“Destroy Swanson Enterprises,” Stella says cryptically. “You girls are going to help me expose the biggest financial con the art world has ever seen.”
18
Claire
The attic isa lake. Filthy water gushes down the stairs to the second floor. Soaked through to the bone, Jo throws buckets of liquid out the window as quickly as she can while I transport Vincent’s paintings to the dry side of the room. Thank the heavens for these uneven Dutch floors.
“Is there any hot porridge?” Mr. Pietersen, by far our neediest lodger, shouts up from the breakfast room, where he’s puffing away on his smelly pipe.
“Only cold for now, a bit busy up here,” Jo replies through gritted teeth before looking back at the paintings. “The world could stop spinning and a man will still want a woman to serve him his hot porridge. Are the canvases dry?”
“For now,” I say. “Pray this storm stops soon or we will be in trouble.” Our old roof couldn’t withstand our wet and windy winter, but thankfully we made it to the top floor just as the hole opened up to the elements, and we were able to save the paintings.
Jo stares up through the gap at the clouds. “It seems to have stopped for now.” She calls down the stairs, “Millie, how is the hallway?”
“I’ve taken care of most of it, but it will take ages for these sheets to dry, madame.” Our laundry girl, Millie, happened to be at the house as the water came pouring in, and she leapt into action, stripping the beds to soak up the water before it seeped onto the main floor.
“About that porridge, Mrs. Van Gogh,” Pietersen bellows again.
“If only we did have steaming-hot porridge, I would pour it directly over his big bald head,” Jo says.
“That is something I would like to see. Come now. Let’s attend to those sheets.” I take her arm and guide her down the stairs. Her teeth are chattering, and she is the one who needs something warm. Millie drapes a dry quilt over her shoulders as we reach the second floor.
Jo thanks her and then squints and looks more closely at her face. “Dear child, what happened to your eye?” When I lean toward Millie, the purple and blue bruises are obvious. I know where they came from. Her father is a violent man and prone to drink.
“Do not worry yourself about it, ma’am. He was right to beat me, I never should have gone.”
“Gone where?”
“To the meeting.”
“He hit you for attending a meeting?” Jo asks.
“He had told me not to go. He told me no good would come of it. I only went because Louisa wanted someone to keep her company, or rather that is why I went the first time, but it was interesting, the things the women were saying.”
“It was a meeting of the suffragists?” I ask. There are many of these meetings happening in homes around Bussum and in Amsterdam. I have been invited to several, but the work of runningthe boardinghouse and helping Jo with Vincent’s art has kept me too busy.
She nods and finally meets my eyes. “My father doesn’t understand anything about it. He thinks it is a sin that I even work outside of the home, but we have no other way to make enough money to feed my small siblings. Mother is dead and he is a drunk.” She clasps her hand over her mouth as though she can’t believe she has let the words slip out.
“It is all right, Millie. You are safe to say whatever you like to us. I am sorry this happened to you,” Jo says.
We see too many young girls like Millie mistreated by the men in their lives, and I count myself lucky every day that I am not under the thumb of an abusive father or a husband. In fact, I believe I’ve had quite enough of men for an entire lifetime. I watch Jo’s turbulent relationship with Isaac and feel only relief to have no longing for any sort of romantic partnership.
“How did your father find out where you were?” Jo asks.
“I was careless. I went to a session on a Sunday afternoon when I had no need to be out of the house, and he followed me.”
“You work with us most Tuesdays, yes?” Jo asks.
“I do.”
“Is there a meeting then?”
Millie thinks about it for a second and nods.
“Maybe you could hasten your visit to us and we could all of us go to one of these meetings together. Then you have the excuse that I kept you here for an extra hour.”
“Really? You would want to come?”
