The Miniaturist(36)

‘Chores over chaos will only go so far,’ Otto murmurs to himself as he passes by, and she wonders what he means.

Marin has dressed in her finest black. Not stooping so low as perfume but armed with a shield of voluminous skirts, she now paces the salon, her stride long and regular as the pendulum clock. Her slender fingers worry her psalter, her hair screened off her face by a stiff white lace headband, handsome features stern. Nella sits, dressed by Cornelia in another of her altered gowns, this one the colour of gold. ‘Where is Johannes?’ she asks.

‘He’ll be here,’ Marin says.

With every restless footfall Marin makes across the polished floor, Nella wishes she could go back upstairs and search her miniatures for some clue as to what might come next, if anything, and what the mottoes mean.

By the time the Meermanses arrive, the cold blast of canal-side air shooting behind them into the hall, Johannes has still not returned. All the windows have been washed by Otto and the panes catch the reflection of twenty burning candles winking in the early twilight, their honey scent mingling with the sharper tang of vinegar and lye.

If Agnes notices the effort Marin has exerted on her servants, she makes no comment. Gliding in, her poise perfect now, all traces of the childlike girl at church are quite evaporated. They curtsey to each other, their silence broken only by the crush of their wide skirts towards the floor. Frans comes forward, a look of strain upon his face. Marin raises her hand and he takes it, the gold of his wedding ring gaudy on her pale skin. Time appears to slow, the lights twinkling in the air around them.

‘Seigneur,’ says Marin.

‘Madame.’

‘Come in, both of you, please.’ She extricates her hand and leads them to the salon.

‘Is your Negro here?’ Agnes calls, but Marin pretends not to hear.

It takes the women a few minutes to arrange themselves in the chairs around the fire, due to the amount of material that swathes them. Meermans stands by one of the windows, looking out. Nella eyes the green velvet seats – their copper studs and carved wooden lions – and thinks about their shrunken doubles upstairs in the cabinet. How on earth did the miniaturist know to send me those? she wonders, desperate to know.

But a pulse of fear beats inside her. She has chosen me, but for what? Who is this woman, watching from afar, who comments on my life? Instinctively, she turns to the windows, thinking she might see a face there, peering from the street. But the light outside has darkened further, and Meermans’ bulk would scare a person off.

‘Cornelia should draw the curtains,’ Marin says.

‘No,’ says Nella.

Marin turns to her. ‘It’s cold, Petronella. It would be best.’

‘Sit by me,’ says Agnes, interrupting.

Nella obeys, rustling over in her golden dress. ‘You look like a coin!’ exclaims Agnes – and the ridiculous comment, thrown hard and bright in the air, falls to the floor with a thud.

‘Where’s Johannes?’ asks Meermans.

‘He’s coming, Seigneur,’ says Marin. ‘He’s been delayed by unexpected business.’

Agnes glances at her husband. ‘We are rather tired.’

‘Oh?’ Marin replies. ‘Why is that, Madame?’

‘Oh, Agnes, call me Agnes. Marin, I don’t know why, after twelve years, you can’t do it.’ Agnes laughs, the ha that makes Nella wince.

‘Agnes,’ says Marin quietly.

‘Feasts, mainly,’ Agnes goes on, sounding conspiratorial. ‘So many weddings before the winter. Did you know Cornelis de Boer has married Annetje Dirkmans?’

‘I do not know the name,’ says Marin.

Agnes demurs, jutting her lower lip. ‘Always the same,’ she says to Nella, her tone a mix of playful admonishment and deliberate barb. ‘I love a wedding,’ she goes on. ‘Don’t you?’

Neither Marin nor Nella say anything. ‘Marriage is—’ Agnes stops deliberately, considering her audience.

Marin’s hands are so still in her lap, they could be carved upon a tomb. Nella feels the jangle of this conversation, the dead ends of it and the unsaid words forming a knot in her mind. The only sound is the crackling of the fire and the occasional creak of Meermans’ leather boots as he shifts his weight at the window. From the working kitchen, the smells of Cornelia’s cooking waft, capons in mace and rosemary, a parsley pigeon in ginger.

‘I have to know,’ Agnes announces. Marin turns to her, alarm in her eyes. ‘What did Brandt buy you for your wedding gift, Nella?’

Nella’s eyes meet Marin’s. ‘A house,’ she says.

‘How wicked of him! Is it a hunting lodge? We’re buying a lodge in Bloemendaal.’

‘This one is enamelled with tortoiseshell,’ Nella says, beginning to enjoy herself, as Agnes’ eyes saucer in their sockets. ‘You . . . couldn’t possibly live inside it.’

Agnes seems puzzled. ‘Why not?’

‘It is this house, shrunk to the size of a cabinet,’ says Marin. From the window, Meermans turns.

‘Oh, one of those,’ Agnes tuts. ‘I thought you meant a real house.’

‘Do you have one, Agnes? Petronella’s is shot through with pewter,’ Marin says.

Agnes’ girlishness rises up once again, a momentary defiance flickering over her face. ‘Of course I do. Mine is covered in silver,’ she replies.