The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “Because you haven’t had to go away.” He resumed his painting.

  She thought how she might get back at him. “Pieter de Hooch has been commissioned to paint the marriage portraits of Adriaen and myself.”

  He was not impressed. “That’s a mistake. I would have done them much better. De Hooch should never have left Delft. That’s where he reached his peak and then not in portraiture.”

  “I suppose you would like me to get the commission switched to you?” she taunted.

  “No. I’ve never filched another man’s work and I never will.”

  She was aware that once again he had deftly put her in her place. “Wouldn’t you like to paint me?” she challenged.

  He paused to reverse his brush and hold it vertically at arm’s length toward her, closing one eye while he measured the contours of her face in midair, first one way and then the other. Then he nodded. “You may sit for me anytime you like.”

  Her eyes sparkled maliciously. “I could have my hand resting against my cheek to show off the van Jansz betrothal ring that is to be mine tomorrow.”

  “So you could,” he agreed amiably, not rising to the bait.

  She had had enough. “I’m going now. I’ll not be coming back anymore.”

  When she had stalked away out of the church, Hans smiled as he continued to work on the hand of the standard-bearer. Sybylla would soon be back. In the meantime he had a purchase to make.

  WHILE GETTING READY for the betrothal party Sybylla found herself missing Francesca and Aletta as never before. They should have been with her and she wished that after all she had asked Francesca to stay, but it was too late now. Her gown was new in that Maria had turned out a roll of wide lace, made many years ago and hoarded for a special occasion. It had been used to cover the rose silk gown that was already more than a year old. The scalloped lace lay in filmy layers over the skirt as well as being stitched to the bodice, and a gathered frill of it fell from a neckline that had been more deeply scooped and also from the sleeves. With a hint of the pink silk beneath it was quite beautiful and none could have recognized the garment from its original appearance. Pink ribbons hung from the bunches of curls covering her ears and a tiny silver net, which had been Anna’s, covered the twisted knot high at the back of her head.

  She took up her hand glass to view herself from every angle in the wall mirror and preened happily, knowing she looked her best. It was not only Adriaen whom she would conquer with her beauty this evening, but every male in the room. She thought of Hans again and it grated on her anew that she had not yet summoned into his eyes the look of desire she was used to seeing in the eyes of other men. But why was she thinking “yet” when she wasn’t going to see him again? She could not understand why it should be so galling that he had flirted with Francesca and not with her.

  But this was no time to think about him. She was about to be betrothed to one of the richest and best-looking men in all Amsterdam. Already she had him at her feet. There was nothing he would deny her. Proudly she went from the room and down into the hall. Maria stood with Griet and Sijmon waiting to see her and they were full of praise and compliments.

  Hendrick, waiting by the door and impatient that they should be on their way, nodded when she twirled for a general inspection. “Come, Father,” she said importantly, as if he had been the one keeping her waiting, and she sailed ahead of him out to the van Jansz coach.

  She chatted happily to him on the way. He was also in the best of moods since hearing from her that, whatever Adriaen might have said yesterday, she was sure he would in time take note of her wish and those promissory notes would be handed over. Recently his hair had lost its last traces of ginger and had become completely snow white, which toned down his florid complexion and added to the distinguished air he had always had when conducting himself properly. Sybylla hoped that this evening he would be at his most charming and Adriaen’s parents would forgive the scene he had made at Ludolf’s table.

  They had reached Heerengracht. A few bystanders had gathered by the van Jansz house to watch the well-dressed guests arrive. She alighted in the glow of candlelight from the open door. As she was about to mount the steps, Hans detached himself from the watching group and swept off his hat with its brilliant plume in a deep bow to her.

  “I couldn’t let this occasion pass without bringing you a gift,” he said, handing her a tiny package.

  Although taken aback, she was glad he should have seen her in her finery. “I thank you most sincerely.”

  She continued up into the house, her father exchanging a few jovial words with Hans before following after her. In the reception hall, even as her lace shawl was taken from her shoulders, she could not resist looking to discover what Hans had brought her. She unfolded the paper and there was a tiny pink sugar mouse. Unaccountably she was deeply moved by it, knowing it had been given out of goodwill and that it was all he could afford. She popped it quickly into the little silk pouch purse dangling on a cord from her wrist and went forward at her father’s side to the chandelier-hung ballroom, where Heer and Vrouw van Jansz were receiving their guests. She could see Adriaen waiting for her.

  It was an evening beyond her wildest dreams. She was feted and admired and—as she knew well enough—envied by all the younger women there. Adriaen in his coat and breeches of gold brocade, his fair hair gleaming to his shoulders, was her partner in the dancing more often than he should have been, but nobody could hold it against him on this special occasion that was their own.

  The time came shortly before midnight when Sybylla and her father, together with Adriaen and his parents, went on their own into an adjacent drawing-room for the formal putting on of the betrothal ring. She held out her hand to Adriaen, her buffed nails shining like pearls, and he smiled fondly at her as he placed the fingers of his left hand under hers. Then with his right hand he took the ring from a little casket that his mother held for him and its ruby sparkled with a thousand lights as he slid the handsome jewel, set in gold and diamonds, onto her finger. It should have been the happiest moment in her life. But to her dismay she found herself remembering the pink sugar mouse, which had been her first gift that evening and, thinking that excitement must be making her lose her reason, for a few crazy seconds she did not know which she valued most.

  “My darling betrothed and my future wife.” Adriaen was kissing her hand and dazedly she raised her lips for the kiss he placed on them.

  “Dearest Adriaen!” She was herself again. What a glorious ring! She danced her fingers in the air and was dazzled by the ring’s splendor. How fortunate she was! Even Vrouw van Jansz was being gracious to her, kissing her on the cheek and welcoming her into the family. Adriaen’s father, who was not immune to her charms, which was almost like a secret shared between them, regarded her with the usual twinkle in his eyes and said how pleased he was that his son had chosen such a charming young woman. Hendrick, emotional as always, could hardly speak.

  “I wish your mother could have been here,” he said in a choked voice.

  She nodded, but had the uncomfortable feeling that somehow Anna would not have approved. It was almost as if her mother were seeing through her again as in childhood when all her wiles had failed to deceive. Then she cast that thought from her, for the double doors were opening in readiness for the procession back into the ballroom. Heer van Jansz went first, clearing his throat for the formal announcement, and she and Adriaen followed, her hand on his raised wrist. Behind them came Hendrick escorting Vrouw van Jansz. The rest of the evening was a huge success.

  When Sybylla came home, sated with triumph, she chatted incessantly to Griet, who had waited up to help her disrobe. But when she was in her night shift and on her own again she took the pink sugar mouse from the silk pouch purse and put it by her trinket box. There was something comical about it. She smiled and patted its head with a gentle fingertip before she remembered how it had ruined the actual moment of her betrothal. Angrily she snatched it up and went to the open wi
ndow to hurl it as far as she could away from the house, but somehow she could not do it. She hesitated so long at the window that she began to shiver from the cool night air. Somewhat reluctantly she returned it to its place by the trinket box. Then, deliberately turning her back on it, she jumped into bed.

  FRANCESCA’S STAY AT Haarlem Huis had reached its last evening. She had a stack of sketches that she had already packed and, dinner over, she and Pieter sat talking on a window seat. He had noticed that she had become increasingly thoughtful during the last few days and now she was almost pensive.

  “What is it you have to say to me?” he prompted.

  She raised eyes full of emotion. “We talked so glibly about living in Italy together, but there’s one great obstacle that we haven’t yet mentioned.”

  “What is that?”

  “The fact that you belong here and nowhere else.” She put her fingertips against his lips when he would have protested. “Hear me out. We’ve both known that for financial reasons alone you would have to keep on with this business, trusting in the honesty and capability of your manager. What’s more, Dutch law couldn’t touch you for breaking the marriage contract or my father fleeing his debts, which would leave you free to visit Holland sometimes, but that would never be enough for you.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because now that I’ve seen all that you have here, your horticultural experiments, your orangeries, your bulb fields and all else that grips you to this land, I know you’d grow restless away from it.”

  “As you said, I can visit periodically,” he reminded her.

  “But travel is so difficult and hazardous with the complication of wars, the waylaying by thieves and murderers, privateers at sea and a host of other dangers, quite apart from the length of time that journeying takes. Circumstances might separate us for two or even three years. You need a wife and children here—a son to carry on after you.”

  “We’ll have a son.”

  “One born on foreign soil, who would think of Florence as his home and Italian as his native tongue?”

  “We could teach him to love all things Dutch and to know that Holland was his rightful place.”

  “But don’t you realize what that would mean? There’d come a day when he’d insist on going back to Holland with you. Then neither you nor he would ever return!”

  “Don’t say that!” He caught her close to him. “I’d train him to take over here and then I’d return to you. We would never be parted again.”

  She thrust herself away from him. “But think of all those broken years before that happens. It would be no marriage between us. Only a series of interludes. Your suggestion that Father should leave with me for Florence has absolved you from making me your wife. Even if Ludolf should track me down the presence of Hendrick would be protection enough. Dutch law wouldn’t stretch there to allow Ludolf to take him to court for debt and, free of that threat, Hendrick could dally over a marriage date indefinitely. In the meantime I’m sure that my aunt Janetje’s husband, who is a powerful man in Florence, would find a way to have Ludolf deported once and for all.”

  His face grew angry. “So you are reverting to your original decision never to marry!”

  “It’s not like that!” She sprang to her feet and moved to stand farther away from him. “Yet I should never have let myself be swayed from it.”

  He had risen from the window seat and spoke with a wrathful and fiery bitterness. “So you would condemn me to an existence entirely without you! Has it not occurred to you that I would gladly take whatever time I can have with you, no matter how spasmodic, in preference to a lifetime of marriage with any other woman?”

  “Do you suppose I don’t feel the same with regard to any other man, but I’m thinking of you! I can’t in all fairness let you commit your life to me!”

  He seized her by the arms and jerked her hard against him. “I made that commitment the first time we met. So it’s too late to change now. We belong to each other, Francesca.”

  Her head fell back and there were tears glinting on her lashes. “Don’t you care anything for your own good?” she asked helplessly.

  “Naturally I do. That’s why I don’t intend to lose you. We shall love each other always.”

  Then he buried her mouth in his and she clung to him. Parting from him on the morrow would be the first of many such severances in the years ahead, but whenever they were together every moment would be as valued as it was now.

  Later, in bed, drowsy after their lovemaking, she understood why her parents had found such sexual joy in making up their quarrels. Somehow everything was given a new dimension. Curled up in Pieter’s sleeping embrace, she thought of the children she might bear in time to come when there was no longer any need to guard against conception. It must not count as any sacrifice on her part to let a son come to Holland. She would never deny her offspring his right to harvest on van Doorne land the most beauty-laden crops in the world.

  In the morning, when Francesca was ready to leave, Pieter drove up in one of the market carts. Instead of just taking her to Haarlem to catch the stage wagon, as she had expected, he announced that he was going to drive her all the way to Delft.

  They both appreciated the extra span of time together, she sitting beside him on the carter’s seat. Toward noon rain began to fall and they took shelter in a derelict mill, where they ate the picnic that Vrouw Graff had prepared for them. Afterward they climbed the wooden flights up to the top floor, where they looked out at the view. If Vermeer had been a painter of the open countryside the scene could have been his, for the rain had eased away and under a gray-blue sky there was a play of glorious light on wet grass and trees, hedgerows and canals, distant windmills and a single slow-moving barge garlanded with yellow and white tulips. She spoke of her notion to Pieter.

  “So many of those cool colors are Master Vermeer’s own and yet they never chill on his canvas. Indeed in his paintings they warm the heart.”

  When she sensed that Pieter had begun to look at her more than at the view, she turned her head to meet his eyes, the pupils of her own softening and dilating with love. Gladly she lay down with him on the ancient, grain-strewn floorboards and he groaned aloud in an excess of passion for her.

  When they left the mill, which had been their haven for a little while, they traveled on until, the hour becoming late, Pieter took a short detour to a village tavern, where they dined. Only the last lap of the journey remained. Delft came into sight when they reached the bridge where Constantijn had suffered his terrible injury and Francesca’s thoughts went to him and Aletta. She believed that Aletta, although not yet realizing it, was in love with Constantijn. Perhaps their first meeting at the Exchange, brief and inconsequential though it had been, had instilled a sense of destiny in Aletta when she had seen him again in such tragically dramatic circumstances and she would never be free of it.

  It was dark when Delft was reached. Pieter left the horse and cart at the end of Kromstraat and took advantage of the lack of any street lamps there to escort Francesca to her door.

  “I don’t want to leave you in this house,” he said uneasily.

  “You mean you don’t want to leave me at all,” she whispered teasingly.

  “That’s true, but you must take care.”

  “I will. You really must go now.” She took her hand baggage from him. “We have had such a perfect time together.”

  “There will be other such times, my darling.”

  They exchanged a bittersweet kiss of parting. Then he stood back in the darkness while she opened the front door into the candlelit reception hall and went in. Nobody came to meet her. She took her hand baggage to her room but did not stop to unpack. In an upstairs parlor she found Clara with her foot on a stool, nursing a badly sprained ankle.

  “It was such a foolish accident,” Clara explained, wincing as she adjusted her foot slightly. “I tripped on a loose cobble in the street and went flying. See!” she added, pulling up her sle
eve to reveal a badly grazed and bruised arm. “I hurt myself everywhere. Geetruyd was cross with me for not looking where I was going.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s gone to a musical evening, which is why we dined early, but some dinner has been left for you.”

  “I’m not hungry, but I’d like some tea. Shall I bring you a cup?”

  “That would be very pleasant. Bring yours too, and we’ll drink it together.”

  “Are there any travelers staying at the moment?”

  “One. I don’t like it when they’re here.”

  “Why not?” Francesca asked.

  Clara had a ready answer, wagging a finger importantly to emphasize her words. “Geetruyd’s never herself, always on edge, and then she snaps at me.”

  Downstairs again Francesca went along the corridor to the kitchen, where she found Weintje lolling against the courtyard door and giggling at something said by a young man making his departure. At her step the maidservant turned with a guilty start, not being allowed any dalliance during her hours of duty, but Francesca took no notice and ignored the evidence on the table of a meal for two having been eaten there. The young man went on his way and Weintje came at once to see what was wanted.

  “Would you make a pot of tea for Juffrouw Clara and me?” Francesca requested. “I’ll get the tray ready.”

  Weintje set about hurriedly as if expecting a reprimand at any moment, but when the tea was ready Francesca only thanked her and carried the tray away.

  She had almost reached the stairs when the front door opened and the traveler entered the house. He was in his mid-thirties, thin and of average height. Francesca thought how easy it would be to sketch his features in a series of horizontal and vertical lines—straight mouth, brows and eyes, a nose sharp as an arrow and a square chin. He regarded her alertly, bowing slightly in greeting, but without a smile.

  “Good evening,” she said. “This tea is freshly made. Would you like a cup?”