‘Left for where?’
‘That I do not know, but he has taken his baggage.’
‘He has gone and he has taken Jacob!’
Ruth, her eyes ringed by exhaustion, lets out an anguished howl. Detlef wraps his cloak around her. She cannot shake the image of the small boy being bundled into a carriage. Will the count have fed him pr
operly? Does he know that Jacob is frightened of the dark and cannot sleep alone? And what of Punti, his favourite toy? Panic confuses her, filling her with irrational anxieties. She clutches at Detlef’s jerkin.
‘We must do something! Jacob is in danger, I can sense it!’
The nightwatchman, flushed with shame, hurriedly shuts the gate against the couple and his own guilt, his only consolation the heavy purse at his hip. Rain begins to fall as Detlef rocks Ruth while trying to steady his rising fear.
‘Sshh, we will try de Hooch and then, if we have to, we shall ride to Cologne this very night. With luck we will catch them at the border.’
The hammering at the front door buzzes around the young apprentice’s head like a swarm of demented wasps. Half-asleep he swipes at the imaginary creatures then sits bolt upright. Does his new master have debts? The painter swore not when he hired the fourteen year old, a talented farmer’s son from de Hooch’s own town of Delft. A pox on the bailiffs! Perhaps they have the wrong studio.
The apprentice waits for a second then, furious, pulls on an old pair of rough barras breeches. Immediately his crotch starts to itch. Cursing, he runs to the wooden door. Pulling open the top half he is surprised to see a couple, the gentleman obviously a pastor of some Protestant denomination and his young wife who, the apprentice notices immediately, is beautiful, despite her eyes which are swollen from crying.
‘Is my master dead then?’ the obtuse youth asks, a question which momentarily confuses the couple.
‘Is this Pieter de Hooch’s studio?’
‘What if it is?’ the apprentice replies suspiciously, determined to defend his master’s privacy at any cost.
‘Is the artist here?’
‘My master is presently detained in Delft, he is not due back until Shrove Tuesday.’
‘Were you here throughout the day yesterday?’
‘Indeed, sire, never left the place.’
‘Did a German gentleman visit, with a small boy? My brother has commissioned a portrait, his name is Count Gerhard von Tennen.’
‘No, Master de Hooch has not taken a portrait as a commission for over three months. Besides, I would know the name.’
Ruth pulls at Detlef’s sleeve. ‘They are to Cologne, I know it.’
‘Is Master de Hooch in trouble?’
‘No, good lad. Return to your slumber.’
As soon as the bleary-eyed youth closes the half-door, Ruth begins to run through the rain in the direction of their own district.
‘Ruth, please, this will require some strategy. We know nothing yet,’ Detlef shouts, following her.
Swept up by fear, she spins around. ‘We know that our child has been taken and that he is probably in danger. I was a fool, I should have stayed with him, what have I done?’
‘What have we both done?’ Detlef answers, desperate with guilt himself.
Ruth clutches at him. ‘The count will be riding tonight for the Rhineland. I for one will be following and…’ she snatches the dagger from his belt, ‘I shall go armed. I shall wear my cousin’s sword if necessary.’
He stares at her, seeing the exhaustion drawing a web of lines on her taut face.
‘I am sorry, my love, for trusting my brother so blindly. But I hold hope there may yet be a rational explanation. I will ride after them. You are ailing, you will stay in Amsterdam and wait for my word.’
She takes his hand firmly. ‘No. We ride together.’