The Miniaturist(102)

‘Two guilders a day, Madame.’

Lysbeth Timmers wrinkles her nose. ‘Given the unusual circumstances I’m sure you’ll understand. Three.’

I nearly told Frans Meermans that Marin had birthed his child, Nella thinks, inwardly wincing at what might have happened had he caught that secret too. ‘So be it, Mrs Timmers,’ she says. ‘Three guilders a day. For all your help.’

Lysbeth nods, satisfied. ‘You can rely on me. I’m not interested in the burgomasters.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Timmers.’

Lysbeth grins. ‘Like that, is it? Well, a father’s a father in my world. All the same. And she’s a pretty one, make no mistake.’

‘No mistake,’ echoes Nella, trying to take control of her daze. Does Otto even know? she wonders. Did Marin ever tell – is that why he ran away? Cornelia looks as if she’s going to faint, and Nella wonders if the maid ever suspected this extraordinary truth. How determinedly she told the tale of Marin and Frans Meermans, how she boasted of her credentials as a keyhole queen! Otto was Cornelia’s friend, her equal in this house. She has lost her crown.

‘They like it, you know,’ Lysbeth says.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ snaps Cornelia.

‘The tightness of the swaddling,’ observes Lysbeth drily, blinking away Cornelia’s provocation. ‘It reminds them of the womb.’

Grief and confusion spreads over Cornelia’s face. When she thinks of Johannes in the Stadhuis and what has been indicted on his head, Nella knows it will be almost impossible to tell Cornelia another truth.

In Marin’s room, amid the seeds and feathers, Lysbeth proceeds to demonstrate the correct order of the swaddling bandages. Thea is pliant and half-asleep. She then feeds her again, and the child rouses, holding on for life, with an intensity of purpose that reminds Nella of Marin, poring over the ledger book or staring at one of Johannes’ maps. She stands peering at the wonderful conundrum, the peach toffee glow of Thea’s skin. Thea makes a little snuffle and curls her fingers to a fist. In the pattern of her newborn face, she has clearly claimed her father, but it is too early to tell exactly how far on one side the coin will fall.

Cornelia, moving as if in a dream, begins to light oil burners through the house, keeping the smell of death at bay. She turns all the mirrors to the wall, making sure her mistress’s spirit finds its way to Heaven. They do not want Marin stuck in the chimneys; they want her soul to fly through the clouds above the Amsterdam roofs.

They will have to move Marin’s body very soon, Lysbeth tells them. The bad airs will not be good for Thea. ‘Put a plain sheet on her, Madame.’

‘A plain sheet?’ says Nella. ‘I think not. Marin deserves the finest damask.’

‘She’d probably prefer the plain,’ comes Cornelia’s small voice.

Once the child is asleep, Lysbeth collects her three guilders, tucking them into her apron pocket. ‘Call for me when she wakes. I’m not far.’

Making her way through the kitchen door, under Nella’s insistence – no front door for Lysbeth Timmers, however much she’s being paid – she stops again and turns to her new employer. ‘What’s that thing you’ve got up there?’ she asks. ‘The big cupboard in the corner. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Nella says. ‘A toy.’

‘Quite a toy.’

‘Mrs Timmers—’

‘You must get the child baptized. Be quick, Madame. These early days are dangerous.’

Nella’s eyes fill with tears. She thinks of Slabbaert’s last words. Let the new baptism of Johannes Brandt be a warning to you all.

Lysbeth looks at her with a mixture of pity and impatience. ‘Just keep her cap on, Madame,’ she whispers. ‘I dare say it’s beautiful hair, but the poor child does have to live in these streets.’

As she says it, Nella wonders how that will even be possible. But Cornelia will never let the child go.

Cornelia is huddling by the cradle. Her face is waxen, blank. She looks wizened, and Nella is reminded of their first ever encounter in the hallway, her cockiness, her confident eye-balling of the new arrival. It does not seem possible that this is the same girl.

‘I tried, Madame.’

‘You did everything you could.’

Nella pauses, listening to the house. In the garden, a bundle of stiff browned sheets burns to light flakes, charred cotton fibre floating in the sky. Amongst the flames, Nella sees the sewn square of a cushion, a colourful bird’s nest in foliage. Cornelia has embroidered too much. Every moment, Marin’s voice.

‘We’re going to keep Thea, aren’t we, Madame?’ Cornelia whispers. ‘She’s safest here.’

‘We’re already bribing new people to keep our latest secret. When will it ever stop?’ Nella says. It’ll stop when the money runs out, the voice in her head replies.

‘I will die before I let anything happen to this child.’ Cornelia’s eyes are fierce.

‘Cornelia, even if it means taking her out of here to Assendelft, I promise you we won’t be giving her away.’

Now it is Assendelft which feels as far away as Batavia, not Amsterdam, as Agnes once said. Nella hears Marin again, her voice clear as a bell, grey eyes lighting up with scorn. There’s nothing to do in the countryside.