She had expected to see coaches with the van Ritters coat-of-arms drawn up on the gravel driveway, and the family disembarking, with the coachmen, grooms and footmen hovering around them. Instead a horde of strangers was running in and out of the front doors, carrying armfuls of silver, clothing and paintings. The doors had been smashed open, and the shattered panels hung drunkenly on their hinges.
The looters were piling the treasures on to a row of handcarts, shouting and laughing with excitement. Louisa could see that they were the dregs of the city, of its docks and slums, army deserters, from prisons and barracks that had thrown open their gates when all the trappings of civilized government had been swept away by the plague. They were dressed in the rags of the back-streets and gutters, in odd pieces of military uniform and the ill-fitting finery of the rich they had plundered. One rascal, wearing a high plumed hat, brandished a square-faced bottle of gin as he staggered down the main staircase with a solid gold salver under his other arm. His face, flushed and marked with drink and dissipation, turned towards Louisa. Stunned by the scene, she was too slow to duck back behind the wall and he spotted her. “A woman. By Satan and all the devils of hell, a veritable woman! Young and juicy as a ripe red apple.” He dropped the bottle and drew his sword. “Come here, you sweet little filly. Let’s take a look at what you’re hiding under those pretty skirts.” He bounded down the steps.
A wild cry went up from all his companions: “A woman! After her, lads! The one who catches her gets the cherry.”
They came in a screaming pack across the lawn towards her. Louisa swirled about and ran. At first she headed instinctively for the safety of the cottage, then realized that they were close behind her and would trap her there like a rabbit in its warren pursued by a troop of ferrets. She veered away across the paddock towards the woods. The ground was soft and muddy and her legs had not yet recovered their full strength after her sickness. They were gaining on her, their shouts loud and jubilant. She reached the treeline only just ahead of the leaders, but she knew these woods intimately for they were her playground. She twisted and turned along paths that were barely discernible, and ducked through thickets of blackberry and gorse.
Every few minutes she stopped to listen, and each time the sounds of pursuit were fainter. At last they dwindled into silence. Her terror receded, but she knew it was still dangerous to leave the shelter of the forest. She found the densest stretch of thorns and crept into it, crawling on her belly until she was hidden. Then she burrowed into the dead leaves until only her mouth and eyes were showing, so she could watch the clearing she had just left. She lay there, panting and trembling. Gradually she calmed down, and lay without moving until the shadows of the trees stretched long upon the earth. Eventually, when there were still no more sounds of her hunters, she began to crawl back towards the clearing.
She was just about to stand up when her nose wrinkled and she sniffed the air. She caught a whiff of tobacco smoke and sank down again, pressing herself to the earth. Her terror returned at full strength. After many silent, tense minutes she lifted her head slowly. At the far side of the clearing, a man sat with his back to the trunk of the tallest beech tree. He was smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe, but his eyes roved from side to side. She recognized him instantly. It was the man in the plumed hat who had first spotted her and who had led the chase. He was so close that she could hear every puff he took on his pipe. She buried her face in the leaf mould and tried to still her trembling. She did not know what he would do to her if he discovered her, but she sensed that it would be beyond her worst nightmares.
She lay and listened to the suck and gurgle of his spittle in the bowl of the pipe, and her terror mounted. Suddenly he hawked and spat a glob of thick mucus. She heard it splatter close to her head, and her nerve almost broke. It was only by exerting all her courage and self-discipline that she stopped herself jumping to her feet and running again.
Time seemed to stand still, but at last she felt the air turn cold on her bare arms. Still she did not lift her head. Then she heard rustling in the leaves, and heavy footsteps coming directly towards her across the clearing. They stopped close by her head, and a great bull voice bellowed, so close to her that her heart seemed to clench and freeze, “There you are! I can see you! I’m coming! Run! You’d better run!” Her frozen heart came to life, and hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself not to move. There was another long silence, then the footsteps walked away from where she lay. As he went she could hear him muttering to himself, “Dirty little whore, she’s probably riddled with the pox, anyway.”
She lay without moving until the darkness was complete, and she heard an owl hoot in the top of the beech tree. Then she stood up and crept through the woods, starting and trembling at every rustle and scurry of the small night creatures.
She did not leave the cottage again for some days. During the day she immersed herself in her father’s books. There was one in particular that fascinated her and she read it from the first page to the last, then started again at the beginning. The title was In Darkest Africa. The tales of strange animals and savage tribes enchanted her, and wiled away the long days. She read of great hairy men that lived in the tops of the trees, of a tribe that ate the flesh of other men, and of tiny pygmies with a single eye in the centre of their foreheads. Reading became the opiate for her fears. One evening she fell asleep at the kitchen table, her golden head on the open book, the flame fluttering in the lamp.
The glimmer of the light showed through the uncurtained window, and from there through a chink in the hedge. Two dark figures, who were passing on the road, stopped and exchanged a few hoarse words. Then they crept through the gate in the hedge. One went to the front door of the cottage while the other circled round to the back.
“Who are you?”
The harsh bellow brought Louisa awake and on her feet in the same instant. “We know you’re in there! Come out now!”
She darted to the back door and struggled with the locking bar, then threw open the door and dashed out into the night. At that moment a heavy masculine hand fell on the back of her neck, and she was lifted by the scruff with her feet dangling and kicking as if she were a newborn kitten.
The man who held her opened the shutter of the bullseye lantern he carried and shone the beam into her face. “Who are you?” he demanded.
In the lamplight she recognized his red face and bushy whiskers. “Jan!” she squeaked. “It’s me! Louisa! Louisa Leuven.”
Jan was the van Ritterses’ footman. The belligerence in his expression faded, slowly replaced by amazement. “Little Louisa! Is it really you? We all thought you must be dead with the rest of them.”
A few days later Jan travelled with Louise to Amsterdam in a cart containing some of the salvaged possessions of the van Ritters family. When he led her into the kitchens of the Huis Brabant the servants who had survived crowded round to welcome her. Her prettiness, her sweet manner and sunny nature had always made her a favourite in the servants’ quarters, so they grieved with her when they heard that Anne and Hendrick were dead. They could hardly believe that little Louisa, at just ten, had survived without her parents or friends, and had done so on her own resources and resolve. Elise the cook, who had been a dear friend of her mother, immediately took her under her protection.
Louisa had to tell her tale again and again as news of her survival spread, and the other servants, the workers and seamen from the van Ritterses’ ships and warehouses came to hear it.
Every week Stals, the butler and major-domo of the household, wrote a report to Mijnheer van Ritters in London, where he had taken refuge from the plague with the remainder of his family. At the end of one report he mentioned that Louisa, the schoolmaster’s daughter, had been rescued. Mijnheer was gracious enough to reply, “See that the child is taken in and set to work in the household. You may pay her as a scullerymaid. When I return to Amsterdam I shall decide what is to be done with her.”
In early December when the col
d weather cleansed the city of the last traces of the plague, Mijnheer van Ritters brought home his family. His wife had been carried away by the plague, but her absence would make no difference to their lives. Out of the twelve children only five had survived the pestilence. One morning, when Mijnheer van Ritters had been over a month in Amsterdam, and had attended to all the more pressing matters that awaited his attention, he ordered Stals to bring Louisa to him.
She hesitated in the doorway to Mijnheer van Ritters’ library. He looked up from the thick leatherbound ledger in which he was writing. “Come in, child,” he ordered. “Come here where I can see you.”
Stals led her to stand in front of the great man’s desk. She curtsied to him, and he nodded approval. “Your father was a good man, and he taught you manners.” He got up and went to stand in front of the tall bay windows. For a minute he looked out through the diamond panes at one of his ships, unloading bales of cotton from the Indies into the warehouse. Then he turned back to study Louisa. She had grown since last he had seen her, and her face and limbs had filled out. He knew that she had had the plague, but she had recovered well. There were no traces on her face of the ravages of the disease. She was a pretty girl, very pretty indeed, he decided. And it was not an insipid beauty: her expression was alert and intelligent. Her eyes were alive, and sparkled with the blue of precious sapphires. Her skin was creamy and unblemished, but her hair was her most attractive attribute: she wore it in two long plaits that hung forward over her shoulders. He asked her a few questions.
She tried to hide her fear and awe of him, and to answer in a sensible manner.
“Are you attending to your lessons, child?”
“I have all my father’s books, Mijnheer. I read every night before I sleep.”
“What work are you doing?”
“I wash and peel the vegetables, and I knead the bread, and help Pieter wash and dry the pots and pans, Mijnheer.”
“Are you happy?”
“Oh, yes, Mijnheer. Elise, the cook, is so kind to me, like my own mother.”
“I think we can find something more useful for you to do.” Van Ritters stroked his beard thoughtfully.
Elise and Stals had lectured Louisa on how to behave when she was with him. “Remember always that he is one of the greatest men in all the land. Always call him ‘Your Excellency’ or ‘Mijnheer.’ Curtsy when you greet him and when you leave.”
“Do exactly what he tells you. If he asks a question, answer him directly, but never answer back.”
“Stand straight and don’t slump. Keep your hands clasped in front of you, and do not fidget or pick your nose.”
There had been so many instructions that they had confused her. But now, as she stood in front of him, her courage returned. He was dressed in cloth of the finest quality, and his collar was of snowy lace. The buckles on his shoes were pure silver, and the hilt of the dagger on his belt was gold set with glowing rubies. He was tall and his legs in black silk hose were as shapely and as well turned as a man half his age. Although his hair was touched with silver, it was dense and perfectly curled and set. His beard was almost entirely silver, but neatly barbered and shaped in the Vandyke style. There were light laughter lines around his eyes, but the back of his hand as he stroked his pointed beard was smooth and unmarred by the blotches of age. He wore an enormous ruby on his forefinger. Despite his grandeur and dignity his gaze was kind. Somehow she knew she could trust him, just as she could always trust Gentle Jesus to look after her.
“Gertruda needs someone to look after her.” Van Ritters reached a decision. Gertruda was his youngest surviving daughter. She was seven years old, a plain, simple-witted, petulant girl. “You will be her companion and help her with her lessons. I know you are a bright girl.”
Louisa’s spirits fell. She had grown so close to Elise, the motherly woman who had replaced Anne as head cook in the kitchen. She did not want to forsake the aura of warmth and security that cosseted her in the servants’ quarters, and have to go upstairs to care for the whining Gertruda. She wanted to protest, but Elise had warned her not to answer back. She hung her head and curtsied.
“Stals, see she is properly dressed. She will be paid as junior nursemaid, and have a room to herself near the nursery.” Van Ritters dismissed them and went back to his desk.
Louisa knew she would have to make the best of her circumstances. There was no alternative. Mijnheer was the lord of her universe. She knew that if she tried to pit herself against his dictates her suffering would be endless. She set herself to win over Gertruda. It was not easy, for the younger girl was demanding and unreasonable. Not content with having Louisa as a slave during the day, she would scream for her in the night when she woke from a nightmare, or even when she wanted to use the chamberpot. Always uncomplaining and cheerful, Louisa gradually won her over. She taught her simple games, sheltered her from the bullying of her brothers and sisters, sang to her at bedtime, or read her stories. When she was haunted by nightmares, Louisa crawled into her bed, took her in her arms and rocked her back to sleep. Gradually Gertruda abandoned the role of Louisa’s tormentor. Her own mother had been a remote, veiled figure whose face she could not remember. Gertruda had found a substitute and she followed Louisa about with puppylike trust. Soon Louisa was able to control her wild tantrums, when she rolled howling on the floor, hurled her food against the wall or tried to throw herself out of the windows into the canal. Nobody had been able to do this before, but with a quiet word Louisa would calm her, then take her by the hand and lead her back to her room. Within minutes she was laughing and clapping her hands, and reciting the chorus of a children’s rhyme with Louisa. At first Louisa felt only a sense of duty and obligation towards Gertruda, but slowly this turned to affection and then to a type of motherly love.
Mijnheer van Ritters became aware of the change in his daughter. On his occasional visits to nursery and classroom he often singled out Louisa for a kind word. At the Christmas party for the children he watched Louisa dancing with her charge. She was as supple and graceful as Gertruda was dumpy and ungainly. Van Ritters smiled when Gertruda gave Louisa a pair of tiny pearl earrings as her Christmas present, and Louisa kissed and hugged her.
A few months later van Ritters called Louisa to his library. For a while he discussed the progress that she was making with Gertruda, and told her how pleased he was with her. When she was leaving he touched her hair. “You are growing into such a lovely young woman. I must be careful that some oaf does not try to take you from us. Gertruda and I need you here.” Louisa was almost overcome by his condescension.
On Louisa’s thirteenth birthday Gertruda asked her father to give her a special birthday treat. Van Ritters was taking one of his elder sons to England, where he was to enter the great university at Cambridge, and Gertruda asked if she and Louisa might go with the party. Indulgently van Ritters agreed.
They sailed on one of the van Ritters ships, and spent most of that summer visiting the great cities of England. Louisa was enchanted by her mother’s homeland, and took every opportunity to practise the language.
The van Ritters party stayed for a week in Cambridge as Mijnheer wanted to see his favourite son settled in. He hired all the rooms at the Red Boar, the finest tavern in the university town. As usual Louisa slept on a bed in the corner of Gertruda’s room. She was dressing one morning and Gertruda was sitting on her bed chattering to her. Suddenly she reached out and pinched Louisa’s bosom. “Look, Louisa, you are growing titties.”
Gently Louisa removed her hand. In the last few months she had developed the stony lumps under her nipples that heralded the onset of puberty. Her breast buds were swollen, tender and sensitive. Gertruda’s touch had been rough.
“You must not do that, Gertie, my schat. It hurts me, and that is an ugly word you used.”
“I am sorry, Louisa.” Tears formed in the child’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s all right.” Louisa kissed her. “Now what do you want for
breakfast?”
“Cakes.” The tears were immediately forgotten. “Lots of cakes with cream and strawberry jam.”
“Then afterwards we can go to the Punch and Judy show,” Louisa suggested.
“Oh, can we, Louisa? Can we really?”
When Louisa went to ask Mijnheer van Ritters’ permission for the outing, he decided on an impulse to accompany them. In the carriage Gertruda, in her unpredictable fashion, returned to the morning’s topic. She announced in a penetrating tone, “Louisa has got pink titties. The tips stick out.”
Louisa lowered her eyes and whispered, “I told you, Gertie, that’s a rude word. You promised not to use it again.”
“I am sorry, Louisa. I forgot.” Gertruda looked stricken.
Louisa squeezed her hand. “I am not cross, schat. I just want you to behave like a lady.”
Van Ritters seemed not to have overheard the exchange. He did not look up from the book that was open on his knee. However, during the puppet show, when the hook-nosed Punch was beating his shrieking wife about the head with a club, Louisa glanced sideways and saw that Mijnheer was studying the tender swellings beneath her blouse. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders.
It was autumn when they sailed on the return journey to Amsterdam. On the first night at sea Gertruda was prostrate with seasickness. Louisa nursed her, and held the basin for her as she retched. At last she fell into a deep sleep and Louisa escaped from the fetid cabin. Longing for a breath of fresh sea air she hurried up the companionway to the deck. She stopped in the hatchway as she spotted the tall, elegant figure of van Ritters standing alone on the quarter-deck. The officers and crew had left the windward rail to him: as the ship’s owner this was his prerogative. She would have gone below again immediately but he saw her, and called her to him. “How is my Gertie?”
“She is sleeping, Mijnheer. I am sure she will feel much better in the morning.”