Chapter 34
Claire
When the police knock on my door early on a spring morning, I open it wide and prepare to confess all my sins.
They’ve been rotting inside me, fueled by the fear that Isaac has finally told Jo what I’ve done in an attempt to ingratiate himself to her.
I glance backward, my heart pounding. If they take me away right now, I won’t be able to say a proper goodbye to Marie-Celeste, and this causes my confession to stick in my throat.
“Hold on just one moment,” I murmur.
“Madame, we are in a bit of a hurry,” one of the uniformed men says quickly.
The other chimes in. “And this will not take very long. When was the last time you saw Millicent Dekker?”
I step backward into the foyer and motion for them to come inside.
Sweet Millie, the one who took Jo and me to our very first suffragist meeting.
She has recently been married, unfortunately to a man very much like her father, a drunk and a brute.
Since closing up the boardinghouse, we no longer work together, but I still meet the girl regularly for tea.
She told me she was expecting her first child, though she did not appear happy about it.
“Just last week, sir,” I tell the officer. “Has something happened?” They exchange a look that tells me everything I need to know.
“Her body was discovered in the field two streets over last night,” the officer informs me with a blank stare. “She had been struck hard in the stomach and lost too much blood. Her husband is nowhere to be found and her neighbors said the two of you spent time together.”
“We did.” I am biting back tears as Marie-Celeste joins me at the door and I grasp her hand. “Her husband was a bully. He beat her quite often,” I tell them, though I know this remains too common.
“Yes. We have been told this. Her sister is hoping to find him and have him arrested. Will you let us know if you hear anything?”
“Absolutely.” I melt into my daughter’s side. She is slightly taller than I am and much sturdier.
When they are gone, I weep into her chest.
“That could have been you,” I murmur.
“But it was not,” she says, stroking my hair. “Because you saved me from that life. Perhaps I do not thank you enough.”
“You never need to thank me.”
“Then please know I am grateful every day.”
My relief is tangled up in the conviction that I can never confess to my crimes. Committing them kept my daughter safe and keeping them buried will continue to do so.
But I must find out exactly what Jo knows about what I have done.
Lisette tells me over tea that Israels has been in Paris for many months.
“It has been a lovely break for his favorite girls,” she says when I ask her about him. “Though to tell you the truth he has lost interest in them as of late.”
“Why do you think this is?” I ask, trying not to seem too eager for an answer.
“Some of them speculate that he has a new woman, someone he is serious about.”
“Do you know who?”
“Absolutely no idea. Probably French. It must be why he has disappeared, but good riddance, though some of my girls did enjoy his wit. I have no time for the banter of men like him.
Lisette is showing her age. Her joints crack loudly when she stands to fetch me more tea, and her movements are slow and calculated. She has asked me more than once if I would be interested in taking over some of her duties with her girls.
“You are an expert at keeping things organized,” she said the last time we met, and I was flattered that she had noticed. “I have heard how you helped the Van Gogh woman, and the van den Bergs say the tulip girls you help them manage always sell the most flowers at market.”
I blushed and thanked her for the praise, but I also said that I was finished with the profession. It wasn’t the girls I didn’t feel like managing; it was the men. I no longer had it in me to cater to their emotions, their whims, and their needs. I wanted to be entirely free of them.
She repeats her request to me one more time and again I turn her down.
But I am swelling with pride when I leave her and walk to the Amsterdam home of the van den Bergs to collect my weekly pay for my work with their tulip business.
It is Elise van den Berg, instead of her maid, who meets me at the door, which is quite strange.
“I was hoping I would catch you today,” she says, ushering me inside and inviting me to sit in their high-ceilinged front parlor.
I perch on the edge of a silk-covered sofa, an ornate pattern of peacocks splayed out beneath my thighs.
I worry I’m coated in dust from my travels, and I would have worn something nicer if I had known I would be invited inside.
But Madame van den Berg doesn’t seem to notice my traveling clothes or dirty street shoes.
“We have a possible placement for you if it is something that might be of interest?”
“A placement?” I say. “What do you mean?”
“As you may know, there is a growing demand for tulips in America. They are much beloved, and my son believes we should open an American subsidiary for our bulbs. We are hoping to send knowledgeable people to New York with him to begin the enterprise, people who have experience with what we do. It was my idea that we should send a woman along to make inroads with some of the wives and the girls who sell on the streets, and of course you were the first person to come to my mind.”
Leave Holland? The country that has come to feel more like home than Paris ever did? And what of Marie-Celeste?
“I couldn’t possibly,” I begin.
“No need to answer now. Please think on it. I know you have a relation living with you. We could accommodate her travel as well.”
“That is very kind. I appreciate it.”
“We appreciate you and we believe you have a bright future as a businesswoman.”
Her words echo in my mind as I walk back to the train to return to Bussum.
They’re followed by Marie-Celeste’s advice telling me to enjoy my life while it is going well.
Who would have ever thought that would be such a challenge?
I find myself wandering, not in the straight path to the station, but just meandering along the canals I have come to love, the arteries of this strange little city.
That’s when I find myself on Jo’s doorstep. I hadn’t even realized this was my destination, but of course it was. Where else would I have been going? This was inevitable.
I am taken aback when she is the one who answers, and clearly so is she because she physically recoils at the sight of me.
“Jo,” I say, taking a step forward to clutch her shoulder and kiss her cheeks, even though I feel her entire body tensing at my touch.
“Claire,” she says politely, recovering her cool demeanor. “This is unexpected.”
“I have been writing,” I say.
“It’s been so busy. I am sorry I have not responded,” she says, making no move to invite me in.
“Could we take some time now?”
“I’m afraid not.” She glances behind her. Perhaps Isaac hasn’t been in Paris at all. “I have an appointment this evening. And I need to prepare.”
“Could we make a plan? To have a meal or even tea.” Desperation creeps into my voice, and I despise myself for it.
She glances behind her again and I peer into the darkness of her home, expecting him to be lurking in the shadows. I now have no doubt whatsoever that he has turned her against me.
“Claire, I truly have been meaning to write, but I didn’t want to put all of this to paper, for both of our sakes.”
I want to stop her, or perhaps delay the inevitable. I try to speak first, but she beats me to it.
“I do not think we can see one another any longer. There are too many secrets between us. I think you know of what I speak.” I can’t respond.
I can’t even move a muscle. I look up at one of the spionnetjes on the house next to us and remember that someone is always watching and perhaps that is why Jo did not invite me in, because she knows I will not make a scene out here.
So instead of defending myself, instead of trying to ascertain what she does and doesn’t know, I simply nod, because she is right.
My fate could be so much worse than her slicing me from her life after everything I have done.
“Please know how much I appreciate you and our time together, but I simply cannot…” At this her voice finally cracks with emotion and she steps even further into the hallway beyond her door.
“I understand,” I manage, a tacit admission, but a large one, nonetheless. “I wanted to tell you I’ve been offered a job. In America.” I don’t know why I want her to know this, but it feels important that she does. Her expression remains stony.
“You should take it.” Her tone is flat and ominous. “It is best for you to go to America.”
I stumble backward off her spotless stoop and pull my coat tightly around me. I won’t let the tears fall here, or the weight of what is finally happening reduce me to a puddle on her narrow street.
“Goodbye, Madame van Gogh.”
“Good luck, Claire.”