The Miniaturist(95)
Frantically, she pulls the curtains apart. Cornelia opens her eyes, springing towards the bed. ‘I have to go to Johannes. Now.’
‘You can’t leave me,’ Cornelia pleads. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Marin’s pillow is soaked in sweat, and Thea, wrapped in a blanket, is asleep on her chest. At the sound of their voices the new mother flicks her eyes open. Beneath the salt-sheen, her skin still smells faintly of nutmeg, and Nella breathes it in. She must go to the Stadhuis, but she feels uneasy leaving Marin like this.
‘Nella, go and tell me what they’re doing to him,’ Marin says, her voice even weaker than the night before. ‘Go. Cornelia, stay with me.’
Cornelia takes Marin’s hand and kisses it with the intense affection of a child. ‘Of course, Madame. Of course I will.’
Nella goes round to the foot of the bed. The cord is still inside Marin, the end coiled upon the mattress. She tries to pull it, as if that will unstopper something – this sense of dread, but it is stuck, and Marin moans with pain.
‘She needs to sleep,’ says Cornelia. ‘We should leave her.’
‘I know you want to call for someone, Nella,’ Marin whispers. ‘But nobody must know.’
Marin’s stomach is a little deflated now that Thea has made her escape, but there is still a lump inside it. When Nella presses it, Marin flinches. This isn’t right, Nella thinks; none of this is right. The lump is hard, unyielding, and for a moment she wonders if there is a second child in there, a quieter twin, reluctant to emerge into the chaos. She wishes she knew more, she wishes her mother was there. Never has she felt more powerless.
The breath catches in Marin’s throat. Cornelia swoops Thea away as Marin ravages her lungs. ‘Madame?’ says Cornelia, but Marin bats the air with her hand, a visual echo of her brother.
Thea, on hearing her mother’s extraordinary sounds, begins to make more of her own. They are heartbreaking, exhilarating; short, homing squeals of a brand-new voice. Under the cover of the cries, Nella motions Cornelia to join her in the corner. ‘Look, Madame, look,’ the maid whispers, peering miserably at Thea. ‘What are we to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t seem possible. It cannot be true!’
‘Find Smit’s List,’ Nella hisses, ignoring her. ‘And bring a wet-nurse, a midwife – anyone who might understand what’s happening to her.’
Cornelia looks at the baby in terror. ‘But Marin will kill me.’
‘Cornelia, just do it. Johannes keeps guilders in the chest in his study. Give the woman whatever it takes to keep her quiet. And if there isn’t enough, then – sell the silver.’
‘But, Madame—’
Nella flees the room, too desperate to stop.
Running to the Stadhuis, breathless and red-faced, she arrives to find the gallery already full and proceedings underway, and has to take a seat at the back. Drained and delirious, her head aches, her eyes so tired and dry, her fingernails rusty with the residue of Marin’s blood. Nella wants to shout to Johannes what Marin has achieved, what magic lies waiting for him back in his house, but she knows she can’t. What kind of world do we live in, she wonders, where I might cause Thea harm by announcing her very existence?
She looks over the heads of the gallery spectators, down into the chamber. Johannes is holding his racked body very still upon a chair, with his head held high. Slabbaert is at his desk, the schepenbank lined up by his side. Jack is now among the spectators downstairs, watching Frans Meermans perched upon a chair in the centre of the flagstones.
Why isn’t Agnes there with him? What have I missed? She spies the back of Pastor Pellicorne’s head, his body inclined; excited, anticipating. ‘Did Agnes Meermans give her testimony?’ she asks the woman next to her.
‘At seven o’clock, Madame. Trembling, she was. I thought she was never going to let go of the Bible.’ The woman shakes her head as Slabbaert’s voice comes to Nella. The Schout is already in full flow.
‘Your wife has told us simply what she saw that night of the twenty-ninth of December, Seigneur Meermans,’ he says. ‘I would never offend a woman’s sensibilities, but now it is your turn to speak, I would like to probe deeper. Tell us what you witnessed, Seigneur Meermans.’
Meermans looks pale and large in his chair, nods. ‘We walked round the back of the warehouse and could hear voices. Seigneur Brandt had pushed this young man against the side of the building. The boy’s face was pressed against the brickwork. Both of them had their breeches round their ankles, their hats knocked off.’
There are sharp intakes of breath at this; an image of indignity and forceful desire rolled into one. ‘Jack Philips – as I now know him to be – was begging to be set free. He saw us and called for help. My wife, you understand, was highly distressed. She had entertained this merchant at her table.’
Meermans’ shaking voice fills the room, and to Nella it seems the Stadhuis walls are closing in.
‘Go on,’ says Slabbaert.
‘We heard the cry of Brandt’s disgusting release,’ Meermans says. ‘I left Agnes and as I came near, I could see the lust in Brandt’s eyes. He scooped up his breeches as I approached, and began to beat Mr Philips – rapidly, ferociously. There was a dagger. I saw him stab Jack’s shoulder. It nearly went into the man’s heart – he isn’t lying. No woman should have to witness that. No man either.’