The Golden Tulip (22 page)

“This is the tulip grower and designer gardener, Pieter van Doorne. You will remember I spoke of him to you yesterday at supper.”

“I recall every word.” Ludolf was interested. He had mentioned that the layout of his garden was not to his satisfaction and the artist had told him of this young fellow with the extraordinary horticultural talent. Perhaps someone of such keenness could produce a design more unusual than those he had rejected from other gardeners, who had simply drawn variations of what he already had. Indicating Aletta’s painting, Hendrick explained that the girls had painted the famed hyacinth that had bloomed at Christmas.

“You should see Francesca’s painting of the hyacinth too,” Hendrick said to both Pieter and Ludolf. He patted his daughter on the shoulder. “Go and fetch it, my dear.”

“Not now, Father.” Francesca spoke firmly, determined not to spoil Aletta’s moment. Pieter, by the very timber of his voice, had shown such appreciation of her sister’s work that it had gladdened her to see Aletta so encouraged. His simple comment had meant far more than any number of gushing compliments. “I’ll show it another day.”

Hendrick was, as always, irrepressible when his mind was made up. “This is no time for modesty. Aletta! You fetch it!”

Aletta went willingly to the studio, where it had been put with other work by Francesca in a cupboard. Their father had not wanted any diverting of Ludolf’s interest by a chance sighting of anything done by anyone else until his own works were sold. He had never questioned why his second daughter had removed all her past work from the studio some time ago. Aletta’s guess was that he simply appreciated more room for his own canvases.

She had to sort through a number of paintings before she came to the hyacinth. Never once had she felt the least jealousy toward her sister’s work, even though, as she had said to Pieter the previous week, it had recently surged ahead. Who was to say the hyacinth had not been a turning point? Perhaps the very surprise of it coming at such a time to a lover of flowers had proved to be a spark to tinder. Pieter had a right to see the results and he was too sensible a man not to expect Francesca’s version to be superior to hers.

In the reception hall Ludolf took advantage of the few minutes of waiting for Aletta’s return to speak to Pieter about the growing of the hyacinth. “I’m most intrigued. How did you go about it?”

“I’ve been experimenting for some time. I made several errors of judgment before I succeeded in getting roots by keeping the bulbs cold and moist under several inches of peat. Then, a year ago, I was fortunate enough to get a bloom about a week after the apex shoots had shown themselves. The whole experiment was simply to increase my knowledge in another field, but I’m well pleased that the hyacinth proved to be an inspiration to two artists.” Pieter glanced across at Francesca.

“Naturally you would be.” Ludolf continued by asking, “Please name some persons of repute for whom you have designed gardens.”

Pieter raised a chilly eyebrow. “I don’t give the names of those who have employed my skills. If they choose to recommend me, that is their affair and of great benefit to me.”

Ludolf approved this. Here was a young man who knew how to keep whatever he saw or heard to himself. It was well never to let a gossiping tongue near one’s abode. Servants learned early in the van Deventer home not to discuss their master or anything that happened under his roof. Unpleasant things happened to those who did, always seemingly by accident, but the message went home and new servants were warned by their seniors to obey this special rule.

“Come back with me now, van Doorne. I should like you to take a look at my garden with a view to redesigning it.”

Pieter knew what would be wanted. Symmetrical parterres, some classical statuary, a fountain or two and, if space permitted, whatever would pass as an avenue of trees. With everything French having become so fashionable, all those who could afford it wanted their gardens to resemble the park of the palace of Versailles. His own rules were for color, fragrance and harmony, making house and garden complement each other in whatever he designed. Whether he took the commission being dangled like a carrot was another matter.

“I can’t make any other calls today, Heer van Deventer,” he said, “because when I leave here I’ll be on my way back to Haarlem and my home nearby where I have my orangery and my bulb fields.”

“Then let us make another appointment for two weeks from today at this hour.” It did not occur to Ludolf that he might get a second refusal and without waiting for a reply gave his address in Heerengracht, a street of exceptionally fine property facing a canal, and added that his house had a double flight of steps to the entrance and his name was above a ship molded in the pediment.

Even if he had not mentioned that he lived in the area known as the Golden Bend, the description of his house would have been a testament to his riches. Well-to-do people had a flight of steps to the entrance of their homes, but the rich had twin flights. Pieter, who had done extensive garden work for the owners of such properties, would normally have welcomed this chance to gain another client, but his doubts about Ludolf van Deventer’s integrity put this possible commission in a different light. Early on in business he had been swindled by such a man over some landscaping, but it was a valuable lesson and he was a great deal wiser these days. He was almost on the point of saying he was too busy to handle extra work now that spring had come, which was virtually the truth, when he considered Francesca’s involvement with this ship broker. If he accepted work from van Deventer he could keep an eye on her interests at the same time.

“I shall call on you,
mijnheer,
” he said, giving Ludolf the customary bow. If it was less deep than usual nobody noticed, for Aletta had returned with Francesca’s painting. Ludolf exclaimed over it.

“What a splendid picture for a young artist on the road to achievement!” He knew enough about Hendrick now to be certain that praise for the work of others, particularly his daughters, should be moderated in his hearing. Ludolf wanted nothing to interfere with his getting a hold over the man, which was why he had let him win heavily during their game of cards the previous evening. It was far from the first time he had caught a fool in a net and Hendrick should be easier to trap than most. “So much talent in one house. From the mighty oak two saplings have sprung.” He bowed to Hendrick and then to the girls. “If I had wanted proof of how good my portrait is to be,” he added to Francesca, “it is here in this fine example of your art.”

The difference in the quality of the two hyacinth pictures had been apparent to Pieter at once. In Francesca’s the flower positively glowed in its glory. Moreover, there was no symbolic ant or anything else to warn that nothing is perfect. The whole painting was a tribute to the flower itself.

“My felicitations,” he said directly to her.

Her face had become strained at Ludolf’s extravagant praise, but cleared at his words. This did not go unmarked by Ludolf, who was annoyed with himself for not having judged more accurately how she would receive flattery. Most women could not get enough of it. He covered his blunder by a few words about making his departure.

Farewells had been said when Sybylla arrived on the step just as Ludolf went from the house. She bobbed a curtsy, giving him a twinkling glance that came from sheer exultation that he had returned as had been arranged, a visit that heralded anew the prosperity he was to bring to the house. Francesca seized the moment of diversion to speak to Pieter on his own.

“Please stay and share our noon meal with us. You have a long journey back to Haarlem ahead of you.”

“I accept gladly.”

At table he was given the seat next to Sybylla. “Did you see Heer van Deventer’s handsome coach outside?” she asked him as the food was being served.

“I did. If Aletta had not told me to whom it belonged I’d have thought it was the Prince of Orange visiting your father.”

She liked that. “Who knows! Perhaps that will happen any day now that Father has such a wealthy patron.”

Hendrick in his exuberant mood slapped the table in appreciation. “Well said, Sybylla!”

“The coachman let me sit in that handsome equipage,” she announced to the table at large.

Maria glowered. “You had no business to take such a liberty!”

Sybylla ignored the reprimand. “It’s upholstered in the softest velvet with gilded tassels.” She tilted her face provocatively at Pieter. “When are you going to have a coach like that?”

He answered half seriously and half in jest. “When I can produce a tulip of a new color that everyone will want.”

Francesca from her seat at the end of the table looked along at him. “Is that your ambition?”

“I think it is every tulip grower’s wish.”

Hendrick gestured with his fork. “Don’t revive tulipomania. That’s all I ask!” He laughed heartily at his own joke. “It was all over before you were born, young man, but you must know plenty about it.”

“I do. My father was one of the successful investors, but he had friends who lost everything.”

“I was also fortunate in that I came out of it unscathed. It was an enjoyable gamble while it lasted.” Hendrick began to reminisce, relating tales that his family had heard countless times.

Pieter listened in spite of what was happening under the table. Unbeknown to anybody else Sybylla had kicked off a shoe and with her stockinged toes was trying to twist his hose awry. His garters at the calves were firm, but as the meal progressed she succeeded in dragging one loose and he had to reach down and jerk it tight again. When he glanced sideways at her she was eating docilely with an air of total innocence, but there was such mischief and sexuality dancing in her eyes under her downcast lashes that he was sure it was only a matter of time before someone at the table became suspicious. He believed that if anyone in her family should challenge her she would denounce him as being at fault. It was not a comfortable meal.

When it was over he had a short while on his own with Francesca in the reception hall. “You heard when van Deventer and I arranged for a meeting in a fortnight’s time, which means he won’t be here that day. Say you’ll meet me early that afternoon?”

She agreed and arranged where they should meet. If it was fine they would take a walk after leaving the coffeehouse, but if wet they would sit longer over the coffee.

“That sounds a splendid arrangement.” Her eyes were smiling.

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

When he had gone she tapped a finger thoughtfully against her cheek. Had she been foolish to agree to that meeting? Then she reminded herself that soon she would be going to Delft and then this short, sweet spell of knowing him would be at an end.

A
S ALWAYS WHEN
Amalia van Deventer heard her husband return home she hoped he would not come to her apartment, where she lay on her couch, propped up by cushions. With so many hours to lie there thinking over the past, she had wondered more times than could be counted how she had ever supposed herself to be in love with him. Now, knowing he had been to the studio of an artist named Visser to buy paintings, she was certain he would come to report to her, for on the surface there was nothing to fault his behavior as a husband in the eyes of others.

Her suite of rooms was most luxuriously furnished in the French style with gilded panels and rich furnishings, as was the rest of the house, the outcome of visiting France ten years ago on a wedding tour. Through her connections she and Ludolf had been invited to stay at several grand châteaux, and upon their return to Holland nothing would satisfy him except that the house he was building should reflect something of the splendors they had seen. He had his own wealth, but it was her money that he had used. In spite of her protests, everything that she had treasured, either as heirlooms or out of reverence for the craftsmanship of a past century, was allowed no place in the new house. She had wept to see beautifully carved oaken cupboards and chests and tables, once used by her mother and grandmother before her, carted away in wagons. Her first husband, who had left his fortune to her, had been a collector of early Dutch art, but there had been no room in Ludolf’s house for his pieces. All had been sold hurriedly with no thought to their true value, which for her was beyond price. Some French paintings had replaced them, all mediocre to her eyes.

Since he had been more than enamored with anything French, it puzzled her that now, when many were beginning to look toward France for inspiration in interior decor as well as fashion, he was becoming ostentatiously Dutch-minded, and a year ago he had let it be known that he was starting a special collection of contemporary Dutch art. He was such a devious man, with no real concept of the truth unless it suited his purpose, that she could not help being suspicious that he had some ulterior motive. He had always talked about business trips he had made to France, but coinciding with the start of this new collection he had stopped talking about visiting there. Probably only she would notice all these odd little pieces of a puzzle, but then she had so much time to dwell on any slight thing that stirred her curiosity. On second thought she was almost sure that her personal maidservant, who had been with her since shortly before her marriage to Ludolf, took note of everything as keenly as she did, not that the matter was ever mentioned between them. Neeltje was the perfect maidservant in that she never gossiped and kept herself apart from the rest of the domestic staff, as befitted the sole attendant on the lady of the house.

Amalia thought again what a pleasure it was to have Dutch paintings around her once more. Shortly before last Christmas, Ludolf had begun talking about a mysterious painting that de Hartog might, or might not, sell, and knowing Ludolf as she did, she was not surprised when eventually he outbid everyone else to acquire it. To her it had been another little piece in the not-yet-put-together puzzle of his newfound patriotism, for all Amsterdam had been talking about the unknown picture and his name was on everyone’s lips as soon as it had become his.