The Miniaturist(26)
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No sure bet, he said. “Ugly from a beauty’s legs, rude under decent care, and stupid despite their clever parents.” Funny to a point, of course – Brandt always is. But one does have to pass it all on.’
It seems so disrespectful, so irreverent of Agnes to use only Johannes’ last name, to talk of him so freely. Nella feels affronted, mute, unable to imagine in what circumstance Johannes would ever talk about heirs to this peculiar woman.
Agnes lifts a jug and pours them two glasses of wine. For a few moments they sit in silence, surveying the steady inebriation, the splash of port on damask cloth, the glint of clearing platters, the last of the food ladled in. ‘The Golden Bend,’ says Agnes, her eyes sorting through Nella as if she was a pack of cards. ‘Coming from Assendelft, it must seem as far away as Batavia.’ She tucks an imaginary hair behind one ear, her ringed fingers glinting once again.
‘A little.’
‘But a love match like my own – so rare! Frans spoils me,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘Much like Brandt will spoil you.’
‘I hope so,’ Nella replies, feeling ridiculous.
‘My Frans is a good man,’ Agnes says.
The uninvited observation hovers like a challenge, and Nella wonders at its odd defiance. Perhaps this is fashionable conversation – combative and unsettling, passing for casual talk.
‘And have you met the Negro?’ Agnes continues. ‘A marvel. There are hundreds on my Surinam estate, but I’ve not met a single one.’
Nella takes a sip of her wine. ‘You speak of Otto. Have you been to Surinam?’
Agnes laughs. ‘How sweet you are!’
‘So you haven’t?’
Agnes’ smile drops. She looks almost mournful. ‘The whole estate being given to us was a wonderful example of God’s beneficence, Madame. No brothers lurking, you see – just me. I could never risk my life on a three-month voyage, now God has charged me with Papa’s sugar loaves. How could I honour his memory if I was stuck somewhere on a ship?’
Nella’s wine goes up her nose. Agnes leans in closely. ‘I suppose the Negro is not perhaps a slave in the strictest sense,’ she says. ‘Brandt would not have us call him that. A couple of regentesses I know have one here in Amsterdam. I’d like one that plays music. The Receiver-General has three, and one of them’s a woman, and she can play the viol! Proof now you can buy anything under the sun, I suppose. What can it be like for him? We all wonder. Just like Brandt to bring him home—’
‘Agnes,’ says a voice, and Nella hastens to stand. ‘Please,’ the man before them says, gesturing to reassure her that curtseying in heavy taffeta is not required.
Agnes’ deft fingers twine in her lap. ‘My husband, Seigneur Meermans,’ she says. ‘And this is Petronella Oortman.’
‘Petronella Brandt,’ he says, looking round the room. ‘I know.’
For a moment, this scene – this man standing, the woman sitting by his side, dressed in their wealth, bound by invisible ties – is the most perfect image of a marriage Nella has ever seen. The unity of it is intimidating.
Frans Meermans is slightly younger than Johannes, and his large face has not been roughened by wind or sun; five scallops could be eaten off that clean, wide jaw. He is holding a hat, the brim of it wider than anyone else’s in the room. One guilder to you, Johannes, Nella thinks, wondering what other sorts of bets her husband wins.
Meermans is the sort of man who will soon get fat, she imagines. And he’s likely to, given the food they serve in these places. He smells a little of wet dog and wood smoke, wilder than the fruity pomade of his wife. He leans forward and picks up a shining spoon. ‘Are you a silversmith?’ he asks.
Agnes smiles tightly at the weak joke. ‘Will we speak with Brandt tonight?’ she says.
Instinctively, Meermans lifts his head and scans the room. Johannes has moved away from the group near Nella’s table and is nowhere to be seen. ‘We will,’ he says. ‘The sugar has been in his warehouse nearly two weeks.’
‘We – you – must agree upon the terms. Just because she will not have anything sweet, doesn’t mean that others won’t’ Agnes offers the air her unamused ha; pouring herself another glass of wine, her hand makes a tiny tremble.
Nella stands up. ‘I must find my husband.’
‘He’s coming now,’ says Agnes primly. Meermans grips the brim of his hat. Agnes offers a deep, slow reverence at Johannes’ approach. Meermans’ spine stiffens, he puffs his chest.
‘Madame Meermans,’ says Johannes. The two men do not greet each other with a proper bow.
‘Seigneur,’ breathes Agnes, her dark eyes drinking in the expensive cut of his coat. It seems to Nella as if Agnes is doing her very best not to reach out and caress his velvet lapel. ‘I see you are working your usual magic this evening.’
‘Not magic, Madame. Just me.’
Agnes glances at her husband, who appears to be concentrating on the tablecloth. As if he can feel her eyes on his neck, Meermans speaks. ‘We wanted to discuss the sugar . . . ’ He trails off, and Nella sees the cloud on his half-hidden face.
‘When will it sell?’ Agnes asks, her question jabbing the air.
‘I have it in hand, Madame.’