Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase (22 page)

‘Let’s go inside and get something to eat. Saskia will have something wonderful. She always does.’

Clara walked uncertainly onto the large landing of the house. She leant over the oak banisters.

‘Hans…’

He stood below her in the black and white tiled hall. He removed his hat, his cloak and gloves, handing them to Mitze. He looked up at his mother.

‘Mama, I am here at last. I must eat something, then I shall come up.’

The girl looked up at the older woman – small, thin, erect and dressed entirely in black; she was an intimidating sight.

‘Is that your mother?’ she whispered, thinking of her own soft, round mother, lost so long ago.

‘Yes, you’ll meet her later. Let’s go down to the kitchens and eat.’

They ate a pheasant pie that Saskia had just baked. Mori found the pastry heavy and difficult to chew; she had never eaten a pie before. But the meat was tasty and she was hungry. Mitze boiled up water to fill the large bath in Hans’ room. Hans introduced Mori to the rest of the household.

‘This is Mori. She will be helping us here in the house from now on. Make her welcome. Mitze, perhaps when you have filled my bath, you would show Mori to her room. She can have the little room in the attic I thought – next to yours. And could you let her have a little hot water too? There is a jug and basin in her room, I think. Put some soap in there for her, will you? We’ve had a long journey.’

Saskia and Mitze looked at each other over the Mori’s head.

‘What are you doing bringing that heathen here?’ Clara demanded crossly when Hans finally went to see her. Any pleasure she might have felt at seeing her son once again after so many years had been spoilt by the sight of the dark-skinned girl.

‘She is not a heathen, Mother. She is a good Christian – a Catholic, in fact. I know we are Protestant here, but she will be discreet. Besides, what would you have me do? Leave her with a man who abused her and used her? You are a good Christian, Mother, and have brought me up to be the same. How could I leave the girl to such a terrible future? She is kind and sweet and works hard. I’m sure Saskia and Mitze will soon have her trained up.’

Down in the basement, Saskia was also discomforted by the ‘new arrival’, as she persisted in calling Mori.

‘Sir,’ she asked Hans the next morning as she served up breakfast, ‘what do you expect me to teach the new arrival?’

‘She is called Mori, Saskia. In our language she would be called Maria. I expect you to teach her the routines of this house. But you might be surprised. She is also a good cook and could teach you a thing or two.’

At this, Saskia became alarmed. The thought that her place in the household might be challenged by this foreigner distressed her. ‘But Sir, I have been here for nearly thirty years,’ she protested.

‘And will be here for the next thirty, I sincerely hope. Just be kind, Saskia. She can start with the laundry perhaps.’

The girl began to settle into the household routines. She helped Mitze with the laundry and became adept with the laundry press; she was meticulous about pressing Clara’s garments; her sewing was quick and neat, so Mitze set her to work mending hems of petticoats and sewing on buttons. She was sent on small errands for Saskia and soon learned the layout of Amsterdam’s streets and canals. As she wandered the cobbled lanes she would stop to watch a flock of geese flying overhead, and as she crossed over the canals, she would lean over the bridges as swans floated by in a stately fashion. Her room in the attic overlooked the canal, and if she woke early she loved nothing better than to sit on her windowsill watching the activities in the street below – the canal boats with their cargo travelling towards the market, laundry women carrying great bundles of linen from the large houses on the Herengracht. They reminded her of the women in her village in Goa taking laundry to the river each day. The room itself was small but cosy and she felt safe for the first time in her life. She had a bed, and a small chest in which she kept the clothes Hans had bought for her – two black day dresses to wear in the house, three aprons, three muslin caps, a selection of underwear that Saskia had helped her to buy and one dark blue day dress Hans bought for her that she was to wear on Sundays when she went to church with the family. She was very grateful for Hans’ kindness.

‘This is for me?’ she asked when he brought the dress home.

‘Yes, Mori. I wanted you to have something pretty to wear.’

‘You are a very kind man,’ she said, blushing.

Hidden amongst the new undergarments was her own tiny bag of personal possessions. These included a little rag doll that her mother Isabel had made for her. She had given the doll to Mori on her sixth birthday. It had been in the pocket of her skirt when the pirates invaded her village. She remembered how they had rampaged through the small settlement, killing old men and women, kidnapping anyone young enough to work. Pregnant women were slaughtered, some in front of their children’s eyes. Most women were raped, some then taken, others killed – Mori’s mother amongst them. Mori had been hiding under the bed when the men attacked her mother. She still felt shame that she had been unable to save her, but what could a tiny girl do against three violent grown men? When they had finished, they set fire to the house. She had run to her mother to try to save her and drag her outside, but Isabel was already dead; her throat had been cut. Mori, shocked and terrified, had run into the vegetable garden that her mother tended so carefully. She had been hanging up some washing as the men arrived; Mori noticed the chemise hanging on the line. She grabbed it and stuffed into her blouse. She had run then, as fast as her legs could carry her. She thought she had escaped, but as she ran into the forest surrounding the village, she stopped to look back. Behind her was a plume of smoke rising into the blue sky and on her heels a large bearded man, who grabbed her by her long dark hair and swung her round, calling out, ‘I’ve got a live one here – looks in good condition. Think we’ll take her.’

Somehow she had managed to protect the chemise and the doll throughout her long captivity. She took it out from time to time and inhaled the scent of her mother. In reality the scent had long gone, but it comforted her to have it and she was determined never to be parted from it.

As the Amsterdam summer merged into autumn, Hans began to believe that his mother had at last accepted Mori. She allowed the girl to collect her linen each morning, and had once even thanked her when it was returned, congratulating her on it being well pressed.

One afternoon, the family sat in the garden, taking tea. Clara had at last been persuaded by Johan to leave her bedroom and go outside in order to enjoy the late summer sunshine. Mori brought out a tray of porcelain cups and saucers, which she laid out on a table in the garden. Clara poured the tea and handed round a plate of Saskia’s biscuits. She had a little colour in her cheeks for the first time in months. A starling flew into the garden and sat on the fountain. Soon it was joined by a second, then a third. Before long there were twenty, maybe thirty starlings gathering in the garden.

‘How strange,’ said Johan. ‘It is time for the starlings to be travelling I think, but they seem to have been waylaid by our garden.’

Within minutes, a flock of starlings encircled the garden, swooping and wheeling, flying closer and closer to the family.

‘I want to go inside,’ said Clara, batting her hand at a starling that was flying over her head, grazing the top of her muslin cap. The family stood up to go inside. As they did so, they saw that the flock was growing in size. A huge column of starlings, like a tornado, was making its way across the gardens of the houses that fronted the Herengracht. Twirling and whirling about. Hans took his mother’s hand and practically dragged her into the house. Johan was not far behind. They ran down the basement steps into the kitchen and slammed the glass door behind them as a phalanx of birds crashed into it. Hans ran up the stairs to the main house. Mori was already standing in the hall looking out through the windows on either side of the door. The column of birds now filled the sky; it was black with starlings. Clara went to the drawing room and shut the shutters against the sight. She called for Mitze to come and light the oil lamps. Mori brought a shawl for Clara, who had begun to shiver uncontrollably.

Hans stood in the hall looking out across the canal as thousands and thousands of birds moved as one against the evening sky.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said to Mori as she came back into the hall.

‘I have,’ said Mori, ‘when I was little. It’s a bad sign. An omen.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Hans. ‘It’s just birds. They’ll fly away soon.’

He was right of course, and within the hour the skies had cleared. As the sun set behind the garden, Hans tried to comfort his mother. But she had heard Mori in the hall and was worried.

‘She said it was a sign – what of? Is it bad? I think it must be bad.’

‘No, no,’ said Johan. ‘Hans is right. It’s just a large flock of birds. Nothing more.’

The following day, Hans heard from the VOC that plague had been found in an Amsterdam family whose son had recently returned from Batavia, their major trading post. He was warned to be on his guard.

He kept the bad news from his mother of course, but did mention it to his father after breakfast as they worked together on papers in Johan’s study.

‘Do we think the boy brought it back with him?’ asked Johan incredulously. ‘Surely he would have shown signs on the journey.’

‘Well, no other cases seem to have shown up yet. Let’s wait. Perhaps it will be a minor outbreak. The family are in quarantine now.’

Five days passed with no further cases reported. Johan went to a partners’ meeting of the VOC. He came back in a cheerful mood.

‘Our profits are up, Hans,’ he said gleefully. ‘We will make a tidy sum on our investment this year. Four hundred percent has been talked of this evening.’ He retired to bed.

The following morning, Johan woke complaining of being a little tired and lethargic. Hans advised him to remain in bed, but his father was determined to come downstairs and work in his study. But the following day, Johan was feverish, and was persuaded to stay in bed. The doctor was sent for and diagnosed a fever. Mori tended to him, bringing him water and a few little meals that Saskia had prepared specially for him. On the third day he got out of bed and stumbled badly. As he fell on the floor, he pulled a table over with him. Hans, hearing the commotion, rushed upstairs to see his father lying sprawled out on the floor of his room, rambling unintelligibly. The day after that, large blackish swellings began to develop, first in his groin, then under his arms and neck. Hans did not need to call the doctor to diagnose his father’s illness.

He ordered his mother to remain in her room. The servants were to remain downstairs. The doctor was called for as a matter of protocol, and pronounced that Johan did indeed have the plague. The house was put under quarantine.

Johan struggled on for four days, but his symptoms grew worse and worse. Mori continued to tend to him. She gave him water and a little food when he could bear it, but seven days after he first felt unwell, poor Johan died.

T
wo days
after his father’s death, Hans walked into his study to find his mother balancing precariously on a chair, struggling to open the glass doors of the display cabinet.

‘Mother, what on earth are you doing?’ asked Hans. ‘You will fall. Here, let me help you.’

Clara pushed him away.

‘I must destroy it,’ she said.

‘What? What must you destroy?’

‘The vase. None of this would have happened if I had got rid of it years ago. First the babies, then Katje and now Johan. I cannot bear it any longer. It has to go.’

Hans lifted his mother from the chair and returned her delicately to the floor.

‘No, Mama. You cannot blame an inanimate object. It is a simply a vase, nothing more. A thing of beauty and rarity. It has been in our family for over two hundred years. I have the family tree, filled in by generations – I keep it in my desk. It is a remarkable document, a testament to the extraordinary success our family has made of itself. Now, of course, I don’t think that success has anything to do with the vase; it is down to hard work and determination. Neither is it responsible for the terrible tragedy of losing your children, or Papa’s death. After all, throughout the generations children have died. Look, I shall show you here – one of Beatrice’s sisters also lost six children. The generation before her lost twelve in all. Many more survived, but many were lost. No one has blamed the vase, and you must not either.’

Clara laid her head on Hans’ desk and wept inconsolably. When she finally dried her eyes, she looked at him with anger.

‘It’s the fault of that girl you brought here then. That Mori, she’s a witch. You must get rid of her. She brought the disease to this house.’

‘Mother, no! It had nothing to do with Mori. You cannot think that. Father went to the VOC that day. I fear he caught it there. Three more cases were reported yesterday. All of them are associated with the VOC.’

Clara refused to be mollified, and Hans finally had to insist that there be ‘no further talk of Mori leaving this house’.

Four weeks went by, with no one else in the household falling ill. Finally, the quarantine on the house on the Herengracht was lifted; Saskia instructed the bootboy Michaela to wash off the large letter ‘P’ that had been painted on the house’s door. But Hans knew it was not the end of the matter. Amsterdam was in the grip of an epidemic. Five cases became twenty, fifty, then a hundred. Soon there were over a thousand. It was no respecter of class or position. Hans instructed the staff to be on their guard.

‘We must limit our contact with everyone outside this house. I shall instruct the suppliers to bring all our food here and leave it in the stables at the back. We should avoid going to church; we can say our devotions at home until this terrible episode is over.’

But the episode became a full-blown epidemic, as cases kept on coming throughout that year and on into the following year and the next. By the end, over sixteen thousand people died of the plague – one sixth of Amsterdam’s population.

In the summer of 1625, when no new cases had been reported for six weeks, the city authorities finally declared that the epidemic was over. As warm fresh air blew in off the North Sea, it seemed to presage a new beginning for those who had survived. The people threw open their windows, long shuttered against the disease. They began to mix with one another, to hold parties up and down the large houses on the Herengracht. It was at one such party that Hans met Antoinette. She was the daughter of a fellow merchant. Just eighteen, with fair hair and bright cornflower-blue eyes, she reminded Hans of a perfect china doll. Delicate, dainty and extremely pretty, she had a bright, sparkling voice and laughed frequently and easily. Hans decided, almost the moment he met her, that he would marry her. She would bring life and laughter to the house on the Herengracht, things which had been in short supply for many years.

The courtship lasted only a few weeks. The city’s recent experience of death had made its inhabitants eager for life. Antoinette’s father was delighted that his eldest daughter might make such a good match. So many fine young men had been lost over the previous two years and Hans was considered one of the most important members of the VOC. Hans did not love Antoinette, but he liked her and was grateful that she was prepared to marry him. He imagined that love would grow, over time. But his true feelings, he realised, were for Mori; it was she who had captured his heart. He realised that he had loved her from the moment he had met her. He had never acted on his feelings for fear of dishonouring her; of breaking his word to her. And because he knew that he could never make her his wife – his mother would never countenance him marrying an ex-slave. But when she came into his study in the evening with a glass of port on a silver tray and laid it silently next to him, he breathed in her scent and his eyes rested on her long delicate fingers and her slender forearms. He yearned to pull her towards him and kiss her. He had no idea if she reciprocated. He imagined she was unaware of his feelings.

Clara was delighted that Hans was to marry Antoinette. For the first time in many years, she began to look forward to a time when she might become a grandmother. And Antoinette did not disappoint. Within three years of their marriage, three children were born: a boy named Johan after his grandfather, followed by two daughters – Elisabeth and Cornelia, named after Antoinette’s grandmothers, as was the custom. The nursery in the house on the Herengracht was redecorated. The portrait of Katje was moved to Clara’s room and replaced with another of Antoinette.

‘Mama,’ she announced to her mother-in-law, ‘I would like my children to fall asleep under the gaze of their adoring mother. I hope you understand. It is not meant as any disrespect to Katje.’

Antoinette had a knack of persuading people to do as she asked. She never raised her voice to argue, or even cajole. She simply made it impossible for people to refuse her. Hans was happy to oblige. He agreed to pay for the garden to be redesigned. He signed the invoice for the tulip bulbs. He concurred that her little parlour should be redecorated just as she liked. The nursery was altered to suit her and the children. In return, she carried each child uncomplainingly and gave birth quietly and decorously. Mitze was promoted to her personal maid and enjoyed the opportunity it gave her to have influence in the household. Mori became the downstairs maid. A new laundry maid was employed.

There was just one issue that Antoinette could not engineer to her liking: the presence of Mori in the household. She had long sensed an irritating attachment between her husband and the girl. It was as if there was a bond, a private unspoken understanding between them. And she did not like it. It excluded her and she was determined to excise it.

‘Hans,’ she said one evening after dinner as they sat together in her parlour. ‘Hans, I wonder if we should consider one or two changes in our household staff.’

Hans looked up from his book. ‘In what way?’

‘I think Saskia perhaps needs some extra help in the kitchen. Her cooking is very adequate, but I hear that trained chefs are now very popular in houses like ours. She could assist and make breakfast and so on but perhaps the bigger dinners could be left to someone a little more… flamboyant.’

‘Saskia has been here for over thirty years. I will not even think of replacing her.’

‘Am I to have no influence over my own household?’ asked Antoinette, smiling prettily at her husband.

‘Well, what else do you wish to change?’ Hans said, closing his book and placing it in his lap.

‘Mitze is now my personal maid and is doing a good job, but I believe we need two new downstairs maids to really run the house properly. I don’t think Mori is really quite adequate. Things are not cleaned properly, I’ve noticed. And she is not really up to the task when we have visitors. She appears awkward. People are embarrassed by her. It’s not good for the business, Hans. I give a lot of my time to help arrange large supper parties for you, and it’s too bad that things are spoiled by the inadequacies of our staff. My mother knows of two girls who have a lot of experience working in a big house in Amsterdam who would be perfect. They are sisters and do not wish to be parted from one another. It is rather sweet. If we were to take them on, Mori would really be quite superfluous.’

Hans looked at his wife intently. She did not catch his gaze, but continued to sew diligently. She displayed no emotion. Not a flicker of anger, determination, or venom. And yet, he knew that it was all there – under the surface. He could see that he was being presented with a choice – to lose Saskia or Mori. It was an impossible decision, and one that he was not minded to take.

‘I will not lose Mori. You know that I rescued her from a terrible situation, and I promised her then that she would always have a job in my house. I will not go back on my word.’

‘Good, so we are, at least, to have a new chef. I shall appoint someone and let Saskia know. And, I shall make Mori the nursery maid, with your permission? We will employ the new downstairs maids and Mori will remain upstairs with the children, where she will not be required to mix with our guests.’

Aware that he had been boxed into a corner by his clever wife, Hans was grateful that she appeared, at least, to have acquiesced on the matter of Mori leaving the household. He would see less of Mori if she was with the children all day, but she would be still be there – in his house.

The new arrangement appeared to go well enough, for a while. Mori adapted to her new position. She liked the children and did her best to care for them. But Antoinette was a demanding mistress and found fault with her work on a daily basis. Their clothes were not cleaned properly; the children’s routine was wrong, and one afternoon, when Antoinette was downstairs in the drawing room entertaining friends to tea, she heard a piercing scream from one of the children. Rushing upstairs, she found Cornelia writhing on the floor clutching at her hand; Mori was crouched over the child, attempting to bathe the child’s hand in cold water.

‘What happened?’ demanded Antoinette, pushing Mori out of the way.

‘I… I put a log onto the fire. I turned away for a moment and Cornelia must have slipped.’

‘Where was the fire guard?’

‘I forgot,’ Mori said through tears.

‘Get out,’ Antoinette shouted. ‘Go to your room and do not come back down here.’

Antoinette called Mitze to come and care for the children while the doctor was sent for. The child’s hand was treated. It would heal well enough, he said. But for Antoinette it was the last straw.

That evening, when the children were finally asleep, Antoinette went to see her mother-in-law.

‘Mama,’ she said, pacing the room, ‘I wonder if I might seek a little counsel from you?’

Clara was always pleased to help her daughter-in-law. She was so grateful for the sound of children’s voices in the house and loved her grandchildren desperately. Little Johan went each afternoon on his mother’s instructions to visit his grandmother and sat on her lap and read from his book with her. It was the best part of Clara’s day and she would do anything to keep Antoinette happy.

‘Of course, dear Antoinette. Please sit down.’

Antoinette described the terrible “disaster” that had unfolded that afternoon. ‘I really fear to leave them with her if I am honest with you, Mama dear. Hans will not listen to me. He insists the girl remains here. I would have thought he has done his duty by her. I know people like her can get work in this city. But why does it have to be in our house? I would like a properly trained nursemaid – maybe two – to care for the children. Does Hans not love his children?’

With her mother-in-law on her side, Antoinette knew that it was just a matter of time before she got her way. Her reasoning was unarguable. Mori presented a risk to their children. Within a week, Hans had found an alternative position for her, at the home of an artist friend.

Mori stood before him in his study, mute with disappointment and shame. ‘You know I love your children. I would never do anything to harm them. It was a mistake.’

‘I know Mori. And I trust you – implicitly. But Antoinette cannot forgive you. I am sorry. I have no choice. I have found a new position for you, with a good man. Emanuel is a talented artist. He will respect you. He lives in an interesting part of the city, full of Jewish merchants and tradespeople. I know there are many people of colour there. Perhaps it is for the best. You might even find a husband… Someone to care for you.’ Even as he spoke these words, he felt a pang of regret.

Mori, who had sensed Hans’ affection through the years, said nothing. She knew that a man like Hans, with all his wealth and position, could never really care for a fallen girl like her, a girl who had been abused by so many. She cared for him, but it was pointless to tell him so. And she was fearful of rejection, or disappointment. And so she agreed to leave the house on the Herengracht, taking, at Hans’s insistence, all her clothes and possessions. He even gave her the little painted chest where she kept her belongings. Her things were moved on a small cart to her new employer’s house. She was to assist Emanuel’s cook in the kitchen and help his wife in the house. The house was not large, and easy enough to run. And Emanuel did indeed live an interesting life. He worked in his studio each day, alongside two young apprentices. They were amusing and liberated and thought Mori a beautiful and interesting subject. In fact, they often painted her, much to the annoyance of the cook and Emanuel’s wife. She settled at the new house and enjoyed her work. But each day she thought of Hans and missed his kindness.

Antoinette was delighted. Two new maids were employed, in addition to two nursery maids. At last, she felt in full control of her household. She rewarded Hans by announcing that she was, once again, expecting a baby. Hans was pleased enough. His mother was thrilled. The pregnancy initially went well, but when Antoinette was four months pregnant, she began to bleed. She took to her bed and rested, but the damage was done, and a few days later, she lost the baby.