She began by telling him of her aim to be a master of a Guild. How and when that would be achieved she did not know, but somehow she would fulfill her dream. Meanwhile there were cla.s.ses she wanted to attend. As she talked he thought it inexcusable that Hendrick Visser should not be helping his daughters by making them officially his apprentices and seeing them through the whole of their training. It revealed the total selfishness of the man behind the joviality.

"I've been taking commissions unknown to my father," Aletta continued, "and introducing myself by using my mother's maiden name of Veldhuis to conceal my ident.i.ty. I doubt if any of my patrons would have heard of Hendrick Visser, because they are not in the range ever to buy from his dealer, but I had to be sure that no chance meeting gave me away. Father talks to all and sundry wherever he is." She went on to tell of the paintings of houses, workshops, interiors and even the fish stall she had done.

He looked amazed. "Have you any spare time at all?"

"Almost none, because I use every spare minute to build up a stock of pictures to sell whenever it should prove possible. It's with such money I'll be able to attend those drawing and painting cla.s.ses I've already mentioned."

"Where is this work to be sold? In picture shops?"

"No. I did approach several, but it was the same in every one. They're flooded with stock and n.o.body would look at mine."

"Where else, then? Many taverns display pictures for sale."

"That would be far too risky. My father has drinking companions in every tavern in Amsterdam. Some of them have been to our home and should I be seen in such places they would recognize me."

"I see your difficulty. What does Francesca advise?"

"She doesn't know and mustn't suspect, because she would say I'll never be a painter if I don't devote my time to serious work."

"Is she right, Aletta?" They had dropped into the use of Christian names almost without realizing it.

"What I am doing is serious enough for me, but the kind of work she means awaits me in plenty at those cla.s.ses. In the meantime I'm learning and improving even by the rough means of speed that I've chosen. I can tell whenever I paint in the studio now that I have acquired more skill. Even my father had a good word to say about my painting of the hyacinth. But Francesca is going from strength to strength. Recently her work has become quite beautiful. She seems to have leapt a gap that was keeping her back."

"What would the reason be?"

"Father takes the credit for having resumed his teaching of her, but I think it's a natural progression. Like a fledgling taking wing."

"Does he think highly of her work?"

"He does, but he is very sensitive about his own. Francesca must never become his rival, at least not in his studio."

"Could that happen, do you think?"

"I believe she is destined to be a splendid artist. She did a painting of Sybylla and me that was so good that Father's agent, Willem de Hartog, is getting it viewed for an independent a.s.sessment of her work." She took another sip of coffee, savoring the treat she was having.

"If," he queried, "your father has resumed his teaching of Francesca, why aren't you benefiting from it too?"

"I'm not often in his studio, because I have my own upstairs. He gets irritated enough having to instruct Francesca and to deal with two of us again would be too much for his temper. After my mother died he reverted in his grief to doing only what he wanted to do, and it has stayed that way. I understand. It has nothing to do with his love for Francesca or for me."

"You are very tolerant." He regarded her in a friendly and encouraging manner. "Perhaps you should explain now the full purpose of this meeting. We haven't come to that yet and my guess is that you have mapped out a role for me to play in this plan of yours for cla.s.s attendance." His grin was merry. "Am I to sell your paintings for you?"

It was said in jest, for he believed she had been leading up to asking for a loan to let her attend cla.s.ses, and he had made up his mind that she should have it. To his dismay she seized on his remark avidly, her usual calm expression changing to one of thrilled and overwhelming relief.

"Oh yes! I never expected you to offer. I dreaded asking you. Just a few at a time along with the bulbs and flowers at any one of your stalls in Amsterdam or elsewhere." The words were tumbling from her joyously. She scarcely drew breath. "You'll take a commission from every sale as if you were a real art dealer. It won't be much, but it will mount up as my share will with time." Then her voice trailed away and her eyes became stark as he threw up his hands and shook his head regretfully.

"I'm deeply sorry, Aletta. I fear I misled you with an ill-timed joke. I had no idea that was what you wanted of me."

"What were you expecting?" she asked flatly.

"The request for a loan. I would have met you on that."

She shook her head. "That's out of the question. When I start my lessons I'll have no time to paint anything for sale and there would be no way of paying you back. I must have the money in hand first."

He sighed and leaned both arms on the table. "I have no time to sell pictures and neither have my a.s.sistants. You know how busy stalls are on market day. Why not rent one for yourself for a day? You'd probably sell out. I've seen picture stalls doing a good trade."

"I can't do that." The anguish of her disappointment was catching at her throat. "I'd be in the public eye. My father seldom goes to the flower market, but people who know me do and in no time I'd be in the deepest trouble. Worst of all, it would be the end of any cla.s.ses for me."

He nodded sympathetically. "I see your difficulty. Do you know anyone else who would be willing to sell for you in return for commission?"

"I daresay our maidservant's sister would do it. I know she would be glad of a little extra money. But as I said, a stall is out of the question."

"Suppose you were allotted a small s.p.a.ce at the end of one here in Amsterdam. Would that be enough?"

Her whole face became suffused with hope again. "Do you know someone who would be agreeable to that?" When his smile provided a clue she clasped her hands and brought them up against her chest. "You, Pieter! How can I ever thank you?"

"Wait a moment," he insisted in a serious tone. "If you do decide to employ your maidservant's sister, it must be understood there can be no encroaching by your pictures beyond the s.p.a.ce allowed."

"There won't be!"

"Good, but I haven't finished yet. You'll have to agree to a special condition."

His expression was so implacable that she lowered her hands to her lap again. "What is that?"

"You will tell Francesca about the arrangement. I'll do nothing behind her back."

She looked long at him, seeking the reason in his eyes. "I'm not proud of keeping anything from her, but I fear she will never approve. She would not give me away to my father, but she'd want me to go back into the studio, although she knows I've always found it difficult to work at his side." Then she bit deeply into her lower lip, which was suddenly tremulous. "Even if I could persuade her to agree to my plan I realize now I can't accept your offer. How foolish I was to trouble you in the first place."

He leaned toward her. "You're thinking that you couldn't pay rent for a section of my stall as well as letting someone else receive commission, because you'd make no profit at all. But, if you are willing, I'll take your painting of the hyacinth in lieu of any rent."

She raised her face again with an expression of disbelief. "You haven't even seen the painting yet."

"I'll take a chance."

For the first time tears glinted in her eyes. The rise and fall of her hopes had not made her weep, but his generosity at this point had moved her. "I think you're the kindest man I've ever met."

He smiled and picked up the platter of cakes. "Take another of these and don't exaggerate. I'll order more coffee too."

She took one to allow herself time to regain her composure. "I'll speak to Francesca at the first suitable moment."

"You may not find her as obdurate about this matter as you fear."

Her lips compressed ruefully. "You don't know what she's like when she is against something. Nothing will sway her."

"Would it help if I discussed it with her?"

"No." Aletta was firm. "I have to do this on my own."

"Then let's meet here again next Friday. By then you will have had time to speak to Francesca."

"Come back home with me today and see the flower paintings. If all works out well, I wouldn't want you to think you've made a bad bargain."

"I've no fear of that, but I can't come today."

"Next week, then?"

"That would suit me well." He hoped, but would not ask, that he would see Francesca also.

Aletta had no chance to say anything to her sister that day. Upon her return home she was met by Griet with the news that the pregnant neighbor, whom she herself had helped up from the ice that morning, had gone into labor. Maria had hobbled in next door to be with the woman while Francesca had rushed for the midwife and then for the husband from his place of business. Afterward there were the young children of the family to be fed and cared for.

It was late when Francesca and Maria finally came home. Aletta in her nightshift looked over the banister.

"What happened?"

Francesca raised a tired face. "It's a girl. She's very tiny and we pray that she will live."

"Oh yes! Who's with Vrouw Zegers now?"

"Her mother and her married sister have arrived from their village."

Maria patted Francesca's shoulder. "You go to bed now, child. It's been a long time since this morning."

For five days there was suspense over the infant's chances of survival. During that time Francesca was in and out of the house next door, helping however she could. Then, miraculously, the baby began feeding properly and all was well.

No sooner was this crisis over than a woman cousin of Hendrick's arrived to stay two nights in order to attend a wedding. Hendrick did not like her, nor did she have any patience with him, and the atmosphere was tense. All this time Aletta was watching for a chance to speak quietly to Francesca on her own, but the moment was never right.

It was during this cousin's visit that Sybylla came perilously near to disclosing Aletta's secret ahead of time. The cousin, who dressed in the best of fabrics with taste and style, had some valuable jewelry and wore it discreetly in turn. After watching her leave for the wedding in a hired sleigh, Sybylla had spoken scornfully.

"Why did she wear only those topaz earbobs and a single brooch. If I'd been her I'd have worn all my jewelry today for everyone to see. What's the use of having lovely things if you don't show them off and make everybody jealous! That's what I shall do when I'm rich."

Aletta, her nerves taut, turned on her. "Can't you think of anything except wealth and how to flaunt it?"

Sybylla was indignant. "How can you say that? n.o.body is more greedy for money than you!" Then the sudden drained look on Aletta's face made her bite back whatever else she would have said.

"Don't talk foolishly, Sybylla," Francesca said from the table where she was writing in the housekeeping ledger. She had not glanced up or else she would have noticed the tension between her sisters. "Aletta is the last one at whom you should throw that accusation."

Later, when they were upstairs in their bedchamber, Sybylla apologized to Aletta, who answered patiently.

"I was at fault too. I appreciate your keeping to yourself what I have here." She pushed open the communicating door into the studio-parlor. Her easel stood by the window, and stacked around the three walls were the extra pictures she had painted and was storing as stock. Most were on wood, which many artists preferred for being tougher than canvas, particularly if their work was to have rough handling between markets or auctions before sale. She had had a windfall of wood when she had painted a view of a carpenter's home and he had a store of pieces of plain paneling that he had removed from an ancient house. It was too thin for reuse for its original purpose and he had sold it all to her for a guilder, cutting it into suitable sizes as part of the bargain. There was still more in his cellar for her when she was ready to collect it, since, having no storage s.p.a.ce, she could only take a little at a time. He had wanted to deliver the wood to her, but she was quick to decline the kindly offer. She dared let n.o.body discover her address.

"It can only be a question of time before you're found out," Sybylla warned bluntly. "Suppose Francesca should come into this bedchamber one day when you had forgotten to shut that door. She would see at a glance that you're not painting to standard up here as you do in the studio. Then think of the questions she'd let fly at you!"

"I've thought of that all along. I decided last week to tell her, but she's been so busy I've had no chance. Now she's compiling a menu for the evening when Heer van Deventer comes to dine. I know she's not going to approve of what I'm doing."

"That's true. I shouldn't say anything to her until after Cousin Leisbeth leaves this afternoon."

Aletta felt desperate. That left only one day with van Deventer coming to dine in the evening before she met Pieter the following morning. Who would have thought it could be so difficult to have a simple heart-to-heart talk with one's own sister?

After breakfast on the morning of the dinner party Francesca went to the big oak cupboard in the stair hall. There were three such cupboards in the house, for a large stock of linen was every Dutch woman's pride and Anna had been no exception. In this particular cupboard, which was the grandest, the best linen was kept, while another in a side room contained that of medium standard, and it was the much used supplies in an upstairs one that gave Sybylla her practice in patching and mending. Francesca took from a middle shelf the best damask cloth and napkins. Aletta came to her side and spoke urgently.

"May I talk to you sometime today?"

Francesca looked gently at her. "Is anything the matter?"

"No. I just wanted to ask you something."

"I'll be quite busy today. Why not wait until tonight at bedtime?"

It was a time when they had talked so often after Anna's death, curled up together against the pillows.

"Yes," Aletta said, pleased. "That's best."

At seven o'clock that evening Francesca went into the dining hall to see that all was perfect with the dinner table. Hendrick appeared in the doorway. A letter he had received that morning seemed to have put him in an exceptionally good humor, although he had not revealed the contents to anyone.

"How do I look?" He had always asked Anna that question before any social occasion, for she had been quick to spot an overlooked blob of paint on his hair and made sure his collar was smooth on his shoulders. From habit after her death he had let Francesca check his appearance when necessary.

"You look magnificent," Francesca declared. She had steamed and brushed his purple velvet garments, which with the full-cut breeches were flattering to his portly figure, and he was wearing the crimson hose Aletta had knitted for him for the Feast of St. Nicholaes.

"You look very fine yourself," he commented, not recognizing an apricot silk gown that she had refurbished yet again with some new ribbons. "I may paint you in that raiment one day." Then he was reminded anew of the purpose of the evening ahead and his expression changed as he became intensely irritable. "d.a.m.nation! This is all going to be a waste of my time! I don't want to paint this wretched ship broker!"

"Wait until you've met him," Francesca advised calmly. "You may find before the evening is out that you like Heer van Deventer well enough."

"Liking has nothing to do with it! I'd paint my worst enemy if he agreed to sit anytime I felt like painting him. I won't be tied down to set hours."

"No, Father." She slipped an arm through his, amus.e.m.e.nt quivering the corners of her mouth, and she turned her face into his shoulder to hide it. He sensed her mood and took her by the chin to tilt her face up to him. The mirth in her eyes coaxed reluctant laughter from him.

"I am an old bear, aren't I? Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"I'm not easily scared." She laughed with him. "But maybe you'll be able to browbeat your new patron into dancing to your tune."

He sighed. "I doubt it."

She moved over to the table to straighten a fork. "Why didn't you invite Willem to supper this evening? After all, he was responsible for this forthcoming meeting and you might have found it easier to have his company too."

"I would have if he hadn't been away at the present time."

A hammering came from the front-door knocker. She made an alert little movement of her head. "There's our guest now."

Hendrick sighed again more heavily and raised his eyes theatrically to the ceiling. "May the Lord grant me patience." Then he left the dining hall and paused with an exasperated air as Griet went scurrying to admit the guest. At the same time Aletta and Sybylla came down the stairs.

Francesca made a quick dash to the kitchen to check that all was ready. When she turned into the stair hall it was to see the front door standing wide, her sisters waiting at Hendrick's side. A liveried servant, cloaked and wearing a flap hat, had knocked for his master's admittance, and had now returned to the grand coach. Ludolf van Deventer stepped from the coach onto the muddy cobbles. He was a large, vigorous-looking man, deep-chested and slightly above average height, clothed in fox red and gray with a flow of white ostrich plumes in his hat. Griet bobbed as he entered and was quick to shut the door. Francesca judged him to be about her father's age.

He greeted Hendrick genially. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, Master Visser. I've become an admirer of your work. This is indeed a pleasure."

"And an honor for me! You are most welcome, mijnheer. Allow me to present my daughters." He saw with slight surprise that Francesca had not come yet and proceeded to introduce her sisters.

Francesca shivered, blaming the chill air being let into the house and yet horribly aware of dread dragging at her. In the same instant she realized she had experienced the same sensation in those few moments before she had viewed the painting of herself as Flora. Then she straightened her shoulders fiercely to quell the dark illusion. But she still stood seemingly rooted to the floor of the stair hall.

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