The Golden Tulip (46 page)

Catharina was not pregnant after all, but had been afflicted by some curious illness that made her giddy with pain in her head, forcing her to lie down. There were some days when she could not rise from her bed, but then she took a turn for the better and was full of hope that she would be well enough to bake and prepare for St. Nicholaes’s Day.

“I’ve already started the baking,” Aletta said to her one morning, “and I’ve the girls to help me, teaching them at the same time. Even Beatrix has been removing the skins from almonds after they have been given a dip in hot water.”

In the end Aletta did everything for the celebrations, including buying the gifts for the children, since Catharina was not yet well enough to do any purchasing herself. Aletta and Francesca also made or bought their own presents for all the family, and they sent a small package home by canalboat, which contained gifts from both of them to everyone there.

“You had better not put my name as a half-donor on those fancy coat buttons for Father, or else he’ll never use them,” Aletta had said.

“I’m doing it anyway,” Francesca said, “and when I go home at Christmas I’ll sew them on his best coat myself if it’s not already been done.”

As yet Aletta had been kept so busy in the Vermeer household that she had not found time to look for other employment and in any case Catharina still had need of her. Not once had she been in the studio, but she had lingered many times in front of the paintings in the house, appreciating those by other artists as well as Vermeer’s. Totally detached, she viewed these works of art as if she herself had never painted, unable to feel the sense of loss that she was sure was crushing her inside.

Almost daily there was some word spoken of the patient across the square. His mother was constantly at his bedside. Since he had lost so much blood she refused to allow anyone to bleed him further and two of several doctors had left in a huff. All sorts of potions were being prescribed to help him regain his strength, many with a vile taste, according to hearsay.

“Do you remember the ingredients of the specially nourishing broth that Mama used to give us when we were ill?” Aletta asked Francesca after hearing of these vain attempts to restore the invalid.

“Yes, I made it often enough after I was put in charge of the house-hold. It needs bone marrow and eggs with everything else, including just enough of the right spices to encourage the most jaded appetite. I believe I can guess what you have in mind.”

“I thought you would. If we made the broth and presented it at the de Veere house on St. Nicholaes’s Eve, nobody could take offense or think our action presumptuous.”

“I agree. That’s a splendid notion. I’ll buy all we’ll need.”

“And I’ll ask Catharina if we may make it in her kitchen. I’m sure you don’t want to ask any favors of Geetruyd!”

Catharina was only too willing and insisted that they used her spices, which saved expense. When the day came Francesca had to work in the studio, but she had written out the ingredients to present with the broth in case Vrouw de Veere should wish to make it again for her stricken son.

That evening Jan accompanied Aletta across the square with the jug of broth, having offered to present her, for he knew Constantijn’s parents, who had bought paintings from his gallery several times. Francesca had already gone back to Kromstraat with Clara.

“You take it as your gift,” she had said to her sister. “After all, you were the one who suggested it in the first place.”

The entrance into the de Veere house was next to the one into the office. Jan and Aletta were invited in and on the first floor the two parents, a couple of about her father’s age, dignified and gracious, received them in a splendidly appointed room.

“How kind of you,” Heer de Veere declared heartily when Aletta had explained the purpose of her visit. Previously she had only seen him from a distance as he went in and out of the building and now, at close quarters, she could see the strain in his face over the tragedy that had befallen his son.

“Your thoughtfulness is more appreciated than you could ever realize,” his wife said to her. “Friends and neighbors have been wonderful with their support and to think that you, whom I know to have been in the stage wagon at the time of the accident, should come with your offering for our son’s well-being touches me deeply. I have seen you and your sister come and go at the Mechelin Huis during the many hours when I’ve sat by the window while my son has slept.” She dropped her gaze to the recipe for the broth that Aletta had given her with the jug, which had been sent to the kitchen. “I do believe this recipe is very similar to one that my grandmother used to make and that I have been unable to find. I know it to be good.”

“How is your son now?”

The woman exchanged a look with her husband as if it were getting harder all the time to answer such queries. “He is still desperately ill and sleeps most of the time.” Her voice caught on a tremulous note. “My greatest fear is that when he is stronger he will lose his mind.”

Heer de Veere interrupted quickly. “My dear, I’ve advised you not to consider that terrible possibility.”

“But how can I not?” she exclaimed emotionally, both to him and to their visitors. “Constantijn has put up such a fight to live, but once he discovers his legs have been amputated he will suffer the most dreadful mental torment. He was such a sportsman, you see.”

Jan nodded compassionately. “There was none to match him on ice or in a
kaatsen
team bashing that hard leather ball.”

The woman dabbed her handkerchief to each eye. “But that can never be again.”

Both Jan and Aletta saw it was time to take their leave. Vrouw de Veere thanked them again for coming. “I’ll go up and give my son some of your broth. It should be heated and ready by now.”

Heer de Veere saw the two visitors to the door. He echoed his wife’s thanks, but did not suggest that either should come again, which they had not expected in any case. After they had gone he went with slow steps back upstairs. He had been glad of the little diversion of a visit for his wife, for they were both stunned by more bad news to bear, news that had been received only an hour before but that they would have to keep to themselves for a while yet.

Before going to bed that night Aletta stood for a few moments at her window, as she always did, to look across at the one level with her own. Vrouw de Veere had shown such interest in the broth that she was sure it would be made up again and regularly if Constantijn should be like other sick people in appreciating its flavorsome goodness.

“You must live, Constantijn de Veere,” she whispered aloud. Then she closed the curtains again and went to look at Ignatius sleeping in his crib. He was a good baby and rarely woke at night. She leaned over to tuck his quilt closer about him, and a little necklace of coral, hanging over the end of the crib, rattled gently. It was an heirloom, such as was owned by most families and always handed down to the newest baby, for coral was known to have healing qualities and could ward off illness. During the day Ignatius wore it under his bodice, but when he was old enough not to snatch at it as babies did he would wear it outside his gown until his fifth birthday, when he was breeched, or Catharina had another baby, whichever was the sooner.

If at her home the Visser coral necklace had not been handed down to Sybylla, who had it in a drawer until she should have children, it would still have been in Aletta’s possession and she knew she would have taken it across the square and asked for it to be put under Constantijn’s pillow, as was sometimes done when an adult was sick. But since she did not have it she must trust to the wisdom of his doctor and the recipe for the broth. Neither detracted in any way from the strength of her prayers for him every Sunday in the Old Church, which she attended with the Vermeers, nor from those she said before she went to sleep at night.

P
IETER WAS ON
his way to Delft. After St. Nicholaes’s Night the year before when he had taken the hyacinth to Francesca’s home, he had no intention of not seeing her this year as well. He had chosen to go on horseback, for after much rain a recent cold snap had hardened the roads and the puddles had become glittering ice.

He had seen Francesca only once since he had called at the Vermeers’ house during the birthday party. It was during the time when Hendrick was still in prison and Aletta had implored him not to let her sister know of their father’s predicament. The arrangements for the meeting had been made through Gerard. Francesca had been waiting for him by the helm-roofed towers of the east gate that August morning. As he had ridden into sight, she had come running across the bridge to meet him, a slender figure in a green gown and a straw hat. She carried sketching materials, which provided the official reason for her being out all day, although she had taken Catharina into her confidence.

He had set her up on his horse and they had ridden out into the countryside where they could be alone. It had been an idyllic day with a picnic he had brought with him, which had included a bottle of wine. He had watched her make sketches of the sparkling canal and the cornfields beyond, distant harvesters to be seen and a red windmill seeming to preside over the whole tranquil scene. He had feasted his eyes on her lovely face composed in concentration on her drawing, the sunshine trapped in her glorious hair and the vulnerable beauty of the nape of her neck just above the white cambric collar.

There had been more tender moments when they had lain side by side, exchanging lovers’ whispers in the high grass that was full of wildflowers and aflutter with butterflies, wings as jewel-bright and transparent in the sun as stained glass. He had kissed her mouth, her face, her throat and the nipples of her pale breasts, aching to possess her. Once he had buried his face in her lap with such yearning, his arms clasped about her hips, that he had felt her quiver and gasp with desire. But she had raised herself to take his head between her hands and drawn him up to kiss his lips lovingly, her wide-open eyes telling him that the time was not yet, no matter that she might long for it as much as he.

When the hour had come for them to go their separate ways again she had given him a drawing of herself that Jan had done in a matter of minutes at her request. It was of her head and shoulders, an exquisite likeness and quite small. She had preserved it from creasing by placing it in a leather folder of the same size. He tucked it into his jacket next to his heart.

“Please convey my thanks to Master Vermeer,” he had said, his arms about her. “When is he going to paint you?”

“Catharina would like him to do so, because when he does have some rare time in which to paint it is not always convenient for her to leave everything to sit for him.”

“Well, then?”

“He would never take working hours away from me.”

“Then paint a self-portrait.”

Her smile teased him, but not her eyes. “Not yet,” she had said with the same warmth of promise with which she had restrained his passion earlier. Shortly afterward they had begun their regular if intermittent correspondence, his obliging friend, Gerard, always letting him know when a trip to Delft was in the offing. It was an exchange of love letters. Never before had he set down his innermost feelings as he did to her and they had both found that the old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder was true, except that the deepening and enriching of the love they already felt for each other went far beyond mere fondness.

Now, on this winter evening, he rode into Delft at dusk. Sounds of merrymaking and children’s laughter came from most of the houses as he rode past along the narrow streets. He planned to stay at the Mechelin tavern. It would be the first time he had stayed overnight in Delft, having left the town before nightfall on both previous occasions, putting up at hostelries on the road home. Now he had become more confident that all the time he remained unknown and unrecognized in Delft he would incur no danger to Francesca.

The tavern was crowded and he had to wait before the landlord’s wife at the desk could give him her attention. “I’m sorry,
mijnheer,
” she said in answer to his request for a room, “but this is St. Nicholaes’s Night and every room is taken by those coming home for family celebrations. You will find it is the same with every hostelry in the town.”

“Can you recommend a private house where I might find accommodation?”

“Again I have to say no on this night. But wait a moment.” She leaned back from the desk until she could see her husband and shouted to him, “Has Vrouw Wolff any vacancies left?” When he shook his head she shrugged her shoulders apologetically at Pieter. “That is how it is with every house that normally obliges us with an overflow.”

“At least may I leave my horse in your stables?”

“Certainly. They are a short distance away, but you’ll find an ostler outside who will take your horse there.”

After removing the saddlebag, Pieter left his horse in the ostler’s charge and took the few steps that led him to the front of the well-lit Mechelin Huis. His intention of surprising Francesca was certainly going awry. She had told him that Catharina had promised that when he could call again they should have some time on their own together. Now he had to complicate matters by asking Catharina if he might spend the night under her roof, if only in a chair. He felt it was an imposition to ask, but he himself would never have wanted anyone of his acquaintance to spend a freezing night in a doorway and he was certain she would be of the same mind.

He asked for Catharina as soon as he was in the entrance hall and Elizabeth, rosy with happiness over the gifts she had received, having been treated as generously as if she were one of the children, bobbed to him. “I’ll tell the mistress that you are here.”

He and Catharina had not seen each other before, for it was only her husband whom he had met on his first visit to her house, but she welcomed him as if they were well acquainted.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Pieter. What a happy surprise Francesca is going to have! You can join our party without any worry, because we are only close family this evening. My mother is here, but she knows the situation and will not give away your presence in Delft. Where are you staying?”