The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  When they came to the room at the north end of the long house he went into it ahead of her and held the candelabrum high. It was completely bare of furnishings except for a large easel set up in the middle of the floor.

  “Where did that come from?” she exclaimed.

  “I picked it up for a couple of guilders in Haarlem market. Is it all right?”

  “Why, yes,” she replied, examining it. “It’s a very old one, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s firm and sound. Not at all wobbly as some of them are after years of service. In the market, did you say?”

  “About two months ago. It was with a lot of thrown-out furniture.”

  With a hand resting on the easel’s middle bar, she looked through its structure at him, her face alight. “Suppose—oh, just suppose—that Frans Hals painted his canvases on it!”

  He saw that she had spoken quite yearningly. “Maybe he did,” he said, going along with her wish. “Are there any initials on it?”

  “No. A master wouldn’t do that, although an apprentice might if there were several pupils in the same studio and each wanted to make sure of his own.”

  “Are you disappointed there’s no proof either way?”

  She left the easel and went to the nearest window. “Nothing could disappoint me in this house. Extinguish the candles and let us look out together.”

  The room plunged into darkness as he pinched the wicks and left the candelabrum on the floor. Reaching her side, he heard her give a little sigh of delight at the view, which was long familiar to him. It was a sight of exquisite beauty. Beyond a canal at the end of the garden the tulips stood silver in the ethereal glow.

  “Tomorrow in daylight you will see how vivid they are.”

  “Will they be gilded when the sun comes up as they are silvered now?” she breathed.

  “Just for a few moments of the dawn before the petals come into their own.”

  “I’d like to capture that scene on canvas.” She looked up into his face, illumined by the moon as was her own, their eyes dark, lustrous pools. Suddenly she was aware of making a vow. “One day I’ll paint in this studio even if many troubled years lie between now and then and we are young no longer.”

  “May we have more time together than apart.” He enfolded her in his arms.

  “That’s how I want it to be, but neither of us knows what lies in store.” She raised a hand and touched his face lovingly. “That’s why I came straight to you as soon as I could after hearing about the contract. No matter what the future may bring, let us make the most of the time we have now.”

  They kissed lingeringly. Then he swept her up in his arms and carried her through the moon-washed house up the stairs to his bedchamber.

  He took the ribbons from her hair and unlaced her, her garments as silvered as the tulips had been, for there was no candlelight. She trembled, not from fear but from joy as he smoothed her cambric chemise from her shoulders and her breasts were revealed for his caresses and his kisses. At her waist he kissed her again. The chemise had lodged there on the loosened band of her last petticoat and he knelt to spread a hand over each of her hips and sent both garments cascading to her feet. Her spine arched as she threw back her head, her eyes closed, and plunged her fingers into his thick curls as his kisses burrowed into her with such sweet sensations that she could scarcely breathe.

  “My love. My darling Francesca!” He lifted her effortlessly and laid her down in the great wall bed. A few moments later he came to her as pale and naked as a moon god, his muscled body rimed by the pure light. Yet it was a warm, vibrant and powerful man that she took into her arms, so full of love for her that his murmurs were almost as tangible as his caresses. She gasped deliciously again and again under his adoring exploration of her until at last passion overcame them both. There was a dagger thrust of pain as he pierced her, but it was immediately forgotten as suddenly there was nothing else for her in all the world except being one with him. They moved together in a rhythm of complete harmony, her heart beating wildly against his as she soared with him into an explosion of ecstasy from which she felt they would never emerge.

  Slowly her surroundings returned to her. Once more the carved canopy of the wall bed loomed into place overhead, the dark furniture of the room took shape again against the light walls and outside the moon was still shining.

  He lay across her, but he raised his head and shifted his weight onto his elbows to gaze down into her blissful face.

  “I’ll love you always,” he declared quietly but with enormous feeling.

  She smiled, closing her eyes and opening them again as if she had needed that second to absorb his tender words into her whole mind and body. “As I will love you,” she whispered.

  “Nobody can come between us now.”

  “Nobody,” she agreed dreamily, blissfully oblivious to all else except his beloved presence.

  Still balanced on his elbows, he slid his forearms under her back and held her. “You’ve come home to me, Francesca. Now your place will always be here.”

  It was what she wanted with her whole heart. Putting her hands behind his head, she raised herself slightly to meet his kiss. The passion of it bore them both deep into the soft goose-feather pillows.

  Chapter 19

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE DAWN WHEN FRANCESCA FELT PIETER KISS HER and leave the bed to go into an adjacent side room to wash and dress for the day’s work ahead.

  She was just drifting off to sleep again when she remembered the tulips. By now the sky was lifting on first light. Throwing back the downy coverlet, she leapt out and ran through to the guest chamber, where the previous evening she had unpacked a lawn night shift. She pulled it over her head and thrust her arms into a robe as she flew from the room and down the stairs on her bare feet. The scent of coffee met her and a candle lamp glowed through the open kitchen door. Pieter, halfway through his breakfast at the kitchen table, saw her dart past, pale garments flowing and her hair full of red glints from the candlelight as it danced down her back.

  “I hope I’m not too late,” she called out.

  He swallowed his mouthful of bread and cheese as he thrust back his chair to follow her. She had reached the studio and he went to join her at the east-facing window.

  “You’re in time,” he said reassuringly. He put an arm about her waist and she leaned back against him as together they watched the dawn opening its fan across the sky. He knew the moment. “It will be now.”

  She caught her breath as the sunrays spread and suddenly the whole sea of tulips gleamed gold on their graceful stems. Her hand clasped his tightly in her appreciation of what she was seeing. Then, as the strength of the sun increased, the gilding faded to let the blooms blaze into gloriously variegated hues of yellow, orange, crimson, scarlet, white and cream.

  With a contented sigh she smiled at him. “What a shame it would have been if I’d missed seeing all that through being a lie-abed!”

  “It’s as well that you did,” he agreed. “Later today all those cups, as they are called in the trade, will be taken from their stems. But there will be plenty left elsewhere kept for sale and you may pick armfuls if you wish.”

  “I may do that, but I also want to sketch every shape, feathered or plain, that you grow here.”

  When he had gone from the house, his workers having begun to arrive, she filled a copper carrying jug with hot water and took it upstairs to the guest bedchamber, where she had donned her night shift so hastily. There she bathed herself all over in a bowl that she placed on the floor, a sponge letting the rivulets run down her body.

  She was dressed and had finished pinning up her hair when she heard the rattle of cart wheels. Going to the window, which she had already opened to the mild morning, she looked out. Through a gap in the trees some distance away she saw a cart and then another roll by on their way to market with a load of the newly picked tulips for sale. Her guess was that those destined for Amsterdam had been picked by lantern light and would have left some while ago.


  When she went downstairs she found that the local woman, Vrouw Graff, had arrived and was clearing up. They greeted each other.

  “I knew someone was staying,” the woman said, a surprised look still on her face, “because of the breakfast crockery, but no ladies on their own have ever visited here before.”

  “I’ll be staying for another five days.”

  “Then you may expect good weather. There is a full change from the cold spell we’ve been having and it smells like a summer morning outside.” The woman glanced at the clock. “You’re up very early for someone with leisure on her hands.”

  “I don’t want to miss a minute of my time here. Now I’m going to explore until I know the whole layout of the van Doorne land.”

  “That will give you plenty of walking. You’d best make for the old farmhouse first and go from there.”

  Francesca followed the directions given and went along the lane down which the carts had passed until she came to the farmhouse and a cluster of old buildings, similarly thatched, that would have been byres, barns and storehouses in times past. Now they all played a new role in the bulb and flower business. She could see there was an additional orangery to the one from which Pieter had emerged on her first visit there. The windows had been opened inward to let in the sun and avoid shadows, for the orange trees were still inside. She had heard it said that they should not be taken out until after the full moon of April and when May had come, which meant their winter hibernation would be over soon. She opened the door and went in.

  There was a warm and fragrant atmosphere with an underlying waxy aroma from the warming lamps, now extinguished with the rise of temperature at the weather’s change. The orange trees in their square oak boxes stood in orderly rows, their heights varying from two to almost five feet. Beautifying the lengthy orangery were pedestals on which stood pots of myrtle, laurel and jasmine. An old gardener was snipping unwanted slips from the orange trees in a time-consuming task and was glad of some conversation with her. He told her how Pieter had grown his first orange tree from the kernel of a well-ripened orange, such as was still done, for it was only in warmer climes that slips took root.

  “He wasn’t more than nine or ten at the time, getting the information he wanted from an old book. I knew then he wasn’t meant for plain farming.”

  Outside again, she continued her tour of inspection and went into another building, attracted by the babble of women’s voices. Here the tulips were being packed in layers, stem end to stem end, in shallow boxes lined with damp moss, no tulip head resting upon another. She had bade the women good morning, to which they replied, eyeing her with speculative curiosity. Then they resumed their own conversations while she watched, fascinated by the deftness of their hands. Now and again their stocks were replenished as other women brought in more tulips in long, shallow baskets. When a cart drew up outside the carter came to carry out the boxes and load up. One woman was dealing with the last of the narcissi.

  When Francesca left there she passed the stables, where the stalls were all empty now except for Pieter’s saddle horses. Farther on she looked into a store stacked with boxes and the next one housed gardening implements of every kind. Then she began to wander the paths between the fields. Most of the picking was already over for the day, but weeding was in progress and the snipping off of the heads of the tulips she had seen at dawn was taking place. Many more fields had yet to have their blooms beheaded and at the far end of one of them Pieter sighted her and waved. As she went to meet him she knew that this was a scene she would paint one day.

  They embraced happily. Taking her hand in his, he strolled along with her, talking enthusiastically about all that was around them from the quality of the soil to the importance of color.

  “Naturally no tulip grower strives these days to grow a black tulip, as was done during the three years of tulipomania.”

  “Nobody would want such a sinister color, I’m sure.”

  “Agreed, and you also used the right adjective for it. Evil deeds were perpetrated to obtain such bulbs in those mad days. I’m aiming to grow a special color that is the reverse of that ominous shade.”

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “All I can say is that it will please you as an artist. You’ll be the first to see it.”

  She fought back the unhappy thought that she might be married to a man she loathed when at last that tulip bloomed, keeping to her resolution that nothing should be allowed to spoil these few precious days.

  THE AFTERNOON AFTER the catastrophic dinner party Adriaen made a brief call on Ludolf. It was an amiable meeting, Ludolf dismissing good-humoredly Hendrick’s outburst as a flurry of artistic temperament. He also made it clear that the promissory notes were not for sale. Adriaen did not pursue the subject and the conversation moved to other matters of mutual interest. They finished a second glass of claret and then Adriaen was shown around the garden before finally taking his leave.

  He went straight to discuss the whole matter with his father now that he knew the whole situation. Heer van Jansz pointed out at once that van Deventer was a highly valued client who had banked a fortune with them, apart from considerable investments in several of their various enterprises, which would make it foolhardy to offend him in any way.

  “You must realize, Adriaen,” he said firmly, “that your forthcoming betrothal to Sybylla doesn’t make you responsible in any way for her family. Van Deventer has told you himself that he is not interested in disposing of Visser’s debts to him, and if we should loan the artist that large amount of money for him to settle them, it would only rebound on us. Not only would van Deventer be enraged, but he would let it be known among others of his wealthy ilk that the van Jansz bankers did not hesitate to undermine a client whenever it suited them.”

  Adriaen nodded. “The problem seems to be, according to a few words I had with Sybylla early this morning, that Francesca has her heart set on somebody else.” He had not committed himself to any promise when Sybylla had appealed to him on her sister’s behalf, simply saying he would look into the situation and see what he could do.

  His father snapped his fingers to emphasize the unimportance of daughters setting their hearts in unguided directions. “Young women think themselves in love half a dozen times. Look at your sister, for example. If I had listened to her whims she would never have married her present husband, and then we should have lost an affiliation that has brought advancement to several of our ventures and ultimately great benefit to her. It is typical of an artist that he should not think logically and thus put his daughter’s fancies before a most suitable marriage for her. Remember my good advice when you have grown daughters of your own.”

  “I will.”

  Heer van Jansz sat back comfortably in his chair. “Why shouldn’t Francesca marry van Deventer? I suppose she thinks he is too old for her, but one can’t expect a middle-aged widower to choose mutton when he can have lamb. So if he should exert a little pressure to ensure all goes according to his wishes, who could blame him? All Amsterdam knows that van Deventer was kind and considerate toward his first wife, and Francesca should think herself fortunate to be gaining such a good and wealthy husband.” He adopted a confidential man-to-man tone to his son. “It should be helpful to you to have a responsible sister-in-law in our social circle to keep an eye on Sybylla. Your betrothed is a delightful young woman, but she’s still flighty. I’ve only met Francesca once at van Deventer’s table, but she struck me as having her head screwed on the right way. None can deny the dignity and reserve with which she received the surprise announcement of van Deventer’s claim on her. You’ll find a staunch ally in her.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Father. I’ll leave matters as they are.”

  “Well said.” Heer van Jansz nodded approvingly. “Francesca will eventually come around to accepting the situation and then everything will be solved by its own accord.”

  SYBYLLA WISHED FRANCESCA had not entrusted her with the verbal
message for Hans Roemer. Yet although she could have passed it on for Hendrick to tell him she still retained the duty for herself. She had gone by the Zuider Church once or twice the day before and never failed to look toward it on each occasion. It was as if he knew she was in the vicinity and sent out rays of attraction to disquiet her mind and annoy her. She was already troubled enough about Francesca’s future if nothing should be done. She could not exact any real pressure on Adriaen as yet, but after her betrothal tomorrow she would put her foot down firmly. According to her father, Adriaen had been very uncooperative, but then everything had happened so quickly. In the meantime she must wait and hope it would be different when there was time for sensible discussion. She had better see Hans at once and get it over with.

  He was painting when she went into the church. It was almost as if he recognized her footsteps, because he spoke before she reached him. “I knew you’d come today, Juffrouw Sybylla.”

  She felt a shiver run down her spine. How could he have known? Then she told herself he was only bluffing. “Why should you have thought that?” she questioned derisively, moving past the easel to where she could see him.

  He answered without looking at her. “Because it’s the eve of your betrothal. Once that is official you’ll have to think twice about coming to see me. Your betrothed might not like it.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ll not be calling here after today. I only came to give you Francesca’s apologies, because she’s had to leave without a chance to view the painting again.”

  “That was courteous of her. I had promised to give her a clue as to where the mouse would be found.”

  “You can tell me instead.”

  He looked at her then, his eyes twinkling. “I think you should search for it.”

  “But why Francesca and not me?” She was aware of sounding petulant, but she felt slighted. He had shown himself to be much taken with her sister and so why not with her?