The Miniaturist(71)

She is being called – it is Cornelia, high-pitched, hysterical – Madame Nella! Madame Nella! Nella rubs her eyes. The clanking has stopped. Dazed, she stands up on the trunk of guilders and looks through the window. Red ribbons over barrel chests, the flash of burnished metal, swords and pistols. The St George Militia. Then the hammering on the front door starts up. Cornelia bursts in. ‘It’s them,’ she hisses, terrified. ‘They’ve come.’

Nella closes her eyes and gives quick thanks that by now Johannes is on a ship, far from here. Marin is in the hallway as the hammering continues, and the three women have a rushed conference, Dhana bucking on her paws between them.

‘Did he go?’ Marin asks. When Nella nods, she can see the fleeting pain in Marin’s face, quickly masked. ‘I cannot trust myself in front of them,’ Marin says, moving up the staircase as Nella tries to control the dog.

‘Marin, no—’

‘I will only lose my temper, especially if Frans Meermans is among them.’

‘What? You can’t leave me with them—’

‘I trust you, Petronella.’

Marin disappears. Cornelia opens the front door and on the top step are six guards of the St George Militia, dressed in the costume of wealthy warriors. They present their silver and pewter breastplates, their donderbusses swinging at their hips. Nella says nothing, her hands clasped, her bowels beginning to churn. She notices with relief that Frans Meermans is not among their number.

‘We’ve come for Johannes Brandt,’ states the guard nearest to the door. He has a Hague accent – his syllables staccato, not so Amsterdammish.

‘He is not here, Seigneur,’ Nella replies, feeling her jaw slacken. I will not ask him why he’s come, she thinks. No rope, no inch, no chance to humiliate us further.

The civil guard looks her in the eye. He is tall, about Johannes’ age, bald except for a beard more ornate than the others, streaked grey and worked into old-fashioned points. ‘So where is he?’ he asks.

‘Travelling,’ replies Nella, the lie as quick as breath, though her tongue feels fat and sodden and she finds it hard to sound convincing. She tries to emulate Marin’s imperiousness, but she feels their collective confidence as they look down on her, their shared medals glinting, their pressed red ribbons, grim streamers of fraternity. Chests swell towards her, full-bellied, sated with the finest food.

‘We know he’s here,’ says another man. ‘You don’t want to make a fuss on your doorstep.’

‘Good day to you,’ she says, beginning to close the door. The militiaman puts his foot out and stops her. To the sound of snickering from the other five, he pushes against the wood, and for a moment the young woman and the grizzled soldier are locked in a small war of force. He wins, easily, and the six men troop in, their heavy feet ringing on the marble tiles. They remove their helmets, looking round at the tapestries and paintings, the finely polished staircase, the wall-sconces and gleaming windows. They look less like military men than lawyers drawing up a corpse’s inventory.

‘Girl,’ the first guard barks, spying Cornelia. ‘Go and fetch your master.’ When Cornelia doesn’t move, he puts his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Get him,’ he says, ‘or we’ll take you too.’

‘Let’s drop her off at the Spinhuis for a dose of discipline,’ says another with a laugh.

Nella wonders if these six men have ever seen a real day of battle. They seem to like their uniforms too much. Run, Johannes, she thinks, trying to tamp down her rising panic. Run, run, far away.

‘I’ve said it once already, he isn’t here,’ she says. ‘Now, Seigneurs, good day.’

‘Do you know why we want him?’ the first guard asks, approaching Nella. The other five fan out, making a loose horseshoe around her and Cornelia. ‘We’re here under the jurisdiction of Schout Slabbaert and the Head Burgomaster at the Stadhuis, Madame Brandt. The prison guards at the Stadhuis are looking forward to his visit.’

‘Close the door,’ says Nella, and Cornelia scuttles to obey, the light dimming as the maid shuts away the life outside. ‘You may speak to my husband when you find him.’

‘Why, have you lost him?’ asks one of the other guards.

‘I bet I know where he is,’ replies another to a ripple of more open laughter. Nella wishes they were all dead.

‘An Englishman has reported an attack on the Eastern Islands, Madame,’ the first guard says. ‘The English diplomat is up in arms on behalf of his king – and there’s two witnesses to verify it all,’ the first guard says.

The Meermanses and Jack must have worked together, Nella thinks – the boy receiving payment, no doubt, for playing another of his parts. Agnes and Frans are such improbable allies with Jack Philips, but what does that matter in the face of collective sweet revenge? Nella imagines pulling off their puppet heads – all three of them dismembered and stripped of their power.

The situation is slipping from her grasp. She looks desperately round the faces, for a drop of kindness, even of discomfort. Any point of weakness will do, and she will pulverize it. There is one guard who looks older than Johannes, but with the same tanned and open face. When their eyes meet, he looks away, and Nella pulls on what she hopes is a hanging shred of shame.

‘What’s your name, Seigneur?’ she asks.