The Miniaturist(39)
‘That is what I said.’
Their eyes meet for the third time that evening. Nella, seeing the fatigue in Marin’s face, refrains from any protest. ‘Of course I will, Marin,’ she says. ‘Of course.’
It is a pleasure to play the lute, but an even greater one to see her audience’s faces as the hastily re-tuned strings lend themselves to her fingers. For once, Nella is the object of appreciative attention, playing for forty minutes in a horseshoe of chairs. Even Otto and Cornelia come to listen.
The contentious, now-diminished sugar loaf is back in Agnes’ pouch, and a quiet descends, strung together moment by moment with simple notes and a cracked song of lost love. Johannes watches his new wife with something akin to pride. Marin stares into the fire, listening, and Agnes nods out of time whilst her husband shifts his buttocks in his seat.
The Meermanses leave soon after, with promises to check with Johannes on his progress through November. Marin closes the door. ‘God be thanked they’ve gone,’ she breathes. ‘Clear it all in the morning,’ she tells Cornelia, who cannot hide her shock at being excused a night’s worth of plate-cleaning.
Exhilarated from her triumph, Nella cradles the lute in her hands, leaning up against the hallway window. Agnes and Frans are making their way down the front steps.
‘Tortoiseshell, Frans.’ Agnes barely bothers, or is unable after all that wine, to keep her voice down. ‘With pewter.’
‘Agnes, be quiet.’
‘What a strange wedding gift – the way these great minds work! I’m having one of my own, Frans. We can afford it soon. And I want mine to be better than hers.’
‘I wouldn’t say his mind was precisely great—’
‘And, God be praised – did you see Marin’s face when she ate our sugar? Weeks I’ve been waiting for that. Fransy, the Lord has been merciful—’
‘Oh, just hold your insufferable tongue.’
As they walk away, Madame Meermans falls to a silence that does not break again.
The Deserted Girl
Cornelia has already lit a fire by the time Nella comes to the next morning. Nella dresses herself, not bothering with the constriction of a stomacher, preferring a shirt and waistcoat to all the whalebone Cornelia would inflict.
‘Are there any deliveries for me?’ she asks Otto downstairs.
‘No, Madame,’ he replies. He sounds relieved.
Agnes’ observation still rings round Nella’s head. It is pleasant for Frans when I pay him visits. Though Nella had felt buoyed from the lute-playing, the whole evening has left a residue of discontent.
Whilst Nella has no desire to copy Agnes Meermans in anything – she does know more about marriage than anyone in this household. I must be seen to encourage Johannes, Nella thinks, to praise him at his tasks. In turn, perhaps, he will soon praise me. Her plan is to surprise Johannes at his place of work, and after that, to return to the sign of the sun. If Hole-Face isn’t hovering, perhaps the miniaturist will want to speak.
Though all the rooms are now once more immaculate, the whole house has a muted feel, an air of exhaustion after a fight. Johannes’ study door is open, and Nella can see his maps and papers scattered on the floor.
She wanders into the dining room and stops at the sight of Marin. Not fully dressed, wearing her house coat over a blouse and skirt, Marin draws it close. Her light brown hair is loose and tumbles past her shoulders, giving off the vague scent of nutmeg. It is like seeing Marin, but through a softer and enriching lens.
‘Has Johannes already gone to the Old Hoogstraat?’ Nella asks.
Otto comes to pour two cups of coffee, and the bitter smell sharpens her senses. A few drops fall from the spout, spreading on the cloth like virgin islands on a map. He keeps his expression focused on the stains that he has made.
‘Why?’ asks Marin.
‘I wanted to ask him where Bergen is.’
‘It’s in Norway, Petronella. Don’t bother him.’
‘But—’
‘And why do you want to know about Bergen, of all places? All they do there is trade fish.’
In the hallway, Cornelia is brushing the black and white tiles around the front door, her head dipped in concentration. Otto continues down to the kitchen, the waft of the coffee pot in his wake. The weak October light is dim through the windows, and the tallow candles, newly rescued from their hiding place, are already lit. Nella pulls back the bolts and opens the door. Cornelia stops and straightens as the outside air comes in. ‘Madame, it’s only eight o’clock,’ she says, her head erect, hands gripping the broom like a spear. ‘Where are you going so early?’
‘I’m running errands,’ says Nella. Her temper swells at Cornelia’s unconvinced look. She feels imprisoned again, the fledgling sense of power imbued by the lute already faded. ‘Ladies don’t have errands, Madame,’ Cornelia says. ‘They should know their place.’
It feels like a slap, an outrage that no servant would ever dare commit in Assendelft.
‘You should stay here,’ Cornelia persists, looking almost wretched. Nella turns to breathe the air of the outdoors, away from the smoky scent of the candles, her watchful face. ‘Wherever it is, you shouldn’t go alone,’ the maid murmurs, more gently this time, putting a hand on Nella’s arm. ‘I’m only—’