Hendrick, looking out the window at the driving flakes, which made it impossible to see across to the houses on the other side of the canal, was selfishly thankful for the storm. He had dreaded meeting Francesca face to face. She had the uncanny ability to see through him at times, being much like Anna in that respect. Not only would she have challenged him about the restrictions of Vrouw Wolff’s chaperonage, but she would have gone up in the air about his treatment of Aletta.
He was not without shame at his harshness toward his second daughter, especially when he had heard how narrowly she had escaped injury in the accident, but he did not want her home again. For a while after she had left, Sybylla had been sulky, saying he had driven her sister away, but she had soon recovered from that phase and was full of life again, happy in her favorite game of playing off one would-be suitor against another. He knew she was a little minx, but she had been spoilt since birth through being the youngest and it was too late to change that now. It would be a dull house when she finally settled on a husband and moved into her own home, which was why he was in no hurry for her to marry. When she did it would leave him with only Maria’s gloomy face at mealtimes, for the old woman missed sorely both Francesca and Aletta and her main pastime was the same unceasing bickering with Sybylla.
At the present time he was painting Maria. He was like Rembrandt in finding old faces interesting subjects. She came daily into the studio to sit for him, ensconced in a comfortable chair, and he had thought to capture the sad look that had settled in her eyes since the departure of Aletta, but that had not been possible. Instead she had fixed him with a fiercely resentful gaze that pleased him better, for those who viewed the portrait would interpret the look as that of a still young spirit trapped in an ancient body instead of a pent-up grudge against him for causing further emptiness in the house.
Hendrick did not know if Ludolf would like or want the finished work, but freedom in the studio was all that was left to him, for his patron could not dictate subject matter even when holding jurisdiction over everything else in his life. Mercifully Ludolf had been absent from Amsterdam for quite a time, away on business in Antwerp, where he had shipping interests. Before he had left, Hendrick had had an ignominious summons to Heerengracht.
“I’ll probably be away through the rest of my period of mourning,” Ludolf had said, seated grandly in a gilded chair while Hendrick stood like a schoolboy in disgrace with no invitation to sit. “Naturally I shall make a point of returning in time for Christmas, when Francesca will be home. As I said to you previously, I intend to start my courtship then.”
Recalling that haughty statement, Hendrick watched the snowflakes being hurled with increasing force against the windowpanes and he smiled grimly. No doubt Ludolf had expected to sail home to Amsterdam from Antwerp, but no ships were putting out of harbor into the present rough seas and the roads were impassable. It was a true saying that it was an ill wind that blew no one any good.
IN THE NEW YEAR there was no return of what had been termed everywhere as the Great Blizzard, but heavy falls of snow continued to make traveling hazardous. Traffic was much easier on the frozen canals once they were cleared of snow, and the air rang with the tinkling of bells on sleighs and sledges. In the de Veere house Constantijn was making steady progress. It was said that when he had recovered enough to realize his legs were gone he thought the amputation had been done only recently, for in the hazy coming and going of his senses he had still been able to feel his legs and even his toes. He had not wept or cried out when he had faced the awful truth that he would never walk again, but a terrible anger had possessed him and showed no sign of abating.
Aletta understood that anger. It was in her too. He had lost his legs and she her painting.
Constantijn, propped up by pillows and wedged in by them in the four-poster bed with its rich brocade curtains, did not open his eyes when he heard his mother enter the room. Another meal of slops, he thought. It would be easy to believe that everyone from the kitchen staff to his mother was trying to finish him off with steamed fish or coddled eggs or gruel. It would make an interesting inscription on the stone under which he would lie in the New Church with his forebears. Constantijn de Veere, who died of a surfeit of curds and whey.
Then a tantalizing aroma reached him. It was vaguely familiar and he was reminded of moments of rich living, intimate dinners with a beautiful woman, carousing with riotous friends in celebration when a match had been won and even family feasts on special occasions.
“What have you brought for my noon meal today?” he asked, his eyes still closed. “It smells like real food.”
“It’s broth made from a recipe left with me on St. Nicholaes’s Eve. A whole jug of it was brought for you, but I only gave it to you once.”
His eyelids lifted and he regarded her with weary astonishment. “You had it in the house and didn’t give me any more of it?”
“The doctor happened to call at the time and thought it too rich.”
“Ah, I might have known. Why has it been made again for me now?”
“Your diet is to be strengthened. You’re to be allowed red meat and red wine from now on.”
“May heaven be praised,” he said drily.
She set down the silver platter with the bowl of broth on it. “It was a young woman who originally made the broth for you. She is temporary nursemaid to the Vermeer children and sister to Master Vermeer’s female apprentice.”
She had told him all this when she had put a spoonful of the broth to his mouth on St. Nicholaes’s Eve, thankful to see him take every drop, but he had forgotten so much from that time when it had been uncertain whether he would live or die.
“I’ve seen her.”
“When?” She wondered if he had retained some image conjured up by her words at the time.
“At least I think it must be her. A young woman pulls the curtains back every night from the window level with mine across the square. Only for a minute or two. Then she closes them again.”
“As you should have yours closed,” she said brusquely, not quite sure what to make of his observation.
He guessed what was going through his mother’s mind. “She’s in full attire.”
“So I should hope!”
He thought to himself it would have relieved the tedium of being confined to his bed if the young woman had not been clothed! Nevertheless, he appreciated her thoughtfulness over the soup. There had been countless gifts and notes from well-wishers, many of the senders well known to him and others from his parents’ acquaintances. The only letter that had held his pain-racked interest had been from Isabella, to whom he was betrothed. Mostly he had fallen asleep during his mother’s reading of the good wishes and it was still easier to doze than to be awake. Perhaps he was sleeping his life away as very old people did and it tempted as a soothing way out of the crippled future to which fate had condemned him.
“Here’s the broth, dearest boy. Are you sure you can manage?”
He looked into her sweet, kindly face as she fussed over spreading a napkin for him and handing him a spoon. Whether she realized it or not she was in her element at having him as helpless as a baby again, all her maternal instincts having come to the fore once more. He both loved and pitied her. All that had happened was as great a trial for her as it was for him, but he did not know how much longer he could endure the nursery atmosphere that she had induced into his bedchamber.
“I can manage well, Mother.”
It was still an effort to feed himself, there being so little strength in his arms. At first he had dropped the spoon several times and food had been spilled, increasing his sense of humiliation. Fortunately the doctor had brought in a nurse, a stolid, middle-aged woman with a rear as wide as a barge, to deal with all the private menial duties concerned with nursing. From the start she had also kept out everyone else, his mother included, during the dressing of his stumps. He would always be thankful that she gave him a wad of linen to bite on and stifle his groans, w
hich sometimes escaped him when the dressings still stuck while being changed. He did not know what screams he must have uttered during the cauterizing after the amputation, for he had no recollection of that night.
His mother chatted while he enjoyed the broth. She did not mention what he most wanted to know and he interrupted her. “Is there no word yet of when Isabella will be coming to see me?”
“The roads are still bad for traveling. She will come as soon as it is possible. More snow fell during the night.”
He cursed the snow. As yet he had received no visitors, although local friends had called many times. They would have been too cheerful and hearty, embarrassed at not knowing quite what to say, and he could not have endured his fellow sportsmen’s poorly disguised sympathy that he, who had outrun, outraced and outskated them all, should have been reduced to such terrible straits. After Isabella had been to see him and they had talked over this new situation that had arisen, he might feel differently about receiving visitors. But for the present time he was curiously in limbo.
Chapter 15
LUDOLF HAD RETURNED TO AMSTERDAM FROM PARIS BY WAY OF Antwerp. He was careful to cover his tracks these days. It was all very well for the burghers and merchants to show favor toward France, but when Louis XIV moved to annex Holland there might be a swing of feeling among them to match the hostility of the people toward the possibility of French rule. On this visit he had been received at Versailles itself, his flourishing bow to the Sun King as flamboyant as any Frenchman’s.
His first action upon reentering his home after his absence was to sort through the stack of letters awaiting him. When he found a note from Willem de Hartog he tore it open, doubtful of what he might read. To his relief it told him of Hendrick’s release. He had not received word of the artist’s arrest until he was about to leave Antwerp on his homeward journey, only to be trapped there by the Great Blizzard, which had delayed his return by another three weeks. Had Hendrick been heavily sentenced, his own hold over him would have been considerably diminished. A smile touched the corners of Ludolf’s thick lips. As it happened, everything had worked out in his favor. Now that Hendrick had had a taste of prison, he certainly would not want to set foot in one again.
There was a letter from Geetruyd, written before Christmas, and in addition to more important matters, it reported that Aletta, the sister of the young woman in her charge, had come to stay in Delft and presently had employment caring for the children of the Vermeers. He tapped a fingernail thoughtfully against the letter in his hand. Nursemaids usually had very little free time, which made it unlikely that Aletta’s presence would ease Francesca’s chaperonage in any noticeable way. When he had made that family clause in the letter which Hendrick was forced to copy, he had never supposed that either of Francesca’s sisters would ever get to Delft, except possibly on a special visit with their father.
Ludolf crossed to the window and looked out onto his white garden. It was impossible to tell whether the flagstones had been replaced during his absence before the snow came. It was months since van Doorne had declared himself dissatisfied with the quality when they had been unloaded from a wagon and had had them sent back. The base of sand and rubble had been laid, but Ludolf was impatient for the whole project to be finished.
“It is important to the whole harmonious layout of the garden that the flagstones should be of exactly the right color, which in turn would compliment the house,” van Doorne had said, showing him a piece of stone to illustrate its faults.
Personally Ludolf had not been able to see much wrong with it, but he had learned over the years to defer to experts while retaining the information they gave, for it was one of the ways by which he had hauled himself up from his rough beginnings to the position he held today with higher things to come. Similarly his polish and fine manners had come from careful observation. He prided himself on never having lost sight of his aim to gain wealth and the authority that came with it. He had been inwardly amused when Sybylla, during the time when she had been visiting Amalia, had confided to him that she wanted a rich young husband. The hint had been there for him to arrange a few introductions, but he never did anything for anybody that was not ultimately for his own benefit, even though he had seen in her the same avid lust for wealth that had been his already when he was her age.
While he had been at Versailles recently a comtesse, naked and scented in her soft bed, had stroked his chest and remarked on the number of scars on his body. He had given her the reply he always made at such moments.
“Those were gained in the service of my country.”
This useful lie always melted a woman’s eyes. Geetruyd was the only one of her sex to know that his wounds had been received from the weapons of seamen fighting to prevent their richly cargoed ships and themselves from being captured. Privateers were notoriously merciless with regard to prisoners. The only ones he had ever allowed to live had been those he had been able to sell to Arab slave traders along the North African coast. In contrast to his violent means of livelihood at that time, he had invested as soon as he was able in a legitimate shipbrokering business in Antwerp and later Amsterdam, always through an agent, and each had created its own rich profits, for his prices were competitive and nobody liked a bargain better than a Dutchman. There were other projects too, in which he had invested with equal success.
It was originally for these businesses that he had adopted the well-sounding name of van Deventer. Abandoned as a baby and brought up in an orphanage, where the authorities had baptized him Ludolf, he had no knowledge of any rightful surname, and during his years at sea he had used a variety of common names, changing from one to another when circumstances made it advisable.
At forty he had retired from the sea, a rich man from several sources, whereas others of his trade had drunk, gambled and wenched their money away, but then they had been content to spend the rest of their lives at sea. For him it had only been a means to an end. What was more, he was secure in the knowledge that there were no survivors from his more brutal exploits to rise up and accuse him of his crimes, while those who had been his companions were unlikely ever to cross his path. Money was power and he had it at last, not knowing then that it was not to be enough and a new lure was to be one of political mastery.
Not long afterward he had married Amalia. He had enjoyed using her money, but he had not married her just for her wealth, or for the fact that in those days he had found her desirable. Overriding all else had been her good breeding and her lineage that had had links with the House of Orange in generations gone by. Marriage to her had elevated him to the secure status that he had needed, gaining him an entrée into the best families in Amsterdam and, on their marriage journey, in France as well. That was when the scales had fallen from his eyes and he had seen how it was possible to live in ultimate luxury. He had become obsessed by all things French, which had led eventually to his being enrolled as a spy for France. The military information he had supplied this time had been rewarded with a complimentary word from Louis himself.
Leaving the study, Ludolf went through to the banqueting room. There he shut the door behind him and went to gaze, as if he had been starved, on the likeness of Francesca. His period of mourning was well and truly over. Not the slightest suspicion had fallen on him. He was free to go in pursuit of this lovely girl as soon as matters could be arranged.
In another part of the house Neeltje was going up a back staircase with some folded linen in her arms. So Ludolf was home again! From a window she had watched him come into the house, hatred in her eyes. The murderer! Tonight she would take her secret keys and go through his mail and whatever papers he had brought home with him. She had often come across love letters from women, but her mistress had been too private and dignified a person to sue for divorce with all its attendant scandal. In any case, as Ludolf was never physically cruel to her, a few letters would not have been enough to secure her freedom. His affairs never lasted long and the only regular correspondence from a woma
n was from one who wrote in an entirely different tone. She was Geetruyd Wolff, who lived in Delft and wrote obliquely on what could only be business matters about ships and deliveries and people referred to by their initials. Yet Neeltje’s feminine intuition told her this woman had some feeling for Ludolf. In those letters there had been only one reference to Francesca, saying that the young woman was now in her charge and that she intended to carry out the father’s wishes most strictly. Neeltje had not passed this on to Aletta, seeing no need, and in any case she had not wanted to be asked how she had come across this information. She hoped to find something of interest when tonight she would go through the mail that Ludolf should have opened by now. She had resisted the temptation to deal with it before his return. A hot knife slipped under a wax seal was effective, but she had not dared in case by ill chance her hand should slip in her nervousness and smudge the softened wax. Ludolf had sharp eyes. It was safer and easier to read the letters after him. It gnawed at her that when she had gained precious evidence of murder against him, which would have put him to a savage execution, she had been powerless to use it.
She paused on the stairs and drew breath. It was not ascending the flight that normally caused her any discomfort, for she was a strong woman with good lungs, but there were times when she still suffered a twinge in her ribs during any exertion and then it was best to rest for a minute or two. Through a window she could see the garden. Her warning to Aletta about a possible threat to Francesca from Ludolf had been conveyed to Pieter van Doorne, with immediate results. The young man had stopped the unloading of the flagstones on some pretext, leaving the way open for him to come to the house whenever it suited him. During the laying of the base materials on the paths she had given him an opportunity to speak to her, which he had taken.
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