The Miniaturist(41)

As they move up the Kloveniersburgwal, Nella’s distress surges and she retches. Cornelia puts a firm hand over her mouth, for a cry will attract too much unwelcome attention on these close and watchful streets.

They reach the house. The door swings open as if by its own accord, but then Nella sees Marin and Otto waiting in the shadows. Hiding her face, she allows Cornelia to be her barrier, helping her up the stairs. Nella climbs onto her bed, and pulls at the bridal sheets, trying to breathe, choking on her tears.

Then, from deep within, the howl comes – a scream which rips apart the air.

Nella feels someone stroke her forehead, again and again, holding her, forcing a drink down her throat. She can hear her howling start to fade, the last noise dying. Otto, Marin and Cornelia lean like Magi over the crib, their faces full-moons of concern.

I am the wrong one, Nella thinks. Idiot. I was not supposed—

The faces disappear and Nella falls, the image of her naked husband vanishing beneath a darkened pool.





TWO



November, 1686


Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?





James 3:11





Inside Out


An irresistibly sweet smell wakes her up. Nella opens her eyes and sees Marin at the end of her bed, deep in thought, a plate of wafers in her lap. Marin unawares looks so much softer, her grey eyes lidded low, her mouth a dejected line. For seven days she has come to sit at the end of Nella’s bed, and on every one of those days Nella has pretended to sleep.

The image of Johannes and Jack Philips thrummed for days inside Nella’s skull, like a moth with constantly beating wings. Through the force of her own will Nella has made it flightless. She has stupefied it and removed its wings. But it has not disappeared.

What else did the two men do before she arrived in that office – their bed a rolled-out atlas, gods above their paper world? I am not capable of this life in Amsterdam, Nella thinks, wishing herself far away. I feel younger than eighteen but burdened as an eighty-year-old. It is as if her entire life has come at once, and she is wading through a sea of suppositions with no way of bailing. How foolish I was, to imagine I could make Amsterdam my own, that I could ever match Johannes Brandt! I have pulled my own wings off. I have no dignity.

The cabinet house, unpeopled, looms in the corner. Someone has opened its curtains, and it seems to grow as the rays of sunlight illuminate its frame. It captures Marin’s attention too – she places the plate of wafers on the floor and walks slowly towards it, putting her free hand inside the miniature salon. Pulling out the cradle, she rocks it back and forth across her palm.

‘Don’t touch that,’ Nella snaps, the first words she has spoken in a week. ‘Those things don’t belong to you.’

Marin jumps and puts the cradle back. ‘There are rosewater wafers for you,’ she says. ‘With cinnamon and ginger. Cornelia has a new griddle.’

Nella wonders what Cornelia has done to deserve a new griddle. The fire has been lit, bright and cheering in the grate. Outside, winter has made its true arrival, and within the room she can feel a trace of cold.

‘I thought you said an empty belly was better for the soul?’ she says, although she has been accepting the bowls of hutspot and the slices of Gouda Cornelia has been leaving outside the door. She feels the accusations boiling up inside her, ready to burst forth.

‘Eat,’ says Marin. ‘Please. Then let us talk.’

Nella takes the plate, a Delft pattern of flowers and intricate leaves. Marin plumps her pillows, resuming her perch at the end of the bed. The wafers are gold and crisped to perfection and the rosewater mingles with the warming ginger. From the corner Peebo squawks in his cage, as if he senses Nella’s reluctant pleasure.

What will Marin say, she wonders, when I tell her what I’ve seen?

‘Perhaps you would like to get out of bed?’ Marin sounds like a queen trying to be friends with a peasant.

Nella points towards the cabinet. ‘I suppose you’d be happier to see me in there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My life here is over.’

Marin stiffens at this, and Nella pushes the plate of unfinished wafers towards her sister-in-law. ‘No more of your orders, Marin. I understand it all.’

‘But I wonder if you do?’

‘I do.’ Nella takes a deep breath. ‘There is something you must know.’

Blood flushes into Marin’s pale face. ‘What?’ she says. ‘What is it?’

Nella, made momentarily powerful by her withheld knowledge, crosses her hands on the coverlet and stares into Marin’s grave eyes. Her body feels heavy, anchored to the bed.

‘There’s a reason I’ve stayed in here all week, Madame. Johannes – your brother – no, I can barely say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘Johannes is – your brother is – a sodomite.’

Marin blinks. The hardened image of Johannes and Jack bursts to fresh life in Nella’s mind. A flake of pastry sticks in her throat. Still Marin does not speak, examining instead the embroidery of the bedcover, the fat Bs swirled amongst the foliage and woodland birds.

‘I’m very sorry you are upset, Nella,’ Marin says in a quiet voice. ‘Johannes is unlike most husbands, I admit.’