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

Grinding pigment. As if I have time for that. With a sigh I go to the kitchen and tell Greta what she needs to do, then walk to the studio.

Brigitta stands waiting at a table of little bowls.

‘I’ll show you how to do it.’ She holds up a pestle and a piece of ivory.

‘I know how to make paint, madam. I’ve done it before.’

‘Very good. I only need blue and black. Go steady with the lapis lazuli, it’s expensive. Don’t knock over the bowl.’

‘No, madam.’

We get to work, grinding chunks of black ivory and lapis lazuli to powder by crushing them with the pestle. Eventually a splash of linseed oil is added and mixed with the powder to make a smooth paste.

When Adriaan comes to say goodbye, he finds his wife with a blue-and-black-powdered apron and hands. He laughs. ‘Are you sure you won’t come to Delft? Will you manage for the whole week on your own?’

‘Of course I’ll manage,’ says Brigitta sweetly. ‘Have you got the painting I did for Evert?’

‘It’s with my things. You’re not working too hard, are you, my dear? You look very pale.’

‘I feel fine. I’ll see you next week, darling.’ Brigitta stops grinding to give her husband a kiss, but not for long. As he goes out the door, Adriaan turns back. When Brigitta doesn’t look up, he leaves.

9 (#ulink_a202abc3-6571-5626-a4d0-840c406669a3)

For most of the morning we work side by side in comfortable silence. After a while, Brigitta puts a canvas on the easel and wanders around the studio in search of objects to paint.

‘I don’t want flowers,’ she says. ‘Nicholas wants me to paint a single object with as little colour as possible.’

‘You could take one of those beautiful vases from the dresser.’

Brigitta considers this and nods. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Fetch one, will you?’

I wipe my hands on my apron. In the kitchen I wash them thoroughly with soap and go to the living room. I pick up the vase with care and walk with it to the studio.

‘Put it down there.’ Brigitta nods towards a side table across from her easel. ‘Don’t drop it.’

Delicately, I place the vase on the little table. ‘Hard to believe it’s come all the way from China. I don’t even know where that is.’

‘There’s a map of the world on the wall in the living room, have a look at it some time. It really is ludicrously far away. It would take a ship at least six months to get there.’

The vase is stable and I take a step back. ‘How much is something like that worth, madam?’

‘That? I think about a hundred guilders. The two big ones next to the hearth in the parlour, easily double that.’ Brigitta laughs. ‘If my husband saw you walking around with them he’d have a fit.’

I return to my post behind the work bench and carry on grinding blue pigment. It’s not a difficult task, but I’m worried about the shopping that still needs to be done today. Greta will struggle to carry everything on her own.

My gaze wanders to Brigitta, who is holding on to the edge of the table. ‘Anything the matter, madam?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I stare at her in concern.

Brigitta never has much colour in her cheeks but now she’s deathly white and there are dark circles under her eyes. Suddenly she wobbles and I rush around the table to her side.

‘Are you all right, madam?’

‘Everything’s fine, I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.’

‘Perhaps you were bent over for too long.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Brigitta sinks onto a chair and groans.

I squat down beside her, take in her pale face and feel her forehead. ‘You’ve got a fever! Madam, you’re ill.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s nothing …’ Brigitta groans again and looks to me for help. ‘You’re right, I don’t feel well at all.’

‘You have to go to bed. I’ll help you.’

‘No, that’s impossible. That painting needs finishing. Nicholas is coming today and he’ll want to see whether I’ve made use of chiaroscuro, and …’

‘You can’t have your lesson if you’re sick. I’ll tell Mister Maes it’s cancelled.’ Fully resolved, I lead a weakly protesting Brigitta to the living room, to the box bed. Once there she gives up all resistance. She trembles as she lets me help her out of her clothes and into bed.

‘I’m cold,’ she whispers.

‘I’ll light the fire and fill the warming pans. Do you want an extra blanket?’ I leave the room and hurry to the kitchen. ‘Greta, the mistress is ill. Fill the warming pans with hot coals and fetch a blanket.’

As Greta walks away I pour a flagon of watered beer, walk with it to the living room and set it on the table next to the bed. I touch Brigitta’s forehead again and am shocked to feel how warm she is. Even so, her teeth are chattering and she’s pulled the blanket right up.

‘I’ve put something to drink next to your bed. If you need me, just say so, I’ll stay close by. Try to sleep a little.’ I grab a chair, set it beside the box bed and sit down.

After a while Brigitta’s breathing becomes more regular and when I’m certain that she’s asleep I get up. I beckon to Greta, who is peeping around the door frame into the room, and tell her in a low voice, ‘I wanted to go to the market with you today but someone needs to stay with the mistress. Go on your own and get them to deliver anything you can’t carry. Come on, let’s see what we need.’

‘I have to clean upstairs.’

‘That can wait. No one but us will see that it’s dirty anyway. I’d like you to call at the doctor’s and ask whether he can come to see the mistress. That fever worries me.’

‘She’ll not have anything serious, though, will she? Or anything catching?’

‘I don’t think so. She hasn’t taken very good care of herself, that’s all. We’re going to make sure that changes from now on.’

‘And that draught, what’s it called again?’

‘Laudanum. I’m glad you brought it up, we’ve nearly run out. Go to the apothecary’s on Rokin and pick up a jug. And I know it’s a long way, but you need to go to Mister Maes as well and tell him the mistress’s painting lesson is cancelled.’

Greta casts a happy glance at the glorious weather outside, puts on her shawl and grabs a basket. The front door closes behind her and I look around. What should I do now? Greta has taken a lot of work off my hands by doing the shopping on her own and now that I don’t need to mix any paint I have some spare time. That makes me think of the layer of paint covering the table and floor of the studio.

A few minutes later I’m marching through the hall with a bucket of suds. In the studio I pause to inspect the painting Brigitta just started. She has outlined the contours of the vase and its decoration in pencil and part of the sketch is already filled in with paint.

As I scrub the floor around the table, my eye keeps being drawn to the canvas on the easel. Something is wrong with the placement of the light. I can’t say for certain what it is, but it’s not right. I study the painting closely. The blue is too dark, Brigitta should have used a lighter shade on the side. And she should have left the lightest bits white. Nicholas explained that the other day.