Still Life

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP 1611

Clara placed splashes of light onto the lidded golden cup, bringing it forward from the dark background. With the painting emerging from the canvas as though uncovered by her brush, she placed it down, sensing this elusive magic about to melt away as quickly as it had arrived. The small stoneware vase of purple and red flowers. The two ornate cups decorated with silver tracery. The bowl filled with the links of a silver chain spilling out across the table. Her brush had uncovered each one of them already hidden there … or so it felt. She had not formed them. They were just there.

When Osias had first told her of it, years before, she had been unsure. Could it be true? Could artists sometimes feel this when work went well? Might this mean a good day, at last? So much of her work displeased her now and had done for months. But not today, she hoped. Not today. She lifted her magnifying lens again, doubting even Henri would be able to find the tiny reflection of her face placed onto a drop of moisture gleaming upon the vase’s neck.

She sighed. So much time spent apart now, with only letters sent through his father. Still, how close those letters had brought them. She knew the day-to-day routines of his life again –cargo manifests and bills of lading. Warehouse tallies and crew stipends. His hopes, his setbacks, his triumphs and he knew hers … or most of them. But not of her intention to go to Amsterdam with Osias. Her work had been selling well there for some time and she had discussed this plan with him many times in letters and on each of his visits. It was to be her escape to the life she chose for herself … and the sales proved she was good enough for it. Now it only remained to persuade her father.

One regret was she would be absent when Henri finally came home … if he ever did. His last letter had mentioned yet another plan to do so. None, so far, had come to fruition. Did he truly wish to return anymore? And could it be she had not told him of her intention to leave because her feelings for him did not fit with this new life she planned for herself? It was a question she had not yet found possible to resolve.

When the door flew open startling her – for there had been no knock – she turned to see Trina curtsey.

‘You’ve a visitor, Mistress.’

‘Who, Trina?’ Clara’s heart began to pound. Might it be Henri?

‘It be Master–’

And then he was there pushing past Trina, smiling, his arms outstretched.

‘Osias.’ Clara launched herself into his embrace. Of course it was he, for she had expected him any day. Yet she could not quite subdue a small pang of disappointment.

Fabiana supervised Meg and Trina placing platters of herring, cheeses, breads, and sweetmeats onto the table in the great hall, whilst Clara sat beside her father, listening to Osias talk of Amsterdam and his patrons, her heart fluttering and swooping with anxiety. She was glad Adela was at her lessons. She would have sensed her sister’s nervousness straightaway. He stood with his back to the carved stone fireplace, the gilded leaves and stems entwined around its pillars appearing exotic behind his black-clad figure, the evidence of his journey plain to see on his salt-stained clothing.

‘I’ve more work for you.’

Clara lifted her chin at her aunt’s ostentatious sounds of disapproval, though Fabiana would say nothing in front of Papa. She rejoiced in their good fortune he should be at home for his visit this time.

‘Ah, Clara. So, to my main purpose.’ Osias cleared his throat and looked directly at Jan Peeters. ‘Monsieur, would you consider permitting Clara to r-return to Amsterdam with me as my pupil–’

Jan held up his hand. ‘Monsieur Beerts. My daughter will not be apprenticed.’

Clara stood. She and Osias had planned this meticulously. He must not dismiss it before hearing the argument. ‘Papa you cannot –’

‘Silence, girl, your father speaks,’ Fabiana said.

Jan gestured for Clara to sit again. ‘My dear child, you’re not of the station to become apprenticed. Indeed, in due course marriage and motherhood shall bring very different duties.’

Clara looked away and said nothing.

‘She would be my pupil, Monsieur, not apprentice. The g-guilds do not permit female–’

‘My daughter will remain here. I’m content for her to paint if it amuses her but that’s all.’

Clara knelt before him, taking his vein-ridged hands in hers. ‘It doesn’t amuse me, Papa. It torments me. It thrills me. It’s as air or food to me.’ How could she make him understand? Her art was not a choice; it was a compulsion. She painted under duress, searching for a perfection she understood could never be found, just as she understood she could never cease trying.

Osias began to pace the floor. ‘Clara’s work sells readily in Amsterdam. She already has great s-skill. I can help her make the most of her talent and win commissions for her paintings.’

Fabiana glared. ‘At a price, no doubt.’

‘I ask nothing more than to help Clara become the artist she’s destined to be.’

‘You blaspheme, Monsieur Beerts,’ Fabiana said. ‘You assume to know what is only known to God.’

Clara lowered her gaze, her argument ready. Fabiana had risen to Osias’s words, just as they had calculated. ‘Then, must not my talent come from God, Aunt?’

To invoke a god she had come to disavow in order to advance her cause had become inescapable. If it could be claimed Maman’s terrible death was this God’s will, then she was more than ready to exploit such beliefs for her own ends. In truth, it pained her to do so against her father, but she had agreed with Osias, it seemed the only way.

‘Clara. Clara,’ Jan ran his hand over his thinning hair. ‘How can I agree? It’s not suitable for a young lady of your breeding to go alone to a distant city, far away from the family who love her.’

Osias stood motionless, once more, before the fireplace. ‘My wife would be her companion and chaperone. I’ve taught Clara since she was a s-small girl. Her mother appointed me. I care for her as though she were my own child. She would not be alone.’

Clara looked up at her mother’s portrait over the fireplace. Ready. ‘Maman would have permitted it.’

‘You cannot know that,’ Jan said.

‘Your mother died as a wife and mother. She knew a women’s duty,’ Fabiana said. ‘She–’

Jan held up his hand again. ‘How do you know she would want this for you, Clara?’

‘Look what she did for Henri, Papa. How much she wanted for him. How can you think she would not wish this chance for me?’

Yet her father’s face was set and intractable. It was hopeless. Clara stood and fled from the room.

Fabiana’s outrage following her out. ‘How dare you defy your father with such impertinence …’

Fleeing upstairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, she flung herself down onto her bed and wept into her pillow. There would be no escape. Her life now stretched ahead of her in stultifying certainty. A man she did not love. Children she did not want. And the terror of those children gnawed at her. Every month her own pain and blood reminded her of this horror awaiting her. And going with Osias could have saved her from it all.

A light tap sounded upon the door. ‘I’m indisposed. Go away.’ The door opened anyway, and someone sat beside her on the bed. She refused to open her eyes.

A hand gently came to rest on her back. ‘Clara?’

Her eyes flew open. ‘Papa.’ She sat up. ‘Forgive me–’

He handed her a linen handkerchief, his eyes full of compassion. ‘No, forgive me for not quite understanding how much your painting means to you … or quite how good you are at it.’ He smiled. ‘Monsieur Beerts has done his best to disabuse me of such ignorance.’

Clara managed a weak smile. ‘I don’t imagine Aunt enjoyed that overly much.’

He snorted. ‘Indeed. I know you often clash with her.’ He looked away. ‘She can be a difficult woman. But how can I allow it, Clara?’ He studied her face carefully. ‘Your maman spoke of you that night … before … well, she was very proud of you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Can you leave us, Clara? Me and Adela?’ The corners of his mouth twitched, slightly. ‘Your Aunt, I imagine, would prove somewhat easier.’

Yet you leave us for months at a time. She would not say it to him, though. ‘I don’t want to, Papa. Of course I don’t, when I love you both so dearly. Can’t you see? I have no choice. How will I ever know what I’m capable of if I don’t try?’

He sighed. ‘You must learn to trust more in God, my child.’

And there it was. The reason she could never tell him her fears of dying like her mother. Such things are God’s will. ‘Can you not trust in me?’

Clara gripped the taffrail to keep her footing on the slippery deck as the two-masted coastal packet ship crashed through white-foamed waves, her sails bellying taut and full in the glittering light.

Osias touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t cry–’

She moved away. ‘The salt wind stings my eyes.’

‘This is the right thing, Clara. You know it is. Your work needs space … and f-feeding to grow. Isolation will diminish it.’

‘I fear it already has.’ Clara’s certainty about Amsterdam was now tempered by renewed

pain at leaving her home and family. In all the rush and excitement of preparation, she had managed to set it aside. How could she not now think of her beloved Adela becoming the sole recipient of Aunt Fabiana’s sharp words? Though Meg would be there steadfastly devoted. Papa would come and go without her to greet him or to say farewell. Or tell him of her love for him. She turned aside to wipe away fresh tears. ‘What would you have done had Papa been away, again?’

Osias smiled. ‘As always, I should have taken more of your work back with me and continued to return until I found him present.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘I see what you hope your painting can become … and I know I can help you achieve it.’

Clara managed a wan smile. ‘I know you can, too. I also know I never could alone. That’s why I had to leave.’

He looked out across the waves. ‘I think working with others will be of benefit to you, also. Not just with me but perhaps with my apprentice, Nico Cavello. You’re the same age. He’s another like you, with so much natural talent.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I can hardly believe my luck in finding you b-both.’

‘Well, then, I look forward to meeting him.’

‘I hope you might become friends. Just to warn you, he’s about as far from you socially as it’s possible to be, though he’s also one of the brightest lads I’ve ever met.’

Clara smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘You seem very taken with him.’

‘I am.’ He held her gaze. ‘He’ll be your friend if you let him.’

She frowned. ‘What can you mean? Why would I not?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s just say you might seem a little reserved … a little haughty to those who don’t know you, without intending to, of course.

She clenched her jaw, fighting to conceal how much his words stung. ‘Well, I can hardly prevent what’s not my intention, can I?’

‘I think Nico will manage well enough with you as you are.’

Her tiny cabin one deck below in the aftcastle offered little comfort for the two nights at sea, the duration of the sail dependant on how many ports of call were needed for the mail service and any passengers disembarking for other destinations. This time, they had stopped for Donburg, Renedse and Leiden. Osias had hoped for fewer such delays, which would have meant but one night onboard.

Once on deck beside him though, none of this mattered as the ship rounded Noorderhaaks Island and entered the sheltered IJ with Amsterdam’s waterfront laid out before her. ‘At last.’