palms and fingers together. “For all I know, when that chance comes I may decide to live there permanently.”

  “I can’t believe from what I know of you that you would ever be able to cut yourself free from your Dutch roots. But I’m not asking for promises now or tomorrow or at any specified date in the future. I’d never cage a bird. Do you think I’d do less for the woman I love?”

  She caught her breath at his tender words and stepped away from him. “Don’t speak of love!”

  He eyed her keenly. “Why should that alarm you?”

  “Because it’s only friendship that I want to discuss or even to consider. Nothing more.”

  “I’m not against that, but why should I not try to make you see that I’d never allow myself to be a barrier to your art?”

  “You haven’t begun to comprehend the situation!” She was vehement. “Don’t you see? It is my work itself that would divide us, not you! My need to paint would take hours from any life we might share! The studio would take priority over the kitchen. Grinding pigments would come before playing hostess to company. How could I create on canvas when the only creating that you or any other man in Christendom expects from a wife is the conception of children!�
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  He showed no surprise at her outspokenness, because it was what he had asked of her, but he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling wryly. “What an argument! You must have given a great deal of thought to the matter.”

  “I have over the past three or four years—long before we met. I decided that in fairness to any man I would never be a wife. It would only cause trouble and unhappiness. If you can accept my decision—and you must be sure about it—then we can meet sometimes in Delft and it will gladden me to see you.”

  He shrugged resignedly. “Then I’ll abide by your terms. Friendship it shall be. Let the future look after itself. Neither of us knows what it will bring, but we should place a seal on our agreement.”

  He took her about the waist with one arm and placed a quick, light kiss upon her lips. She was relieved that all had gone so well and was about to speak when his other arm went about her and he almost lifted her from her feet as he crushed her to him, his lips sweeping hers apart. She felt a swift, unbidden flame of yearning sear up from the pit of her stomach and she clung to him as his warm mouth possessed hers in a deep and passionate kiss such as she had never experienced before. It was an awakening for her, a releasing of emotional and physical desires that she had long kept subdued. Swept away by the moment, she surrendered to the fierce glory of his mouth on hers.

  When their kiss ended she opened her eyes dazedly and was instantly aware of where she was and that he was still holding her. She spoke huskily. “I didn’t know it was to be such a special kind of friendship.”

  His smile was serious. “Have no fear. It will not make lovers of us.”

  She nodded, knowing she should be reassured. “I must go home now or else everyone will start worrying about me.”

  As on the previous occasion when she had been in his house, he escorted her home. The rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. At her door he drew back, emphasizing the distance she had put between them. As she bade him farewell and entered the house, she was conscious of a sense of loss, almost as if she had left something of herself with him. Then she dismissed the notion determinedly. Nobody questioned why she had not come home in the van Deventer coach, for Pieter had not been seen.