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The small wedding party braved the rain and growing wind to return to Hendrik’s—and now Clara’s—home, where there was to be

a celebratory dinner with some of the city’s most important citizens and burghers.

Clara rode with Hendrik, her hand clasped in his as the carriage struggled through the mud. “Mr. Tadema will be there, as

well as the mayor of Franeker,” Hendrik told her. “You would do well to learn all their names and those of their wives eventually,

but for tonight, you are a bride, and we celebrate you.”

She gave him the ghost of a smile, concentrating on keeping her churning stomach from bubbling over. The carriages eventually

pulled onto a long winding drive, which deposited them in front of a grand stone house, larger even than Wierenslot. Hendrik

helped Clara down, her slippers immediately sinking into a muddy puddle.

No sooner had she managed to step out of it, then there was a commotion of voices, barking, and the scattering of wet gravel. She looked up to see a blur of white hurtling toward her, and then Pim was in her arms.

Hendrik pressed his lips thin at the sight of the muddy reunion, but didn’t say anything.

“Oh, but I’m glad to see you,” Clara whispered into Pim’s fur as she placed him back on the ground.

“You brought that mongrel with you, I see.”

“Why shouldn’t I have? He was a gift from you, after all.”

Hendrik’s frown deepened. “It most certainly was not. I’m still awaiting my bitch hound to pup. You didn’t really think I

would insult you by giving you a bedraggled mutt of questionable origins, did you?”

Pim gave a low growl and ran ahead, and there was no time for Clara to consider where her dog had actually come from.

Hendrik ushered them into a cavernous hall, Katrina sniffling and complaining of her aching joints, Clara silently following.

If Clara were facing the reality of her situation, she would have looked upon the house and noticed its grandness, how every

detail revealed an astonishing level of wealth. But now she did no more than glance at the paintings that made her own father’s

collection look quaint, plodding down the hall as if it was just a pile of stones in which lived a man whom she barely knew.

“I hope that you will not try to brave the rain again tonight,” Hendrik told her parents as a servant relieved them of their

wet cloaks. “There are more than enough bedchambers, and I would be only too honored to have you stay here.”

Knowing her father, Theodor would not want to be away from the familiar comforts of his own home, but he allowed Hendrik to have a servant show them to a bedchamber where they could dry off and prepare for dinner.

Hendrik turned to Clara with intensely bright eyes.

“You, of course, will be sharing a bedchamber with me. I know it is fashionable in some places for a man and his wife to sleep separately, but I would have you near me, and in the winter, you will be glad of the warmth.”

Clara took a hard, dry swallow and nodded, following Hendrik up the winding stone stairs. “I’ll send a maid up with hot water

for bathing, and some fresh toweling. Our guests will be arriving shortly, so don’t soak overlong.”

With a peck on the cheek and a lingering look of desire, Hendrik closed the door. Clara sank onto the bed. The large mattress

was firm, and covered in a decadent brocade that, while beautiful, was scratchy to the touch. Everything in the chamber was

extravagant, from the curtained bed to the carved wooden chairs that faced the gaping hearth, but it lacked a homey feeling.

Pim sat stiffly near the bed, as if mirroring her observations.

After the maids had come and filled the large copper tub, Clara eased herself into the steaming water, leaning her head back

and closing her eyes. The water embraced her, warm and soothing, and she melted into complete relaxation.

Her arm was hanging over the side, and she felt something wet and cold touch it. Opening her eyes, she found Pim was regarding

her with deep curiosity.

“Sometimes I wonder if the water was so very bad,” she whispered, more to herself than to the dog. “If Fenna simply walked

into a dream and never woke up.”

The bath was growing cold, her fingers dimpling.

Hoisting herself reluctantly out of the tub, she dried of and rang for the maid to come help her dress.

Pim sat facing the wall, and if she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was trying to give her privacy.

When she was dressed, Clara paused at the door, certain that she would have to tell him to stay in the bedchamber. But he made no move to follow.

The dinner was a continual bombardment of people coming up to Clara to congratulate her and offer their well wishes. Women

she had never met before felt compelled to give her advice on conception, the men giving each other knowing looks. Her mind

wandered as she picked at her food, unable to concentrate on anything other than where Maurits was, and what he might have

been doing at that very moment.

Hendrik was talking about some new business venture, men dressed in rich suits of velvet swirling their drinks about in crystal

goblets. “There have been whale sightings off the coast of Skallingen, great schools of them, more than have ever been seen

before. If we are savvy and plan carefully, we could return with enough oil to make our profits exceed even those of the VOC.”

“Skallingen... in Denmark?” Clara said weakly. “But isn’t that very far away?”

Hendrik nodded, his fingers nervously twirling around his goblet stem. “It is a risky voyage, there is no denying it. But

if reports from the French are correct, then it could be an opportunity not seen in decades, if not centuries. I could make

in one voyage what would otherwise take five years.”

“Surely there are other uses for your ships? You say yourself it is risky—why not use the ships for trade or voyages?”

Hendrik gave her an indulgent look. “My darling, you are good to care about my business, but you have a woman’s understanding

of these things. Trade is tenfold riskier, and that is to say nothing of the uncertainty of the routes, and the contacts required.

Besides, my ships are not built to be trading vessels, they lack the storage they would need.”

Clara chewed her lips. “If it is a successful venture, would it be your last? Perhaps you could invest the money into something

else afterward. Sell some of the ships?”

Hendrik looked at his pretty little wife as if she had suggested he cut off his own arm. “Sell my ships! Oh, Clara.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen, you must excuse my young wife. She is eager to learn, but does not realize that she need not concern herself in such matters.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and heat crept up Clara’s face. The conversation continued without her. Dinner came and went,

a lavish parade of dishes with all manner of fish, shellfish, and even a peacock still feathered in all its emerald and sapphire

splendor. Clara picked at her plate, only eating a little bread.

Drinks and delicacies were served as guests continued to mingle. Clara moved about the room like a passing shadow, the laughter

and conversations far away and unimportant. She found her mother sitting in the corner, an untouched glass of wine in her

hand. Clara did not usually linger near her mother, or observe her for any length of time. Why would she? Katrina did not

want her around, and any undue interest on Clara’s part could lead to a boxing. But now Clara looked at the woman who had

dominated her entire life, noting the fine lines at her mouth, the cold detachment in her eyes.

Katrina looked up when she felt her daughter’s gaze on her. “Yes? What are you staring at?”

Clara wet her lips, glanced over to where Hendrik was in animated conversation with some other men. “I know about my brother,”

she said, the words slipping past her lips before she could stop herself. “I know he died when I was an infant.”

Behind her glass, Katrina’s flint eyes went wide for a moment before narrowing again. “Helma told you, I suppose?”

Clara nodded, bracing herself for, at the very least, a sharp word. But her mother only sagged a little in her seat, the ruffle

of her collar drooping with her.

“Of course she did,” she muttered. “The woman never did know how to hold her tongue.”

“Why?” Clara asked, growing bolder. “Why did you never tell me?”

“You want to know why?” Katrina downed the wine as she shifted in her seat to pin Clara more squarely under her gaze. “Because

every time I look at you I see my precious little boy. Every time I hear your voice, I am reminded of the gift that I lost.

How could I speak of him to you, when you were the one to survive? When she took—” Katrina bit off whatever it was she had

been about to say, closed her eyes and took a long, steadying breath. “But you are your own woman now, and I need never see

you again after this night.”

There was a heaviness in her mother’s face that Clara had never seen before, or perhaps had just never recognized for what

it was. But something stopped her from dropping to her knees and putting her head on her mother’s lap. Katrina did not want

Clara’s pity or apologies or anything else. She only wanted Clara gone.

Outside the rain pelted down in vicious sheets, the wind its erstwhile accomplice. For the first time since they had embarked

that morning, real unease pricked at Clara. Guests were beginning to rise to leave, so as soon as she could reasonably excuse

herself, she ran to the window. Pressing her face to the cold glass, she tried to see out into the thick gray. She sucked

in a breath, her blood going cold. Where fields had stretched as far as the eye could see, water now roiled and churned, with

no indication where it ended and the ocean began.

She raced back to her parents who were preparing to leave. “I think you ought to stay,” Clara said to her father.