The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker Page B

he would give her an advance on them to the full value of what he expected to get. This was a time when he would forfeit his commission, as he had done on two or three previous occasions when her father had been in desperate straits, not that Hendrick had ever known. His enormous pride was as touchy as his temper.
    On the way home again Francesca shopped carefully. She practiced all the economies she had been taught for difficult times. When she had deposited her purchases in the kitchen she went to Hendrick, who sat with a glass of grape brandy in his hand.
    “Father,” she said, steeling herself. “I took some of your etchings to Willem today.”
    He looked at her, bleary-eyed. “Did he take them? Good.”
    “There aren’t any more. If you don’t start painting again soon I’ll have to take something else to sell. I could start with one of the smaller portraits of Mama that are hanging in this room. Later it may have to be the studio one.”
    He leapt out of his chair, hurling the glass and its contents into the fireplace, creating a roar of flame, and with his face a crimson mask of fury he swung up his hand to strike her. She faced him squarely, waiting for the blow to fall and did not flinch. His hand shook as he checked his action and then he let his arm drop to his side. He had never struck any one of his children and he realized painfully why she had goaded him as she had done. Reaching out, he drew her gently to him, cupping her head against his chest. His voice rumbled under her ear.
    “I think I’ll go along to the studio now and do some more work on that painting of Andromeda.”
    Francesca closed her eyes in thankfulness. Nothing was completely solved yet, but a beginning had been made.
             
    H ENDRICK WAS NEVER to work again as regularly as he had when Anna was alive. His commitment as an artist had not diminished, but at times when a painting was almost finished he would break off and be away for several days at his own pleasures. It was as if he felt himself entitled to a reward for a spate of dedication to work in spite of his bereavement. This always infuriated Willem, waiting to sell the work, and exasperated Francesca, who continued to struggle to make ends meet, for nothing had changed in that respect.
    Like her mother before her, she had become expert in juggling the creditors. When she received money for the housekeeping she would pay one tradesman in full and allow just enough to the rest to take the edge off their tempers. None of them had anything against her personally, any more than at Anna before her, for it was Hendrick they blamed for everything. Since they frequented the same taverns, their resentment would surge at the sight of him deep in his cups or flashing his money for any kind of wager when their account books had mounting figures of what he owed.
    It was not only his new and erratic pattern of work that drastically reduced the tuition he gave his daughters. He had simply lost interest in teaching them. His resentment against giving instruction had come to the fore again now that Anna was no longer there to be pleased with their progress. It became obvious to the girls that their mother’s generous praise for his efforts had been mainly instrumental in the close guidance he had given them in the past. Sybylla was overjoyed to be free of the studio. Her tantrums had subsided with the passing of time, but she waged a constant battle with Maria, who was determined to make her as competent at domestic chores as her sisters. Her exultation at leaving school on her twelfth birthday was dampened by the discovery of how many more hours a day she would have to spend mending and polishing and baking. On the day she had to scrub the stoop and pavement outside the house, normally Griet’s task, she made a vow to herself, grumbling aloud to the soapsuds.
    “I’m never going to do any of these chores when I’m married. Neither shall I be poor! Somehow I must find a rich