‘A little.’
‘But a love match like my own – so rare! Frans spoils me,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘Much like Brandt will spoil you.’
‘I hope so,’ Nella replies, feeling ridiculous.
‘My Frans is a good man,’ Agnes says.
The uninvited observation hovers like a challenge, and Nella wonders at its odd defiance. Perhaps this is fashionable conversation – combative and unsettling, passing for casual talk.
‘And have you met the Negro?’ Agnes continues. ‘A marvel. There are hundreds on my Surinam estate, but I’ve not met a single one.’
Nella takes a sip of her wine. ‘You speak of Otto. Have you been to Surinam?’
Agnes laughs. ‘How sweet you are!’
‘So you haven’t?’
Agnes’ smile drops. She looks almost mournful. ‘The whole estate being given to us was a wonderful example of God’s beneficence, Madame. No brothers lurking, you see – just me. I could never risk my life on a three-month voyage, now God has charged me with Papa’s sugar loaves. How could I honour his memory if I was stuck somewhere on a ship?’
Nella’s wine goes up her nose. Agnes leans in closely. ‘I suppose the Negro is not perhaps a slave in the strictest sense,’ she says. ‘Brandt would not have us call him that. A couple of regentesses I know have one here in Amsterdam. I’d like one that plays music. The Receiver-General has three, and one of them’s a woman, and she can play the viol! Proof now you can buy anything under the sun, I suppose. What can it be like for him? We all wonder. Just like Brandt to bring him home—’
‘Agnes,’ says a voice, and Nella hastens to stand. ‘Please,’ the man before them says, gesturing to reassure her that curtseying in heavy taffeta is not required.
Agnes’ deft fingers twine in her lap. ‘My husband, Seigneur Meermans,’ she says. ‘And this is Petronella Oortman.’
‘Petronella Brandt,’ he says, looking round the room. ‘I know.’
For a moment, this scene – this man standing, the woman sitting by his side, dressed in their wealth, bound by invisible ties – is the most perfect image of a marriage Nella has ever seen. The unity of it is intimidating.
Frans Meermans is slightly younger than Johannes, and his large face has not been roughened by wind or sun; five scallops could be eaten off that clean, wide jaw. He is holding a hat, the brim of it wider than anyone else’s in the room. One guilder to you, Johannes, Nella thinks, wondering what other sorts of bets her husband wins.
Meermans is the sort of man who will soon get fat, she imagines. And he’s likely to, given the food they serve in these places. He smells a little of wet dog and wood smoke, wilder than the fruity pomade of his wife. He leans forward and picks up a shining spoon. ‘Are you a silversmith?’ he asks.
Agnes smiles tightly at the weak joke. ‘Will we speak with Brandt tonight?’ she says.
Instinctively, Meermans lifts his head and scans the room. Johannes has moved away from the group near Nella’s table and is nowhere to be seen. ‘We will,’ he says. ‘The sugar has been in his warehouse nearly two weeks.’
‘We – you – must agree upon the terms. Just because she will not have anything sweet, doesn’t mean that others won’t’ Agnes offers the air her unamused ha; pouring herself another glass of wine, her hand makes a tiny tremble.
Nella stands up. ‘I must find my husband.’
‘He’s coming now,’ says Agnes primly. Meermans grips the brim of his hat. Agnes offers a deep, slow reverence at Johannes’ approach. Meermans’ spine stiffens, he puffs his chest.
‘Madame Meermans,’ says Johannes. The two men do not greet each other with a proper bow.
‘Seigneur,’ breathes Agnes, her dark eyes drinking in the expensive cut of his coat. It seems to Nella as if Agnes is doing her very best not to reach out and caress his velvet lapel. ‘I see you are working your usual magic this evening.’
‘Not magic, Madame. Just me.’
Agnes glances at her husband, who appears to be concentrating on the tablecloth. As if he can feel her eyes on his neck, Meermans speaks. ‘We wanted to discuss the sugar . . . ’ He trails off, and Nella sees the cloud on his half-hidden face.
‘When will it sell?’ Agnes asks, her question jabbing the air.
‘I have it in hand, Madame.’
‘Of course, Seigneur. I would never doubt—’
‘Van Riebeeck’s corruption at the Goede Hoop, these bloody little emperors at our far-flung outposts,’ Johannes says. ‘Batavian back-handers, black markets in the east – people are craving good product, and I’m telling them it’s coming from you, Madame. The West Indies will end up saving us all, I imagine – but I will not take your sugar to the bourse. The trading floor is a circus, the brokers like crazed harpies. This sugar requires careful, controlled release abroad—’
‘But not the English,’ Agnes interrupts. ‘I hate the English. The trouble they caused my father in Surinam.’
‘Never the English,’ Johannes assures her. ‘It’s well stored,’ he adds smoothly. ‘You can go and check it if you want.’
‘You are most unusual, Seigneur, in insisting you sell abroad,’ Meermans observes. ‘Most good Dutchmen would keep such treasure to themselves, and given the quality of it, it would fetch a handsome price.’
‘I find such amour-propre self-defeating,’ Johannes says. ‘It helps no one. We are seen abroad as untrustworthy. I have no desire to be such a thing. Why not spread your sugar’s reputation?’
‘For better or worse, we have put our trust in you.’
‘I’m keeping a sugar loaf at home,’ Agnes interrupts, pouring balm on heated water. ‘It’s so – beautifully solid. Hard as a diamond, sweet as a puppy. That’s what my father used to say.’ She fiddles with the lace at her neck. ‘I can hardly bear to break it.’
Nella sways, staring at the dregs in her wineglass, slightly drunk.
‘I will sail to Venice for you both,’ Johannes says. ‘Plenty of buyers there. It is not the best time for your sugar to arrive, but be assured there are Venetians who will want to buy.’
‘Venetians?’ Agnes gasps. ‘Papists?’
‘Her father worked very hard, Seigneur Brandt,’ Meermans snaps, ‘not to fill Catholic stomachs.’
‘But a guilder from any pocket is just as useful, is it not? A true businessman knows that. Venice and Milan eat sugar like we Dutchmen breathe—’
‘Come, Agnes,’ Frans says. ‘I’m tired. And full.’ He jams his hat back on his head like a stopper on his thoughts. Agnes stands waiting as the awkward silence grows.
‘Goodnight, then,’ says Johannes finally, his broad smile unable to mask the fatigue behind his eyes.
‘God be with you,’ Agnes says, snaking her arm upon her husband’s. As the couple make their way along the mahogany panelling, the massacred tablecloths, the tipped-over silver jugs and scraps of food, Nella feels a spreading sense of worry.
‘Johannes,’ she says. ‘Marin said we must invite—’
He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she sags at his weight. ‘Nella,’ he sighs, ‘with people like that, you must always leave them wanting more.’
But when Agnes looks over her shoulder and throws her a haughty glance, Nella is not so sure.