Still Life

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

GRIETE HOUSE, ANTWERP, 1608

Osias placed paint bladders from his box onto a shelf where Clara pricked them and squeezed the colours onto her palette. The reek of offal and linseed oil was made doubly noxious by the heat.

His weekly visits had now increased to every other day, riding out from the city where he tutored several boys, and she had long thought of him as her friend. Someone she could talk to in a way she never could with Papa because he understood just how much her painting meant to her. He often reminded her how proud her mother was of her talent and it brought her comfort. How could it not?

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. There was a tension about him today, the way he held himself. Never quite meeting her eyes. Well, she imagined he would tell her what preyed on his mind when he was ready. ‘When will you teach me to mix?’

His eyes slid away again, his expression decidedly guarded. ‘I think your aunt w-wouldn’t wish you to grind cinnabar or heat oil … or, especially, wash pig membrane.’

‘Aunt Fabiana never wishes me to do anything.’ She gestured at her easel. ‘Well, nothing I wish to do.’ She began setting pewter tankards and earthenware plates of foodstuffs upon a table so the light struck them just the way she wanted. Two could play at nonchalance.

‘She should recognise your talent. Your breakfast pieces are truly remarkable.’

Clara paused at the open window, enjoying the breeze, watching her little sister playing in the sunshine with the river silvered on the horizon under clouds smoking in from the North Sea. Meg’s son, Willem, ran around happily following four-year-old Adela’s orders, whilst she shelled peas, keeping a watchful eye over them. Adela. How could she not smile at the sight of her? Little love. Her mother’s endearment came so easily to mind. Her heart ached for her sister who would never hear it.

She hoped Aunt Fabiana would not forbid her friendship with Willem when they were older. Though, following her mother’s wishes, Henri had been sent to the Latin School in Antwerp; Fabiana disapproved and denied him the house when he was home, forcing them to meet in secret. Yet it had brought them closer because these times together – their walks and rides and whispered conversations in the stables when it rained – were so precious. Well, they were to her. Henri, as always, was ever sanguine about it all. Papa had promised to intervene but was too often away on his land-drainage schemes, and her aunt was not easily reasoned with. Fabiana’s authority over her life now served as a constant reminder of loss.

Clara sat at her easel. ‘Aunt will never admit I have skill. It would be bad for my soul.’ She tossed the mass of auburn curls falling from her velvet hood.

‘But, perhaps, of benefit to hers?’ Osias murmured.

‘My painting is an affront to God and will make me barren … yet men remain strangely unaffected. I can’t think why?’ She shook her head. ‘Or why she imagines I even desire the childbed.’ The very notion of it horrified her. She felt her mother’s absence every day like a dark shadow following her and haunting her dreams full of s*******r-shed reek and screams. Dreams that lingered like foul miasmas on into the day.

She thought now of Maman’s name carved and gilded upon the family mausoleum, though memories of her funeral Mass in the chapel beside it had faded to little more than Latin words she did not then understand, and comfort taken from incense and the tinkling of Sanctus bells. Comfort she could no longer find there. Clara sighed. How she would have loved Adela, who shared her happy spirit, though was dark-haired like Papa and tall for her years. Clara had her slight stature with Papa’s single-mindedness. There seemed such cruelty in this parting. In this wrenching away.

‘Clara?’

She looked up, jolted from her reverie.

‘I have something I must tell you.’

This was it, then. She frowned. He looked too serious. It would not be good.

‘I’m to go back to Amsterdam.’

Jesu. What? ‘For how long?’

‘For good, Clara. To m-marry. She’s a widow and well set up. I met her, Leskens, when my old m-master … when Pieter Backer painted a portrait of the family, years ago.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I shall have my own studio to s-sell my work–’

Words spilled without thought. ‘No. No. You can’t go. What will I do if you go?’ She covered her face. Fabiana’s power would become absolute.

‘Clara?’

What must he think of her? She gathered herself and dropped her hands, trying to smile. ‘Osias, forgive me. I’m glad for you.’ But she was not glad. However hard she tried she could not be glad. How could she carry on painting without his advocacy? She took a deep breath and forced words. Better words. ‘You will be happy in marriage. And to have your own studio? You must take on apprentices and teach them all you have taught me.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, with a slight smile. ‘Though I’ll never find another like you.’

‘When will you go?’

‘I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was a c-coward.’

Clara stood. Now for the final truth of it. ‘When?’

‘Four days. I leave in f-four days.’

She bit her lip, hard. Thank Jesu Henri would soon be home.

There had been no rain for weeks and Lucia had to pick her way along the hard-rutted track banked above the Scheldt. Though glad the heat had abated a little, Clara was still too hot in her dark wool riding devantiere. She bent to stroke her horse’s dappled neck when the dust made her snort. Osias had been gone for several days now. How could she not brood upon it? She blinked back fresh tears. Only Henri could begin to understand.

Shadows of fair-weather clouds sailed across the river’s broad expanse as it moved implacably towards the sea. She watched a flock of widgeon take off from a mud bank in laboured, frantic flight as she passed. The polder low to her left was dotted with grazing cattle amongst scattered windmills, there to keep the land dry by pumping water through the network of ditches. They had no work to do today.

After the track entered the shadow of a windmill close beside the river and rounded a gentle curve, Clara saw two horsemen approaching at a canter in a cloud of dust. She reined in and moved back into the shade of the building to let them pass. If they had business with her father, they would find him gone, as usual.

When they slowed their approach, she saw it was Henri riding beside a slight fair-haired young man; Henri’s dark colouring and build made an imposing contrast. Her heart sank at the sight of a companion.

‘Clara,’ he called. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you already out so far.’

Though he had lost his country accent long ago, with Flemish replaced by French – as spoken at court – there was an affectation to his voice today that vexed her. The small thin-lipped youth looked her up and down with barely concealed disdain. How ill-favoured he was.

Henri dismounted. ‘Take these, Bert.’ He tossed him the reins and ran to her, grinning. ‘Let me help you.’

She watched Bert’s lip curl when she took Henri’s offered hand, slipping lightly to the ground. ‘I didn’t expect you to bring a companion.’ She tried not to allow resentment to show on her face … or in her voice. These brief times alone with him were so precious to her – especially now – and he had ruined this one. Why did he not know?

‘I’ve told Bert all about your work and he’s eager to see it.’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle, I’m most intrigued to hear of your hidden likenesses.’

She glared at Henri. These tiny reflections of her face, hidden in splashes of light in her paintings, were done only for him as a talisman to keep him close. And, not for the first time, she was forced to question why she felt she would lose his interest without such means. ‘I’m surprised you know of them, Monsieur.’

Henri looked sheepish for a moment. ‘I had to tell him of your skill in concealing them.’ He grinned again, taking both her hands in his.

‘Well, it’s unfortunate I’ve brought none with me this time.’ When she gave a slight shake of her head, he glanced at the panniers attached to her saddle but, to her relief, said nothing. She had now risked damaging her work for nothing, of course.

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Bert’s sneer had become a fixture. ‘Henrick tells me–’

‘I’ve news, Clara. Great news. I’m taken on by the V.O.C … the East India Company. I’m to go out as a clerk to Jayakarta.’ Henri lifted her, spinning her around. ‘What do you think of that?’

Bile rose in her throat and not from the motion. ‘I think you’re frightening my horse.’ She struggled to regain her feet, breaking away from him before carefully smoothing imaginary creases from her riding habit. ‘I trust you’re not leaving in four days?’

Osias’s absence was still so raw, as was her daily battle with her aunt to continue painting. How could she bear this, too? And how could he be so unaware of what such an absence would cost her?

‘Not till September time.’ He looked puzzled and then hurt. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me. It’s a remarkable opportunity.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you to be at the other side of the globe, Henri. Why would I not be?’

She called Lucia to her and quickly re-mounted, riding away at a canter without looking back, her face soaked with tears. Now Henri was leaving her too. How would she bear it?’

The dawn light was already seeping in around the bed curtains, with the birds in full song, when Clara heard it again. A sharp pattering on the window glass. She left her bed and parted the drapes in her first-floor chamber overlooking the river, ruffled and glimmering in the early morning light. Henri was standing below, looking up, his face in shadow.

Since their last encounter, she had kept away from the coach house whenever he was there, losing herself in painting, and burning his notes unread. He had even drawn Meg to his cause, but Clara still refused to see him. She understood this hurt her as much as him, more so in truth, but it was worth it to know he had felt her withdrawal from him. At least, she tried to tell herself so. Yet how could she wish to hurt him? It felt shameful. So, when Meg told her he would not return home again before he left, she wept, knowing somehow it was justice, even though she had never intended not to say goodbye. Now, thank Jesu, she had one final chance to make it right before he sailed for the Indies later that day.

She waved, hoping he would understand she was coming down. Then, snatching up a shawl, she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen parlour, letting herself out through the scullery door to the garden. The grass, silvered by dew, soaked her feet as she ran along the side of the house towards the stand of beeches and the river beyond, her hair and nightgown streaming out behind her. When she rounded the corner, she found herself high in his arms, wetting his face with tears of shame.

‘Don’t cry.’ He stroked her tangled hair. ‘I had to see you before I left. I shouldn’t have told you the way I did, with Osias just gone. And with that milksop, Bert. I was a fool. I’m–’

She placed a finger to his lips. ‘No. No you weren’t. I was cruel and spiteful. I know you’ll do well in the Indies. You’ll be a great success there, Henri. I know it.’ She held his face in her hands. ‘I just wish it were not so far.’

He lowered her to the ground and bent to kiss her, one hand cupping her face the other hard on her back. He had never kissed her before and she clung to him, digging her fingers deep into his hair, responding to him in ways she barely understood or even knew possible. And it was then she realised what she felt went far beyond friendship. Did she love him? She believed she must. What else could such feelings signify?

He pulled away to look at her. ‘Clara. I beg you, write to me. Jesu, I don’t want to leave you.’ Then, he gently tied her shawl across the thin fabric of her nightgown before holding her close again.

She listened to his breathing, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against her and the heat of his hands on her back. How she wished they could remain like this for ever. Just holding on.

Later, when she stood beside him at the front of the house, waiting for the coach to be brought round to take him to the docks in Antwerp, her mouth felt dry as dust at the thought of such a separation.

He touched her hand. ‘We will write?’

It was a question. Did he doubt her? ‘Of course we shall.’ It would be all they had. She managed a smile. ‘I’m so happy for you. You’ve done so well, Henri.’

That she would cry when she was alone was a certainty, but he would remember her happy and proud of him. She had caused him enough pain and would cause him no more. He kissed her cheek. The coach set off, too soon passing beneath the gate arch. Too soon gone. Her smile fell away then, like a candle snuffed and she covered her face and wept.

Clara lifted the small caldron off the fire-shelf as soon as the hen’s feather began to float.

Adela watched closely. ‘Why does it do that?’

‘It means the linseed oil has reached the correct temperature to mix with the pigment powder and make the colours I need.’ How could she be five years old already? And how bright she was. She had stayed close to Clara since Henri left. Could she really sense her loneliness? What a sweet little soul she was … and a lovely, happy companion.

Henri’s father Bram had offered her the use of his simple cooking kitchen in the coach house, even helping her with some of the heavier grinding when he had time. Clara knew he too was lonely without Henri, who had now been gone for many weeks. Though he had been away at school, he had managed regular visits home. She missed him painfully. He had always been a part of her life. But it was more than that now, of course. He had begun to fill her thoughts.

‘Here, Mistress Clara, let me do that, for it be a danger to you.’

She allowed him to carry the pot to the narrow table where she did her mixing. He was a big man, though stooped in older age. She could not find Henri’s features in his broad face. Henri’s sharper jaw and large eyes had come from his mother perhaps? She had died so long ago; Clara had never known her.

He set the cauldron down beside the small, corked pots of ground and washed pigments. Green earth, red lake, bone black, lead white, verdigris and many more. Osias had left her well supplied and given her detailed instructions about how to achieve the colours. But she could not forget he had left without teaching her himself.

The pig membrane Adela had washed for her earlier was now ready to fill with the freshly mixed paint. ‘You did well with this.’ Clara wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s rather unpleasant to touch, I know.’ Could she have done such a thing at this age? It seemed unlikely.

Adela grinned. ‘I don’t mind pigs’ insides. I like helping.’

‘Well, you have. A lot, little one. But it must be our secret–’

‘From Aunt. I know. I know.’

Fabiana had intractable, and freely expressed, views about activities suitable for young ladies which, of course, would not include ones such as these. That she had no knowledge of what they did here gave Clara a stab of conscience that it might bring trouble for Bram.

He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve a letter, Mistress Clara. My Henri sent it … but I cannot …’

Clara took a quick breath, her heart racing. ‘I’ll read it for you.’ She cleaned her hands on a rag and touched his arm. ‘I’m eager to know how he fares.’

Bram pulled a creased square of paper from the front of his leather jerkin. ‘I’ve had his words against my heart until I can know them.’

Clara bit her lip, hoping he might mention her for, as yet, she had received no letter herself, though she had written. She quickly broke the seal and unfolded the thin paper.

Jayakarta V.O.C.

October 24, 1608.

Dearest Clara (I hope you do not mind I told father to ask you to read for him).

I have not written to you, for I know your aunt would not pass on my letter.

Please write when you can. I want to know all about your life without me. Tell me of your days; what you paint and where you hide your face for me to find. I need to feel part of your life, still, my Clara, as I hope you do of mine.

I think of you often – my vision is full of you that last morning barefoot in the dawn light with your hair like a fiery cloak and dressed in a froth of white. And the feel of your lips upon mine. You were so lovely.

And now you may read aloud to Father –

This is an extraordinary place. I cannot begin to tell you of all I have seen. The brown skinned peoples and the golden land that dips to white sand fringed with outlandish fronded palm trees, with a turquoise sea beyond …

Clara read on, barely absorbing the words until she spoke her own name again.

… keep safe, dear Father, and do please entreat Clara to write to me for you.

Your loving son,

Henri.

She handed the letter back to Bram. ‘Of course, I’ll write to him. But save his letters for me to read.’

‘I will, Mistress. Don’t be afeared. I’ll do as my Henri asked. I’m that proud of him. And grateful to your mama for the chance she gave him, like.’ He nodded before raising his eyes to hers.

Clara blinked, mortified. ‘You know there were words for me?’

‘I guessed it. I watched you read lines you didn’t speak.’

‘I should’ve told you. I was surprised to find them.’

‘No, Mistress. I saw them words was pleasing.’

Adela clapped her hands. ‘Oh, what did he say, Clara. Tell. Please.’

‘Nothing, really. Nothing important.’ Clara moved to her mixing bench, turning her back to her sister so she could not see her blazing face as she relived those minutes in Henri’s arms when they had kissed, and he thought her lovely.