She continued up into the house, her father exchanging a few jovial words with Hans before following after her. In the reception hall, even as her lace shawl was taken from her shoulders, she could not resist looking to discover what Hans had brought her. She unfolded the paper and there was a tiny pink sugar mouse. Unaccountably she was deeply moved by it, knowing it had been given out of goodwill and that it was all he could afford. She popped it quickly into the little silk pouch purse dangling on a cord from her wrist and went forward at her father's side to the chandelier-hung ballroom, where Heer and Vrouw van Jansz were receiving their guests. She could see Adriaen waiting for her.

It was an evening beyond her wildest dreams. She was feted and admired and-as she knew well enough-envied by all the younger women there. Adriaen in his coat and breeches of gold brocade, his fair hair gleaming to his shoulders, was her partner in the dancing more often than he should have been, but n.o.body could hold it against him on this special occasion that was their own.

The time came shortly before midnight when Sybylla and her father, together with Adriaen and his parents, went on their own into an adjacent drawing-room for the formal putting on of the betrothal ring. She held out her hand to Adriaen, her buffed nails shining like pearls, and he smiled fondly at her as he placed the fingers of his left hand under hers. Then with his right hand he took the ring from a little casket that his mother held for him and its ruby sparkled with a thousand lights as he slid the handsome jewel, set in gold and diamonds, onto her finger. It should have been the happiest moment in her life. But to her dismay she found herself remembering the pink sugar mouse, which had been her first gift that evening and, thinking that excitement must be making her lose her reason, for a few crazy seconds she did not know which she valued most.

"My darling betrothed and my future wife." Adriaen was kissing her hand and dazedly she raised her lips for the kiss he placed on them.

"Dearest Adriaen!" She was herself again. What a glorious ring! She danced her fingers in the air and was dazzled by the ring's splendor. How fortunate she was! Even Vrouw van Jansz was being gracious to her, kissing her on the cheek and welcoming her into the family. Adriaen's father, who was not immune to her charms, which was almost like a secret shared between them, regarded her with the usual twinkle in his eyes and said how pleased he was that his son had chosen such a charming young woman. Hendrick, emotional as always, could hardly speak.

"I wish your mother could have been here," he said in a choked voice.

She nodded, but had the uncomfortable feeling that somehow Anna would not have approved. It was almost as if her mother were seeing through her again as in childhood when all her wiles had failed to deceive. Then she cast that thought from her, for the double doors were opening in readiness for the procession back into the ballroom. Heer van Jansz went first, clearing his throat for the formal announcement, and she and Adriaen followed, her hand on his raised wrist. Behind them came Hendrick escorting Vrouw van Jansz. The rest of the evening was a huge success.

When Sybylla came home, sated with triumph, she chatted incessantly to Griet, who had waited up to help her disrobe. But when she was in her night shift and on her own again she took the pink sugar mouse from the silk pouch purse and put it by her trinket box. There was something comical about it. She smiled and patted its head with a gentle fingertip before she remembered how it had ruined the actual moment of her betrothal. Angrily she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and went to the open window to hurl it as far as she could away from the house, but somehow she could not do it. She hesitated so long at the window that she began to shiver from the cool night air. Somewhat reluctantly she returned it to its place by the trinket box. Then, deliberately turning her back on it, she jumped into bed.

FRANCESCA'S STAY AT Haarlem Huis had reached its last evening. She had a stack of sketches that she had already packed and, dinner over, she and Pieter sat talking on a window seat. He had noticed that she had become increasingly thoughtful during the last few days and now she was almost pensive.

"What is it you have to say to me?" he prompted.

She raised eyes full of emotion. "We talked so glibly about living in Italy together, but there's one great obstacle that we haven't yet mentioned."

"What is that?"

"The fact that you belong here and nowhere else." She put her fingertips against his lips when he would have protested. "Hear me out. We've both known that for financial reasons alone you would have to keep on with this business, trusting in the honesty and capability of your manager. What's more, Dutch law couldn't touch you for breaking the marriage contract or my father fleeing his debts, which would leave you free to visit Holland sometimes, but that would never be enough for you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because now that I've seen all that you have here, your horticultural experiments, your orangeries, your bulb fields and all else that grips you to this land, I know you'd grow restless away from it."

"As you said, I can visit periodically," he reminded her.

"But travel is so difficult and hazardous with the complication of wars, the waylaying by thieves and murderers, privateers at sea and a host of other dangers, quite apart from the length of time that journeying takes. Circ.u.mstances might separate us for two or even three years. You need a wife and children here-a son to carry on after you."

"We'll have a son."

"One born on foreign soil, who would think of Florence as his home and Italian as his native tongue?"

"We could teach him to love all things Dutch and to know that Holland was his rightful place."

"But don't you realize what that would mean? There'd come a day when he'd insist on going back to Holland with you. Then neither you nor he would ever return!"

"Don't say that!" He caught her close to him. "I'd train him to take over here and then I'd return to you. We would never be parted again."

She thrust herself away from him. "But think of all those broken years before that happens. It would be no marriage between us. Only a series of interludes. Your suggestion that Father should leave with me for Florence has absolved you from making me your wife. Even if Ludolf should track me down the presence of Hendrick would be protection enough. Dutch law wouldn't stretch there to allow Ludolf to take him to court for debt and, free of that threat, Hendrick could dally over a marriage date indefinitely. In the meantime I'm sure that my aunt Janetje's husband, who is a powerful man in Florence, would find a way to have Ludolf deported once and for all."

His face grew angry. "So you are reverting to your original decision never to marry!"

"It's not like that!" She sprang to her feet and moved to stand farther away from him. "Yet I should never have let myself be swayed from it."

He had risen from the window seat and spoke with a wrathful and fiery bitterness. "So you would condemn me to an existence entirely without you! Has it not occurred to you that I would gladly take whatever time I can have with you, no matter how spasmodic, in preference to a lifetime of marriage with any other woman?"

"Do you suppose I don't feel the same with regard to any other man, but I'm thinking of you! I can't in all fairness let you commit your life to me!"

He seized her by the arms and jerked her hard against him. "I made that commitment the first time we met. So it's too late to change now. We belong to each other, Francesca."

Her head fell back and there were tears glinting on her lashes. "Don't you care anything for your own good?" she asked helplessly.

"Naturally I do. That's why I don't intend to lose you. We shall love each other always."

Then he buried her mouth in his and she clung to him. Parting from him on the morrow would be the first of many such severances in the years ahead, but whenever they were together every moment would be as valued as it was now.

Later, in bed, drowsy after their lovemaking, she understood why her parents had found such s.e.xual joy in making up their quarrels. Somehow everything was given a new dimension. Curled up in Pieter's sleeping embrace, she thought of the children she might bear in time to come when there was no longer any need to guard against conception. It must not count as any sacrifice on her part to let a son come to Holland. She would never deny her offspring his right to harvest on van Doorne land the most beauty-laden crops in the world.

In the morning, when Francesca was ready to leave, Pieter drove up in one of the market carts. Instead of just taking her to Haarlem to catch the stage wagon, as she had expected, he announced that he was going to drive her all the way to Delft.

They both appreciated the extra span of time together, she sitting beside him on the carter's seat. Toward noon rain began to fall and they took shelter in a derelict mill, where they ate the picnic that Vrouw Graff had prepared for them. Afterward they climbed the wooden flights up to the top floor, where they looked out at the view. If Vermeer had been a painter of the open countryside the scene could have been his, for the rain had eased away and under a gray-blue sky there was a play of glorious light on wet gra.s.s and trees, hedgerows and ca.n.a.ls, distant windmills and a single slow-moving barge garlanded with yellow and white tulips. She spoke of her notion to Pieter.

"So many of those cool colors are Master Vermeer's own and yet they never chill on his canvas. Indeed in his paintings they warm the heart."

When she sensed that Pieter had begun to look at her more than at the view, she turned her head to meet his eyes, the pupils of her own softening and dilating with love. Gladly she lay down with him on the ancient, grain-strewn floorboards and he groaned aloud in an excess of pa.s.sion for her.

When they left the mill, which had been their haven for a little while, they traveled on until, the hour becoming late, Pieter took a short detour to a village tavern, where they dined. Only the last lap of the journey remained. Delft came into sight when they reached the bridge where Constantijn had suffered his terrible injury and Francesca's thoughts went to him and Aletta. She believed that Aletta, although not yet realizing it, was in love with Constantijn. Perhaps their first meeting at the Exchange, brief and inconsequential though it had been, had instilled a sense of destiny in Aletta when she had seen him again in such tragically dramatic circ.u.mstances and she would never be free of it.

It was dark when Delft was reached. Pieter left the horse and cart at the end of Kromstraat and took advantage of the lack of any street lamps there to escort Francesca to her door.

"I don't want to leave you in this house," he said uneasily.

"You mean you don't want to leave me at all," she whispered teasingly.

"That's true, but you must take care."

"I will. You really must go now." She took her hand baggage from him. "We have had such a perfect time together."

"There will be other such times, my darling."

They exchanged a bittersweet kiss of parting. Then he stood back in the darkness while she opened the front door into the candlelit reception hall and went in. n.o.body came to meet her. She took her hand baggage to her room but did not stop to unpack. In an upstairs parlor she found Clara with her foot on a stool, nursing a badly sprained ankle.

"It was such a foolish accident," Clara explained, wincing as she adjusted her foot slightly. "I tripped on a loose cobble in the street and went flying. See!" she added, pulling up her sleeve to reveal a badly grazed and bruised arm. "I hurt myself everywhere. Geetruyd was cross with me for not looking where I was going."

"Where is she?"

"She's gone to a musical evening, which is why we dined early, but some dinner has been left for you."

"I'm not hungry, but I'd like some tea. Shall I bring you a cup?"

"That would be very pleasant. Bring yours too, and we'll drink it together."

"Are there any travelers staying at the moment?"

"One. I don't like it when they're here."

"Why not?" Francesca asked.

Clara had a ready answer, wagging a finger importantly to emphasize her words. "Geetruyd's never herself, always on edge, and then she snaps at me."

Downstairs again Francesca went along the corridor to the kitchen, where she found Weintje lolling against the courtyard door and giggling at something said by a young man making his departure. At her step the maidservant turned with a guilty start, not being allowed any dalliance during her hours of duty, but Francesca took no notice and ignored the evidence on the table of a meal for two having been eaten there. The young man went on his way and Weintje came at once to see what was wanted.

"Would you make a pot of tea for Juffrouw Clara and me?" Francesca requested. "I'll get the tray ready."

Weintje set about hurriedly as if expecting a reprimand at any moment, but when the tea was ready Francesca only thanked her and carried the tray away.

She had almost reached the stairs when the front door opened and the traveler entered the house. He was in his mid-thirties, thin and of average height. Francesca thought how easy it would be to sketch his features in a series of horizontal and vertical lines-straight mouth, brows and eyes, a nose sharp as an arrow and a square chin. He regarded her alertly, bowing slightly in greeting, but without a smile.

"Good evening," she said. "This tea is freshly made. Would you like a cup?"

"I thank you, mejuffrouw, but no." He unlocked the door of his room and went into it.

Francesca and Clara drank two cups each of the tea. As always when Geetruyd was not present Clara chatted almost without drawing breath. She fired questions at Francesca about her time in Amsterdam and asked about the betrothal party. Francesca, who had expected this problem, immediately launched into a detailed description of Sybylla's dress and style of hairdressing, by which time Clara's interest had waned and she began recounting all the mundane little things that had happened during the period of Francesca's absence. Her talk hopped from one subject to another and she returned again to Geetruyd's att.i.tude toward her when anything went wrong.

"When the traveler who is staying here now arrived two days ago, Geetruyd became sharper than ever with me, because I can't do anything to help at the present time. I don't know why she bothers having any guests, except you, of course, Francesca, for it isn't as if she needed the money. She has an income from some other source, but what it is I don't know and wouldn't dare ask."

"She certainly likes the best of everything," Francesca said, thinking of the good wines, the food and the quality of Geetruyd's clothes and footwear.

Clara was enjoying herself. The opportunities for confidential chit-chat were normally denied her, as her benefactress's long-held threat of sending her to an almshouse if she gossiped had always had the double effect of keeping her silent and making her fearful of having friends in case she made a slip of the tongue. The fact that Francesca lived under a similar shadow of possible incarceration for any indiscretion made Clara feel there was a bond between them and because of that she could speak freely.

"I'm not stupid," she stated rebelliously, "even if Geetruyd should think so. When I first came to live here she was filling the house with anybody who could afford to pay for a good bed and wholesome food, but it was still a struggle for her to make ends meet. We had to observe countless small economies. She even sold kitchen sc.r.a.ps to a pig breeder and woe betide me if I threw away as much as an apple pip. We didn't live well in those days, but I made no complaint then and none now. She did what she could for me." Clara lowered her voice conspiratorially, although there was n.o.body except Francesca to hear. "If Geetruyd only made a modest living with a house full of guests, how is she able to live well-even extravagantly-by letting a room occasionally?"

"I think it proves your point that she has another income."

Clara looked triumphant. "Right! I believe Heer van Deventer made an investment for her when they met again after some years and now it's paying off on a grand scale."

"Then why does she still have the inconvenience of lodgers in the house? Is it to maintain a front of genteel poverty?"

"I suppose so, but there's something else too. She likes to talk to them about their travels, however often they come. I think it's because she's never really been anywhere herself."

"How do you know this?"

"She has told me. I once dared to say to her that it was indiscreet to stay talking to men on their own when she took in their meals. She pointed out that she always left the door slightly ajar and anyone could hear it was only an interesting and respectable interlude."

Francesca, remembering how Geetruyd had raised her voice on that one occasion, thought how at that hour Clara and Weintje were both in their beds and out of earshot. "Have you ever met any of those travelers?"

"I've bidden them good day or good night, but nothing more." Clara wanted to finish with that line of conversation, because she had a question pent up in her that she had long wanted to ask Francesca. She had never had a romance herself, although she had come near it once with a quiet-natured carpenter who had been repairing windows and replacing rotten shutters on the house. They used to talk, she indoors and he on his ladder outside. Then he made the mistake of bringing her a posy of flowers from his garden one day and asking her out. Geetruyd had dismissed him, saying his work was not good enough, and another carpenter had finished the tasks. As if that were not enough, Geetruyd had poured scorn on Clara that she, at the age of forty, should have behaved like a lovesick girl. The flowers had been tossed away by Geetruyd, who had failed to notice that one pansy had fallen to the floor. Clara had retrieved it and pressed it in her bible between two pieces of paper, where she had it still. The carpenter had died of lung trouble eighteen months later and it was her heartfelt regret that she had not been his wife to nurse him gently to the end. She felt that disappointment in love increased the bond between her and Francesca. "Were you very sad, Francesca, when you were banned from seeing Pieter van Doorne?"

Francesca looked down, smiling inwardly. "That's months ago now. So much has happened since." There was only one way to stem any more such questions from Clara. She looked up again. "Has Geetruyd not told you what she must surely have heard from Ludolf van Deventer? It is that my father has promised me in marriage to him."

"That can't be true!" Clara's face had become a mask of almost panic-stricken dismay.

"It is, and n.o.body wishes more than I that it was otherwise."

"But Geetruyd will go mad if she finds out! You must never let her know all the time you are staying here." Clara was highly agitated. "She's expecting to marry him herself!"

Francesca stared at her incredulously, not through any question of why Geetruyd should wish to marry again, but because it was a revelation that the relationship between Ludolf and Geetruyd was close enough for the woman to have considered the possibility. "She is far more suited to him than I am, but how do you know her feelings?"

"I know her so well that all the signs are clear. I remember her excitement when they met again after a number of years when he had been traveling abroad. After that it was never quite the same, maybe because he married someone else, but she loves money and he has plenty. It's very important to her and recently, since he became a widower, she has let slip a word or two without realizing it that shows she doesn't expect it to be long before she's living away from here and in luxury." All Clara's agitation returned in full force. "So don't, I beg you, tell of this marriage that has been arranged for you. She will make the rest of your time unbearable with every kind of pettiness. It is how she treats me whenever she is under strain or something has gone against her."

"What of you when I have left here?"

Clara let her hands rise and fall meekly. "She needs me in the house, because she never likes to be wholly on her own." She winced as she lowered her foot from the stool to the floor. "Would you help me to bed now, Francesca? I'm in such pain that it wearies me."

Francesca helped her hobble into a smaller and less used parlor where a temporary bed had been made up on a day couch to save her the extra stairs. They bade each other good night and Francesca went to her own room. It saddened her anew that Clara should lead such a bleak life. How often gentle people fell under the control of bullies, either in marriage or in business as well as in other spheres. In return they gave loyalty and sacrificed themselves.

Before undressing, Francesca drew the face of the traveler, capturing his likeness in a minimum of lines before putting the drawing away with other work for the studio. She was in bed when she heard Weintje go up to her attic room. Not long after, Geetruyd came home. As Francesca had expected, she opened the door to look in on her and check that she had returned on the day arranged.

"So you're safely back from Amsterdam, Francesca. Did you bring me a letter from your father rescinding any of my rules of chaperonage?"

"No."

"There! What did I tell you? He has your well-being totally at heart and knows, as I do, that a strict hand is all-important until a daughter is wed, whether or not there is a young man on the horizon. Now good night to you."

In the morning Weintje escorted Francesca to Mechelin Huis. The maidservant was very amiable and seemed to think she should reciprocate the good turn Francesca had done her by ignoring her dalliance the previous evening.

"Now if there is any letter you want posted, or if there's anyone you want to meet on your way to or from the studio, you can trust me not to say anything."

"That's very obliging of you, Weintje, but-no."

"Well, remember what I've said. I'd have lost my free time indefinitely if you had told Vrouw Wolff about my beau."

"Are you going to marry him?"

"He hasn't asked me yet, but I'm hoping."

Jan and Catharina Vermeer welcomed Francesca back and the younger children were as excited to see her again as if she had been away for months. Jan looked through all her sketches with her and together they decided which she should extend into a painting. She returned to him the portrait of the unnamed model, and he took the "tronie" away to his gallery. Before restarting her own work she studied his painting of the local woman by the virginals and saw that during her absence he had completed only one small section of the heavy lace on the woman's sleeve, but each precise stroke had been done meticulously to emphasize its silky texture. Then she cut a length from a roll of canvas for herself and began to thread it onto a wooden stretcher.

With Clara still unable to walk, Weintje accompanied Francesca when she took her first opportunity to see Aletta a few days after her return to Delft. At the gates her sister turned a key in the lock to let her in, but shook her head at the maidservant.

"I'm sorry, Weintje," Aletta said, "but I have only gained permission to admit my sister and n.o.body else."

"That's all right," Weintje replied cheerfully. "I've friends at a farm only a quarter of a mile away. I'll come back whenever Juffrouw Francesca wants me to be here."

It was agreed that she should return in three hours and she went off with an eager step. Francesca laced her arm in Aletta's as they crossed the forecourt of the house together.

"This is indeed a concession, Aletta. Is Constantijn being kinder toward you?"

"He's still extremely difficult," Aletta admitted, "but he took notice when I said I would go into Delft for a whole day once a week to be with you if he didn't permit me to offer you hospitality the next time you came. He can't bear the thought of my being away from the house, because he is afraid that I won't come back. He has also finally agreed to see his parents for the first time since he shut himself away here."

"I think you're making progress."

"In some ways, although not in others. He still gets drunk as much to challenge me as to relieve boredom. I've looked everywhere in his apartment for his secret store of drink several times over, but always without success."