The Golden Tulip (34 page)

Chapter 11

A
T DAWN THE WHOLE
V
ISSER HOUSEHOLD WAS ASTIR IN READINESS
to have breakfast with Francesca before her early departure. Alone in her bedchamber she finished lacing up the back of her bodice and smoothed her collar into place while she tried to think if there was anything in the organizing of domestic affairs in her absence that she might have overlooked. Maria had been given charge of the household funds and Aletta the little box that always contained some cash for personal needs. All had promised her that everything would be run as if she were still in charge. She wanted the flower beds to continue to thrive, for her tulips were in full and glorious bloom, the new ones adding their rich red and feathery petals to the beauty of the courtyard. To herself she had long since given them the new name of “Pieter’s tulips.” Aletta was to care for the flower beds with the help of Sybylla, who had already given an assurance she would mind her manners, would not misbehave and would respect whatever instructions Aletta gave her for her own good.

It was Hendrick who worried Francesca most. There had been a brief respite when he had seemed his normal self again at the banquet, but the tragedy of that night must have revived his melancholia again. His hands were almost back to normal, causing him little discomfort, but he had agreed to continue with the treatment. Although he complained that Maria’s concoction was foul enough to poison him, the fact that he never failed to take a dose each morning showed he had faith in it. At least he was working hard, giving himself no rest at the present time, which was a helpful sign in itself.

Glancing around the room, Francesca checked that nothing was forgotten that she wished to take with her. The traveling chest with her clothes and other possessions had been taken downstairs the night before and only a small casket, which she would carry herself, still stood open on the cushioned bench. In it she had placed last-minute things, such as her comb and hairbrush. She added her hand glass to the casket and, as she did so, noticed in its reflection that her face was drawn. A natural sadness at leaving home for the first time was also touched by the sorrow of Amalia’s demise. Even yesterday, amid all the excitement of friends and neighbors coming and going, she and Sybylla had exchanged a look that showed they had not forgotten her.

Firmly she closed the casket and picked it up by the handle. Then she gathered up her cloak, which she had put ready earlier, and left the room where she had slept since she was twelve months old, the birth of Aletta having removed her from the cot in her parents’ bedchamber into a little bed that had once stood in the place of the four-poster of her growing years.

At breakfast there was a strained atmosphere. Everyone was making conversation as if they were strangers, needing to cover what her leaving meant to them. Never before had she been away from her sisters, or Hendrick, or even Maria for more than a day or slept a night under any other roof.

“You must write and tell us all about your work,” Aletta said with feigned brightness, “and then I’ll know what to expect when my turn comes.”

“I will,” Francesca promised. She glanced with concern at her father. Yesterday evening when she had been alone with him after all the well-wishers had departed he had become very emotional, actually having tears in his eyes when he spoke of her going away. He had said she was always to know that whatever happened her happiness mattered more than anything to him. It had been an odd sort of conversation, almost as if he were keeping back the whole reason for it. Just as she was getting to her feet he had added suddenly, “Oh! One other small matter. I decided to change your accommodation in Delft and so I’ve arranged for you to stay with a widow, Vrouw Wolff, who will welcome your company. She will be meeting the stage wagon.”

Francesca was taken aback and puzzled, but the sight of Hendrick’s increasing distress, his head dropping into his hands, had convinced her this was not the moment for questions or arguments. She had put a gentle hand on his head and assured him that she knew he only wanted the best for her.

Sybylla was voicing a request to her. “Willem said that Master Vermeer always paints his wife in handsome clothes. Be sure to describe her gowns to me in detail.”

“Yes, of course.”

Maria spoke in gruff disapproval. “You always get people to gossip, Sybylla.”

“I like to know whatever is interesting,” Sybylla retorted pertly, “so I ask the right sort of questions. There was nothing tattletale about what Willem said. He had heard it from Catharina Vermeer herself after he had admired a painting of her drinking from a glass in a rose-and-red velvet gown.”

“I expect the setting was an interior,” Hendrick commented, helping himself to more of the good white bread that Griet had earlier taken hot from the baker’s tray at the door. “My only reservations on what I’ve heard of Vermeer’s work is that he is not much interested in landscapes. So, Francesca,” he added with emphasis, “make sure that aspect of your training is not ignored.”

“I’m sure it won’t be,” Francesca replied. Then she shot a fond smile at Aletta. “If it is, I shall have to go out by myself at times as you do to sketch your outdoor scenes.” She missed seeing how deeply her sister flushed at her remark, for there had come a knock on the front door. She gave Griet no time to move but sprang up from the table herself. “I’ll go.”

She flew through the house to fling the door wide. As she had hoped, Pieter stood there. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said openly.

“What are old friends for if not to see one another off on journeys?” he queried with a half-teasing grin as he stepped into the house, handing her a bunch of violets tied with a flowing ribbon. “I knew you would be busy yesterday and so I thought I’d come this morning instead.”

“I’m so pleased that you did. These violets are beautiful.” The delicate scent of them hung in the air between them and she cupped the dewy posy in both hands to raise it to her nostrils. “Such a fragrance.”

“Are you quite ready for leaving?”

“Yes, I am. Come through to the dining hall.”

They found that only Hendrick was still at the table. Everybody else had moved from it. When they heard that Pieter had ridden from Haarlem, starting before dawn, Hendrick waved him to a seat and Griet set food before him. Francesca, who wanted a final word with Aletta and Sybylla, went from the room to find them. They were to accompany her, and now it seemed Pieter, to the stage wagon. Maria also went hobbling off, taking Griet with her, for the porter had arrived to collect Francesca’s traveling chest and there were other final matters to supervise.

Hendrick was well pleased to have the opportunity to speak to Pieter far sooner than he had expected about seeing Francesca in Delft, for yesterday’s development had changed a number of things. It was necessary now to try to crush at all costs the relationship between his daughter and this young man. If Pieter had not been paying for her tuition he would have forbidden him to see her ever again, but that was scarcely possible in the circumstances with all the financial arrangements completed. It was a great nuisance that Pieter had become involved, because there was no doubt now that if Ludolf had been asked at the time he would have forked out the money to be her sole benefactor. Not that it wasn’t a good thing to be free of an even greater debt to him.

“I have to speak to you about visiting Francesca in Delft,” Hendrick began authoritatively after clearing his throat. “I must insist on her work being uninterrupted and I would prefer you to stay right away from her.”

Pieter was dangerously quiet in his reply. He had finished eating and rested an arm on the table as he looked penetratingly at Hendrick. “It was arranged with your consent and Francesca’s agreement that she and I should meet occasionally. How can you go back on that now?”

“I’ve had time to think things over,” Hendrick blustered.

Pieter was studying him. “Has something happened?” he asked perceptively. “Have your financial matters deteriorated still further? You and your family never need to be homeless. I have a property in Haarlem.”

“No!” Hendrick assured him hastily. “Everything is in hand again. I still have my huge debts, but I’ve been given a long time in which to settle them.”

“Is it all being properly handled? I’m not a professional financier, but I have a good grasp of money matters in all forms and would willingly guide you. You’re not being charged interest at an exorbitant rate, I trust? I’d change that, for a start.”

Hendrick shook his head vehemently. “All you can do for me is to keep away from Francesca. I have good reason, Pieter, and I implore you to heed my request. You want her to be a great artist as much as I do. Put her first. Think of her future before you consider your own wishes. I warned you not to raise your hopes.”

Pieter felt he had been tricked. His skin had stretched over his strong facial bones and the set of his mouth was angry. “I shall think over what you have said. I make no promises and that is all I can say now.”

There was a tap of heels approaching and Francesca returned cloaked and gloved for her journey. “I’m ready now,” she announced. Then as Hendrick pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, she flew into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Take care, Father! If ever anything should happen that means you should have need of me at home I’d come at once.”

“Of course you would, dear child, but I don’t foresee any catastrophes.” He kissed her brow, heavy-hearted with shame at the conditions to which he had consigned her and of which she was unaware.

As she stood back from him her face was full of filial love. “I can never thank you enough for this marvelous chance you’ve given me. You alone are enabling me to take this great step toward the fulfillment of my dearest ambition.”

Pieter left father and daughter together and went into the reception hall, where both Aletta and Sybylla were in their cloaks and waiting by the open door. He felt no resentment that Francesca should suppose her father to be entirely responsible for giving her the apprenticeship. It was enough for him that he had been able to step in and secure it for her when it had almost been lost. If staying away from her should benefit her work he would have to do so, but later on, after she had settled down at Vermeer’s studio, he would be better able to judge whether he was an interloper and a hindrance to her progress.

Francesca reappeared on her own. “Father and I have said our farewells.” She went to kiss and embrace Maria, who wept all over her and released her reluctantly. Even Griet was full of tears. Francesca had been a buffer between her and Maria’s wrath in the early years of her employment, and had been specially kind to her more times than could be remembered.

“May good fortune attend you, Juffrouw Francesca.”

“I thank you, Griet.” Francesca felt choked. Then, as if physically tearing herself away from home, she went at such speed out of the house that Pieter, carrying her hand casket and already on the doorstep, just managed to catch her hand in his as she darted by. He squeezed it in understanding and she gave him a grateful little smile, slowing her pace to let her sisters catch up with them.

It was a windy morning and their cloaks billowed out like colorful tulip petals when they reached the square where the stage wagon was waiting. Francesca’s traveling chest was already aboard the long open wagon, the roof of waxed cloth stretched over hoops of iron. She had a few last words with Pieter, telling him of the change in her accommodation in Delft.

“Why was it rearranged?” Pieter asked her.

She gave a little shrug, still puzzled herself. “It appears it was no longer convenient for the first family to have me, but on thinking it over I am sure Father really has another reason for making the change. He had become nervous of my being away from home in a new town among strangers. He thinks I will be better cared for by a widow glad of my company. Her name is Vrouw Geetruyd Wolff.”

“I’m sure you will. Shall you have time to write to me?”

She answered in a gentle jest. “My evenings will be my own unless I get lessons in the tonal light of lamps and candles after dark.”

He surveyed her teasingly. “Is that so? Somehow I don’t think that will happen very often.”

“We want letters!” Sybylla declared firmly.

Aletta gave a laugh. “It won’t be a one-way correspondence, I promise you, Francesca.”

Pieter became more serious. “What of your studies, Francesca? All jesting aside, I’ll take no time away from you in letter writing to me that should be spent on your art.”

She gave back her reply with equal seriousness. “If ever I should find some conflict arising between our friendship and my work I would tell you.”

“That’s a promise?”

“It is.”

An increasing bustle of activity around the stage wagon showed that it was about to leave. For a few seconds more they looked deeply at each other before he kissed her with such intensity that Aletta and Sybylla stared in astonishment. Then she embraced her sisters in turn, cheeks kissed and last-minute advice and instructions given and returned. Pieter helped her up into the wagon by the steps placed alongside it. She took a seat where enough space had been left by the waxed roof covering for passengers to see out. With a shout from the coachman and the crack of the whip the high wheels rolled forward over the cobbles, bearing her away. Aletta and Sybylla both ran a few steps along to keep level with her, although Pieter remained where he was. All three waved to her. “Farewell! Take care! God speed you!”