Read Online Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Vreeland
Tags: Suspense
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living together is alto gether too demanding. One can be caught so un ready. When you get to be my age, you'll under stand.
In the mirror I saw him looking at me, sitting on the edge of the bed without his breeches and without his stockings too, so his thin hairy legs dangled off the end of the bed like a spider.
I turned to him and said sweetly, "What is it, mon cher?" Always be sweet, no matter what. You never know what's on their minds.
He didn't say what he'd intended to, the words must have flown away like moths, but he had the look of a man to whom something had happened. His eyes were distressed, as though he saw for the first time that our possibilities had been checked, that the son he had imagined would never be. I think it suddenly occurred to him that we had stopped trying to have a child. At that moment I suspected that whatever hold I had on him was slip ping. Afterward, a heaviness sat on my heart.
I was brought up to believe that when one mar ries according to family wishes, with time and pa tience, love will come, so I had made an effort at love even though I didn't quite know what I was striving for. Oh, there had been occasions of pas sion, but was that love? I had a sentimental notion, to answer your question, that love meant one would risk all, sacrifice all, overlook and endure all in order to be one with the beloved. I used to hold dear the doctrine—borrowed from my aunt in Provence—that if one acts with sufficient passion in all things, then that passion will correct whatever might be unfortunate in one's circumstances. But after that look—Gerard's eyes so full of disappoint ment, as if the world had changed and he recog nized it finally for what it was, and would never call it beautiful again—after that look, I was no longer certain of my aunt's doctrine.
I tried to make the best of things, for he was good enough to me after a fashion—gave me a painting of a girl, my wish, not a boy, his, you see— though he was good enough to others too. It was no secret that he'd been well occupied during his period as ministre d'impôt, collecting for The Emperor 100 million guilders a year, but exacting less tangible taxes from some privately chosen devalued Dutch nobility, chiefly amongst them that former Baroness of the House of Orange flying the flag on a curl. I resolved to ignore that and not to think, and for the next year I occupied myself with pleasant things, like organizing excursions to the tulip fields of Haarlem in the spring, and in summer braving the wicked sea wind at Scheveningen to shiver in those funny wicker tub chairs on the strand, and in the winter having skating parties at the Huis ten Bosch. On the ice once, Gerard, nearly falling, let out a little whoop of terror and laughed at himself and reached impul sively for my hand, and I was overwhelmed with ten derness for him, though I wouldn't call it love. He would have reached for any hand to right himself.
And now, thanks to the Countess of the Marits huis, I knew that Monsieur le C— could, with his swirling variations on a theme, sweep away the de spair of my restlessness.
I sent a message to the Oude Doelen, inviting him and three others of his choosing, a string quar tet, to give a chamber evening in our home, "an ample white stone mansion on the Vyverburg," I wrote, so he'd know he would get an audience of substance. He replied cordially, and with that en couragement I called upon him the next day for the purpose of making arrangements. When he re ceived me, the immaculate whiteness of his neck linen sent me into a swoon, but luckily, with my smelling salts and his firm hand at my back, I was able to recover. I invited, breathlessly. That is to say I determined not to breathe again until he as sented. He tipped his head in consideration, arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, straightened the lace at his cuff, gave a slow, practiced smile, and sug gested that we take a carriage ride in the Bosch, the great wood outside
In the mirror I saw him looking at me, sitting on the edge of the bed without his breeches and without his stockings too, so his thin hairy legs dangled off the end of the bed like a spider.
I turned to him and said sweetly, "What is it, mon cher?" Always be sweet, no matter what. You never know what's on their minds.
He didn't say what he'd intended to, the words must have flown away like moths, but he had the look of a man to whom something had happened. His eyes were distressed, as though he saw for the first time that our possibilities had been checked, that the son he had imagined would never be. I think it suddenly occurred to him that we had stopped trying to have a child. At that moment I suspected that whatever hold I had on him was slip ping. Afterward, a heaviness sat on my heart.
I was brought up to believe that when one mar ries according to family wishes, with time and pa tience, love will come, so I had made an effort at love even though I didn't quite know what I was striving for. Oh, there had been occasions of pas sion, but was that love? I had a sentimental notion, to answer your question, that love meant one would risk all, sacrifice all, overlook and endure all in order to be one with the beloved. I used to hold dear the doctrine—borrowed from my aunt in Provence—that if one acts with sufficient passion in all things, then that passion will correct whatever might be unfortunate in one's circumstances. But after that look—Gerard's eyes so full of disappoint ment, as if the world had changed and he recog nized it finally for what it was, and would never call it beautiful again—after that look, I was no longer certain of my aunt's doctrine.
I tried to make the best of things, for he was good enough to me after a fashion—gave me a painting of a girl, my wish, not a boy, his, you see— though he was good enough to others too. It was no secret that he'd been well occupied during his period as ministre d'impôt, collecting for The Emperor 100 million guilders a year, but exacting less tangible taxes from some privately chosen devalued Dutch nobility, chiefly amongst them that former Baroness of the House of Orange flying the flag on a curl. I resolved to ignore that and not to think, and for the next year I occupied myself with pleasant things, like organizing excursions to the tulip fields of Haarlem in the spring, and in summer braving the wicked sea wind at Scheveningen to shiver in those funny wicker tub chairs on the strand, and in the winter having skating parties at the Huis ten Bosch. On the ice once, Gerard, nearly falling, let out a little whoop of terror and laughed at himself and reached impul sively for my hand, and I was overwhelmed with ten derness for him, though I wouldn't call it love. He would have reached for any hand to right himself.
And now, thanks to the Countess of the Marits huis, I knew that Monsieur le C— could, with his swirling variations on a theme, sweep away the de spair of my restlessness.
I sent a message to the Oude Doelen, inviting him and three others of his choosing, a string quar tet, to give a chamber evening in our home, "an ample white stone mansion on the Vyverburg," I wrote, so he'd know he would get an audience of substance. He replied cordially, and with that en couragement I called upon him the next day for the purpose of making arrangements. When he re ceived me, the immaculate whiteness of his neck linen sent me into a swoon, but luckily, with my smelling salts and his firm hand at my back, I was able to recover. I invited, breathlessly. That is to say I determined not to breathe again until he as sented. He tipped his head in consideration, arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, straightened the lace at his cuff, gave a slow, practiced smile, and sug gested that we take a carriage ride in the Bosch, the great wood outside
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