Part 43 (2/2)
”Then maybe you'll never discover the mouse's whereabouts.” He stood ready to leave.
Tears were spilling from her eyes. ”You're cruel!”
He smiled wryly, remembering how she had tormented him with her flirtatiousness, her seductive wiles and her gibes about the wealthy life she was going to lead. ”I haven't intended to be. I wish you well, Sybylla. May you have all the happiness your heart desires. Perhaps we'll meet again one day. I bid you farewell.”
A sob clamped her throat. Her plea came brokenly, almost in a whisper, showing she knew how useless it was to utter it. ”Don't go!”
He was already near the church door out of earshot and he left without looking back.
At the van Jansz house Sybylla's instructions from Adriaen's mother took up several hours a day. It was like being under Maria's rule again, except that now she did not dare answer back. She began to yearn even more for her wedding day, when, after the ceremony and the early part of the celebrations, Adriaen would whisk her away to their own home.
He called to see her once every day, but now his mother never left them alone. Sybylla was at a loss to understand why. Did the woman fear that at this late stage pa.s.sion might sweep them away? Or was it that her maternal jealousy was reaching its peak? Unexpectedly one morning Adriaen's sister, who had arrived with him, mentioned they were on their way to view the splendid new group portrait at the militia headquarters, which everyone was talking about.
”You must be very proud of your father's achievement, Sybylla,” she said with condescension.
”I should certainly like to see the painting in its final setting,” Sybylla expressed hopefully.
”Then come with Adriaen and me.”
Sybylla's faint hope that Hans might be there vanished when she saw that her father had added his signature to the painting, which was his right, and Hans would never receive any credit for his share of the labor. She overheard several remarks that endorsed her own opinion that the five guards Hans had painted in full were by far the most vibrant and alive in the painting. Not that she was paying any attention to the overall picture, for she was looking frantically, here, there and everywhere, for the elusive mouse. She bit her lip with frustration when she had to leave without success.
Chapter 22.
FRANCESCA LEFT DELFT FOR HER CHRISTMAS TRIP HOME TO Amsterdam the day before Sybylla's wedding eve. She carried with her Constantijn's formal request to Hendrick for Aletta's hand and messages from his parents expressing their goodwill. Uppermost in Aletta's mind was the dread that Hendrick would refuse to give his permission in order to punish her still more, but Francesca could not believe he would go to those lengths and had promised to speak to him on her behalf.
For herself Francesca was glad to get away from Delft for a little while. There had been a strange atmosphere in Geetruyd's house ever since Clara had disclosed her knowledge of the marriage contract. The following morning Geetruyd had been quite composed, nothing in her manner to hint at the emotional shock she had suffered, and to all appearances everything had carried on as before. Yet there was a subtle difference. Francesca felt she was being watched anew as closely and as strictly for some unknown purpose as in her first weeks at Kromstraat. It was a thoroughly uncomfortable sensation and yet there was nothing she could single out as direct evidence.
She had heard from Aletta that Pieter had said she was to be told everything about the discovery of firearms at the de Veere house, for that was something he dared not tell her in the brief notes they exchanged. In one of those he had asked her to redouble her efforts with regard to her sketching, which she knew to mean it was more important than ever that she should let him know if the man she had drawn should come to Geetruyd's house again.
The journey home was speedy on the hard-packed ice. Nevertheless, when she arrived there it was too late in the evening to call at the van Jansz house uninvited to see Sybylla and she had to wait until morning. Hendrick and Maria vied with each other in being the most pleased to see her, and to her enormous relief Constantijn's request was well received, even though it was for the wrong reason.
”Let them wed whenever they will,” Hendrick said carelessly. ”Draw up a letter of consent for me to sign before you leave again, Francesca. At last I'll be rid of all responsibility for a wayward daughter.”
”But, Father!” Francesca exclaimed indignantly. ”You shouldn't-”
Maria cut across her words. ”Help me to bed, will you, my dear? You two can talk again afterward.” As soon as they were out of Hendrick's earshot the old woman confided her reason for interrupting. ”You'll be wasting your breath trying to make him see sense about Aletta. I've tried so often, but he won't listen and is as stubborn as a mule.”
”Aletta committed the unforgivable sin of hurting his pride at a time when he had other troubles. Does he never speak well of her even after all this time?”
”That's easy to answer. Her name never crosses his lips for good orill. He's so proud of Sybylla and her forthcoming marriage to a van Jansz that he has no thought for anyone or anything else.”
”What do you think of the match?”
”Sybylla has got what she wanted,” Maria replied philosophically. ”But it's well your dear mother is no longer here, because she would not have been happy about it.”
In the morning Francesca went to the van Jansz house with a wedding gift of a Delft tulip bowl, to which both she and Aletta had contributed. Sybylla came flying to meet her as soon as she was announced, forgetting all Vrouw van Jansz's instructions on how to behave in front of servants.
”I'm so glad to see you, Francesca!”
”And I to see you,” Francesca replied, made almost breathless by the tightness of her sister's embrace. She was startled to see how strained Sybylla looked, but she supposed it had not been easy spending two weeks with Vrouw van Jansz.
”I've so much to show you, Francesca.” Sybylla's jubilation sounded slightly hysterical. ”My wedding gown, my jewels, all my new clothes and the wonderful home that Adriaen and I are to live in!”
”I want to see everything, but are you well?” Francesca asked with concern, for Sybylla was clinging to her like a child.
”Yes, I'm just tired. Since I came to this house I've not been sleeping well. Adriaen's mother is a gorgon,” she whispered, ”and she criticizes my appearance and finds fault with everything I do until I could scream.”
”You'll soon be free of her now. Only twenty-four hours left. Show me your wedding gown.”
It was a s.h.i.+mmering cloud of silver and white, the deep neckline studded with pink pearls, as was the wide band that gave weight to the hemline. Francesca declared she had never seen a lovelier garment. At her request Sybylla put on the wedding headdress of silver and pink silk flowers, which suited her porcelain complexion, and, still wearing it, she began opening velvet-lined boxes and caskets to display a parure of sapphires and other jewels. Almost before Francesca had time to look properly at anything, Sybylla was throwing open the door of a great closet where gowns, looped on pegs or draped on wicker stands, vied with one another in elegance, the rainbow hues enhanced by delicate lace, rich braids, bunches of ribbons or embroidery so intricate that only hundreds of hours of eye-straining work could have produced it. Francesca saw that her sister had become more herself again as if rea.s.sured by these new possessions ma.s.sed around her. It was the same when they went along to the house on Heerengracht where Sybylla and Adriaen were to live. It was ready for habitation and merely receiving the final touches. A thin man in an orange-colored periwig was using a fas.h.i.+onably beribboned cane almost as tall as himself to point out things he wanted done to his a.s.sistants, who were hanging drapes and curtains, arranging furniture and rolling out rugs. Some chairs were being carried upstairs.
”Good day, mejuffrouw,” he greeted Sybylla, his deep bow a cover for his dislike of her. She had interfered all too much with the colors and furnis.h.i.+ngs he had wanted for her domain. To his relief she had not come to make any more of her maddening objections to this or that, but only to show her sister over the house.
”This shall be your room whenever you can come to stay with me, Francesca!” Sybylla swept ahead into a charmingly furnished bedchamber with walls paneled in azure Lyonese silk. She crossed to a window. ”You'll have a view of the garden. At my suggestion Adriaen asked Pieter to redesign it and he has submitted some splendid plans.”
Francesca went to her sister's side and looked out with her at the snow-covered garden, wondering how many years would have to pa.s.s before she could enjoy that privilege and see it in bloom. She was tempted to confide in Sybylla about her proposed escape to Italy with their father, but she decided against it. The prospect of such a break in the family would cast a shadow over the wedding day for Sybylla and that must not happen. Time enough when she had the support of a loving husband, because even Maria had admitted Adriaen was clearly devoted to his future bride.
”I'm sure you'll find that Pieter includes flowers in every color,” Francesca said, ”especially tulips, symbolizing faithful and pa.s.sionate love, which will be most appropriate in the garden of a newly married couple.”
”I suppose he will,” Sybylla remarked vaguely. ”Today I'm finding it difficult to concentrate on anything not linked to my marriage tomorrow.” She turned to Francesca imploringly. ”You will come early to the van Jansz house, won't you? I want you to be with me right up to the moment when it's time to leave for the church.”
”I will,” Francesca promised.
Again Sybylla clung to her. ”I wish Aletta were here too.”
”As I told you, she sends her love. I know that if it had been possible she would have been with you.”
In the afternoon, after Francesca had left, Sybylla received more instruction from Vrouw van Jansz. It was how to deal with tradesmen impudent enough to present a bill too soon, how to conduct herself in shops, how to order goods to be brought to the house and other such matters.
”You will supervise the household accounts,” the woman said, ”but with any other bills to be settled Adriaen will deal with everything. By that I mean you may always have anything you wish to the figure of your personal allowance, but you will never handle money.”
”But I like to pay for things myself,” Sybylla protested, thinking of the cash she would want for Ludolf.
”What you like and what is decreed for your own good by your husband can be poles apart. Adriaen knows you are too inexperienced in matters of wealth to be allowed to handle funds yourself. Don't look so bleak, Sybylla! His decision was made at the time of the betrothal on his father's advice. Adriaen would never go back on it.” Vrouw van Jansz smoothed her hands together as if wiping them clean. ”That concludes all the instruction I've felt bound to give you. There will be no guests coming here this evening. You will dine quietly with my husband and me.”
Slowly Sybylla went with dragging feet up to her room. She felt weighed down by the disappointment she had received. To think of all the great wealth in the van Jansz family and yet she had been rendered powerless to release her sister as well as her father from their bonds. Again nothing was going right. Had anything really gone according to her wishes since Hans had come disturbingly into her life?
When Sybylla appeared at dinner Vrouw van Jansz saw how subdued and dejected she was and supposed she was suffering from eve-of-marriage nerves. Brides in their innocence were subject to last-minute fears of those yet unknown marital duties. Vrouw van Jansz remembered her own trepidation and showed more toleration than usual by pretending not to notice that Sybylla hardly ate anything.
When the night came Sybylla could not sleep. She left her bed to huddle with a shawl about her shoulders by the fire in her room. Her thoughts were no longer dwelling on anything except that it was fast approaching midnight and still she had not solved the puzzle of where the little mouse was in the great painting. She gazed into the flames as if she might find the solution there, despairing that all she truly wanted was slipping from her grasp.
A log crumbled in a shower of sparks, one of which landed on her bare foot, causing her to jerk away. Yet it was a moment of revelation. She threw up her head with a gasp. She knew where the mouse was! Not on a hat or peeping from a pocket or winking an eye under the arch of a shoe, but in a place so apparent to her now that she could not understand why she had not located it before.
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