FIVE
The same evening, Sunday, 12th January 1687
Let us solace ourselves with loves.
For the goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey:
He hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed.
Proverbs 7:18–20
Nova Hollandia
She supposes he’s in shock at what he’s witnessed, for she has to pull him away by the sleeve, their feet slipping on the tiles.
‘Come home,’ she says. ‘Come home.’ Nella is in agony, breathless because it hurts so much. The light has failed now, and dusk is on them. She tries to banish the image of the cresting water, the sound of Johannes being dragged beneath the surface of the sea. Her speed increases for fear grief will paralyse her, that she’ll curl up in a ball on the canal path and never move.
Otto turns to her, stunned, drawing Johannes’ coat tight around his body. He stops, pointing back in the direction of the docks.
‘Madame, what has happened here?’
‘I can’t. I don’t know the words, Otto. He’s gone.’
He shakes his head, still stupefied. ‘I did not know he’d been arrested. I thought to go to London would protect you all, Madame. I would never have—’
‘Come.’
When they reach the Herengracht, Otto is overcome by the sight of the house. He grips the dolphin door-knocker like a prop to ward away collapse, his face a battle between agony and self-control. What he is about to discover beyond the door unfurls like a malicious flower in Nella’s body, for it seems impossible that a person could withstand this double pain. She stumbles in Otto’s wake at this worst of homecomings; but the peaceful interior belies the loss of Marin.
‘This way.’ She leads him through to the salon, where Lysbeth Timmers has indeed set a fire burning in the grate, warmer than any of them has felt for weeks, the dancing flames incongruously cheerful. Nella feels her blood brightening. At the back of the blaze, prongs of pewter bend in curtsey, panels of tortoiseshell split apart and crackle.
Lysbeth stands in the centre of the room, holding Thea tightly to her chest, eyeing Otto as he stares at the child. ‘Who’s this?’ she asks.
Nella turns to him, wondering if he is capable of introducing himself, if he is thinking the same question of Lysbeth Timmers. As if in a dream, Otto puts out his expectant palms towards the child. Nella realizes she’s seen him make that gesture before, his hands outstretched that first day she was here, when he gave her a pair of pattens against the cold.
Lysbeth shrinks away.
‘Lysbeth, this is Otto. Please hand him the child,’ Nella says.
Her edge of authority is so palpable that Lysbeth immediately obeys. ‘Softer with her,’ the wet-nurse mutters. Otto scoops Thea to his chest as if she is life itself – as if her tiny, beating heart might keep his alive. Even Lysbeth is muted, watching an introduction so strange in the midst of all this loss; so strange, and yet so natural.
‘Lysbeth,’ Nella murmurs. ‘Go and wake Cornelia.’
As soon as they’re alone, Nella knows that she must speak. ‘Her name is Thea,’ she says. ‘Otto. I have to tell you something.’
But drawn into Thea’s face, absorbed by his little mirror, it does not seem as if Otto is listening.
‘Otto—’
‘Madame Marin said it would be a boy,’ he says.
Nella does not know how to respond. It feels impossible to speak. ‘You knew, then?’ she says eventually.
He nods, and as his face moves before the firelight, Nella sees his tears, how he too is struggling for the right word, any word that might support a fragment of the weight his shoulders seem to bear. He gestures suddenly to the unpolished floor, to the dusty rosewood chairs. ‘She isn’t here,’ he says, as if these inanimate objects are comprehensive proof of loss.
‘No,’ says Nella. ‘She isn’t here.’ She swallows, knowing a sob is there, worrying that to cry might be an invasion of his grief. ‘I’m sorry, Otto.’
‘Madame,’ Otto says. His voice is raw; it cracks the simple word in two. She looks up and he holds her devastated gaze. ‘You saved the child. She would have laid down her life that this little creature might survive.’
‘But why did she have to?’ Nella says. Her tears are coming now, she can’t stop them; the effort to stop only makes them fall quicker, fuller, blurring her sight. ‘She worsened so quickly. I – we could not bring her back to life. We tried, Toot, but we didn’t know—’
‘I understand,’ he says, but from the pain on his face it is clear that he cannot. Nella feels her legs giving way and she reaches for a chair. He remains standing, staring at the top of Thea’s head. ‘I never saw her more determined than when she told me she was with child,’ he says. ‘I was sure the world was coming to an end. I asked her, “What will this child’s life be?”’
‘And what did she say?’
Otto holds Thea closer. ‘She said, “His life must be what he makes of it.” ’
‘Oh, Marin.’
‘I knew it might be safer if I left. But I had to come back. I had to see.’
The fact of Thea – the act of her creation – hovers in the air, life hand in hand with death. Maybe it’s a secret Otto will always keep, she thinks. God knows Cornelia will help him, pretending it never happened, as if Thea was immaculate, or found growing from a tree. Perhaps one day he will tell how it started between him and Marin, and why – and whether each felt love like power or abandon, and whether their hearts were freely exchanged and full of ease, or weighed down over time.
Thea, the map of herself – she will see those plotted points of her father’s face in half of hers and wonder, where is my mother? I’ll give her the doll, Nella thinks. I will show her those grey eyes, those slender wrists, even the bodice lined with fur. There must be no more secrets, so I said. So I will show her that observed curve, the miniaturist’s gift revealed. You were there, Thea. Petronella Windelbreke saw that you were coming, and she knew that it was good. She even sent you a cradle. She was telling your story before you were born, but now you must be the one to finish it.