The Golden Tulip (7 page)

Chapter 3

F
RANCESCA HAD MANY TEMPESTUOUS SCENES TO SETTLE WITH
Sybylla over Jacob and there was no peace for anyone. Hendrick kept out of the way as much as possible, either leaving the house when trouble erupted or locking himself in the studio. Then, almost overnight, Sybylla accepted the situation. Nobody was more relieved than Francesca, for her painting had been severely disrupted, it being impossible to concentrate with such turmoil in the house. Looking in the mirror on the day she heard her younger sister laughing again, she wondered that she did not look thrice her age of seventeen years.

She was unaware of the extent to which her face had taken on an unusual and striking beauty, for she saw no symmetry in her features such as she admired in others and she was dismissive of compliments. Yet there was a haunting, fascinating quality to her expressive visage that Hendrick had long recognized in his paintings of her, and which was further enhanced by her lustrous green eyes, the upper lids weighed down by thick lashes. Her nose was narrow with delicately flaring nostrils and her neck was long, giving her a swanlike poise. Her cheekbones were wide, as was her mouth, but her lips were curved and her complexion was smooth as creamy silk.

She enjoyed men’s company and, had she allowed it, could have been like any girl in becoming attracted to one or another handsome smile. It was not always easy to turn away, although by now the boys she had known since childhood had given up pursuing her, the older ones betrothed or wed elsewhere. The decision she had made long ago to be an artist had not changed and marriage was something she did not intend to contemplate for years to come, if ever.

The letter from Janetje was delivered one morning shortly before Francesca was to pose in another of many sittings for Hendrick, who was painting her as Flora, the goddess of spring. With about ten minutes to spare, she darted upstairs to her bedchamber, where she could read it on her own before sharing it with the rest of the family. Her hair, loosened in readiness for the sitting, hung in waves down her back and swirled out as she settled herself on the cushioned window seat, the sunshine through the panes making a red-gold aura of its coppery luxuriance. The fond link between her aunt and her had continued unbroken through their correspondence, Francesca writing to her much as she might have done to her own mother.

As usual, Janetje’s letter was full of family affairs, from the progress her sons were making with their education to the banquet she and Giovanni gave to celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary. She expressed her intense eagerness for news from Holland, not having heard for several months, and Francesca hoped that by now the letter she had dispatched quite a while ago would have arrived. Any letter from her aunt that came at this time of year never failed to have a strong undertone of homesickness. It was clear that Janetje’s thoughts always began to turn to the forthcoming Dutch Feast of St. Nicholaes, a family occasion that she had enjoyed both as a child and as an adult, and she never forgot to send a gift to each of her three nieces for the sixth day of December. This year of 1669 three pairs of scented leather gloves would be coming.

Francesca lowered the letter to her lap and began to fold it up again, her thoughts full of her aunt. It was pleasant to have read the letter by herself, here in her own room with its simple furnishings and the four-poster with the plain blue drapes. Nobody intruded on her when it was known she wanted to be alone. Her sisters still shared a room, although there were enough bedchambers for them to have had one each, but Aletta still had nightmares if she slept alone and Sybylla liked her company.

“Francesca!” Hendrick’s voice boomed up the three flights like a distant roll of thunder.

“I’m coming!” she called back, not at all sure whether he would have heard her. She tucked the letter into her sash to take it to him, for she was already in robes from one of the atelier chests that she was to wear for the painting. Picking up a chaplet of silk flowers, she sprang up to cross to the mirror in a swish of heavy green satin, her sleeves of soft and flowing silk gauze cut so full they almost draped to her hems, the wristbands encrusted with embroidery, as was her low-cut bodice. She put the chaplet on her head. In her lobes were large azure earbobs from the chest of trinkets and a necklace from the same source encircled her neck. After giving a final touch to her hair, she gathered up her skirts and hastened to descend the stairs.

Someone was hammering the knocker on the front door. Perhaps it was a tradesman expecting money, a pattern that never changed. If Hendrick had not called her she would have answered the door herself. Now she must leave it to Griet, who was equally well used to dealing with creditors. Her thoughts invariably went to her mother as she descended the second flight and turned by the newel post. She had no idea why, but she liked to believe she was being warned not to trip, for the last flight down to the stair hall was precipitous with barely enough room for two people to pass. By the time she reached the bottom tread the hammering had stopped. She sped from the stair hall, skipped two steps leading down from an archway into the corridor and hurried along it to reach the studio.

“I’m here!” she announced as she entered.

At the front door a tall, straight-backed young man in his mid-twenties had stepped from the stoop to regard the house with a frown. Was nobody at home? He had a shock of dark brown curly hair that grew fashionably to his shoulders and was kept temporarily in order by a black hat with a wide brim cocked at the side. His knee-length red coat was of good cloth, fitting well across his broad shoulders, and his bucket-topped boots were of fine leather. Under his arm he carried a lidded box. He had no wish to leave without fulfilling his mission and he looked upward to see if a window was opening in response to his knocking, but nothing happened.

With no sign of life at the front of the Visser house, Pieter van Doorne decided he must try the back and went to the slatted wooden door at the side. Painted blue like the shutters and the main door of the house, it opened as he lifted the latch. His footsteps rang along the flags of the passageway within. The back door of the house was not the correct place to hand over the bulbs of a beautiful new tulip he had grown himself, they being worthy of a little ceremony, but there seemed no alternative. Normally he did not deliver his own wares, being far too busy and not through any sense of inflated pride, for he had built up his horticultural business the hard way and there was no humble task he had not carried out himself to establish it and ensure its success. It had happened today that he had found the staff on his market stall shorthanded due to illness and he had decided to do the delivery himself.

From the passageway he emerged into a sizeable and pleasant courtyard with trees, a trellis-shaded alcove for summer eating at a table, benches set by it, and borders of well-tended flowers. A broom propped against the table and the piles of swept-up leaves suggested that someone had left the task to go indoors and would shortly return. The back door stood slightly ajar. Going across to it, he intended this time to give a shout, since knocking had failed to bring any response. The door swung back easily on its much-used hinges to reveal a long shadowy corridor, doors and archways on each side, which ran the considerable length of the house to a room at the front. Within the frame of an open doorway, he could see a rostrum draped with a Persian rug, showing that it was Master Visser’s studio. Illumined by its windows, it held the look of a stage set for a performance. All this he took in at a second and then in the next moment a slender girl with flowers in her copper-bright hair, her green satin skirts swirling, came into sight from another part of the room. The curious acoustics of the long corridor funneled her clear voice to him as she addressed somebody else in the room whom he could not see.

“Aunt Janetje’s letter arrived only ten minutes ago. I knew you’d enjoy reading it. How far have you got? Oh yes, you’ve come to the last part, where she describes a reception at the Pitti Palace. One day I’m going to visit her and see the splendors of Florence for myself!”

She flung back her head in ecstasy at the prospect, hugging her arms with her back arched. Pieter caught his breath at her unconsciously sensuous stance. He hoped she would look down the corridor and see him at the door. Instead she responded to some quip made by a man with a deep voice, whom Pieter guessed to be Master Visser himself. The girl’s laugh was full-throated and merry. Twirling round, she stepped lightly up onto the rostrum, picking up a foliage-trimmed staff and a bunch of flowers lying there, and then stood in a graceful pose. “I’m ready, Father,” she said, her gaze directed toward another part of the studio. Then, to his disappointment, the door of the studio swung closed, shutting off his sight of her as if her father had given it a push from where he stood by his easel.

Pieter grinned, shaking his head that he should have remained standing on this spot as if he had lost his power of speech at the tantalizing glimpse of that delicious girl. He did not think she would have been the one sweeping the courtyard and he would try his luck again.

“Hey!” he shouted, rapping the back door with his knuckles at the same time. “I’ve some bulbs here that I don’t intend to leave on the doorstep!”

Down in the cellar, Griet, hunting for a sack in which to pack the leaves she had swept up in the courtyard, paused. Sighing with exasperation at the interruption, she shouted in reply as she mounted the stairs, “All right! I’ve heard you!”

Her irritability melted away as soon as she saw him. It was not often that anyone as personable came to the back door and his height and the breadth of his shoulders seemed to fill the whole doorway. Aware of being comely herself, she thrust out her breasts and smoothed her apron as she sauntered toward him, glad now that she was not trailing an old sack behind her.

“Good day to you,
mejuffrouw,
” he said with a wide smile, holding a box out to her. “These are tulip bulbs for Master Visser. He ordered them at my market stall in the spring and asked for them to be delivered when it was time for planting. It was agreed there would be payment when they were delivered.”

She took the box from him, knowing through long experience how to deal with those optimistic enough to expect ready cash for their goods, although she wished in this case she could have seen his account settled and gained a still wider smile from him. She liked the chiseled look of his facial bones that gave him such a striking countenance, the nose large, the jaw well set, and there was a tan to his complexion that came from the open air and the sunshine of the summer past.

“What is your name,
mijnheer
?” she asked, as much out of her own curiosity as the need to convey it to her master. Then, when he had told her, she added, “The master is at work in the studio and can’t be disturbed.” It was a phrase that came glibly to her lips whether it happened to be true at the time or not. “I will tell him you were here.”

This was the point when those who had had to wait overlong for payment in the past began to show aggressiveness and set a foot squarely in the door. This young man merely shrugged, his lively, clear brown eyes under the straight brows holding a twinkle she did not understand, for it was not directed flirtatiously at her, which she would have liked.

“Very well,” he said casually. “I can’t call back today, but the account is in with the bulbs and I will collect the money next time.”

She felt a sense of shame that she could not warn him he would probably have to come several times before he saw as much as a stiver. When creditors became ruthlessly demanding she could retaliate forcefully, seizing the first opportunity to slam the door in their faces, but she was certain that Pieter van Doorne was going to be a problem. He would remain polite but persistent, making it harder each time to turn him away without his just dues. Knowing the master, she was sure the most expensive bulbs to be had were in the box she had received. Although it was his personal debt, eventually it might prove to be a matter for Juffrouw Francesca to handle. Usually it was best to try to keep her out of it, because she would empty her own purse of whatever money she had, and it was always little enough.

“I thank you for calling. Good day to you,
mijnheer.”

As Pieter left by the way he had come, he smiled to himself. The maidservant had no idea how pleased he had been when she had not fetched a purse to pay him. If luck was with him he would meet the artist’s daughter the next time he called at the house.

As he retraced his steps along the street, he felt stimulated by the first breath of October, which had left September behind only the day before. The linden trees by the canal were golden and some late blooms still persevered in the flower beds that ran parallel with the water. He had been born in Haarlem and his tulip fields lay southwest of the old town, but recently he had bought a house in Amsterdam. He had always felt at home in the city’s hustle and bustle, its salty atmosphere with ships in the harbor making a forest of masts as far as the eye could see. Trade had caused the city to explode with wealth, and a political crisis in the Spanish Netherlands had brought an influx of Jewish diamond merchants, making Amsterdam the diamond center of the world. The Hague was still the capital and the seat of government, but it was overshadowed by flourishing Amsterdam. It was here that the Dutch East and West India Companies had established rich trade routes to every corner of the globe. Holland, with its fleet of three hundred thousand ships, was the master mercantile nation, respected by all her rivals, even England, with whom there had been two recent short, sharp naval wars. Every merchant ship was heavily armed to meet with any skirmish involving old enemies or the privateers that plagued the seas. This defense ensured less risk also for those who invested in cargoes, something he had done himself to great advantage through the city’s Exchange. He would later this very day plow some of his profits back into the same stream.