Read Online I Am Rembrandt's Daughter by Lynn Cullen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Cullen
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painting, but I suppose Vader’s reputation is enough to go on.”
“Gerrit Hendrickszoon said the boy told him about it.” Titus puts his finger to the printing cylinder, then pulls it away, inky. “Nicolaes Bruyningh’s nephew.”
I make my voice light and unconcerned. “His name is Carel, I think.”
Neel looks up.
I am furious to find myself blushing.
“You would not remember Nicolaes Bruyningh,” Titus says, wiping his finger underneath the press, “but I do. He sat for Vader back in the days Vader was friends with the Stadholder. Nicolaes must have been younger than I am now—about Neel’s age, twenty-one, twenty-two. Entertained everyone in the house. Stories? The man was a wit. I worshipped him. His nephew would be lucky if he was anything like him.”
Neel is watching me.
“Where is Magdalena?” I ask Titus.
“Home, interviewing a maid. Her old one left her last week. I never knew it was such a chore to keep a servant—evidently they leave on the slightest whim. Magdalena is always having to replace them.”
I have met Magdalena only twice, once fleetingly on the street when I was out buying bacon with Titus, the other at her wedding, just before the predicant commenced reading the vows, but I cannot help but wonder how much of Magdalena’s maid problem lies with her and how much with the maids. She was not exactly friendly to me, though with my poor pedigree, what person of quality would be? Even though Titus’s moeder was kin to Magdalena’s family, with Vader dirtying the waters, it is a miracle they allowed Titus to marry her—a testament to Titus’s great charm.
“When is she coming here?” I ask.
“Oh, she’ll be along eventually. She is busy just yet, giving trade to every purveyor of fine goods in Amsterdam. Now that there is a new man in the house, it seems there must be a complete collection of new tapestries, linens, and furniture, too.”
“How do you afford—” I break off, glancing at Neel, who is mixing more white into the umber on his palette.
“The van Loos have more money than they know what to do with.” Titus pushes away from the press, his eyes bright. “You wouldn’t believe it, Neeltje. I haven’t slept in the same set of sheets yet. I think they must have hundreds.”
“Titus?” It is Vader, at the top of the stairs. “Do I hear your voice? Titus?” Vader tramps down the stairs. Though it has been only seventeen days since Titus’s last visit, Vader clamps Titus to him now has as if Titus were the prodigal son, fresh from the pigpen.
“Vader,” Titus gasps when he can get a breath. “How are you?”
“Good, son,” Vader says in his throaty voice. “Good.”
We are as packed in the room as herring in a jar. I open the window again just to breathe. In floats a ridiculously jaunty tune from the carillon of the Westerkerk, marking a damp gray noon.
“Vader,” Titus says, “I heard you took a picture to Gerrit Hendrickszoon.”
Vader lets him go. “How did you know?” He frowns at me as if I have revealed our failed mission.
“He came to dinner,” Titus says. “But that is not my news. Vader—he has a possible buyer.”
Vader’s white brows draw together. “How can the van Uylenburgh whelp have a buyer? He did not even see the painting.”
“The Bruyningh boy told him about the picture.”
“Bruyningh,” Vader says. He looks as if he’s trying to decide something, then notices me. “Cornelia, quit peeping outside like a mouse from its hole and shut that window. That damned tune is killing me.”
“You are famous enough that people do not have to see your work,” Titus says to Vader as I pull inside with a shamed glance at Neel, though he is gazing intently at his canvas as if he had not heard Vader treat me like a child. “If they learn that something of yours is new on the market, they are interested.”
I wish to roll my eyes. This load of ox manure about Vader’s fame grows smellier with each
“Gerrit Hendrickszoon said the boy told him about it.” Titus puts his finger to the printing cylinder, then pulls it away, inky. “Nicolaes Bruyningh’s nephew.”
I make my voice light and unconcerned. “His name is Carel, I think.”
Neel looks up.
I am furious to find myself blushing.
“You would not remember Nicolaes Bruyningh,” Titus says, wiping his finger underneath the press, “but I do. He sat for Vader back in the days Vader was friends with the Stadholder. Nicolaes must have been younger than I am now—about Neel’s age, twenty-one, twenty-two. Entertained everyone in the house. Stories? The man was a wit. I worshipped him. His nephew would be lucky if he was anything like him.”
Neel is watching me.
“Where is Magdalena?” I ask Titus.
“Home, interviewing a maid. Her old one left her last week. I never knew it was such a chore to keep a servant—evidently they leave on the slightest whim. Magdalena is always having to replace them.”
I have met Magdalena only twice, once fleetingly on the street when I was out buying bacon with Titus, the other at her wedding, just before the predicant commenced reading the vows, but I cannot help but wonder how much of Magdalena’s maid problem lies with her and how much with the maids. She was not exactly friendly to me, though with my poor pedigree, what person of quality would be? Even though Titus’s moeder was kin to Magdalena’s family, with Vader dirtying the waters, it is a miracle they allowed Titus to marry her—a testament to Titus’s great charm.
“When is she coming here?” I ask.
“Oh, she’ll be along eventually. She is busy just yet, giving trade to every purveyor of fine goods in Amsterdam. Now that there is a new man in the house, it seems there must be a complete collection of new tapestries, linens, and furniture, too.”
“How do you afford—” I break off, glancing at Neel, who is mixing more white into the umber on his palette.
“The van Loos have more money than they know what to do with.” Titus pushes away from the press, his eyes bright. “You wouldn’t believe it, Neeltje. I haven’t slept in the same set of sheets yet. I think they must have hundreds.”
“Titus?” It is Vader, at the top of the stairs. “Do I hear your voice? Titus?” Vader tramps down the stairs. Though it has been only seventeen days since Titus’s last visit, Vader clamps Titus to him now has as if Titus were the prodigal son, fresh from the pigpen.
“Vader,” Titus gasps when he can get a breath. “How are you?”
“Good, son,” Vader says in his throaty voice. “Good.”
We are as packed in the room as herring in a jar. I open the window again just to breathe. In floats a ridiculously jaunty tune from the carillon of the Westerkerk, marking a damp gray noon.
“Vader,” Titus says, “I heard you took a picture to Gerrit Hendrickszoon.”
Vader lets him go. “How did you know?” He frowns at me as if I have revealed our failed mission.
“He came to dinner,” Titus says. “But that is not my news. Vader—he has a possible buyer.”
Vader’s white brows draw together. “How can the van Uylenburgh whelp have a buyer? He did not even see the painting.”
“The Bruyningh boy told him about the picture.”
“Bruyningh,” Vader says. He looks as if he’s trying to decide something, then notices me. “Cornelia, quit peeping outside like a mouse from its hole and shut that window. That damned tune is killing me.”
“You are famous enough that people do not have to see your work,” Titus says to Vader as I pull inside with a shamed glance at Neel, though he is gazing intently at his canvas as if he had not heard Vader treat me like a child. “If they learn that something of yours is new on the market, they are interested.”
I wish to roll my eyes. This load of ox manure about Vader’s fame grows smellier with each
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