Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach Page A

for my health. I’m delicate, you understand.”
    “Are you?”
    “And my husband would do anything not to lose the baby. I said we must have separate beds, so I can rest undisturbed, and he agreed. He’s so happy he will agree to anything.”
    Jan shakes his head wonderingly. He takes my hand. “You are an extraordinary woman.”
    Just desperate. I’m desperate for him. “It means Maria can stay on, in our employment. This device suits both of us—she helps me and I help her. . . .”
    What then? I have not yet considered that. I am too thrilled with my plan to think beyond my phantom pregnancy, which is becoming so real that I’m almost feeling sick. After all, my husband believes it; this makes it halfway real already.
    “But what happens if you, too, fall pregnant?” he asks.
    “Then we have to change the plan.”
    Jan starts laughing helplessly. He puts his arms around me and kisses me, in broad daylight. After all, what could be more reckless than what I have set in motion?
    Hammer blows ring out, sealing our fate.

    I KNOW I SHOULD be angry with Maria, for blackmailing me and forcing this bold plan into action. She, too, is terrified that something should go wrong and we will be found out. But I am also profoundly grateful to her, more grateful than she will ever know. She has released me from my marital bed. I have borne my husband’s lovemaking for three years and would no doubt have borne it until he died, but since I’ve met my lover, Cornelis has become so repulsive to me that I have felt violated—his sour breath; his cold, probing fingers. Worse than that—I have felt like a whore.
    Miraculously, a solution has presented itself. It is one that will benefit Maria too, for though she has behaved ruthlessly I am fond of her. She is my only friend and I am glad to save her from poverty and ostracism.
    What will happen in the future? Neither of us thinks of that. We are young, we have acted on impulse, we have stepped into a world of deceit, but so far we just feel like schoolchildren who have managed to trick our teacher and get away with it.
    Are we not blind? Are we not reckless? We are two desperate young women; we are in love. And love, as we know, is a form of madness.

    MARIA AND I ARE MAKING up a bed for Cornelis in the room opposite mine. It is called the Leather Room; he sometimes uses it as a study. It is chilly in here, but then all our rooms are chilly. The walls are lined with stamped leather; dark landscapes hang there, views by Hans Bols and Gillis van Coninxloo. There is a heavy cupboard crammed with porcelain jars from China.
    As we plump up the pillows Cornelis comes in. He strokes his beard. “It is a small price to pay,” he says. He is so happy, it should break my heart. “Let Maria do that,” he says. “You must look after yourself.”
    Suddenly Maria clutches her stomach. With a heaving grunt she rushes out. She is going to vomit. She has been vomiting all week.
    I hastily follow her into what is now my bedchamber and close the door. Maria grabs the nightpot, just in time, and vomits noisily into it. I stand behind her, supporting her head in my hands and stroking her forehead.
    When she is finished we hear a tap at the door. “Are you all right, my dear?” calls Cornelis.
    Maria and I look at each other. Quick as a flash she shoves the pot into my hands.
    Cornelis comes in. He takes one look at the vessel— there is a foul smell—and says: “My poor dearest.”
    “It is only natural, in the first months,” I reply. “It is a small price to pay.”
    I carry the pot to the door. He stops me. “Let the maid do that.” He glares at Maria. “Maria!”
    I hand Maria the pot. Eyes lowered, she takes it from me and carries it downstairs.

    AND SO BEGIN the strangest months of my life. Looking back, from beyond my death, I see a woman hurtling downstream on the current, as helpless as a twig. She is too young to think where she is going; she is too blind with passion to