Real Love or Fake Read online

  Lela had understood what he was trying to tell her.

  When at the end of the year he praised her work, she had known that she was his best pupil and he was proud of her.

  Now she was determined that she would make her aunt happy.

  Perhaps to have Vermeer’s Head of a Young Girl on her bedroom wall would make her forget for a time the pain that she was suffering.

  “She ought to have the operation, Nanny,” she had said after relating what her aunt had told her.

  “That’s what they’re all sayin’ in the house,” Nanny answered. “But it’s somethin’ she can’t afford and I understand all the pictures and furniture have been left to the new Baron, who is in Java.”

  “Yes, that is right, that is what Aunt Edith told me. But I am sure if he knew how ill she is, he would want her to try anything for her to get better.”

  “Then you must see what you can do to help her,” Nanny said, “and they’re sayin’ in the kitchen that havin’ you here is the best thing that could have happened.”

  When they reached the Mauritshuis, Lela had no difficulty in finding the Vermeer Masterpiece.

  As she passed through the various rooms, she wanted to stop and stare at the other pictures.

  But she had the feeling it was urgent that she should start work on her aunt’s picture, so she hurried on to where it was hanging.

  It was certainly very lovely and, as she stared at it, she could understand in a way why the Baron had been so obsessed by it.

  There was something unusual in the painting of the girl looking over her shoulder with her mouth slightly open, an expression in her eyes as if she was curious.

  Lela could understand too that the portrait had depth and colour.

  Also that indescribable sense of reality that could come only from an artist of genius.

  But the painting was not really difficult to copy as a more complicated scene might have been.

  The blue and yellow scarf around the girl’s head, the one translucent pearl in her ear and her plain green and yellow gown were merely a matter of getting the paints right and following in the Master’s path.

  Nanny was carrying a small easel and a folding stool that had been used by the Baron.

  As soon as they were set in place, Lela picked up her palette and started to work.

  She had brought her own paintbox with her in her luggage, but now she was using the Baron’s paints, which he had labelled as being right for the seventeenth century.

  Nanny seated herself near a window and, bringing out her crochet, she started to work on a long strip of lace that was intended for a sheet.

  Lela thought that it would be a nice present for her aunt, as she was always confined to her bed.

  She worked for over two hours until Nanny suggested that it was time to go home.

  “I cannot leave now,” Lela protested, but Nanny insisted.

  “There’s no sense in doin’ too much too quickly. And I knows your aunt’ll be lookin’ forward to seein’ you.”

  That was undoubtedly true and Lela therefore let herself be taken back by Nanny.

  She was excited by what she had done already and she had worked in exactly the way that her teacher would have wanted her to do.

  When they arrived at the house, Lela refused to show her aunt what she had done so far, saying that it was to be a surprise when it was finished.

  She talked to her instead about what she and her mother had done in the old days until her aunt’s eyes closed and she fell asleep.

  Lela went quickly away and downstairs to where she found a great number of books that she wanted to read.

  There were also some pictures that she knew were not only beautiful but valuable and were a part of the Baron’s collection.

  She had already learned from her aunt how he had saved up every penny he could to buy pictures in all the countries that they had visited.

  She thought that it would be a great pity for his collection to be broken up by his son Nicolaes.

  It must most certainly be kept intact for the elder brother.

  *

  The next morning Lela was back at the Mauritshuis working until luncheontime and then went there again in the afternoon.

  She was concentrating on her work when suddenly she became aware that somebody was standing just behind her.

  She thought at first that it was one of the sightseers in the Museum who often looked over her shoulder, no doubt thinking that they could do better themselves.

  Then a voice said,

  “I think you are Jungfrau Lela Cavendish, who is staying with Baroness van Alnrardt!”

  Lela turned to look up at the man who had spoken and saw that he was short and thin with a grey beard.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I am delighted to meet you. I am Jan Nijsted and I knew the Baron very well.”

  Lela smiled and he went on,

  “In fact I am a picture dealer and I sold some of the pictures he painted, not those he copied but his original creations.”

  “How interesting.”

  At the same time Lela was wishing that the stranger would go away and allow her to get on with her painting.

  “I see you are very experienced, Miss Cavendish,” Mr. Nijsted commented.

  His English was excellent.

  “I would like to think so,” Lela answered. “I have been studying in Florence and I am making this copy for my aunt.”

  “You know that your aunt is very ill,” Mr. Nijsted said, “and that she should have an operation if she is to live?”

  Lela looked at him in surprise.

  She had no idea that her aunt’s condition was common knowledge. And then she remembered that, if he was a close friend, he would obviously know that her aunt was confined to her bed.

  Mr. Nijsted lowered his voice, although there was nobody near enough to overhear them.

  “I also know that your aunt cannot afford the services of the best Surgeon in Amsterdam, and that, Miss Cavendish, is why I have a proposition to put to you.”

  Lela looked at him in surprise and he went on,

  “As I was such a close friend of the Baron for many years, I know that he would not want his son, Nicolaes, who is a ne’er-do-well, to sell the pictures that he collected so painstakingly over the years.”

  “No, of course not,” Lela agreed, “and I was wondering if I ought to write to Johan to tell him what is happening.”

  “As it would take a long time for a letter to reach him in Java and even longer for his reply to get here,” Mr. Nijsted said, “I have something different to suggest to you.”

  Lela wondered what he could be talking about and she reluctantly put down her palette and paintbrushes and listened.

  “There is a Nobleman over here from England,” Mr. Nijsted went on, “who is eager to acquire some of the very best Dutch pictures.”

  It flashed through Lela’s mind that he was going to suggest that she give him one of the Baron’s pictures to sell and she stiffened.

  Then he went on,

  “I can see from the way you work that you are exceptionally proficient and you are also using the right canvas and the right paints. I would therefore like to offer the copy you are making to this Englishman.”

  Lela, stared at him in absolute astonishment.

  “You cannot be – suggesting – ” she stammered.

  She looked up from her canvas to the Head of a Young Girl, which was hanging on the wall just above her.

  “What I am suggesting, Miss Cavendish,” Mr. Nijsted replied, “is that your portrait, with its seventeenth century paints and canvas, is the rough sketch done by Vermeer for the portrait that we are both looking at at this moment!”

  Lela drew in her breath.

  Then she said indignantly,

  “Are you saying that we should deliberately – lie and deceive him?”

  Mr. Nijsted made a very eloquent gesture with his hand.

  “What is the alternative, Miss C
avendish? That you let your aunt die? What you would receive for this painting if the English Nobleman accepts it as a sketch for Vermeer’s portrait would pay for the operation and perhaps prolong her life for twenty years.”

  Lela turned her head away from him.

  “It is quite – impossible! I have – nothing more to say!”

  “I am surprised,” Mr. Nijsted asserted, “that you have so little affection for your aunt, when I know that your arrival has been the best thing that could have happened to her when she was so depressed and lonely.”

  He paused for a moment before he added,

  “I wish you could have seen her when the Baron was alive. She was so happy, so lovely and lively and witty and everybody in The Hague loved her.”

  Lela was trying not to listen as he went on,

  “The Baron used to tell me what a success she was in the foreign countries where they had lived when he was a Diplomat. She was very different then from the sad woman she has become now.”

  There was silence.

  Then, as if he forced her to speak, Lela countered,

  “My aunt would not – wish me to lie or to – try to deceive anybody.”

  “If you asked her, of course, she would say ‘no’,” Mr. Nijsted said, “and she will die, I believe very soon. The cancer that she is suffering from grows more rapidly every day the operation does not take place.”

  Lela wanted to scream at him to go away and not torture her with such words.

  Then almost, she thought, as if he was Satan tempting her, Mr. Nijsted said very quietly,

  “Surely the end justifies the means when it is a question of taking a little money from a very rich man and saving a very wonderful woman’s life?”

  “How can I – possibly do – such a thing?” Lela asked despairingly.

  She had the frightening feeling that, if Mr. Nijsted kept on talking to her, she would find it hard not to agree to his outrageous suggestion.

  Chapter Four

  The Marquis, thanks to his brilliant organisation, reached his yacht at Greenwich before noon the following morning.

  He had made all his arrangements before he did so. He had written very plausible letters to his friends such as Willy, telling them that he had heard of a sale of pictures in Amsterdam that he must attend.

  He wrote,

  “The King pointed out to me recently that I was short of Dutch Masters in my Picture Gallery and this was certainly a smear on what I intend to be the most comprehensive private Picture Gallery in England.

  You will understand therefore that there was nothing else I could do, having heard of this particular sale, but leave for Holland immediately. ”

  When he had finished it, he read the letter through again and decided that it sounded convincing.

  He sent a telegram first thing in the morning to Amsterdam and then crossed the English Channel.

  He was running away and going into hiding, but it was the only possible thing he could do in the circumstances.

  His new yacht, The Heron, made the crossing in what the Marquis was sure was record time as he entered the Noordzeekanaal.

  This was the widest and deepest canal in the world with the largest locks. It had been opened in 1876 to save ships from having to sail a long way up the coast to enter the huge Harbour of Amsterdam.

  The Noordzeekanaal was fifteen miles long and it had been a triumph of Dutch engineering.

  The Heron crossed the busy port on the Marquis’s orders to the far end of the Herengrachtkanaal. This one was known in English as ‘The Gentleman’s Canal’.

  On each side of the concentric canal built centuries earlier were the lovely seventeenth century houses of the Medieval merchant millionaires, whose ships sailed home from the East down the Zuyder Zee.

  It was late when they tied up alongside and the Marquis went straight to bed.

  *

  He was having his breakfast in the Saloon the next morning when his friend Count Hans van Ruydaal came aboard.

  He was a good-looking young Dutchman, the same age as the Marquis, and they had been friends for years.

  “I was surprised, Carew,” the Count said, “to receive your telegram, but I am delighted that you are here!”

  They shook hands and the Count sat down at the table, saying,

  “Now, what is the reason for this sudden visit? And don’t tell me it is because you have been yearning to see me!”

  He laughed as he spoke and the Marquis replied,

  “I have come to buy some Dutch Masters for my Picture Gallery. His Majesty actually noticed that I am short of them.”

  The Count’s eyes twinkled as he answered,

  “You will have to give me a better reason than that for this sudden passion for Holland and I am quite certain that it is a question of cherchez la femme!”

  The Marquis chuckled.

  “Stop interrogating me, Hans, and help me to go home with some good pictures to explain my absence.”

  “We have, as you know,” the Count replied, “enough pictures to fill a million Galleries, but, as you will want only the best, you will have to be careful. Of course I will put you in touch with dealers whom you can trust.”

  “I was sure you would,” the Marquis said complacently.

  “But the first thing I want to know is whether you want to stay with the Queen at The Hague. You know that Her Majesty would be delighted to see you.”

  “You have not told her of my arrival?” the Marquis asked.

  As he spoke, he thought with dismay that if Queen Wilhelmina was aware that he was in Holland, he would have to spend his time in the Huis ten Bosch or ‘House in the Wood’.

  This was where the Royal Family preferred to live, using the Palace in Amsterdam only for official purposes.

  “I have not yet told Her Majesty. I was waiting until I knew exactly what you wanted to do.”

  “What I do not want,” the Marquis said firmly, “is to spend my time bowing and scraping and meeting an interminable number of serious-minded Dutchmen who will prevent me from enjoying my stay with you.”

  The Count put back his head and laughed.

  “I thought that would be your attitude, so having received your telegram, I have not mentioned your arrival to anyone except my housekeeper.”

  “I should much enjoy being with you,” the Marquis said. “Alternatively I could sleep here on the yacht.”

  “You cannot expect me not to be hospitable,” Count Hans replied, “but if you wish to be grand and in Amsterdam, you can, of course, be accommodated in the Koninklijk Paleis.”

  This was the Palace in the Dam Square in the centre of the City around which everything revolved.

  The Marquis knew the Paleis, which had been built originally as a Town Hall and looked like a Town Hall.

  It was, he thought, so large and pompous that he knew he would dislike every moment that he had to spend in it.

  He had always thought it showed very good taste on the part of the Royal Family.

  Despite the three hundred rooms in the Paleis, they had managed to accommodate themselves comfortably in their very pretty much smaller Palace in The Hague.

  “Very well,” the Count was saying, “you can stay with me, but if you are uncomfortable, I refuse to accept any blame for it.”

  “You are being ultra-modest,” the Marquis responded. “I have been to your house and it is the sort of bachelor establishment that is exactly what I want at the moment.”

  The Count looked at him quizzically.

  “I knew it was a question of cherchez la femme!”

  “Two of them,” the Marquis said bitterly. “But I have no wish to talk about it.”

  “Inevitably you have made me curious. The trouble with you, Carew, is that you are too good-looking, too rich and too damned successful. There has to be a snag somewhere. If it is a woman who has got under your skin, I am sure it is good for your ego!”

  “Leave my ego alone and let’s talk about pictures. I shall have to
take some back with me and, if they are not of the very finest quality and what my friends will consider a ‘snip’, our friendship is at an end!”

  The Count only laughed.

  When the Marquis finished his breakfast, the two friends walked along the tree-lined bank of the canal to the Count’s very attractive house.

  It was furnished with the idea of comfort rather than beauty and there were pictures that the Marquis would have been delighted to possess himself.

  Moreover, as in most of the houses on this canal, there was an elegant curved staircase topped by a painted ceiling. Many of the rooms had exquisitely plastered ceilings and some of them had fine panelling.

  He thought that there was nowhere else in the world where he would find so many beautiful old houses in such a picturesque setting.

  As in so many of the old buildings, there was a large hook on top of the roof.

  It was a reminder of the days when the valuable merchandise of spices was hauled to the upper storeys for safety to be protected by the merchant’s family, who lived on the lower floors.

  The two friends enjoyed a glass of excellent wine before they drove in the Count’s carriage into the City.

  As they travelled through the busy streets, he remarked,

  “I am afraid, Carew, that you will not be able to keep your arrival quiet and, however much you may protest, you will have to call on Her Majesty. After all she was very fond of your father and stayed at Kyne.”

  “Of course I will and I shall in fact be delighted to see Queen Wilhelmina again. At the same time you must make it clear that I am here on business and must therefore be in Amsterdam and not at The Hague.”

  “I will do my best,” the Count promised, “and I will also try to provide you with some charming and attractive women who you may find more alluring than anything you see on canvas!”

  The Marquis was about to say that the one thing he did not want at the moment was to meet women and that he disliked them all.

  Then he realised that the strength of his feelings would be too revealing even to an old friend like Hans.

  The Marquis made it a rule never to speak about his love affairs and he despised men who did so.