Midnight Blue: A gripping historical novel about the birth of Delft pottery, set in the Dutch Golden Age

I get out too, the jug of wine we’ve brought as a gift clutched to my chest. I gaze up in wonder. The building we’ve come to is magnificent, with a gable covered in red and green tiles.

The servant opens the door and shows us into a black-and-white-tiled hall with several doors. She leads the way up the stairs to the second floor. The workshop windows open out onto the street. It is a large, light room where five apprentices are at work. The artist himself is standing at his easel and doesn’t look up for a second. It’s only when his servant coughs that he puts down his paintbrush.

‘Mister Van Rijn, Mistress Van Nulandt.’ Rembrandt van Rijn turns, wipes his paint-covered hand on his shirt and makes a half bow.

‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ says Brigitta, blushing.

Van Rijn smiles faintly and a silence falls. Just as it’s getting awkward, Adriaan points to the canvas on the easel. ‘I see you are busy.’

‘I’m always busy, Mister Van Nulandt. Always. This is a commission. It has to be ready in four weeks’ time.’ Van Rijn glances at the canvas with a look that suggests he’d rather carry on painting.

‘We shan’t keep you long.’ Adriaan waves me over from where I’m standing by the door. I give Adriaan the jug of wine and he presents it to Van Rijn with a bow.

An exchange of pleasantries follows, but I pay no attention to what’s being said. I only have eyes for the painting Rembrandt is working on. A young woman looks up out of the canvas with such lifelike eyes it seems she can really see me. How is it possible for someone to paint something so realistic? It’s unbelievable.

Van Rijn obviously notices my fascination because he turns to me and asks, ‘Do you like it?’

I’m struck dumb for a second by this direct question but I recover quickly. ‘The woman is looking straight into my soul, as if she knows me. It’s almost unnerving,’ I say, full of awe. ‘And the way the light falls, and the colours! It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

A smile spreads over Rembrandt’s face. ‘Do you like art?’

I nod fervently before noticing my employers’ faces.

I hastily shuffle backwards. As Adriaan and Brigitta take over the conversation, I wander around the messy studio, watching as the apprentices grind pigment, wash brushes, or sit and paint. Then I stand for a long time in front of the paintings by the master himself, which are dotted about the studio.

Much too soon, Adriaan and Brigitta are making their farewells. I’m the last to leave the studio and turn back for a final look. Van Rijn is smiling at me and I smile back.

‘Really!’ says Brigitta once we’re back in the coach, ‘I expected more than that. What a surly man. He didn’t even offer us a drink.’

‘I got the impression we were disturbing him. He was busy,’ says Adriaan.

‘So what? We’ve commissioned a painting, he should have made more time for us.’

Brigitta turns to me. ‘What did you think of him? He was rude, wasn’t he?’

‘He should have offered you something to drink, madam. On the other hand, when you’re busy painting you don’t like being disturbed either.’

Brigitta looks thoughtful. ‘There is that. True artists can’t bring themselves to waste time with chitchat. But he had no cause to be so surly. I don’t know whether I like Mister Van Rijn.’

As I stare out at the hustle and bustle on the street, I can still feel the warmth of Rembrandt’s smile.

8 (#ulink_174b8943-0402-54a3-9b19-5adbac3f7dfd)

A few days later Matthias leaves for Antwerp. Despite my resolution to keep my distance, I miss him. The house is quiet. There’s no laughter or whistling, and days go by where I only speak to Greta and Brigitta, and Brigitta only says the bare minimum. Since her lessons started, she’s working even harder. Nicholas Maes comes twice a week to instruct her. He’s a nice boy, still very young. One day when I let him in and Brigitta keeps him waiting, we get to talking. He says he’s twenty and comes from Dordrecht. However much he likes Amsterdam, he still plans to go back to his hometown later this year, once he’s finished his master work.

‘I’ll always be a Dordrechter at heart,’ he says with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m homesick.’

‘That I understand all too well.’ I smile back and let him into the studio.

From my corner, where I sit with a pile of mending that never seems to get any smaller, I have a good view of the painting Brigitta and Nicholas are working on. Because I’m sitting behind them, they have no idea I’m watching the lessons with such interest.

Sometimes, when I have time to stop and take stock, I think back on my reluctance to come to Amsterdam and smile. I couldn’t have made a better decision. From the first moment I set foot on the quayside, I felt the heart of the city beating and sensed her lust for life.

It’s infectious. The fact that I have to work hard for long hours doesn’t bother me. Whether I’m walking along Keizersgracht as the spring sun’s glittering on the water, diving into the hustle and bustle of the market, or looking around the harbour at the VOC ships, I savour every moment, revelling in the bustle around me. The weeks pass and it’s May before I know it.

On my day off, I walk out of the city to the countryside with its polder meadows and vegetable gardens. Whenever I see farmers sailing towards Amsterdam with barges full of milk cans and cheese, it brings a stab of homesickness.

I wrote a letter home and received a couple of words back, just the once. I will have to be satisfied with that.

On Sundays we go to church. The master and mistress sit in special pews reserved for patricians. The lower orders have to stand. Not that I mind. However painful my feet and knees, I stand motionless, my eyes fixed on the pulpit, and sing and pray.

Adriaan praises my piety. ‘You have to stand through the entire service, yet you’re always the last to leave the church. Many people would do well to follow your example.’

He and Matthias are originally from Delft, where their elder brother Evert still lives. Their parents had a pottery in Delft and did a fair trade. It was a smart move on the part of Conrad van Nulandt to invest in the first voyage to the East. The expedition hadn’t done that well but a second voyage brought enormous profits. The pottery was expanded to a second site, which also did brilliantly. After the death of their parents, Evert took over the largest pottery and the younger brothers sold the second one. Adriaan left for Amsterdam with his share of the inheritance and worked his way up to become one of the masters of the East India Company. Matthias, not yet twenty when his parents died, rapidly ran through a large portion of his fortune and went to work for his brother.

One windy day in June, Adriaan announces he’s going to Delft to pay a visit to his oldest brother.

‘I’ll be gone for a week. Take good care of my wife, will you?’ he says.

‘Of course, sir. There’s no need to worry.’

‘How are her painting lessons going?’

‘Young Master Maes gives useful advice.’

‘So it’s going well. Is he satisfied with her progress?’

‘Her work is getting better and better.’

‘Good. You may go, Catrin. Thank you.’

I rush up to the living room, which is in need of a good clean. Greta can wash the furniture and scrub the floor, but she has to steer clear of the porcelain.

I take dusting cloths and move all the objects arranged on the dresser onto the table. Then I wipe away the dust, polish the silver and clean the pair of porcelain decorative vases. They aren’t as big as the vases in the parlour but they are just as beautiful. Relieved not to have damaged anything, I take a step back. As always, I allow myself a minute or two to admire the cobalt-blue motifs.

Looking at the vases is like looking into another world. Every time I find myself hypnotised by the tiny figures with their long, pointed beards and baggy robes, the landscapes with mountains and birds I don’t recognise and the strange buildings.

All the patterns are painted with such hair-fine lines I almost can’t believe they were made by a human hand. You’d need a steady brush to work with such precision. The lines, curves and loops are exactly the same all over. Nowhere has the line been broken or applied too thickly; these are masterpieces. It’s strange to think that someone on the other side of the world sat hunched over these vases and that they spent months after that in the hold of a ship before winding up here on the dresser.

‘Catrin?’

I jump and turn around. Brigitta is standing at the door, her hair sticking up around her head. She has a weary expression on her face. ‘Will you help me mix some paint? I’m up to my ears.’

‘Shouldn’t I finish my work first, madam?’

Brigitta flaps her hand impatiently. ‘This room isn’t important, I need you.’

‘I’ll just give Greta her instructions and then I’ll be right there, madam.’