am glad you are different.”
I can hardly keep from glancing at him as we walk along in silence. Does he realize I am poor? Does he think me awkward and stupid and mad?
As if on cue, the death bells of the Westerkerk sound out. “There are your bells again,” I blurt. “Have you tried counting them”— Lord, can you not stop yourself, girl? —” since last time?” There. Now I have revealed that I have recalled, one thousand times, every word he last spoke.
He smiles. “They have rung three times a day, on average, though they rang eight times on Thursday and just once on Monday. I have counted the times, hoping we would meet again and I could tell you.”
“So you were right. They do ring more these days.” I battle back the silly grin that threatens to swallow my face. He must think me addled, grinning about more deaths.
His face becomes clouded. “I saw a red P on a door yesterday,” he says quietly, “over on the Kalverstraat.”
A tiny pang of fear jabs into my heart. No. I will not be afraid. I will not let it ruin my happiness. “That doesn’t mean a great pestilence is afoot. There are always a few isolated cases. People have been keeping the streets cleaner—the city will make bonfires if it gets bad. It’s not like it was before.”
He nods slowly. “You are right. I am foolish about this sort of thing. It’s just that…” He looks to me. I wait in encouraging silence. “It’s just that I lost my moeder in the last bad year of plague.”
I breathe in to dispel the sadness. “In truth, I suffered the same. Five years ago, this July. You aren’t being foolish. It still hurts, very much.”
“My moeder left us in September. It was horrible.” He touches my hand. “I should have known you would understand. We have much in common, don’t we?”
I gaze up into his awaiting blue eyes but must look away fast. He will think me a ghoul, grinning like this as we speak of grief.
He stops me beneath a budding linden. He is lifting my chin.
“This is how I will paint you, when you look like this.”
My insides are aflame. They push at my very flesh, seeking to burst outside.
I look into his eyes, then at the pink-brown swell of his lips. I nearly swoon as their fullness compacts into a pucker.
“I—”
“Shhhh,” he whispers. The gentle pressure of his finger on my lips stuns me into silence.
“How am I to capture you?” His eyes caress me with their warmth. Something inside me strains toward him, frightening me with its insistence.
My throat is so swollen with emotion I can barely swallow. “I should go,” I whisper.
I fumble into a turn and run, not feeling the bricks under my feet. Carel Bruyningh touched me. He likes me! Carel Bruyningh. Oh, dear God!
“Cornelia!” he calls after me. “May I see you again?”
I cast a look over my shoulder as he stands beneath the green-sprigged linden, his golden brows raised in hope. It is the best moment in my life.
“Yes!”
Chapter 13
Juno .
Begun about 1661, finished after summer 1665. Canvas.
When I get home, Moeder is not in the kitchen or in the courtyard hanging wash. I hope she is not in the studio, but she is, sitting on a throne, holding a queen’s gold rod. She’s dressed up in a gold velvet gown that must have cost hundreds. There is no money for St. Nicolaes Day presents, but there is always plenty for things Vader paints in his pictures .
Moeder sees me. She moves to get up .
“Hendrickje, please,” Vader says. “You must be still.”
“Cornelia is home from school and needs to eat.”
“She knows where we keep the cheese,” Vader says. “Please, sit. Remember you are Juno, queen of the world, full of wisdom, patience, and goodness.”
“I warn you, Rembrandt, I don’t feel the least bit patient, good, or wise.”
“Hendrickje,” Vader says, as if soothing a cat .
“The sampling officials are still waiting and the Trippen have canceled the rest of their family portraits, you took so long
I can hardly keep from glancing at him as we walk along in silence. Does he realize I am poor? Does he think me awkward and stupid and mad?
As if on cue, the death bells of the Westerkerk sound out. “There are your bells again,” I blurt. “Have you tried counting them”— Lord, can you not stop yourself, girl? —” since last time?” There. Now I have revealed that I have recalled, one thousand times, every word he last spoke.
He smiles. “They have rung three times a day, on average, though they rang eight times on Thursday and just once on Monday. I have counted the times, hoping we would meet again and I could tell you.”
“So you were right. They do ring more these days.” I battle back the silly grin that threatens to swallow my face. He must think me addled, grinning about more deaths.
His face becomes clouded. “I saw a red P on a door yesterday,” he says quietly, “over on the Kalverstraat.”
A tiny pang of fear jabs into my heart. No. I will not be afraid. I will not let it ruin my happiness. “That doesn’t mean a great pestilence is afoot. There are always a few isolated cases. People have been keeping the streets cleaner—the city will make bonfires if it gets bad. It’s not like it was before.”
He nods slowly. “You are right. I am foolish about this sort of thing. It’s just that…” He looks to me. I wait in encouraging silence. “It’s just that I lost my moeder in the last bad year of plague.”
I breathe in to dispel the sadness. “In truth, I suffered the same. Five years ago, this July. You aren’t being foolish. It still hurts, very much.”
“My moeder left us in September. It was horrible.” He touches my hand. “I should have known you would understand. We have much in common, don’t we?”
I gaze up into his awaiting blue eyes but must look away fast. He will think me a ghoul, grinning like this as we speak of grief.
He stops me beneath a budding linden. He is lifting my chin.
“This is how I will paint you, when you look like this.”
My insides are aflame. They push at my very flesh, seeking to burst outside.
I look into his eyes, then at the pink-brown swell of his lips. I nearly swoon as their fullness compacts into a pucker.
“I—”
“Shhhh,” he whispers. The gentle pressure of his finger on my lips stuns me into silence.
“How am I to capture you?” His eyes caress me with their warmth. Something inside me strains toward him, frightening me with its insistence.
My throat is so swollen with emotion I can barely swallow. “I should go,” I whisper.
I fumble into a turn and run, not feeling the bricks under my feet. Carel Bruyningh touched me. He likes me! Carel Bruyningh. Oh, dear God!
“Cornelia!” he calls after me. “May I see you again?”
I cast a look over my shoulder as he stands beneath the green-sprigged linden, his golden brows raised in hope. It is the best moment in my life.
“Yes!”
Chapter 13
Juno .
Begun about 1661, finished after summer 1665. Canvas.
When I get home, Moeder is not in the kitchen or in the courtyard hanging wash. I hope she is not in the studio, but she is, sitting on a throne, holding a queen’s gold rod. She’s dressed up in a gold velvet gown that must have cost hundreds. There is no money for St. Nicolaes Day presents, but there is always plenty for things Vader paints in his pictures .
Moeder sees me. She moves to get up .
“Hendrickje, please,” Vader says. “You must be still.”
“Cornelia is home from school and needs to eat.”
“She knows where we keep the cheese,” Vader says. “Please, sit. Remember you are Juno, queen of the world, full of wisdom, patience, and goodness.”
“I warn you, Rembrandt, I don’t feel the least bit patient, good, or wise.”
“Hendrickje,” Vader says, as if soothing a cat .
“The sampling officials are still waiting and the Trippen have canceled the rest of their family portraits, you took so long
Similar Books
