Midnight Blue Read online

  TRANSLATED BY JENNY WATSON

  Copyright

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in the Netherlands by Ambo Anthos 2016

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Foundation for Literature.

  Copyright © Simone van der Vlugt

  Translation copyright © Jenny Watson

  Map of Delft: De Agostini / Biblioteca Ambrosiana / Getty Images

  Simone van der Vlugt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

  Source ISBN: 9780008212100

  Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008212124

  Version: 2017-01-19

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Glossary

  Afterword

  Suggested Further Reading

  Reading Group Questions

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  1

  De Rijp, March 1654

  The funeral was a week ago and I still feel more relieved than anything else. I know that’s indefensible, 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 whenever we passed one another, with that furrowed brow of his, had been an expression of desire rather than disapproval.

  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 al
l 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 families 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.’

  2

  A week later everything is sold. Govert and I had been renting the farmhouse and land but the animals and furniture belonged to us. During the auction, which takes place on the farm’s threshing floor, I see my possessions pass into other people’s hands. The proceeds – around a hundred guilders – are welcome. They’re enough to keep me going for a while and maybe set up a business. Perhaps painting pottery. That has always been a dream of mine. As a little girl I decorated furniture with beetroot juice. Later on, when I was given commissions by rich farmers and important people from the village and started decorating dressers and foot warmers for them, I used real paint.

  ‘It reminds me of those colourful pieces they make up in Hindeloopen,’ Cornelis Vinck, the notary said one day. ‘You’ve got talent, Cat. You should try selling a few things up in town.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. I’m not a member of the guild,’ I said.

  ‘At the annual fair in September out-of-towners are allowed to sell whatever they like. As long as they don’t set up their own business.’

  In my scarce free time I started painting plates and footstools, which I did end up managing to sell quite easily at the fair.

  From that day on I longed for the city.

  I’ve only known a few villagers leave De Rijp and they were boys who signed on for VOC ships or went off to become whalers. In the neighbouring village of Graft, there was a girl who found a job as a housemaid in Alkmaar and that seemed like a good idea for me too. Of course, life as a housemaid is hard work, but at least I wouldn’t be stuck here with nothing but reeds and mud as far as the eye can see. Town is where things happen, there are amusements and diversions, the people there really live and I long to be part of it. I heard from Emil and Bertha, friends who live in Alkmaar, that a rich resident of the city was in need of a housekeeper. A few weeks ago, when I had to go into town for the cheese market, I walked over to Oudegracht to offer my services. To my astonishment and delight, I was hired on the spot.

  I look around the barn, at the early morning light that falls on the packed earth floor. The possessions which had been piled up here have been taken away by their new owners. The only things I still have are a few trinkets and some clothes.

  Outside in the farmyard, my parents and brothers stand waiting in the morning mist. As the only surviving daughter, I could always rely on their care and protection and I see from the boys’ faces that they’re not happy I’m leaving. There’s a big age gap between Dirk, my eldest brother, and Laurens, left by a number of miscarriages and brothers and sisters who died young. Maybe that’s why Laurie is the one I’m most attached to; we’re the ones who had to make up for those losses.

  Our parting is brief. I hug everyone, my parents the longest. Laurie has to go to Alkmaar too and will be accompanying me. A good idea now that I’m carrying so much money.

  ‘We’ll see each other again soon,’ says my father. ‘I’m bringing a load up to Alkmaar next week.’

  ‘See you then, Pa. You know where I’ll be.’

  Another kiss, a hug, and we set off. Laurie takes the bundle with my things under his arm and we walk along the East Dyke, which leads to the quay. I look back a couple of times and wave to my family. My heart is full but I have no regrets.

  It’s a long journey to Alkmaar. Squashed in between the cargo, huddled together for warmth, we watch the polder landscape of flat, neatly lai
d-out fields and ditches go by. The barge doesn’t go particularly fast, but I’m used to that. I’ve made this journey many times. I know every bend in the canal, every hamlet we pass. On some stretches there’s hardly any wind and we make so little progress that the bargee has to use his pole. He leans on the bargepole with his whole weight, works it into the mud at the bottom and levers the boat forward.

  I sit next to my brother and point out things I notice in the landscape. I don’t get much response.

  ‘So you’re not coming back then?’ says Laurie, just as I’m about to give up my efforts to start a conversation.

  ‘Of course I will. Now and again.’

  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stay in Alkmaar. Mart is turning the whole village against you.’

  ‘Do they believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He’s quiet for a moment, then says: ‘You could go to Haarlem or Amsterdam instead.’

  Now it’s my turn to pause. ‘So far away?’ I say quietly.

  ‘It isn’t that far really. What I mean to say, Cat, is that you mustn’t let us hold you back. If another town is … better for you, that’s where you have to go. We know what’s being said about you is nonsense, but not everyone is convinced.’

  ‘I should have stayed in mourning for longer, cried more.’ I look up at my brother. ‘Is it a sin to be glad someone’s dead?’

  Laurie puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. ‘No,’ he says, ‘in this case I’d say it’s only human.’