Great wheels of Gouda and Edam arrived, and artichokes, and oranges and lemons and grapes and plums, and almonds and hazelnuts. Even a pineapple was sent, gift of a wealthy cousin of Maria Thins. I had never seen one before, and was not tempted by its rough, prickly skin. It was not for me to eat anyway. None of the food was, except for the odd taste Tanneke allowed us. She let me try a tiny bit of caviar, which I liked less than I admitted, for all its luxury, and some of the sweet wine, which was wonderfully spiced with cinnamon.
Extra peat and wood were piled in the courtyard, and spits borrowed from a neighbour. Barrels of ale were also kept in the courtyard, and the pig was roasted there. Maria Thins hired a young boy to look after all the fires, which were in use all night once we began roasting the pig.
Throughout the preparations Catharina remained in bed with Franciscus, tended by the nurse, serene as a swan. Like a swan too, though, she had a long neck and sharp beak. I kept away from her.
‘This is how she would like the house to be every day,’ Tanneke grumbled to me as she was preparing jugged hare and I was boiling water to wash the windows with. ‘She wants everything to be in a state around her. Queen of the bedcovers!’ I chuckled with her, knowing I shouldn't encourage her to be disloyal but cheered none the less when she was.
He stayed away during the preparations, locked in his studio or escaping to the Guild. I saw him only once, three days before the feast. The hired girl and I were polishing candlesticks in the kitchen when Lisbeth came to find me. ‘Butcher's asking for you,’ she said. ‘Out front.’
I dropped the polishing cloth, wiped my hands on my apron and followed her up the hallway. I knew it would be the son. He had never seen me in Papists' Corner. At least my face was not chapped and red as it normally was from hanging over the steaming laundry.
Pieter the son had pulled up a cart in front of the house, loaded with the meat Maria Thins had ordered. The girls were peering into it. Only Cornelia looked round. When I appeared in the doorway Pieter smiled at me. I remained calm and did not blush. Cornelia was watching us.
She was not the only one. I felt his presence at my back — he had come down the hallway behind me. I turned to look at him, and saw that he had seen Pieter's smile, and the expectation there as well.
He transferred his grey eyes to me. They were cold. I felt dizzy, as if I had stood up too quickly; I turned back round. Pieter's smile was not so wide now. He had seen my dizziness.
I felt caught between the two men. It was not a pleasant feeling.
I stood aside to let my master pass. He turned into the Molenpoort without a word or glance. Pieter and I watched him go in silence.
‘I have your order,’ Pieter said then. ‘Where would you like it?’
That Sunday when I went home to my parents I did not want to tell them that another child had been born. I thought it would remind them of losing Agnes. But my mother had heard of it at the market and so I was made to describe to them the birth and praying with the family and all the preparations that had been made so far for the feast. My mother was concerned about the state of my hands, but I promised her the worst was done.
‘And a painting?’ my father asked. ‘Has he begun another painting?’ He always hoped that I would describe a new painting to him.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. I had spent little time in the studio that week. Nothing there had changed.
‘Perhaps he is idle,’ my mother said.
‘He is not that,’ I answered quickly.
‘Perhaps he does not want to see,’ my father said.
‘I don't know what he wants,’ I said more sharply than I had intended. My mother gazed at me. My father shifted in his seat.
I said nothing more about him.
The guests began to arrive around noon on the feast day. By evening there were perhaps a hundred people in and out of the house, spilling into the courtyard and the street. All sorts had been invited — wealthy merchants as well as our baker, tailor, cobbler, apothecary. Neighbours were there, and my master's mother and sister, and Maria Thins' cousins. Painters were there, and other Guild members. Van Leeuwenhoek was there, and van Ruijven and his wife.
Even Pieter the father was there, without his blood-stained apron, nodding and smiling at me as I passed with a jug of spiced wine. ‘Well, Griet,’ he said as I poured him some, ‘my son will be jealous that I'm spending the evening with you.’
‘I think not,’ I murmured, pulling away from him, embarrassed.
Catharina was the centre of attention. She had on a green silk dress altered to accommodate her belly, which had not yet shrunk. Over it she wore the ermine-trimmed yellow mantle van Ruijven's wife had worn for the painting. It was odd to see it around another woman's shoulders. I didn't like her wearing it, though it was of course hers to wear. She also wore a pearl necklace and earrings, and her blonde curls were dressed prettily. She had recovered quickly from the birth, and was very merry and graceful, her body relieved of some of the burden it had been carrying over the months. She moved easily through the rooms, drinking and laughing with her guests, lighting candles, calling for food, bringing people together. She stopped only to make a fuss over Franciscus when he was being fed by the nurse.
My master was much quieter. He spent most of his time in one corner of the great hall, talking to van Leeuwenhoek, though his eyes often followed Catharina around the room as she moved among her guests. He wore a smart black velvet jacket and his paternity cap, and looked comfortable though not much interested in the party. Large crowds did not appeal to him as they did his wife.
Late in the evening, van Ruijven managed to corner me in the hallway as I was passing along it with a lighted candle and a wine jug. ‘Ah, the wide-eyed maid,’ he cried, leaning into me. ‘Hello, my girl.’ He grabbed my chin in his hand, his other hand pulling the candle up to light my face. I did not like the way he looked at me.
‘You should paint her,’ he said over his shoulder.
My master was there. He was frowning. He looked as if he wanted to say something to his patron but could not.
‘Griet, get me some more wine.’ Pieter the father had popped out from the Crucifixion room and was holding a cup towards me.
‘Yes, sir.’ I pulled my chin from van Ruijven's grasp and quickly crossed to Pieter the father. I could feel two pairs of eyes on my back.
‘Oh, I'm sorry, sir, the jug's empty. I'll just get some more from the kitchen.’ I hurried away, holding the jug close so they would not discover that it was full.
When I returned a few minutes later only Pieter the father remained, leaning against the wall. ‘Thank you,’ I said in a low voice as I filled his glass.
He winked at me. ‘It was worth it just to hear you call me sir. I'll never hear that again, will I?’ He raised his glass in a mock toast and drank.
After the feast winter descended on us, and the house became cold and flat. Besides a great deal of cleaning up, there was no longer something to look forward to. The girls, even Aleydis, became difficult, demanding attention, rarely helping. Maria Thins spent longer in her own rooms upstairs than she had before. Franciscus, who had remained quiet all the way through the feast, suffered from wind and began to cry almost constantly.
