The Golden Tulip (20 page)

Griet passed Francesca, carrying the visitor’s cloak to deposit it on her way back to the kitchen. She was burning with indignation. Not only had he flung it off carelessly, half smothering her with it, but he had not even wiped his feet! She wished she had the strength of a neighboring maidservant who had lifted an Englishman off his feet to remove his muddy shoes when he had begun leaving footprints all over her clean floor. No doubt Heer van Deventer had traveled widely and adopted the slack ways he had found elsewhere.

Aletta and Sybylla were following Griet from the reception hall. They were to help her fill the two dishes for the first course. Maria was competent at presiding in the kitchen, but could no longer do anything active. Francesca ignored her sisters’ questioning glances as they went by, but she caught Sybylla’s whisper.

“Francesca is going to make a grand entrance. I wish I had thought of that!”

How far Sybylla was from the truth! Something of that whisper must have reached Ludolf’s ears, for he turned his head quickly and looked toward the stair hall. Involuntarily Francesca rested a hand against the old oak of the archway as he sighted her. His smile spread slowly, revealing teeth that were broad and square, well suited to the shape of his face. He was not without good looks, but there was a coarseness to his features. His brows were of a sandy hue, as were the thin mustache and the small pointed beard, matched by the thickly curled periwig that reached to his shoulders and down his back. The lids of his sharp, alert eyes were deep and his nose was wide, as were his nostrils and his mouth, his chin thrusting and pugnacious. He was not a man to cross.

“Ah! The goddess of spring herself!” he exclaimed. “Master Visser, pray present me to this lovely Flora.”

Francesca drew in a deep breath before gliding forward to be presented and to dip her best curtsy. Ludolf handed her up and would have retained his hold on her fingers if she had not slipped them free as she made a conventional reply to this greeting. “I endorse my father’s welcome to a stranger in our house.”

“But a stranger no longer, I trust.” He kept his gaze on her while addressing Hendrick. “You have a fine bevy of daughters, Master Visser. It will be my pleasure to call your eldest by her Christian name without formality, not from any ill manners, I assure you, but because Francesca graces the banqueting hall of my house with her likeness as Flora and it is as if she had always belonged there. I have only one fault to find with that painting. It does not do her justice. She is far more beautiful.”

Two points of color had appeared in Francesca’s cheeks, not at the oily compliment, but that he should be speaking about her as if she were an item of goods on display with no tongue in her head. This had always been a house where women spoke their minds, and her annoyance was high. She saw that Hendrick was also irritated by the veiled criticism of his work. It was time to intervene. She gestured graciously.

“Pray come through to dine. All is ready.”

The atmosphere at the table was easier than Francesca had expected. Ludolf was a fluent talker with a wide knowledge of the world from his travels abroad. Deliberately she crushed down the dislike she had experienced at first sight of him, wanting to be fair-minded toward a guest in her home. He was courteous in the extreme, encouraging her and her sisters to express opinions, for he was also a good listener, and this suited Hendrick’s garrulous nature. It was easy to see he had won her father over completely. Hendrick had forgotten his earlier qualms and was relaxed and merry. She guessed it had much to do with Ludolf’s firm request to view one day soon any paintings her father might have that Willem had overlooked. She knew that nothing would delight Hendrick more than that he should place with this patron pictures that the art dealer had declined to handle.

The extremely good dinner ended with bowls of crystallized fruits and ginger. Ludolf patted the stickiness from his lips with his napkin. “I think we should now discuss your painting of my portrait, Master Visser.”

It was the moment for the girls to withdraw. “We shall leave you two gentlemen to your business talk,” Francesca said.

“We shall not be long,” Ludolf replied, rising from his chair as she and her sisters left the table.

Away from the room Sybylla poked Francesca playfully in the arm. “He sounded as though he thought you might miss him,” she teased.

“The reverse is the case,” Francesca replied somewhat sharply.

“Did you notice his rings?” Sybylla rolled her eyes. “They dazzled me!”

Aletta, seating herself in the drawing room, looked speculatively at her elder sister. “You don’t like him, do you?”

Francesca took a chair opposite her. “My feelings about him are rather mixed, for a reason that is wholly foolish in origin. All that matters is that Father should find him agreeable. They are the two who will be seeing each other.”

“I agree.” Aletta reflected that Francesca probably felt much the same about the man as she did. Feminine intuition had told her there was something about him that did not ring true. It had been like having dinner with a play actor who was sustaining a chosen role even after leaving the stage.

In the dining hall the moment had come for Hendrick to refuse the commission. He had seen almost from the start that Ludolf was a man of intelligence who would be sensible enough toward the finer feelings of others, his conversation throughout the meal having confirmed this. Had it not been so, Hendrick knew he would have had second thoughts about the decision he had made, for having gained this patron’s goodwill it would have been folly to throw it away without making a supreme effort to please him. They were both mellowed by wine and good food, which was also conducive to maintaining the relationship already formed.

“I fully appreciate your offer of a commission to paint your portrait, Heer van Deventer. Unfortunately the way is not clear for me to accept it.”

Ludolf looked down at the napkin he still held and laid it with more care than was necessary on the table beside his plate. “Not clear?” he said on a quiet note of surprise. Then he shifted round in his chair to regard Hendrick steadily. “My good fellow, please explain.”

“It may be difficult for a layman to understand, but I happen to be among those artists who can’t be governed by the clock.”

“I envy you,” Ludolf replied with a sigh. “Most of my days are mapped out hour by hour.”

Hendrick warmed to his own words, for everything was going so well. “I can only feel hamstrung by arranged appointments.” His memory dwelt briefly on times in earlier years when he had thrown his brushes into the air and yelled at some pompous burgher or his plain wife that he could not paint to another’s timetable. The price paid for Francesca’s painting as Flora had lulled him into considering this new commission, but he was thankful to be rid of it. “I must paint at midnight if the mood takes me, but at an hour that might suit you for a sitting I might have no wish to hold a brush. Total freedom is important to me and brings forth my best work, any of which in the future can be offered to you for your consideration first.”

Ludolf nodded in the most friendly manner. “I like a man who speaks his mind, and is not freedom the natural right of every Dutchman? Show me all your future work. I have time at last to start a collection of paintings. Until recently the pressure of business left me with no leeway for leisurely pursuits, but I have begun to delegate much of the work that was mine to others with no ill results.” He reached out and clapped a hand on Hendrick’s shoulder. “At least I know genius when I see it and it was in your painting of Francesca. Such men as you can’t be tied down.”

The praise fed Hendrick’s conceit and the modest little lift of his hand was made invalid by his satisfied smile. “You do me much honor,
mijnheer.
Now that is settled I think it is time we joined my daughters in the drawing room.”

Tea was served. Conversation was light and all three girls noticed their father’s exceptional good humor. When the tea was drunk Hendrick gave his guest the choice of chess or cards and the latter was chosen. It was the girls’ chance to withdraw, for unless it was a mixed card party it was customary for the women of the household to leave the men on their own for gaming. Good nights were said and Francesca led the way upstairs, her sisters following one behind the other.

No sooner were they halfway up than Ludolf showed himself to be seized by an idea of importance and tapped his forehead with a finger. “I’ve had such a good notion, Master Visser! Would you be kind enough to call Francesca back for a few moments?”

“Yes, indeed.” Hendrick left the half-open drawer from which he had been taking the cards and went to the foot of the stairs. “Wait, Francesca! I’d like you to come down again for a minute.”

She raised her eyebrows at her sisters, signaling her wonder at this unexpected summons, and they drew back against the banister to let her pass. As Francesca reached the foot of the stairs, Sybylla caught hold of Aletta’s arm. “Let’s listen!” she whispered.

Aletta answered fiercely. “No! Any kind of eavesdropping is loathsome and surely you’ve heard enough of that man’s voice for one evening. I know I have.” She moved to go up the next flight and when Sybylla did not follow she returned to beckon her crossly. Still ignored, she shook an angry finger and then continued up to the third floor.

Downstairs Francesca was invited to sit down by Ludolf as if it were his home instead of hers. Then from where he himself was seated he addressed Hendrick.

“With regard to my portrait, which you have declined to paint, I have thought of a means by which my disappointment can be overcome.”

“What is that?” Hendrick had drawn his chair to the table, where he had set down the pack of cards, impatient for play to begin.

“Simplicity itself. Francesca shall paint my likeness instead.”

She was aghast. “That’s impossible!”

Ludolf smiled directly at her and shook his head. “I disagree. There could not be a better solution.”

“But my work can’t be compared in any way with my father’s!”

“I realize that, so don’t worry on that score. De Hartog told me that he had the highest faith in your future as an artist and he commended the way you work daily from morning to evening in the studio. Therefore, since you keep regular hours, there should be no difficulty in our arranging sittings to suit each other.”

Hendrick jerked in his chair as if he had been struck across the face. He could scarcely begin to comprehend how easily he had been brushed aside. His eyes blinked on the tempest of outrage that swept through him. Like a drowning man clutching a spar, he seized on the only excuse against her accepting the commission that would conceal his own mauled pride.

“It can’t be done! Francesca is to be apprenticed very shortly to an artist named Vermeer in Delft!”

They both looked at him, Ludolf with a flash of anger and Francesca in complete stupefaction. She rose slowly to her feet and went across to sit opposite Hendrick at the table. “I don’t understand, Father!”

He waved his hands agitatedly as he struggled with the turmoil of temper and indignation within him. “I only received the news this morning. Willem wished it to be a surprise for you when he returns from his journey. However, in view of what our guest has put to you, I’ve had to speak about the matter sooner than I’d intended.”

“Is Aletta to go with me?” Francesca asked swiftly.

“No. Her chance will come later.”

She had a thousand questions tumbling in her mind to ask him, but she was constrained by the presence of a stranger. “This is marvelous news,” she exclaimed breathlessly. The promise of Aletta following after her was all she needed to complete her joy at what had been opened up for her. “Should I have heard of Master Vermeer?”

“No chance of that. He has other means by which to live and doesn’t confine himself to painting, but Willem thinks most highly of his work. So,” he added to Ludolf, “you have my most profound apologies that your commission can’t be undertaken by my daughter.”

“Is that so?” Ludolf’s manner had chilled. “That is a very great pity. It is a blow to all my expectations.”

The significance of his words was lost on Francesca, who could have thrown her arms about her father’s neck for his spurning, with such a wonderful disclosure, Ludolf’s high-handed assumption that she would jump at the chance he had offered her. Apart from anything else, she would never have trodden deliberately on her father’s exclusive territory. There were none more wary of his pride than his own household.

Unsuspected by her, the momentum of Ludolf’s threat had hit Hendrick hard. Had he and his daughter obliged the man’s whim all would have been well, but a second refusal in one evening would not be tolerated. Sweat began to gather on Hendrick’s forehead. He fought for calm and would have drummed his fingers on the table as his thoughts raced to find a means by which to solve this crisis, but pain in his knuckles shot through his fingers and he covered them quickly with his other hand. He did not realize that Francesca had noticed the involuntary tremor of his fingers or that he had made her aware of how often recently she had seen him take that action of cushioning his knuckles. Hendrick cleared his throat. “I regret to hear that. No offense was intended.”

“I did not suppose that it was.” In spite of Ludolf’s conciliatory acknowledgment the same iciness persisted in his voice. He glanced at the clock as if he might be changing his mind about staying for cards after all. It was a clear indication that if he went he would be taking his patronage with him.

Panic rose in Hendrick. Suddenly he saw Ludolf as a bastion between himself and a poverty-stricken old age. The specter of Frans Hals existing in his last years on charity and poor Rembrandt’s pitiful end haunted him in his depressed moments, as did those of other artists he had known who had been reduced to ignominious circumstances. The old fears surged through him once more. He liked living with a certain dash and it was clear that the luxuries of life would be plentiful under Ludolf’s patronage. The cost was his pride, but for once in his life he must sacrifice it. He could not let everything that had been dangled before him that evening slip through his fingers, the painful condition of which was likely to get worse as the years advanced. A tolerant patron, as Ludolf had shown earlier that he could be, would never hasten work when the end result would be all that was desired.