Still Life

---

Still Life - book excerpt

Chapter One

Griete House, Antwerp, 1604

‘Where is he?’ Clara knelt on her wall-bed, clutching a curtain to lean out far enough to see the stable yard entrance through the very top of her ice-streaked window with the Scheldt, fish-scaled by winter sun, flowing wide beyond. She sighed, swinging back. Still no sign.

Though the fire was not yet lit, excitement stopped her feeling the chill or even noticing the misting of her breath. Osias Beerts would soon arrive. She had so much to show him. She lifted her drawings to the light again. The pewter jug beside the wheel of cheese gleamed in just the way he had taught her, and the bowl of apples had light and shadow to give it depth. She had worked so hard since his last visit, tossing many of her efforts into the flames when they did not please her. He would admire these, though, surely? She tried to push away her misgivings.

At the longed-for rattle of hooves on cobbles, she swung out again in time to see him riding his rugged piebald towards the stables, his black cloak and the great plumes of the horse’s breath echoing its markings. A surge of elation, quickly dulled by doubt, left her dry-mouthed. She scrambled away to the other end of her bed, gathering her skirts in a way that would earn her mother’s sternest glare and, ignoring the ladder, jumped down with a thud onto the polished boards. Then slipping her feet into mules, she dashed out to clatter down the stairs, only slowing to pass the kneeling maid scrubbing the marble tiles on the first landing.

The girl moved aside. ‘Thank you, Trina.’

‘Mistress, Clara.’

She ran on through the great hall and into the side chamber her mother had allotted as a studio. The hearty fire reminded her how cold she was, and she held her hands to it. Henri was already seated at his easel. That the coachman’s son should share her lessons went unquestioned for she had never known it otherwise.

He turned to her. ‘You looks flushed. Is he arrived?’

‘He is. I saw him from my window.’ Her voice bubbled with excitement she felt no need to subdue; they knew each other too well. They always had. Indeed, she could not remember a time when they had not been together. He was her dearest friend.

Henri grinned. ‘Hanging off them bed drapes again?’

Clara laughed, moving to her easel to pin her drawings onto the panel already in place there. She sat on her stool, leaning across to look at Henri’s, touching his arm. They were so bad. Poor Henri. Was it wrong to be a little pleased hers shone brighter against them? She felt sure it must be, yet it seemed to make little difference to such feelings. She noticed then, as always, how much effort he had made with his appearance since their morning ride; his thick black hair gleamed, neatly tied at his neck, but there was nothing he could do to hide the fit of his coat when the sleeves ended several inches above his bony wrists. She would speak to Maman about it. With that thought, she made sure her lace coif was straight after her race down two flights of stairs and tucked several stray copper curls beneath it.

‘What will he bring for us to draw today? And when will he let us paint?’

‘Hold up. I’ve not got this part right yet.’ He leaned across to look at Clara’s work. ‘You have it proper, though.’

‘Like you have numbers and I don’t.’

‘Numbers make sense. Calculations be either right or not. While this be …’ He shrugged. ‘Something else, entirely.’

Numbers make sense? What? Clara had never noticed such a thing and could not imagine ever doing so. ‘Yes, and sometimes a drawing which looks right to one does not look so to another. It’s so vex–’

The door opened and Maria Peeters entered with Osias Beerts at her side. Clara’s intended words deserted her at the sight of her maman’s swollen belly. Yet it did not seem to discomfort Osias. He was laughing at something she said, bending his dark head towards her fair one, dressed in pearls and lace. Maman looked especially tiny against his height and bulk – apart from her belly. Clara knew there would be a brother or sister soon but was unsure whether this pleased her. She understood it should but could not quite suppress her qualms. She wished to not always see her own shortcomings quite so clearly, but Aunt Fabiana had ensured it.

Maria lowered herself onto a cushioned chair beside the hearth and took some sewing from her fur-lined sleeve. ‘I’ll stay a while today. Monsieur Beerts tells me how well you progress.’

Clara looked at Henri, who pulled a rueful face, and hid her smile behind her hand. ‘Merci, Monsieur Beerts.’ She watched Osias place an animal skull beside a large, twisted shell on the table he had positioned to catch weak light from the narrow window.

‘So, these are specimens from your … curious cabinet?’ Maria asked.

‘They are, Madame. From my fledgling c-cabinet of curiosities.’

Osias’s voice was soft and hesitant. Clara found it pleasing … if a little unexpected.

‘Such things are usual in Amsterdam?’

‘Many s-strange artefacts arrive daily on our ships from the Indies. We use them in our table pieces. These paintings have become very fashionable.’ Osias added grapes and a wizened apple onto a pewter plate.

Clara began to draw, soon losing awareness of anything beyond the scrape of her charcoal on paper and the objects emerging there, all self-doubt vanishing unheeded. Once again, the afternoon slipped away in what seemed to her but moments. It was a sensation she wondered if she would ever become accustomed to. Time stood still yet flew.

Osias coughed. ‘Enough for t-today, Clara.’

She jumped, suddenly aware of her surroundings again and that he was standing behind her.

He moved to Henri. ‘Try to draw what you see.’ He pointed to the shell in front of the skull. ‘Look how it casts a s-shadow behind it. You’re drawing individual objects and leaving them to float rather than considering the group a single anchored entity.’

Henri nodded sheepishly and Osias squeezed his shoulder. ‘You’re improving, w-which is all I ask of you.’

Clara’s heart raced as he moved back to her. Her drawing looked tolerable, but it was not her opinion that mattered.

His hand now rested upon her shoulder. ‘You’re more than ready for colour. This is very fine work, Clara.’

How would she ever stop smiling? It was all she could do not to kiss his hand.

She stayed a while in the now empty chamber, staring at her drawing, reliving Osias’s words, only looking up startled when Maman returned. Clara stood to hug her.

‘I spoke with him before he left. He’s very impressed with you my little one and I couldn’t be prouder. I saw it in you from the moment you made your first mark on a scrap of paper.’ She held Clara’s face, smiling down at her. ‘He says you can go far.’

‘I truly wish to, Maman.’ Though she was a little unsure where far might be. ‘Drawing means so much to me.’

‘Don’t impose boundaries upon yourself, Clara. I know they’re there but don’t be complicit … don’t accept them. Always be the best you can be.’

She clung to her mother. ‘I shall. I swear it.’

‘And I shall always be here to help you, my little love.’ Maria straightened and took Clara’s hand. ‘Now, let’s prepare for dinner.’ She smiled. ‘You may brush out my hair. No one does it quite so gently.

Clara rose on tiptoe and kissed her mother’s cheek in reply.