The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker Page A

the market stalls here, saying the produce was always fresh, and there was so much to see whatever the season of the year. There was a busy scene on any weekday, for here trading took place on several levels. City affairs were conducted at the Town Hall, which was a grand building ornamented with pilasters and cornices with great pedimental sculptures of sea gods. Cargoes from the ships dropping anchor by the Dam were dealt with at the weighhouse. The whole square and the streets leading to it thronged with people, wagons, coaches and handcarts. Peddlers bawled their wares, dogs barked and she kept out of the path of some drunken seamen who came reeling out of the tavern, singing raucously. Francesca paused to watch a team of tumblers in yellow-and-pink costumes performing to the music of a flute and a drum, which blended discordantly with the shrill notes of a trumpet being blown by a quack doctor’s assistant to gain the attention of passersby.
    It was far quieter when she thumped the silver knocker of Willem de Hartog’s house. A maidservant admitted her, invited her to sit and then went to fetch the art dealer. The main ground-floor rooms of his house made up his gallery and in the reception hall where she sat there were many paintings set off by the walls of gilt leather.
    Willem came to her at once. He was a tall, thin and dignified man with brindled gray hair, his lean face trimmed with a mustache. He had attended her mother’s funeral and had not seen her since, which was why he greeted her with a kiss on the hand and the cheek.
    “What a pleasure to see you, Francesca! How is your father? Are you managing well?” He led her into another room where there were more works of art on the walls and they sat down at opposite sides of a narrow table on which she placed the leather folder of etchings. When he asked after Janetje she told him how deeply distressed her aunt had been to receive the news of Anna’s death. “Her reply to my letter was so sad. She and my mother had always been close.” Francesca talked easily with him, for he had been her father’s friend and agent since before she was born. He had recently married a third wife, although his children by both previous marriages were grown up and wed themselves with no need of a mother. This was often the reason why a widower went speedily into a new marriage as soon as was decently possible. She did not think her father would take such a step.
    “So you see,” she said in conclusion after they had talked awhile, “I feel I must get Father back to work in the studio, even if I have to use desperate measures. Not just because we’ve run out of money, but because he needs to work now more than ever. None of us will ever get over losing Mama.” Her voice faltered, but she swallowed and carried on. “But she would have wanted us all to continue as if she were still in the house, which, in a way, she is with that wonderful portrait of her in the studio.”
    “I agree. Would you like me to talk to Hendrick?”
    She shook her head. “That’s most kind, but you know how easily he takes offense and I wouldn’t want him to fall out with you after all these years.”
    Willem smiled. “I think I’ve broad enough shoulders to take whatever Hendrick should aim, knowing him as well as I do. However, I’ll leave it to you to see what can be done, but if all else fails, do get in touch with me at once.”
    She thanked him and then opened the folder of etchings, explaining that she had gathered them from various drawers in the studio and hoped he would be able to sell them. He looked through them all. Most were of Amsterdam, but there were a few others of boats and barges on the canals by windmills in the countryside. He guessed that Hendrick had been dissatisfied with each one for some reason or another, which was why he had never seen any of them before, but that had nothing to do with the matter now. Hendrick’s daughter needed money for bread on the table and