The Miniaturist(45)

‘I don’t want peace, Cornelia. I’d rather have a husband.’

‘My pasties will be ready,’ the maid replies, wiping her hands on her apron as a log in the fire breaks open with a shower of glowing sparks. Nella lays her kandeel down on the oiled surface of the little chopping table by her knee. I will not hurt you, Petronella, was Johannes’ promise, made in the barge on their way towards the Guild of Silversmiths. She has always thought that kindness was an active thing. But the not doing of something, an act of restraint – could that be kindness too?

She was taught that sodomy was a crime against nature. In that respect, there is little difference between the doctrine of an Amsterdam preacher and a childhood priest in Assendelft. But how right is it to kill a man for something that is in his soul? If Marin is right, and it cannot be removed, then what is the point of all that pain? Nella takes a sip from the kandeel and lets the taste of hot spices carry her away from the awful image of Johannes under a cold black sea.

‘I put dried peas in them too. A new idea,’ Cornelia says as heat rushes out of the stove door, filling the room. She puts the pasty on a plate, drizzling it in grape juice, mutton-stock and butter before handing it over to Nella.

‘Cornelia, was there someone Marin once loved?’

‘Loved?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Cornelia’s fingers tighten on the plate. ‘Madame says love is best a phantom than reality, better in the chase than caught.’

The flames of the fire arch and disappear. ‘She might say that, Cornelia. But – I found something. A note. A love note, hidden in her room.’

The colour drains from Cornelia’s face. Nella hesitates, then takes the risk. ‘Did Frans Meermans write it?’ she whispers.

‘Oh, by all the angels,’ Cornelia breathes. ‘It can’t possibly – they never—’

‘Cornelia – you want me to stay, don’t you? You don’t want me to make a fuss?’

The maid tips up her chin and peers at Nella down her nose. ‘Are you bargaining with me, Madame?’

‘Perhaps I am.’

Cornelia wavers, then pulls a stool near and places her hand on Nella’s heart.

‘Do you swear, Madame? Do you swear not to speak of this to a soul?’

‘I swear.’

‘Then I’ll tell you now,’ the maid says, lowering her voice. ‘Agnes Meermans has always been a cat to hide her claws. All those airs and graces – but look closer, Madame. Look at the worry in the middle of her eye. She can’t ever hide her feelings about Marin – because Marin stole her husband’s heart.’

‘What?’

Cornelia stands up. ‘I can’t tell you all this without having something to keep my hands busy. I’ll make some olie-koecken.’ She gathers together a bowl of almonds, a handful of cloves and a cinnamon jar. As she starts crushing the nuts and cloves, the maid’s whispering, her air of secrecy and conviction tastes more delicious to Nella than the pasty on her plate.

Cornelia checks the stairs to see no one is coming. ‘Madame Marin was a lot younger than you when she first met Meermans,’ she says. ‘He was the Seigneur’s friend when they worked as clerks at the treasury. The Seigneur was eighteen, and Madame Marin must have been about eleven.’

Nella tries to imagine Marin as a child, but Agnes had it right; it is impossible. Marin is who she surely always was. Something rises in Nella’s mind, a jarring note. ‘But Agnes said that Frans and Johannes met at the VOC when they were twenty-two.’

‘Well, she was making that up – or else Meermans lied to her. He never worked at the VOC. He met the Seigneur at the Amsterdam treasury and ended up making laws at the Stadhuis. Not very impressive, is it – to stay in the office when your friend is out at sea with the republic’s greatest company. He gets seasick, Madame. Can you imagine a seasick Dutchman?’

‘Well, I prefer horses to ships,’ Nella says.

Cornelia shrugs. ‘And both can throw you out the saddle. Anyway, Meermans first met Madame Marin on the feast of St Nicholas. Music filled the place, citterns, horns and viols – and Madame Marin danced with Meermans more than once. She thought he was a prince, so handsome. He eats too much now, but he was everyone’s favourite then.’

‘But how do you even know this, Cornelia? Were you even born?’

Cornelia frowns, dropping in her wheat-flour and ginger, thickening her batter with a whisk. ‘I was a baby in the orphanage then. But I’ve put it together, haven’t I? Keyholes’ she whispers, fixing her blue eyes on Nella with a knowing look. ‘I’ve worked her out.’ She draws a small bowl of apples close, peeling each one with a single rotation of her knife. ‘There’s something about Madame Marin. She’s a knot we all want to untie.’

But Nella wonders if there are any fingers sharp or deft enough to pick at Madame Marin. With her moodiness, her moments of shy generosity dashed by an unkind comment, Marin is the most tightly bound of them all.

As Cornelia resumes her whisking, Nella’s heart feels as if it’s swelling in her ribs. This girl came to Johannes’ office to save me, she thinks. And if that is true, then she’s the first real friend I’ve ever had. Nella can hardly bear it – any moment she’s going to stand up and throw her arms round this strange child from the orphanage, whose talent with food has given her the power to console.