‘Bucchi,’ she murmured, peering at the signature along the edge. ‘Bucchi. .’
It was indeed a fan painted by the famous Italian artist: a fantasy of roses and fairies on ivory satin.
‘Who could this be from?’ she said. ‘It’s so beautiful!’
Everyone rose from their seats to crowd round Eline, who carefully held out the precious, open fan for all to admire. She was very surprised. The bottle of scent had been a gift from Madame van Raat, of that she was certain, but surely Henk and Betsy couldn’t have. .’
‘Betsy, darling, is it you I must thank for this?’ she asked, standing up.
Betsy shook her head.
‘Parole d’honneur, Eline, it wasn’t me!’
No, of course it couldn’t have been Betsy, since she and Henk had already given her a bracelet. . so who could possibly have sent her this fan?
‘Could it be from Vincent, by any chance?’ she asked.
‘From Vincent? No, of course not, whatever gave you that idea? It’s hardly the type of present he would give. May I have a look?’
Eline handed her the fan.
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Betsy. ‘Quite magnificent.’
Eline shook her head slowly from side to side; she was perplexed.
The fan was passed round for inspection, and Eline scanned each face in turn, without seeing the slightest indication of complicity. There was a moment, though, when Frédérique assumed a quizzical air, which faded almost at once into apparent indifference as she drew near.
‘May I see the case?’ she asked.
Eline handed it over and Frédérique ran her fingertip over the grey-velvet lining.
‘Are you quite sure you have no idea who it might be from?’ asked Eline, throwing up her hands in a show of utter bewilderment.
Frédérique shrugged her shoulders and put the case down.
‘No, I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said, a shade coolly, studying Eline’s expression. There was something unsympathetic about that gazelle-eyed look of hers, she felt, and could not help thinking Eline’s manner affected and her bewilderment about the fan’s provenance insincere. From then on Frédérique ignored the much-admired fan, and was unusually quiet for the rest of the evening.
. .
The avalanche of presents had come to an end. Madame van Erlevoort invited her guests to follow her out of the salon and drawing room, now littered with wrapping paper, straw and pieces of string, and Willem reopened the sliding doors to the dining room, where a lavishly decked table awaited them.
It was a very lively supper party. Mr Verstraeten, placed between Madame van Erlevoort and Betsy, kept the ladies amused with his witty banter, and Mathilda, who was sitting on Betsy’s other side, frequently joined in the hilarity. Henk, seated between his mother and his aunt, was quite content, while Otto and Eline conducted an animated conversation and Etienne, between Lili and Marie, talked at the top of his voice.
‘Freddie, chère amie, you’ve gone very quiet,’ said Paul, who was alternating mouthfuls of lobster salad with attempts to draw out his otherwise so loquacious neighbour. ‘Are you disappointed you didn’t get lots more presents?’
‘Me quiet? Fiddlesticks!’ retorted Freddie, and she began to prattle away with a speed and brightness much like that of her brother Etienne. However, she sounded a little overexcited, her gaiety seemed a touch forced, and she kept stealing glances at Eline, glowing with beauty as she exchanged pleasantries with Otto. Yes, there was something quite enchanting about her, something that reminded Freddie of a siren, the way her dreamy eyes narrowed when she laughed, the way the soft curve of her finely chiselled lips ended in a dimple in each cheek. And then there were her hands, dainty and pallid, fluttering so prettily about the black lace and dark red bows of her gown, and that coquettish single diamond quivering like a dewdrop amid the black tulle at her neck. Frédérique thought her enchanting indeed, but also unsympathetic, and she kept an almost fearful eye on Otto’s beaming countenance as he gazed upon the siren.
Throughout this time she continued talking and laughing with Paul, with Etienne and Lili, and with Marie, eliciting from old Madame van Raat the comment from the other end of the table that Freddie was living up to her fun-loving reputation.
The champagne flowed, and Mr Verstraeten raised a toast to the ever-youthful hostess with her handsome grey locks, thanking her for the lovely party with a kiss. Eline clinked glasses with Otto at some toast which Frédérique did not catch, and which she would gladly have given her best present to hear. But she did not venture to ask. .
‘Etienne, you’re making a terrible din!’ she cried vexedly when her brother launched into a drinking song, waving his arm so as to very nearly spill his champagne over Lili’s slice of cake. But presently she regretted her outburst — after all, why shouldn’t the others be having fun even if she was not?
The party drew to a close, the carriages were waiting, and the guests, laden with assorted items, took their departure amid effusive thanks for the many gifts bestowed on them. Mathilda was tired and soon went upstairs, while Madame van Erlevoort and Otto drifted about, gathering up the crumpled wrapping paper lying all around.
‘Look at the state of these rooms,’ said Frédérique, kicking a torn cardboard box out of the way. She went to the table, where the fan had lain, but Eline had taken it with her. Then she kissed her mother and Otto goodnight, rumpled Etienne’s hair, and took her presents upstairs to her bedroom.
She undressed slowly, taking so long that the chilly air made her shiver. She crept into bed, and as she stretched herself under the covers Eline rose up before her again, enchanting and elegant in her black lace, smiling at Otto. It all began to whirl before her eyes, like a chaotic kaleidoscope: Henk dressed up as St Nicholas with his tabard trailing over the floor, the Verstraeten boy as his page, the box from London, the Bucchi fan. .
IX
It was a few days after the feast of St Nicholas, and Eline decided to take little Ben for an afternoon stroll. The previous evening she had been to the opera with Madame Verstraeten, Marie and Lili, to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of a singing master to play the accompaniment to Leonora’s aria, ‘La nuit calme et sereine’.
He had shaken his head, for he did not care for the bravura songs of the Italian school, on which his opinion and that of Eline frequently clashed. She found the music of Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi elegant and melodious, as though expressly written for her crystalline soprano, whereas he was inclined to dismiss as puerile their airy little tunes, insisting on the richer depths of Wagner. But he was under her thumb, and therefore did her bidding.
‘Come along now, Ben, don’t dawdle, there’s a good boy,’ Eline said to the chubby little fellow trailing a pace behind on his short legs. ‘Do try and keep up with Auntie. Aren’t you pleased to be going to the shops with me?’
Last night at the opera, during the Comte de Luna’s cavatina, Eline had conceived an idea. In a shop window she had seen several portraits of Fabrice, showing him in different costumes and poses, and a sudden craving to possess one had come over her. Now she was on her way to the shop to pick one out, secretly smiling to herself as she pictured his tall, strong build and his handsome head with the black beard. How wonderful it must be to be an actor on stage!