Still Life E-Book

Dodie Bishop

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Fighting for success in 17th century Amsterdam, a female artist must risk everything - and make enemies along the way.

Clara Peeters’ idyllic upbringing is shattered by her mother’s death, leaving her with a secret horror of childbirth. When her childhood love, Henri, proposes marriage and she refuses, they are both left heartbroken, though she must conceal her pain.

Defying convention, gifted artist Clara becomes a pupil to the renowned painter, Osias Beerts. But when the highly prized patronage won from the powerful Burgomeister Fabritius turns to hostility, Clara has to make sacrifices and risk everything to pursue her craft.

Together with fellow pupil Nico, the two find themselves surrounded by dangerous secrets and powerful enemies. But in the face of so much past pain, can something as fragile as love survive?

Leseprobe

STILL LIFE

DODIE BISHOP

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Author’s Note

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Dodie Bishop

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Tyler Colins

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For my sister Daphne, who read this first.

ChapterOne

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP, 1604

‘Where is he?’ Clara knelt on her wall-bed, clutching a curtain to lean out far enough to see the stable yard entrance through the very top of her ice-streaked window with the Scheldt, fish-scaled by winter sun, flowing wide beyond. She sighed, swinging back. Still no sign.

Though the fire was not yet lit, excitement stopped her feeling the chill or even noticing the misting of her breath. Osias Beerts would soon arrive. She had so much to show him. She lifted her drawings to the light again. The pewter jug beside the wheel of cheese gleamed in just the way he had taught her, and the bowl of apples had light and shadow to give it depth. She had worked so hard since his last visit, tossing many of her efforts into the flames when they did not please her. He would admire these, though, surely? She tried to push away her misgivings.

At the longed-for rattle of hooves on cobbles, she swung out again in time to see him riding his rugged piebald towards the stables, his black cloak and the great plumes of the horse’s breath echoing its markings. A surge of elation, quickly dulled by doubt, left her dry-mouthed. She scrambled away to the other end of her bed, gathering her skirts in a way that would earn her mother’s sternest glare and, ignoring the ladder, jumped down with a thud onto the polished boards. Then slipping her feet into mules, she dashed out to clatter down the stairs, only slowing to pass the kneeling maid scrubbing the marble tiles on the first landing.

The girl moved aside. ‘Thank you, Trina.’

‘Mistress, Clara.’

She ran on through the great hall and into the side chamber her mother had allotted as a studio. The hearty fire reminded her how cold she was, and she held her hands to it. Henri was already seated at his easel. That the coachman’s son should share her lessons went unquestioned for she had never known it otherwise.

He turned to her. ‘You looks flushed. Is he arrived?’

‘He is. I saw him from my window.’ Her voice bubbled with excitement she felt no need to subdue; they knew each other too well. They always had. Indeed, she could not remember a time when they had not been together. He was her dearest friend.

Henri grinned. ‘Hanging off them bed drapes again?’

Clara laughed, moving to her easel to pin her drawings onto the panel already in place there. She sat on her stool, leaning across to look at Henri’s, touching his arm. They were so bad. Poor Henri. Was it wrong to be a little pleased hers shone brighter against them? She felt sure it must be, yet it seemed to make little difference to such feelings. She noticed then, as always, how much effort he had made with his appearance since their morning ride; his thick black hair gleamed, neatly tied at his neck, but there was nothing he could do to hide the fit of his coat when the sleeves ended several inches above his bony wrists. She would speak to Maman about it. With that thought, she made sure her lace coif was straight after her race down two flights of stairs and tucked several stray copper curls beneath it.

‘What will he bring for us to draw today? And when will he let us paint?’

‘Hold up. I’ve not got this part right yet.’ He leaned across to look at Clara’s work. ‘You have it proper, though.’

‘Like you have numbers and I don’t.’

‘Numbers make sense. Calculations be either right or not. While this be …’ He shrugged. ‘Something else, entirely.’

Numbers make sense? What? Clara had never noticed such a thing and could not imagine ever doing so. ‘Yes, and sometimes a drawing which looks right to one does not look so to another. It’s so vex–’

The door opened and Maria Peeters entered with Osias Beerts at her side. Clara’s intended words deserted her at the sight of her maman’s swollen belly. Yet it did not seem to discomfort Osias. He was laughing at something she said, bending his dark head towards her fair one, dressed in pearls and lace. Maman looked especially tiny against his height and bulk – apart from her belly. Clara knew there would be a brother or sister soon but was unsure whether this pleased her. She understood it should but could not quite suppress her qualms. She wished to not always see her own shortcomings quite so clearly, but Aunt Fabiana had ensured it.

Maria lowered herself onto a cushioned chair beside the hearth and took some sewing from her fur-lined sleeve. ‘I’ll stay a while today. Monsieur Beerts tells me how well you progress.’

Clara looked at Henri, who pulled a rueful face, and hid her smile behind her hand. ‘Merci, Monsieur Beerts.’ She watched Osias place an animal skull beside a large, twisted shell on the table he had positioned to catch weak light from the narrow window.

‘So, these are specimens from your … curious cabinet?’ Maria asked.

‘They are, Madame. From my fledgling c-cabinet of curiosities.’

Osias’s voice was soft and hesitant. Clara found it pleasing … if a little unexpected.

‘Such things are usual in Amsterdam?’

‘Many s-strange artefacts arrive daily on our ships from the Indies. We use them in our table pieces. These paintings have become very fashionable.’ Osias added grapes and a wizened apple onto a pewter plate.

Clara began to draw, soon losing awareness of anything beyond the scrape of her charcoal on paper and the objects emerging there, all self-doubt vanishing unheeded. Once again, the afternoon slipped away in what seemed to her but moments. It was a sensation she wondered if she would ever become accustomed to. Time stood still yet flew.

Osias coughed. ‘Enough for t-today, Clara.’

She jumped, suddenly aware of her surroundings again and that he was standing behind her.

He moved to Henri. ‘Try to draw what you see.’ He pointed to the shell in front of the skull. ‘Look how it casts a s-shadow behind it. You’re drawing individual objects and leaving them to float rather than considering the group a single anchored entity.’

Henri nodded sheepishly and Osias squeezed his shoulder. ‘You’re improving, w-which is all I ask of you.’

Clara’s heart raced as he moved back to her. Her drawing looked tolerable, but it was not her opinion that mattered.

His hand now rested upon her shoulder. ‘You’re more than ready for colour. This is very fine work, Clara.’

How would she ever stop smiling? It was all she could do not to kiss his hand.

She stayed a while in the now empty chamber, staring at her drawing, reliving Osias’s words, only looking up startled when Maman returned. Clara stood to hug her.

‘I spoke with him before he left. He’s very impressed with you my little one and I couldn’t be prouder. I saw it in you from the moment you made your first mark on a scrap of paper.’ She held Clara’s face, smiling down at her. ‘He says you can go far.’

‘I truly wish to, Maman.’ Though she was a little unsure where far might be. ‘Drawing means so much to me.’

‘Don’t impose boundaries upon yourself, Clara. I know they’re there but don’t be complicit … don’t accept them. Always be the best you can be.’

She clung to her mother. ‘I shall. I swear it.’

‘And I shall always be here to help you, my little love.’ Maria straightened and took Clara’s hand. ‘Now, let’s prepare for dinner.’ She smiled. ‘You may brush out my hair. No one does it quite so gently.

Clara rose on tiptoe and kissed her mother’s cheek in reply.

ChapterTwo

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP, 1604

Confused and unsure what awakened her, Clara bolted upright, her heart leaping and fluttering. Embers glowing red in the banked fire and thin light from the night candle stole in around the bed drapes. Then she heard it: an animal howl. A scream like nothing she had heard before. She pushed back the curtain and slipped from the bed, climbing carefully down the ladder before tying a shawl around her nightgown with trembling fingers, sick with terror. Another shriek rang out and she covered her ears. Opening her door a crack, she was alarmed to find the glow of candlelight shining up through the shadows from the floors below. What could be happening? Who was screaming?

She tightened her shawl against the chill and made her way down the gloomy stairs, arriving outside her mother’s chamber just as the door flew open and Aunt Fabiana rushed out, a dark shape silhouetted against an explosion of light.

‘Child? Go back to bed at once. There’s nothing for you here.’ Another scream split the air.

Clara blinked in the sudden brightness, peering inside the room at many women, some she did not recognise. ‘Is someone hurt, Aunt? Have robbers come?’ Her voice shook.

‘What nonsense is this?’ Fabiana closed the door. ‘Your mother is giving birth. She must suffer for Eve’s sin. We shall work more on your Scriptures tomorrow, Clara. You’re ten years old yet seem not to have learnt them.’

Aunt Fabiana pushed by her and hurried downstairs holding her candle aloft, illuminating her black house-gown and single grey braid hanging to her waist. Clara watched her move beyond the blazing wall sconces at the bottom of the staircase into the shadowy passage leading to the kitchens at the back of the house.

Clara did not return to her room. Instead, she sat on the top step, covering her ears, bewildered by her aunt’s words. She knew the stories of Christ’s miracles by heart, imagining them in pictures full of blue sky and sunshine. If Our Lord died for our sins, why must Maman suffer now?She would ask Father Cornelis at Mass on Sunday. Then she began to cry, for she did not wish her mother to suffer at all.

After Aunt Fabiana returned to the chamber, Clara wandered down to the kitchen parlour where she could no longer hear her maman’s cries. Henri dozed on a stool beside the fire. Just the sight of him there brought her comfort. ‘Henri?’

He yawned. ‘My father’s gone to Antwerp with your papa to fetch the physician. He sent the midwife’s surgeon away. He be not sufficient skilled.’

‘I can’t bear to hear her.’ She wiped away tears. ‘My room is too close.’

Henri stood, pulling her into his arms. ‘Don’t fret, little one.’ He patted her back awkwardly.

At thirteen, he already had Papa’s height. Clara pressed her face into the coarse fustian of his coat, smelling horses and smoke from the fire. Smelling him. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening. Why does she cry out so? Aunt Fabiana said it was God’s will, but how could it be?

‘Come.’ He held her hand, leading her into the small storeroom. ‘All the women is with her. You shall have a fine brother or sister come morning. Trina won’t trouble if we take her cot for a while. You needs sleep, little Clara. We’ll ride beside the river like always then, with this all forgot. You’ll see.’

‘Papa said I might ride Lucia tomorrow.’ Maybe she would win their race for once, then. She lay down beside him on the straw mattress, struck by how their hair mingled like coals and fire. And, just before sleep found her, she felt herself galloping on Lucia’s back, overtaking Henri to soar over a ditch ahead of him. Her laughter echoing in her ears as oblivion finally grabbed her ankles and dragged her down inside the safety of his arms.

When Trina dropped onto the narrow bed, Clara sat up, rubbing her eyes. Henri must have been long gone, for the mattress was already cold beside her.

‘Mistress. Oh, Mistress, they be looking for you.’ Trina covered her face with her apron and began to sob.

Fabiana marched into the tiny room ‘Stop wailing, girl–’ She halted, her hand flying to her breast. ‘Clara … my child.’ She straightened her back. ‘Go to your room and dress. Your papa awaits you in the great hall.’

Clara stood. Her aunt’s face looked carved from stone. She wondered what Trina had done to make her so angry. ‘May I see Maman now?’

‘Do as I say, Clara.’

In her chamber, she dressed in her green velvet with the white slashed sleeves and tiny white flowers embroidered on the stomacher. Of all her gowns it was Maman’s favourite, and she hoped it would please her. She must be sleeping now. Papa would explain it all she felt sure, yet anxiety churned inside her. Chewing her lip, she tucked her hair under a clean lace coif and hurried downstairs.

He stood before the carved stone fireplace, the gilded foliage entwined around its pillars aglitter in the dawn light, the fire unlit with last night’s ashes still scattered across the hearth. With his coat creased and his grey-streaked hair dishevelled, he looked up at the full-length portrait of her mother. Clara waited as the sun began to tint the light a tender pink and birdsong filled the silence.

‘Papa?’

Jan Peeters swung around with a start. ‘Clara. We couldn’t find you. Where have–’ With a strangled cry – half sob, half groan – he moved to her, clutching her into his arms.

Clara remained still though his embrace hurt her, understanding somewhere deep inside, it was for him and not for her he held her so. And knowing this made her even more afraid.

With a shuddering breath he released her and, holding her hand, led her to a settle where he eased her down beside him, cupping her face with trembling fingers. ‘You must remember this is God’s will, Clara.’ His voice shook. ‘We need not understand but we must–’ He pressed his lips together to still their tremble. ‘We must accept.’

His eyes were red and leaking tears now. She did not know papas could weep. ‘I don’t …?’ And then, with sudden awful understanding, she covered her ears. She would not hear it. ‘No. Please, Papa.’

The room, now full of soft pink light seemed to slip away, blurred by tears, becoming one she no longer recognised. He pulled her to him again and she buried her face, her sobs muffled against the soft velvet of his coat.

Clara stood outside the chamber door looking in, just as she had hours before, sensing that once she crossed the threshold, she would enter a different life where nothing would ever be the same again. So, if she did not go in, could she then remain in the safe familiar one she knew? Her papa’s hand, resting on her shoulder, gently but firmly moved her inside, overpowering any thoughts of resistance.

The window drapes were closed against the dawn with candle flames guttering in air smelling of beeswax … and the unmistakable metallic taint of blood. The only light came from the dying fire and two tall candelabra, encrusted with solidified wax, on either side of the damask curtained bed where she lay.

‘Clara, you must say adieu to Maman now.’ He crossed himself.

She felt adrift inside this other life. How could the woman with bruised grey eyelids and a white sunken face be her mother? She looked carved from marble. Carved from ice. Empty. ‘Should we pray for her soul?’ she whispered.

‘Prayers matter nothing. She’s safe with God,’ he said shakily.

Aunt Fabiana, kneeling in prayer beside the bed, looked up. ‘Whose faith is this, Jan?’

‘Not yours, Sister, for which I am especially grateful.’

‘Nor Maria’s. You know she would want the Masses said.’

Clara watched him take a quivering breath before moving to look down at the woman who could not be her maman.

‘You dare speak of purgatory to me?’ He bent to kiss her forehead, his tears falling upon her face and pooling there as though she wept for her own death. ‘But she will get them … and Father Cornelis his price, for do we not all bend the knee to Rome under Spain, Fabiana, even you?’

Bewildered by those tears and angry words that made no sense to her, Clara slipped from the room unnoticed. None of it was real. How could it be? For she loved her mother with all her heart and knew she would never leave her. Out in the long gallery, she was startled by the sound of an infant’s cries. She had forgotten about the child. Walking to the closet adjoining Maman’s room, she found the door ajar. The infant was cradled in the arms of a plump woman she had not seen before, lit by buttery light from the small window.

‘Is this my brother?’

The woman looked up. ‘Ah, Mistress. I’m so sorry for …’ She bit her lip. ‘This be Adela and I’m Megriete Elias.’ She reached out and clasped Clara to her bosom, close beside her sister. ‘But everyone calls me Meg.’

‘I know I’m dreaming, Meg. I wish to wake-up now.’

ChapterThree

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP, 1608

Osias placed paint bladders from his box onto a shelf where Clara pricked them and squeezed the colours onto her palette. The reek of offal and linseed oil was made doubly noxious by the heat.

His weekly visits had now increased to every other day, riding out from the city where he tutored several boys, and she had long thought of him as her friend.Someone she could talk to in a way she never could with Papa because he understood just how much her painting meant to her. He often reminded her how proud her mother was of her talent and it brought her comfort. How could it not?

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. There was a tension about him today, the way he held himself. Never quite meeting her eyes. Well, she imagined he would tell her what preyed on his mind when he was ready. ‘When will you teach me to mix?’

His eyes slid away again, his expression decidedly guarded. ‘I think your aunt w-wouldn’t wish you to grind cinnabar or heat oil … or, especially, wash pig membrane.’

‘Aunt Fabiana never wishes me to do anything.’ She gestured at her easel. ‘Well, nothing I wish to do.’ She began setting pewter tankards and earthenware plates of foodstuffs upon a table so the light struck them just the way she wanted. Two could play at nonchalance.

‘She should recognise your talent. Your breakfast pieces are truly remarkable.’

Clara paused at the open window, enjoying the breeze, watching her little sister playing in the sunshine with the river silvered on the horizon under clouds smoking in from the North Sea. Meg’s son, Willem, ran around happily following four-year-old Adela’s orders, whilst she shelled peas, keeping a watchful eye over them. Adela. How could she not smile at the sight of her? Little love. Her mother’s endearment came so easily to mind. Her heart ached for her sister who would never hear it.

She hoped Aunt Fabiana would not forbid her friendship with Willem when they were older. Though, following her mother’s wishes, Henri had been sent to the Latin School in Antwerp; Fabiana disapproved and denied him the house when he was home, forcing them to meet in secret. Yet it had brought them closer because these times together – their walks and rides and whispered conversations in the stables when it rained – were so precious. Well, they were to her. Henri, as always, was ever sanguine about it all. Papa had promised to intervene but was too often away on his land-drainage schemes, and her aunt was not easily reasoned with. Fabiana’s authority over her life now served as a constant reminder of loss.

Clara sat at her easel. ‘Aunt will never admit I have skill. It would be bad for my soul.’ She tossed the mass of auburn curls falling from her velvet hood.

‘But, perhaps, of benefit to hers?’ Osias murmured.

‘My painting is an affront to God and will make me barren … yet men remain strangely unaffected. I can’t think why?’ She shook her head. ‘Or why she imagines I even desire the childbed.’ The very notion of it horrified her. She felt her mother’s absence every day like a dark shadow following her and haunting her dreams full of slaughter-shed reek and screams. Dreams that lingered like foul miasmas on into the day.

She thought now of Maman’s name carved and gilded upon the family mausoleum, though memories of her funeral Mass in the chapel beside it had faded to little more than Latin words she did not then understand, and comfort taken from incense and the tinkling of Sanctus bells. Comfort she could no longer find there. Clara sighed. How she would have loved Adela, who shared her happy spirit, though was dark-haired like Papa and tall for her years. Clara had her slight stature with Papa’s single-mindedness. There seemed such cruelty in this parting. In this wrenching away.

‘Clara?’

She looked up, jolted from her reverie.

‘I have something I must tell you.’

This was it, then. She frowned. He looked too serious. It would not be good.

‘I’m to go back to Amsterdam.’

Jesu. What? ‘For how long?’

‘For good, Clara. To m-marry. She’s a widow and well set up. I met her, Leskens, when my old m-master … when Pieter Backer painted a portrait of the family, years ago.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I shall have my own studio to s-sell my work–’

Words spilled without thought. ‘No. No. You can’t go. What will I do if you go?’ She covered her face. Fabiana’s power would become absolute.

‘Clara?’

What must he think of her? She gathered herself and dropped her hands, trying to smile. ‘Osias, forgive me. I’m glad for you.’ But she was not glad. However hard she tried she could not be glad. How could she carry on painting without his advocacy? She took a deep breath and forced words. Better words. ‘You will be happy in marriage. And to have your own studio? You must take on apprentices and teach them all you have taught me.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, with a slight smile. ‘Though I’ll never find another like you.’

‘When will you go?’

‘I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was a c-coward.’

Clara stood. Now for the final truth of it. ‘When?’

‘Four days. I leave in f-four days.’

She bit her lip, hard. Thank Jesu Henri would soon be home.

There had been no rain for weeks and Lucia had to pick her way along the hard-rutted track banked above the Scheldt. Though glad the heat had abated a little, Clara was still too hot in her dark wool riding devantiere. She bent to stroke her horse’s dappled neck when the dust made her snort. Osias had been gone for several days now. How could she not brood upon it? She blinked back fresh tears. Only Henri could begin to understand.

Shadows of fair-weather clouds sailed across the river’s broad expanse as it moved implacably towards the sea. She watched a flock of widgeon take off from a mud bank in laboured, frantic flight as she passed. The polder low to her left was dotted with grazing cattle amongst scattered windmills, there to keep the land dry by pumping water through the network of ditches. They had no work to do today.

After the track entered the shadow of a windmill close beside the river and rounded a gentle curve, Clara saw two horsemen approaching at a canter in a cloud of dust. She reined in and moved back into the shade of the building to let them pass. If they had business with her father, they would find him gone, as usual.

When they slowed their approach, she saw it was Henri riding beside a slight fair-haired young man; Henri’s dark colouring and build made an imposing contrast. Her heart sank at the sight of a companion.

‘Clara,’ he called. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you already out so far.’

Though he had lost his country accent long ago, with Flemish replaced by French – as spoken at court – there was an affectation to his voice today that vexed her. The small thin-lipped youth looked her up and down with barely concealed disdain. How ill-favoured he was.

Henri dismounted. ‘Take these, Bert.’ He tossed him the reins and ran to her, grinning. ‘Let me help you.’

She watched Bert’s lip curl when she took Henri’s offered hand, slipping lightly to the ground. ‘I didn’t expect you to bring a companion.’ She tried not to allow resentment to show on her face … or in her voice. These brief times alone with him were so precious to her – especially now – and he had ruined this one. Why did he not know?

‘I’ve told Bert all about your work and he’s eager to see it.’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle, I’m most intrigued to hear of your hidden likenesses.’

She glared at Henri. These tiny reflections of her face, hidden in splashes of light in her paintings, were done only for him as a talisman to keep him close. And, not for the first time, she was forced to question why she felt she would lose his interest without such means. ‘I’m surprised you know of them, Monsieur.’

Henri looked sheepish for a moment. ‘I had to tell him of your skill in concealing them.’ He grinned again, taking both her hands in his.

‘Well, it’s unfortunate I’ve brought none with me this time.’ When she gave a slight shake of her head, he glanced at the panniers attached to her saddle but, to her relief, said nothing. She had now risked damaging her work for nothing, of course.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Bert’s sneer had become a fixture. ‘Henrick tells me–’

‘I’ve news, Clara. Great news. I’m taken on by the V.O.C … the East India Company. I’m to go out as a clerk to Jayakarta.’ Henri lifted her, spinning her around. ‘What do you think of that?’

Bile rose in her throat and not from the motion. ‘I think you’re frightening my horse.’ She struggled to regain her feet, breaking away from him before carefully smoothing imaginary creases from her riding habit. ‘I trust you’re not leaving in four days?’

Osias’s absence was still so raw, as was her daily battle with her aunt to continue painting. How could she bear this, too? And how could he be so unaware of what such an absence would cost her?

‘Not till September time.’ He looked puzzled and then hurt. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me. It’s a remarkable opportunity.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you to be at the other side of the globe, Henri. Why would I not be?’

She called Lucia to her and quickly re-mounted, riding away at a canter without looking back, her face soaked with tears. Now Henri was leaving her too. How would she bear it?’

The dawn light was already seeping in around the bed curtains, with the birds in full song, when Clara heard it again. A sharp pattering on the window glass. She left her bed and parted the drapes in her first-floor chamber overlooking the river, ruffled and glimmering in the early morning light. Henri was standing below, looking up, his face in shadow.

Since their last encounter, she had kept away from the coach house whenever he was there, losing herself in painting, and burning his notes unread. He had even drawn Meg to his cause, but Clara still refused to see him. She understood this hurt her as much as him, more so in truth, but it was worth it to know he had felt her withdrawal from him. At least, she tried to tell herself so. Yet how could she wish to hurt him? It felt shameful. So, when Meg told her he would not return home again before he left, she wept, knowing somehow it was justice, even though she had never intended not to say goodbye. Now, thank Jesu, she had one final chance to make it right before he sailed for the Indies later that day.

She waved, hoping he would understand she was coming down. Then, snatching up a shawl, she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen parlour, letting herself out through the scullery door to the garden. The grass, silvered by dew, soaked her feet as she ran along the side of the house towards the stand of beeches and the river beyond, her hair and nightgown streaming out behind her. When she rounded the corner, she found herself high in his arms, wetting his face with tears of shame.

‘Don’t cry.’ He stroked her tangled hair. ‘I had to see you before I left. I shouldn’t have told you the way I did, with Osias just gone. And with that milksop, Bert. I was a fool. I’m–’

She placed a finger to his lips. ‘No. No you weren’t. I was cruel and spiteful. I know you’ll do well in the Indies. You’ll be a great success there, Henri. I know it.’ She held his face in her hands. ‘I just wish it were not so far.’

He lowered her to the ground and bent to kiss her, one hand cupping her face the other hard on her back. He had never kissed her before and she clung to him, digging her fingers deep into his hair, responding to him in ways she barely understood or even knew possible. And it was then she realised what she felt went far beyond friendship. Did she love him? She believed she must. What else could such feelings signify?

He pulled away to look at her. ‘Clara. I beg you, write to me. Jesu, I don’t want to leave you.’ Then, he gently tied her shawl across the thin fabric of her nightgown before holding her close again.

She listened to his breathing, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against her and the heat of his hands on her back. How she wished they could remain like this for ever. Just holding on.

Later, when she stood beside him at the front of the house, waiting for the coach to be brought round to take him to the docks in Antwerp, her mouth felt dry as dust at the thought of such a separation.

He touched her hand. ‘We will write?’

It was a question. Did he doubt her? ‘Of course we shall.’ It would be all they had. She managed a smile. ‘I’m so happy for you. You’ve done so well, Henri.’

That she would cry when she was alone was a certainty, but he would remember her happy and proud of him. She had caused him enough pain and would cause him no more. He kissed her cheek. The coach set off, too soon passing beneath the gate arch. Too soon gone. Her smile fell away then, like a candle snuffed and she covered her face and wept.

Clara lifted the small caldron off the fire-shelf as soon as the hen’s feather began to float.

Adela watched closely. ‘Why does it do that?’

‘It means the linseed oil has reached the correct temperature to mix with the pigment powder and make the colours I need.’ How could she be five years old already? And how bright she was. She had stayed close to Clara since Henri left. Could she really sense her loneliness? What a sweet little soul she was … and a lovely, happy companion.

Henri’s father Bram had offered her the use of his simple cooking kitchen in the coach house, even helping her with some of the heavier grinding when he had time. Clara knew he too was lonely without Henri, who had now been gone for many weeks. Though he had been away at school, he had managed regular visits home. She missed him painfully. He had always been a part of her life. But it was more than that now, of course. He had begun to fill her thoughts.

‘Here, Mistress Clara, let me do that, for it be a danger to you.’

She allowed him to carry the pot to the narrow table where she did her mixing. He was a big man, though stooped in older age. She could not find Henri’s features in his broad face. Henri’s sharper jaw and large eyes had come from his mother perhaps? She had died so long ago; Clara had never known her.

He set the cauldron down beside the small, corked pots of ground and washed pigments. Green earth, red lake, bone black, lead white, verdigris and many more. Osias had left her well supplied and given her detailed instructions about how to achieve the colours. But she could not forget he had left without teaching her himself.

The pig membrane Adela had washed for her earlier was now ready to fill with the freshly mixed paint. ‘You did well with this.’ Clara wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s rather unpleasant to touch, I know.’ Could she have done such a thing at this age? It seemed unlikely.

Adela grinned. ‘I don’t mind pigs’ insides. I like helping.’

‘Well, you have. A lot, little one. But it must be our secret–’

‘From Aunt. I know. I know.’

Fabiana had intractable, and freely expressed, views about activities suitable for young ladies which, of course, would not include ones such as these. That she had no knowledge of what they did here gave Clara a stab of conscience that it might bring trouble for Bram.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve a letter, Mistress Clara. My Henri sent it … but I cannot …’

Clara took a quick breath, her heart racing. ‘I’ll read it for you.’ She cleaned her hands on a rag and touched his arm. ‘I’m eager to know how he fares.’

Bram pulled a creased square of paper from the front of his leather jerkin. ‘I’ve had his words against my heart until I can know them.’

Clara bit her lip, hoping he might mention her for, as yet, she had received no letter herself, though she had written. She quickly broke the seal and unfolded the thin paper.

Jayakarta V.O.C.

October 24, 1608.

Dearest Clara (I hope you do not mind I told father to ask you to read for him).

I have not written to you, for I know your aunt would not pass on my letter.

Please write when you can. I want to know all about your life without me. Tell me of your days; what you paint and where you hide your face for me to find. I need to feel part of your life, still, my Clara, as I hope you do of mine.

I think of you often – my vision is full of you that last morning barefoot in the dawn light with your hair like a fiery cloak and dressed in a froth of white. And the feel of your lips upon mine. You were so lovely.

And now you may read aloud to Father –

This is an extraordinary place. I cannot begin to tell you of all I have seen. The brown skinned peoples and the golden land that dips to white sand fringed with outlandish fronded palm trees, with a turquoise sea beyond …

Clara read on, barely absorbing the words until she spoke her own name again.

… keep safe, dear Father, and do please entreat Clara to write to me for you.

Your loving son,

Henri.

She handed the letter back to Bram. ‘Of course, I’ll write to him. But save his letters for me to read.’

‘I will, Mistress. Don’t be afeared. I’ll do as my Henri asked. I’m that proud of him. And grateful to your mama for the chance she gave him, like.’ He nodded before raising his eyes to hers.

Clara blinked, mortified. ‘You know there were words for me?’

‘I guessed it. I watched you read lines you didn’t speak.’

‘I should’ve told you. I was surprised to find them.’

‘No, Mistress. I saw them words was pleasing.’

Adela clapped her hands. ‘Oh, what did he say, Clara. Tell. Please.’

‘Nothing, really. Nothing important.’ Clara moved to her mixing bench, turning her back to her sister so she could not see her blazing face as she relived those minutes in Henri’s arms when they had kissed, and he thought her lovely.

ChapterFour

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP 1611

Clara placed splashes of light onto the lidded golden cup, bringing it forward from the dark background. With the painting emerging from the canvas as though uncovered by her brush, she placed it down, sensing this elusive magic about to melt away as quickly as it had arrived. The small stoneware vase of purple and red flowers. The two ornate cups decorated with silver tracery. The bowl filled with the links of a silver chain spilling out across the table. Her brush had uncovered each one of them already hidden there … or so it felt. She had not formed them. They were just there.

When Osias had first told her of it, years before, she had been unsure. Could it be true? Could artists sometimes feel this when work went well? Might this mean a good day, at last? So much of her work displeased her now and had done for months. But not today, she hoped. Not today. She lifted her magnifying lens again, doubting even Henri would be able to find the tiny reflection of her face placed onto a drop of moisture gleaming upon the vase’s neck.

She sighed. So much time spent apart now, with only letters sent through his father. Still, how close those letters had brought them. She knew the day-to-day routines of his life again –cargo manifests and bills of lading. Warehouse tallies and crew stipends. His hopes, his setbacks, his triumphs and he knew hers … or most of them. But not of her intention to go to Amsterdam with Osias. Her work had been selling well there for some time and she had discussed this plan with him many times in letters and on each of his visits. It was to be her escape to the life she chose for herself … and the sales proved she was good enough for it. Now it only remained to persuade her father.

One regret was she would be absent when Henri finally came home … if he ever did. His last letter had mentioned yet another plan to do so. None, so far, had come to fruition. Did he truly wish to return anymore? And could it be she had not told him of her intention to leave because her feelings for him did not fit with this new life she planned for herself? It was a question she had not yet found possible to resolve.

When the door flew open startling her – for there had been no knock – she turned to see Trina curtsey.

‘You’ve a visitor, Mistress.’

‘Who, Trina?’ Clara’s heart began to pound. Might it be Henri?

‘It be Master–’

And then he was there pushing past Trina, smiling, his arms outstretched.

‘Osias.’ Clara launched herself into his embrace. Of course it was he, for she had expected him any day. Yet she could not quite subdue a small pang of disappointment.

Fabiana supervised Meg and Trina placing platters of herring, cheeses, breads, and sweetmeats onto the table in the great hall, whilst Clara sat beside her father, listening to Osias talk of Amsterdam and his patrons, her heart fluttering and swooping with anxiety. She was glad Adela was at her lessons. She would have sensed her sister’s nervousness straightaway. He stood with his back to the carved stone fireplace, the gilded leaves and stems entwined around its pillars appearing exotic behind his black-clad figure, the evidence of his journey plain to see on his salt-stained clothing.

‘I’ve more work for you.’

Clara lifted her chin at her aunt’s ostentatious sounds of disapproval, though Fabiana would say nothing in front of Papa. She rejoiced in their good fortune he should be at home for his visit this time.

‘Ah, Clara. So, to my main purpose.’ Osias cleared his throat and looked directly at Jan Peeters. ‘Monsieur, would you consider permitting Clara to r-return to Amsterdam with me as my pupil–’

Jan held up his hand. ‘Monsieur Beerts. My daughter will not be apprenticed.’

Clara stood. She and Osias had planned this meticulously. He must not dismiss it before hearing the argument. ‘Papa you cannot –’

‘Silence, girl, your father speaks,’ Fabiana said.

Jan gestured for Clara to sit again. ‘My dear child, you’re not of the station to become apprenticed. Indeed, in due course marriage and motherhood shall bring very different duties.’

Clara looked away and said nothing.

‘She would be my pupil, Monsieur, not apprentice. The g-guilds do not permit female–’

‘My daughter will remain here. I’m content for her to paint if it amuses her but that’s all.’

Clara knelt before him, taking his vein-ridged hands in hers. ‘It doesn’t amuse me, Papa. It torments me. It thrills me. It’s as air or food to me.’ How could she make him understand? Her art was not a choice; it was a compulsion. She painted under duress, searching for a perfection she understood could never be found, just as she understood she could never cease trying.

Osias began to pace the floor. ‘Clara’s work sells readily in Amsterdam. She already has great s-skill. I can help her make the most of her talent and win commissions for her paintings.’

Fabiana glared. ‘At a price, no doubt.’

‘I ask nothing more than to help Clara become the artist she’s destined to be.’

‘You blaspheme, Monsieur Beerts,’ Fabiana said. ‘You assume to know what is only known to God.’

Clara lowered her gaze, her argument ready. Fabiana had risen to Osias’s words, just as they had calculated. ‘Then, must not my talent come from God, Aunt?’

To invoke a god she had come to disavow in order to advance her cause had become inescapable. If it could be claimed Maman’s terrible death was this God’s will, then she was more than ready to exploit such beliefs for her own ends. In truth, it pained her to do so against her father, but she had agreed with Osias, it seemed the only way.

‘Clara. Clara,’ Jan ran his hand over his thinning hair. ‘How can I agree? It’s not suitable for a young lady of your breeding to go alone to a distant city, far away from the family who love her.’

Osias stood motionless, once more, before the fireplace. ‘My wife would be her companion and chaperone. I’ve taught Clara since she was a s-small girl. Her mother appointed me. I care for her as though she were my own child. She would not be alone.’

Clara looked up at her mother’s portrait over the fireplace. Ready. ‘Maman would have permitted it.’

‘You cannot know that,’ Jan said.

‘Your mother died as a wife and mother. She knew a women’s duty,’ Fabiana said. ‘She–’

Jan held up his hand again. ‘How do you know she would want this for you, Clara?’

‘Look what she did for Henri, Papa. How much she wanted for him. How can you think she would not wish this chance for me?’

Yet her father’s face was set and intractable. It was hopeless. Clara stood and fled from the room.

Fabiana’s outrage following her out. ‘How dare you defy your father with such impertinence …’

Fleeing upstairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, she flung herself down onto her bed and wept into her pillow. There would be no escape. Her life now stretched ahead of her in stultifying certainty. A man she did not love. Children she did not want. And the terror of those children gnawed at her. Every month her own pain and blood reminded her of this horror awaiting her. And going with Osias could have saved her from it all.

A light tap sounded upon the door. ‘I’m indisposed. Go away.’ The door opened anyway, and someone sat beside her on the bed. She refused to open her eyes.

A hand gently came to rest on her back. ‘Clara?’

Her eyes flew open. ‘Papa.’ She sat up. ‘Forgive me–’

He handed her a linen handkerchief, his eyes full of compassion. ‘No, forgive me for not quite understanding how much your painting means to you … or quite how good you are at it.’ He smiled. ‘Monsieur Beerts has done his best to disabuse me of such ignorance.’

Clara managed a weak smile. ‘I don’t imagine Aunt enjoyed that overly much.’

He snorted. ‘Indeed. I know you often clash with her.’ He looked away. ‘She can be a difficult woman. But how can I allow it, Clara?’ He studied her face carefully. ‘Your maman spoke of you that night … before … well, she was very proud of you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Can you leave us, Clara? Me and Adela?’ The corners of his mouth twitched, slightly. ‘Your Aunt, I imagine, would prove somewhat easier.’

Yet you leave us for months at a time. She would not say it to him, though. ‘I don’t want to, Papa. Of course I don’t, when I love you both so dearly. Can’t you see? I have no choice. How will I ever know what I’m capable of if I don’t try?’

He sighed. ‘You must learn to trust more in God, my child.’

And there it was. The reason she could never tell him her fears of dying like her mother. Such things are God’s will. ‘Can you not trust in me?’

Clara gripped the taffrail to keep her footing on the slippery deck as the two-masted coastal packet ship crashed through white-foamed waves, her sails bellying taut and full in the glittering light.

Osias touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t cry–’

She moved away. ‘The salt wind stings my eyes.’

‘This is the right thing, Clara. You know it is. Your work needs space … and f-feeding to grow. Isolation will diminish it.’

‘I fear it already has.’ Clara’s certainty about Amsterdam was now tempered by renewed

pain at leaving her home and family. In all the rush and excitement of preparation, she had managed to set it aside. How could she not now think of her beloved Adela becoming the sole recipient of Aunt Fabiana’s sharp words? Though Meg would be there steadfastly devoted. Papa would come and go without her to greet him or to say farewell. Or tell him of her love for him. She turned aside to wipe away fresh tears. ‘What would you have done had Papa been away, again?’

Osias smiled. ‘As always, I should have taken more of your work back with me and continued to return until I found him present.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘I see what you hope your painting can become … and I know I can help you achieve it.’

Clara managed a wan smile. ‘I know you can, too. I also know I never could alone. That’s why I had to leave.’

He looked out across the waves. ‘I think working with others will be of benefit to you, also. Not just with me but perhaps with my apprentice, Nico Cavello. You’re the same age. He’s another like you, with so much natural talent.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I can hardly believe my luck in finding you b-both.’

‘Well, then, I look forward to meeting him.’

‘I hope you might become friends. Just to warn you, he’s about as far from you socially as it’s possible to be, though he’s also one of the brightest lads I’ve ever met.’

Clara smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘You seem very taken with him.’

‘I am.’ He held her gaze. ‘He’ll be your friend if you let him.’

She frowned. ‘What can you mean? Why would I not?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s just say you might seem a little reserved … a little haughty to those who don’t know you, without intending to, of course.

She clenched her jaw, fighting to conceal how much his words stung. ‘Well, I can hardly prevent what’s not my intention, can I?’

‘I think Nico will manage well enough with you as you are.’

Her tiny cabin one deck below in the aftcastle offered little comfort for the two nights at sea, the duration of the sail dependant on how many ports of call were needed for the mail service and any passengers disembarking for other destinations. This time, they had stopped for Donburg, Renedse and Leiden. Osias had hoped for fewer such delays, which would have meant but one night onboard.

Once on deck beside him though, none of this mattered as the ship rounded Noorderhaaks Island and entered the sheltered IJ with Amsterdam’s waterfront laid out before her. ‘At last.’

ChapterFive

AMSTERDAM, 1611

On the quayside, Clara gazed up at tall hulls with masts and furled sails rising high above them, and beyond to the array of great ships coming and going on the IJ. All around were the cries of sailors and cargo-hands and the cracking of rigging and pennants worried at by a brisk wind. She breathed deeply, savouring the scents of spices, fish, and hot tar. All part of the jostling pandemonium that was the docks. ‘Amsterdam.’ She grinned. ‘This is where I’m meant to be.’

Osias smiled, gesturing around him. ‘Amsterdam.’

He took her arm to guide her through the crush of people crowding the labyrinth of alleyways between sheds and warehouses. At the Amstel side of the quay, he helped her down into a waiting passenger boat. With gulls wheeling and screeching overhead, they were soon moving along the choppy glittering water of the Singel. Boats were poled deftly avoiding collisions in the bustle. Farm produce shifted. Milk churns rattled. Casks of beer tilted precariously. Fists were raised. Voices echoed, shouting greetings across the canal.

Despite the constant churn, patches of sky still found the water. And what a sky it was, full of towering clouds and shafts of sunlight like chinks in the walls of heaven … if Clara believed such a place existed. And, all the while, their boatman poled them on between rows of tall narrow canal houses with their step-gabled roofs, until he turned off into a dark waterway between high windowless walls, plunging them into gloom. Osias’s silence informed her this was not a mistake.

Clara held her nose. The channel, missing out on much of the purge-water pumped through the canal system to keep them from stagnating, looked and smelled like the sewer it most likely was. Even the hollow sound of the pole entering and leaving the water had changed. After the boat was tied up at a short flight of crumbling mossy steps, Clara refused the boatman’s offer of a grimy hand to assist her up. When she turned to look at Osias, who nodded encouragement, her elation at arriving in the city began to dissipate rapidly.

He led her down a sunless alleyway so narrow she could touch both sides with fingertips, the walls dripping with water and green slime, stinking of vegetal decay. The passage ended in a gloomy cobbled court with a pump and stone trough at its centre and four doorways spaced unevenly around it. It was through one of these Osias guided her.

When her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy room, lit by tallow candles cowering on a single wooden chandelier, the first thing Clara noticed was its cleanliness. The few pieces of heavy dark furniture were waxed to a dull sheen and the chipped floor-tiles were spotless, exposing the footmarks she had left behind her. She saw then that Osias had replaced his boots with leather slippers at the door.

A raw-boned woman with small eyes and a sour expression, dressed in servant’s homespun, arrived at his side. ‘This be her?’

‘Ah, Leskens. Here you are. Yes. Yes, this is Clara … Mademoiselle Peeters.’

‘Mademoiselle, is it? Not in this house. Fetch her a rag, Husband. She can clean up them footprints herself.’ Leskens turned her attention to the fire-shelf where a steaming pot was heating over the flames.

The smell of herring, though strong, was made appetising by the aniseed sweetness of fennel and Clara, despite alarm at her surroundings – nothing of which remotely matched her expectations – found herself faint with hunger.

At the trestle set below a window overlooking the canal, Clara was introduced to the other members of the household who had gathered to eat. Leskens’ nine-year-old daughter, Rosele, with dark wisps of hair escaping her coif was politely welcoming though her narrow-eyed stare belied her words.