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

I take a couple of steps towards the easel and examine the brushstrokes close up. Maybe if Brigitta scratches off some of the blue and paints over the top she can still save the picture, even though it would be easier to start again and use the white of the canvas. I would have gone about the whole thing completely differently.

Sunlight falls in through the leaded windows and warms my fidgeting fingers. I could have a go. Not a complete picture, I don’t have time for that. Just a section. Just to know how it feels to paint with a real brush and a real canvas. I could use that little one Brigitta never chooses because she prefers to work on something bigger. I’d have to buy a new canvas later to replace it, but now that Brigitta is sick she’s not so likely to notice anything is missing.

Even as my head is screaming that I shouldn’t be so stupid, my hands are already busy. They grab Brigitta’s painting and set it against the wall, pick out a smaller canvas and place it on the easel. I’m trembling a little but I can’t bring myself to reverse my decision. Everything in me is longing to let a paintbrush glide across the linen. First I make a sketch. I make hair-fine lines with a piece of charcoal. The vase is soon on the canvas, but the figures on it are a little more complicated. In the end, I only draw the most important bits and miss some of the details.

I choose a paintbrush with care. My first brushstrokes are somewhat tentative but I soon gain confidence. What a difference, to be painting on canvas. Earthenware is porous and sucks up the paint, linen is much finer. And the brush! It caresses the canvas, as if it has a mind of its own. By changing the firmness of the brush stroke and the amount of water added to the paint, I make different shades of blue, creating the same light, whimsical effect as on the vase. The people and animals come to life with every stroke.

Absorbed, I keep on working and forget the time. It’s only when there’s a knock at the door that I finally look up. It can’t be Greta; the household staff use the servants’ entrance. I hurriedly put down the brush, make sure there’s no paint on my hands and walk into the hall. I open the door and find myself face to face with an older gentleman dressed in a black suit. He’s wearing a hat and a ruff.

‘I’m Doctor Geelvinck,’ he says. ‘I understand Mistress Van Nulandt is unwell.’

‘It’s good of you to come so quickly. I’ll show you to her.’ I close the door behind us and lead the way to the living room.

Brigitta wakes up when she hears our footsteps. ‘Catrin?’ she says hoarsely.

‘I’m here. And the doctor is with me.’

‘Good day, Mistress Van Nulandt, what seems to be the trouble?’ Geelvinck goes over to the bed and peers down at Brigitta.

She tries to sit up but falls back onto her pillows. ‘I’m dizzy and I have a headache.’

As the doctor examines Brigitta, I stand by with my arms folded. It would be unthinkable for me to leave the mistress alone with a man, even the doctor.

After Geelvinck has felt her forehead, looked at her tongue and asked her some questions, he leaves the room so Brigitta can use the chamber pot. When he comes back, he pours the urine into a glass beaker, holds it up to the light, scrutinises the liquid and sniffs it briefly.

‘Nothing serious,’ he says after a while. ‘The colour and smell is normal. I suspect you have exhausted yourself again, Mistress Van Nulandt. You work too hard and don’t spend enough time outdoors. It isn’t healthy to be amidst paint and turpentine fumes all day.’ He turns to me. ‘Make sure she rests and have her walk in the garden as soon as the fever has subsided.’ He bids farewell to Brigitta and allows me to lead him back into the hall.

‘Should I give her that draught, the laudanum?’ I ask.

‘Yes, of course. It relieves tension and settles the nerves. There are healing substances in it, as in opium. It even helps against the plague. I take it during every epidemic.’ Geelvinck glances into the studio through the wide open door. At first he only looks in absently, as if by chance, but then his eyes fill with interest. ‘Was she working on that canvas? That is a beautiful piece of work. A truly beautiful piece of work.’

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To my horror, Doctor Geelvinck goes into the studio, making a beeline for the painting. He examines the half-finished picture in minute detail.

‘What a fascinating subject,’ he says. ‘Mistress Van Nulandt usually paints flowers. I didn’t know she was an admirer of Chinese porcelain. It’s remarkably well done. See how beautifully the sunlight falls onto the vase. And how precisely all those little Chinese fellows have been painted. You need a really steady, skilled hand for that.’

I stand behind him and say nothing. The doctor doesn’t seem to be expecting me to because he doesn’t look round once.

‘That would be wonderful above my mantelpiece,’ he says. ‘Oriental porcelain is too expensive for me, but a painting like that would be just as nice.’

There’s a commotion in the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder, afraid Greta will appear. The doctor has heard the noise too and goes back out into the hall. After repeating his instructions about Brigitta’s care, he finally leaves. Relieved, I shut the door behind him and turn to Greta, who’s just approaching.

‘I got everything,’ she says. ‘It was a lot, but I managed nearly everything on my own. A few more things are being delivered. Was that the doctor?’

‘Yes.’ I close the door to the studio. ‘He says the mistress hasn’t got anything serious. She’s tired, that’s all.’

‘No surprises there, shutting herself up in that pigsty all day and working all the hours God sends. I fetched that draught from the apothecary’s. Does the mistress need to take it?’

‘I’ll give it to her in a minute. Go and unpack the shopping.’ I watch Greta go down the hall and disappear into the kitchen. Then I nip into the studio and swap the canvasses. I run upstairs with my painting and hide it in the drawer under my bed. Back downstairs I heave a sigh of relief. I’ll get another canvas first thing tomorrow.

The next day the fever has broken, but Brigitta still feels weak and tired.

‘You should stay in bed. Shall I fetch you something to read? The Journal of Willem Bontekoe, perhaps? You said the other day you hadn’t got round to it.’

‘I’d really rather be painting.’

‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, madam. The doctor said I had to make sure you were fully rested. If the fever hasn’t returned by this afternoon, you can sit in the garden. The weather is glorious.’

To my surprise, Brigitta listens. ‘Maybe you’re right. Bring me the shipping almanac, will you?’

I fetch the book from the cupboard and hand it to her. If only Brigitta had just gone back to sleep, I would have been able to dash out and buy a fresh canvas and a piece of lapis lazuli.

‘Greta, I need to pop out to the market. There’s no treacle left to bottle the poultry.’

Greta, who is busy scrubbing the floor in the hall, glances up. ‘Yes there is! There’s another jar in the cellar.’

‘That one’s gone off, it smells strange. I’ll buy another.’ I throw on my shawl.

‘Should I go?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll just nip out myself.’ I hurry to the front door but Brigitta’s voice stops me in my tracks.

‘I fancy a trip out. Let’s have a stroll and look at the progress they’re making on the new development, Catrin. Adriaan wants to buy a house there if everything keeps going well. The gardens are much bigger than around here.’

I turn to face her. ‘That’s quite a step, madam. Are you sure you feel well enough?’

‘I think a walk is exactly what I could do with. Were you on your way out?’

‘Yes, we need treacle.’

‘Then we’ll pick some up while we’re out. Step aside, Greta, you can see I’m trying to get past. And don’t make such a mess on the floor – I might slip.’ Brigitta walks into the hall holding onto the wall for support and picks up her cloak. ‘I feel a lot better than yesterday,’ she tells me. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to get right back to work.’

By the time we return in the afternoon there’s little left of Brigitta’s energetic mood. I help her into bed and gently close the door behind me as I leave the room.

‘Keep the noise down,’ I tell Greta when she comes into the kitchen with clattering buckets. ‘I don’t want the mistress to wake up. I’m going to slip out and get the treacle.’

‘Weren’t you supposed to have picked that up while you were out?’

‘The mistress got so tired on the way back, we took a shortcut home. I’ll be back before you know it.’ I leave the house again without waiting for a response. Normally I take my time when I go out shopping; I don’t often get out of the house. Now I march along at a swift pace.

Luckily, it isn’t too busy at the apothecary’s. I’ve brought a few coins from my stash and use them to buy the lapis lazuli. I wince at the price, but there’s no other option. After that I go to the frame-maker and pick out a canvas the same size as the one I used. With the stone in my hand and the frame under my arm, I head back to Keizersgracht.

Once I arrive at the house, I go in through the servants’ entrance, slip into the studio and set the canvas against the wall. I place the lapis lazuli on the work bench and decide to go back and grind it into powder as soon as possible. In the hall I run into Brigitta.

‘Mistress!’ I say in surprise. ‘You’re up again already?’

‘I wanted something to drink. Why didn’t you come when I called?’ says Brigitta sharply.