Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
A/N: I'm back! Muahahahaha! It's not as soon as I said the next fic would be up, but here it is.
Girl With A Pearl Earring is a novel by Tracy Chevalier that tells a fictional story about Johannes Vermeer's painting, Girl With a Pearl Earring (and was later adopted into a movie in 2003 starring Scarlett Johansson as Griet and Colin Firth as the painter Johannes Vermeer). Girl With A Pearl Earring follows the daughter of a once successful tile painter, Griet, as she must work as a maid for the family of the great painter, Johannes Vermeer. Griet has a natural understanding of painting, just like Vermeer, and she becomes his muse. For more on the novel, go to the authors website: www. t chevalier .com (paste into your browser and remove the spaces).
The whole ordeal began simply. I had been in the kitchen of the little cottage where my papa and I resided in Delft, Holland, chopping vegetables. Papa cam in, with a gaudily dressed woman followed behind him. She had red hair like the flame from a candle, which was done up in an elaborate coif. Her dress was made of a delicate silk in a deep navy blue color and was fairly low cut. A wide lace collar and a beautiful ruby broach, the same color as her hair, adored the neckline. She had a haughty air about her, and I took immediate dislike to her. She was higher than me in the social structure, therefore proper conduct demanded that I respect, no matter how disagreeable she might be.
"Here she is, Mis Charlotte," Papa said, drawing my attention away from the vegetables. "Christina, this is Mis Charlotte Gelen."
I curtsied and greeted her, "Goodday, Mis Gelen." I had no idea what an upper class woman was doing in our home, for we were poor. Papa had once been a great musician, giving violin concerts all over the country to great acclaim, but once Mama died he simply put down the violin and never picked it back up again. Mama had been his muse, and she would often sing while he played. He lost not only his will but also his inspiration when he lost her. As a child, I tried once to convince him to pick up his violin by singing one of the folk songs that Mama loved (she always said that I had been given her gift of a beautiful voice, although I was never quite sure of it), but he just burst in to tears. Mama's death broke his heart.
Charlotte fiercely questioned me, "Can you do laundry?"
"Yes, Mis." I uttered, a bit taken aback by her harsh tone.
"How about cooking, cleaning, and mending?"
"I can do all of those, Mis." I looked at her curiously. Why was she asking me about housework?
After a pause for thought, Charlotte declared, "You shall begin work tomorrow. I expect you to be here," she handed me a paper, "at eight o'clock in the morning. I will not tolerate you being late." I was so confused. Before I could open my mouth to voice my questions, though, Charlotte Gelen had already left.
"Papa, what just happened?" I asked timidly.
He sighed and began, "You know that we have hit hard times financially." I nodded my head. "And you yourself said that you would be glad to do anything to help us." I nodded my head again. "For a long time, I have tried to prevent this from happening to you, but I have hired you out as Mis Charlotte Gelen's maid." Tears were welling up in his eyes. "I never wanted to loose you, not after I lost de engel…" When he spoke of "the angel", he meant my mama.
"Papa, don't cry." I embraced him. "In sending me away to be a maid, you are not loosing me. I'll find chances to come visit you."
"She has agreed to let you return for the day on Sundays."
"See? I'll see you every Sunday. Things will be all right, and I'll bring money into the house so that you can live comfortably."
"Yes, things will be all right." I threw the vegetables I had chopped into the pot for that night's stew.
Papa and I ate our supper that night in silence. No one wanted to talk, in cause the subject of my new job would ever come up. It was not to be discussed. I stayed up late packing a sack with the things that I would need for the upcoming week: a dress, an extra chemise, an apron, two caps so that I could wash one while wearing the other, a symbol which resulted in me always wearing a clean cap, a comb, and a miniature painting of my mama. It was the only thing I had left of her, and I kept it close always. Papa didn't sleep well that night, for in the other room I could hear him tossing and turning.
I woke early in the morning to prepare myself for my first day of work. Not wanting to make a bad impression, I bathed, relentlessly scrubbing myself until I was certain that no speck of dirt remained on my body. I pinned my hair back and donned a fresh cap, pulling it forward enough so that it covered my hairline. There were many girls who wore there cap back so that it exposed their tresses of hair, hoping to catch some young man's eye, but I never had an interest in men- the only man I cared about was my father. Therefore, I did not feel the need to do anything so brazen. I attempted to smooth the wrinkles out of my chemise and dress but was met with little success. The paper that contained the address Charlotte had given me was slipped into my pocket. My reflection could be seen a bit in the window, so I checked to make sure that I looked neat and clean. Once I was sure of this, I went down stairs.
Papa was already awake when I came down to prepare breakfast for him. I had obtained a small amount of beef, so I served it opposite the porridge.
"Take my meat, daughter," Papa said, putting the sliver of beef on my plate. "You need your strength more than I do."
"No Papa, I am fine. Besides, what with the wealth that I would expect Mis Gelen to possess, I think that I shall be eating like a queen every night." I returned the beef to his plate and finished my porridge.
When it came time for me to leave, I hugged Papa and carefully chose my words. "I'll see you on Sunday," I said. I was very careful not to say "Good-bye", for it wasn't good-bye. I would see him soon enough. A week is not a very long time.
"I'll see you on Sunday," Papa echoed. I kissed him and left.
The streets in the part of town where Papa and I resided were dirty, with food spoils and a few unmentionable things strewn all over the cobblestone. I grope around in my apron pocket for the note containing the address that I am to report to. Finally, I feel the paper beneath the pads of my fingers and pull it up. Written on it were the words: House of E. Deforest, Kamer Straat. Deforest. I had never heard such a name before, and the syllables felt strange pouring off my tongue as I tried to say it. It seemed odd that the house wasn't billed under the name of Gelen, but I wouldn't bother with it. I had a faint idea of where Kamer Straat was. It was in what we called the "Wealthy Corner". I made my way toward the Wealthy Corner, unsure of what to expect. I kept my head down, staring at the dirty street, only lifting it when I knew that I had to make a right or left turn soon. As I walked, I noticed that there were less and less spoils on the street. When I barely saw any spoils, I knew that I had reached the Wealthy Corner. I looked up at the street sign, where I saw "Kamer Straat" written out. I saw someone who looked like she might also be a maid and stopped her.
"Do you know where I might find this house?" I showed her the paper, fearing that I would mispronounce the name if I said it aloud.
She shoved the paper away, her cheeks turning a pinkish color. "I do not know how to read. If you want to know where to find it, you must read the note aloud to me." I did read it aloud, trying my best to pronounce the strange surname correctly.
"I believe that a Mis Charlotte Gelen lives there," I added.
"Oh, Mis Gelen's house," she said. "It's right down the street: the last house on the right."
"Thank you." As I made my way down the street, I found it peculiar that the other maid didn't know how to read. Mama saw to it that I was well educated in reading and writing as well as housekeeping. I would soon learn that I was part of a minority as far as my language skills were concerned.
I reached the house that the other maid had specified. If I hadn't been there for Papa's sake, I would have turned right around and run home. The building's façade was so grand, with its marble columns, polished stone walls, and perfectly spaced glass windows that shimmered in the daylight. Compared to the little cottage that Papa and I called home, it was a marvel of architecture. The mansion just screamed, "A wealthy person lives here." Mustering up as much courage as I possibly could, I reached out, took the doorknocker, and banged it against the door once. A dark-haired girl who looked about my age opened the door.
"You must be the new maid," she greeted cheerfully. "Come in." The inside of the manor was more impressive than the outside. Everyone, there were rich fabrics and exotic trinkets. The wooden floor beneath my feet was well polished; it looked new.
"I am Margrethe," the dark-haired girl said, "and I am Mis Charlotte's personal maid. I admit that I am not very good at cooking and cleaning, and the maid who did those chores left last week."
"Why?" I asked.
"No one is quite sure. Of course, in the market, they tell nasty rumors about what might have caused her to leave, but don't pay those old gossips any mind." She changed the subject. "What is your name?"
"Christina."
"That is a pretty name."
"Where is Mis Charlotte?" I asked, figuring I might as well call Charlotte Gelen by the same name that Margrethe called her. No trace of the conceited redheaded woman could be found in my present surroundings.
"She is out shopping. She left me here to show you around." Margrethe showed me around the main rooms where I would be working: the kitchen, the Great Hall (where Charlotte spent most of her time), and the parlor.
"You will sleep in the cellar," Margrethe explained, opening a trap door that led down. "I've set up a pallet for you. You can put your things down there until then." I climbed through the trap door and down the ladder that lead to the cellar. A thin mattress with a worn pillow and quilt thrown atop of it was positioned up against on of the walls. I put my sack down, regretting leaving my miniature of Mama there, but I had no other choice.
Margrethe then led me up the stairs to a door. She opened it, revealing a dark hall with another door at the end of the hall.
She pointed to the door at the end of the corridor. "That is where the Meester practically lives. He spends his spends the entire day and most of the night in there. At noon you are to put a tray of food for him in front of that door. Do not knock or anything- just leave everything be. Meester doesn't take very kindly to people interrupting him while he's composing. One hour after you leave the tray there, come back for it. Take it, whether it is empty or not."
"What if Meester gets hungry later on in the day?" It seems odd that someone would take only one meal a day, and maybe not even that.
"Just bring him the tray at noon and take it away at one, whether or not it is full," Margrethe sternly answers.
After a brief silence, I ask the question that I have been itching to ask ever since Margrethe mentioned "the Meester". "Who is the Meester?"
"He is the one who really owns this house- he took it from Mis Charlotte when her father died. She put up a huge fuss, and to stop her from annoying him with her little tantrum, he let her live here, as long as she never disturbed his composing. I swear, though, he will turn her out one of these days, but for now he just bears it." Margrethe takes me by the hand and leads me back to the kitchen. "I must tell you one other thing: Mis Charlotte is infamous for her fits. She has a short temper, so you best not do anything to ruffle her feathers. Mis Charlotte believes that she rules the world, so let her believe it." I nodded my head, not entirely sure whether or not I'll be able to take Charlotte's angry fits well.
Margrethe and I then retired to the parlor, where we chatted together. I shared my unhappy past with her, and she listened sympathetically. She confided in me that she too had lost a parent: her papa. He had not died, though.
"I had always knew that Mama and Papa weren't on very good terms, she cried, pained by the memory, "but I always believed that things would get better. Then one day I woke up and he was gone. He never told Mama and I where he was going." She dried her eyes with the edges of her apron. "I try not to think about that too much, though. I'd rather just be happy. He obviously didn't love me enough to even attempt contact with me, so I've just pushed him to the back of my mind." Her face turns cheery. "If he hadn't left, then I wouldn't have ever come here to work so that I could help make up for the income he took away from our family. If I didn't come work here, then I wouldn't have met you. I know I've only known you for about an hour now, but I can already tell that you are a good person, Christina, and I want to be your friend."
"By all means we'll be friends!" I exclaimed joyfully. I had never had any friends outside of my family, and, as much as I loved Papa, I thought that it would be healthy for me to have a friend my age. I knew that Papa would agree.
Suddenly, a voice shouted through the house, "Margrethe, you useless girl, where are you?"
"That's Mis Charlotte now," Margrethe said, running off to her. "Here I am, Mis." I slowly followed her out to the foyer.
"Take these to my room," Charlotte barked, dropping a few parcels into Margrethe's arms. Her sharp, beady eyes spotted me looming in the corner. "You're the new maid, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mis," I mutter, curtseying.
"Well, go make yourself useful! Dinner is in a few hours, so you best start preparing it."
"Yes, Mis." I scurried off to the kitchen and surveyed what there was for me to work with. I found a bucket of oysters, so I decided to go about making a pie with them. With ease I was able to find the herbs, seasonings, and other ingredients that I would need. While the crust was hardening, I whipped up the filling, and then baked both together. I quickly made a glaze of butter, lemon juice, and oyster liquor, which I spread atop the pie when it was finished baking. By the time I had prepared the pie and a green salad, noon was approaching. I found a tray, cut and plated a slice of the pie for Charlotte, put some of the salad next to it, and brought it out to the Great Hall, where a small dining table was set up. Then I brought out wine.
Margrethe took the jug of wine from me and said, "Let me handle things from here. Go bring Meester his plate and then you might want to start on the laundry."
"All right," I rejoined, returning to the kitchen. I took another silver tray. I rested a full plate of the pie and salad on it and a glass of wine and then left it in front of the door to Meester's room. The darkness of the passage made me a bit uneasy. There were no candles or windows in the hallway, and very little light was omitted from under the door. When I returned an hour later to retrieve the tray, which appeared to have not been touched, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I thought that I had seen a flash of gold light as well, but I brushed all of this away, taking them for illusions from my own mind.
The rest of the day was spent laundering Charlotte's clothes. It took quite a while, because she always found (or pretended to find) something wrong with them. She would point to a perfectly clean silk skirt and cry, "Look, there's a spot of dirt." Then I would have to wash and dry them again. It took about three rounds of washing per garment to satisfy her. I was working on the laundry, which I had oft found a simple task at home, from about twelve thirty in the afternoon to four, trying to meet Charlotte's absurd standards.
While I had done the same chores at home, I knew that Charlotte Gelen was making them much more laborious tasks than they need be. That first night I fell asleep as soon as I laid down on my pallet.
A/N: "Dutch word/phrase"- English word/phrase. "Mis"- Miss "Kamer Straat"- Chamber Street "Meester"- Master
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