Free The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker Page A

to every corner of the globe. Holland, with its fleet of three hundred thousand ships, was the master mercantile nation, respected by all her rivals, even England, with whom there had been two recent short, sharp naval wars. Every merchant ship was heavily armed to meet with any skirmish involving old enemies or the privateers that plagued the seas. This defense ensured less risk also for those who invested in cargoes, something he had done himself to great advantage through the city’s Exchange. He would later this very day plow some of his profits back into the same stream.
    If there was any cloud on the horizon it was in the threat that France represented to Holland’s peace and prosperity. It was obvious to many that Louis XIV had set his greedy eyes on the richest prize in Europe and it was impossible to dismiss the conviction that sooner or later he would pounce. It was odd how powerful men never learned from history. The Spanish had tried for eighty years, from the previous century into the early years of this one, to make Holland their own, using cruelty to captives that stunned the mind, but in the end it was mighty Spain that had weakened itself by widespread wars and its struggles against a little country where so much of the land had to be protected from the sea by dikes.
    When Pieter arrived again at Dam Square, he checked that all was well at his stall. From there he set off to a coffeehouse where he had made an appointment to meet a merchant in order to discuss some business before they both went on to the Exchange. He was aware of smiling to himself again, thoughts of that vivacious girl dancing in his head.
    In the studio on the rostrum Francesca now had a parchment map of Italy to look at. Janetje had sent it as a gift to Hendrick one St. Nicholaes’s Day, telling him she wanted to be sure her nieces knew exactly where she was living. Francesca’s gaze always lingered on Florence, Rome and Venice, the three cities she most wanted to see one day.
    It was as well that the request she had once made to have the portrait of Titus hanging there had never been granted, for no matter what expression Hendrick might have wanted, her face could have shown only sadness when looking at it. In September last year Titus had died of a fever after only six months of marriage, just knowing that his wife, Magdelena, was pregnant with the baby they had both wanted. Again Rembrandt had found solace in work, but this bereavement had finally broken him and he had become a very old man, his hair completely white and his health failing. At least Cornelia was a devoted daughter and he, at the age of sixty-three, could never have managed in that humble little house on Rozengracht, forgotten and ignored, if she had not been there to take care of him.
    “If we hadn’t gone out to sketch those spring flowers in April and May when we did,” Hendrick said from the easel, “those silk flowers you’re holding and those on your head would have made a poor Flora of you.”
    “I’m sure they would, Father!” She had dropped her babyhood name of Papa for him on the day she had shouldered the responsibilities of the household.
    “Now your garlands look freshly picked, even to a touch of dew.”
    “Is this the final sitting?” Her tone was hopeful. It was always hard not to be the one with brush and palette in hand.
    “No. There’ll be one more. I’ll not finish by midday.”
    “I could sit again this afternoon.” She spoke purposefully. “Then it would be finished.”
    “I have an appointment,” he answered in a falsely self-important tone that did not deceive her, merely confirming that he was set on pleasure. It was one of those times when he had decided to reward himself with a break from work.
    “You have another appointment with Willem tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty. Wouldn’t you like to have the painting ready to show him? I’m sure he’s expecting it to be finished.”
    “Willem can wait another day.”
    She