Read Online The Golden Tulip by Rosalind Laker - Free Book Online Page A

window seat, the sunshine through the panes making a red-gold aura of its coppery luxuriance. The fond link between her aunt and her had continued unbroken through their correspondence, Francesca writing to her much as she might have done to her own mother.
    As usual, Janetje’s letter was full of family affairs, from the progress her sons were making with their education to the banquet she and Giovanni gave to celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary. She expressed her intense eagerness for news from Holland, not having heard for several months, and Francesca hoped that by now the letter she had dispatched quite a while ago would have arrived. Any letter from her aunt that came at this time of year never failed to have a strong undertone of homesickness. It was clear that Janetje’s thoughts always began to turn to the forthcoming Dutch Feast of St. Nicholaes, a family occasion that she had enjoyed both as a child and as an adult, and she never forgot to send a gift to each of her three nieces for the sixth day of December. This year of 1669 three pairs of scented leather gloves would be coming.
    Francesca lowered the letter to her lap and began to fold it up again, her thoughts full of her aunt. It was pleasant to have read the letter by herself, here in her own room with its simple furnishings and the four-poster with the plain blue drapes. Nobody intruded on her when it was known she wanted to be alone. Her sisters still shared a room, although there were enough bedchambers for them to have had one each, but Aletta still had nightmares if she slept alone and Sybylla liked her company.
    “Francesca!” Hendrick’s voice boomed up the three flights like a distant roll of thunder.
    “I’m coming!” she called back, not at all sure whether he would have heard her. She tucked the letter into her sash to take it to him, for she was already in robes from one of the atelier chests that she was to wear for the painting. Picking up a chaplet of silk flowers, she sprang up to cross to the mirror in a swish of heavy green satin, her sleeves of soft and flowing silk gauze cut so full they almost draped to her hems, the wristbands encrusted with embroidery, as was her low-cut bodice. She put the chaplet on her head. In her lobes were large azure earbobs from the chest of trinkets and a necklace from the same source encircled her neck. After giving a final touch to her hair, she gathered up her skirts and hastened to descend the stairs.
    Someone was hammering the knocker on the front door. Perhaps it was a tradesman expecting money, a pattern that never changed. If Hendrick had not called her she would have answered the door herself. Now she must leave it to Griet, who was equally well used to dealing with creditors. Her thoughts invariably went to her mother as she descended the second flight and turned by the newel post. She had no idea why, but she liked to believe she was being warned not to trip, for the last flight down to the stair hall was precipitous with barely enough room for two people to pass. By the time she reached the bottom tread the hammering had stopped. She sped from the stair hall, skipped two steps leading down from an archway into the corridor and hurried along it to reach the studio.
    “I’m here!” she announced as she entered.
    At the front door a tall, straight-backed young man in his mid-twenties had stepped from the stoop to regard the house with a frown. Was nobody at home? He had a shock of dark brown curly hair that grew fashionably to his shoulders and was kept temporarily in order by a black hat with a wide brim cocked at the side. His knee-length red coat was of good cloth, fitting well across his broad shoulders, and his bucket-topped boots were of fine leather. Under his arm he carried a lidded box. He had no wish to leave without fulfilling his mission and he looked upward to see if a window was opening in response to his knocking, but nothing happened.
    With no sign of life at the front