De Rijp, March 1654
Midnight Blue
The funeral was a week ago and I still feel more relieved than anything else. I know that’s indefen-sible, that I should be grieving, but it’s impossible.
I stand with my arms folded, gazing out of the top half of the kitchen door at the fields and meadows surrounding the farm, but don’t really see them.
It should never have come to this. Looking back, I can’t understand what came over me that night. For years I’d thought of Govert as just another man from the village, not someone I paid any particular attention to. I never gave him much thought at all. Not that he wasn’t an attractive man, in a certain way he was. The first time I noticed him was at the village fair, when he pulled me up to dance and held me to him. I’d been drinking, of course I had been drinking, but not so much that I couldn’t hear his heavy breathing or feel his body pressing against mine, his muscular arms clasping me so tentatively.
With every turn our hips brushed and the grip with which he steered me through the other dancing couples tightened. It was an exciting feeling. I realised he was in love with me. The off-putting way he stared at me when- ever we passed one another, with that furrowed brow of his, had been an expression of desire rather than disap- proval.
Did I feel flattered by his attention? Had I turned down too many potential suitors in the hope of something better? Was I afraid of being a spinster all my days? Or was I in love at that moment?
When he took my hand in his and led me outside to a quiet corner of the orchard I didn’t protest.
Govert was happy when I finally told him, four months later, that I was pregnant, all set to marry me and start a family. As a widower of around forty and not without means, he was a fair prospect, even if he wasn’t what I’d pictured.
Not that there was much choice. One moment of madness at the fair, one moment of total lunacy, and my future was set. Gone was the chance to someday leave the village and begin a new life, gone were my dreams.
The worst thing was that I wondered what I’d even seen in him that night. Whatever it had been, the next morning it was gone too.
We were married a month later, and six weeks after that my pregnancy ended in a premature birth. The child, a boy, was stillborn. That was over a year ago too.
And now Govert himself is lying beneath the cold, dark earth. The only mirror in the house is turned to the wall and the shutters have been closed for weeks. Today I’m opening them again. I let the morning light stream in with a feeling of utter pleasure. The living room, which was packed with visitors for days, is eerily quiet. I’ve lived in De Rijp all my life, and the support of relatives, neighbours and friends is heart-warming. My in-laws were notably absent. They probably find it hard to accept that I’m about to inherit all of Govert’s property after one year of marriage. It’s understandable, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And God knows I earned that inheritance.
I allow my gaze to wander around the room, from the round table next to the window to the fireplace and the furniture I painted myself. Sunlight falls on the flagstone floor and brings a little warmth. Not much, it’s only the beginning of March. The smoke drifts along the beams hung with sausages and bacon and up into the loft, which is still half full of winter stores.
It’s strange to have the house to myself, but I have no time to take it in. There’s work to be done and now that Govert’s gone there’s even more than usual.
Although I have a maid and a farmhand, there’s plenty left for me to do. Every day’s the same. I milk the cows, feed the pigs and chickens, tend the vegetable patch, churn the butter and make the cheese. I use the remaining time to wash and mend clothes, spin and weave and, very occasionally, to paint.
Now and then, when I glance at the shiny surface of a copper kettle, I catch a glimpse of my mother, her braided hair under a white cap. She’s always busy, always tired. I’m twenty-five but I feel much older.
Just keep going, I think as I head to the barn to check on the animals. The mourning period is only six weeks, not so long.
Jacob, the farmhand, has already started the milking. He greets me with a slight tilt of his chin. I nod by way of an answer.
‘I might be able to go and work for Abraham Goen,’ he says as I sit down on my stool.
‘That’s good.’
‘Now it’s only Jannet who has to find a job.’
‘It’ll all work out. If there’s nothing for her here, she’ll find something in Graft.’
‘When are you leaving?’ Jacob asks.
‘As soon as everything’s sold. The auction’s next week.’
Jacob nods. ‘Jannet would like to take the churn. Then she can make her own butter.’
‘I can’t give it to her. I’ve promised it to my mother.’ ‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Jacob pulls the full pail out from under the cow and stands up. The way he stands there makes me think he has something else to say, and I look at him expectantly. ‘About the boss . . .’ ‘Yes?’
‘His brother’s been telling tales around the village.’ I stop milking. ‘What kind of tales?’
He hesitates.
‘What is it, Jacob?’ I say, a little too sharply, sounding impatient.
‘I think you know,’ he says, and walks away.
Yesterday I made buttermilk curds. Today, for lunch, I smear some of the sour leftovers onto a slice of rye bread. Jacob and Jannet are sitting at the table too. We don’t say much, all three of us are deep in thought.
After the meal, I leave the work to them. I pull on a pair of clogs and set off along the dyke towards De Rijp. The farm backs onto the circular canal around the Beemster polder, which is surrounded by marshy lowlands. My parents’ farm is on the far side of the village, and the quickest way there is to walk through it. I walk along Kralingergracht and onto the main street, where the shabby buildings give way to grand homes with green and red painted gables. Closer to the centre of the village there are even a few stone houses with stepped gables, which look like they’ve been left here by accident.
On the way, I say hello to people I know, who reply somewhat reluctantly. Are they avoiding me? Are people staring at me?
By the time I get to the Kleine Dam and the bustle around the weighing-house, I can no longer dismiss my concerns. People are throwing curious glances my way and whispering behind my back. Only one person comes up to ask how I am and whether it’s true that I’m leaving.
The people here are proud of their village, their fami- lies have lived here for generations. Leaving is unheard of, practically a betrayal. But the villagers always thought I was a bit odd, so my plans should come as no surprise. ‘Are you getting rid of that dresser as well? The one you painted so nicely?’ says Sybrigh the wholesaler. ‘I’d be happy to take that off your hands.’
‘The auction’s next week,’ I answer, and keep on walking with an apologetic smile.
I turn into narrow Church Street and leave the village. I can see my parents’ farm in the distance. When I reach the muddy track that will take me there, I quicken my pace.
‘Mart was just here.’ My mother is rinsing out milk churns under the pump. In the pale winter light her face looks thin and old, and when she straightens she presses a hand to her back. ‘He came to speak to you but he was yelling so much that I sent him away.’
I grab a milk churn and shove it under the pump. ‘He’d heard you were leaving. He was furious, Catrin.’ ‘Why? Isn’t that up to me?’
‘Of course, but now? So soon after the funeral? Lots of people find it strange. You’ve got a farm, cattle, everything, and it’s all yours now. Men are lining up for you. Take Gerrit, if you got together you’d both be rich.
‘I’m moving to the city.’
‘To go and work as a housekeeper. Even though here you’re completely free.’
I sigh. ‘We’ve been over this so many times, Mother. I’m not planning to be a housekeeper forever. I want to save up, remarry and make a new life in town.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is what you’ve always wanted. As a little girl, you were always desperate to come along when we took the cheese to market. I never understood why; the others weren’t like that. Four hours on a barge to get to town and another four back.’
‘Crying because I wanted to stay.’ We look at each other and smile.
‘Well, you should do what you want to do. You’re not a little girl any more, I can’t stop you,’ my mother says after a short pause. ‘It’s just . . .’
In the silence that follows, I study her expression. ‘What is it?’
‘People are talking.’
‘People in villages always talk, that’s another reason I want to leave. I’ve had more than enough of all the gossiping and meddling.’
A look of resignation appears on my mother’s face. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she says. ‘But maybe it is better that you go.’