“I’ve been reading the Dutch letters you gave me,” she said. “They seem to be corrections. Like Clara is talking about Jo’s life, and Jo is telling her, no, that happened later, or earlier, or no, I never said that. Does that make any sense?”

“Like Clara was writing Jo’s biography?”

“Exactly.”

One piece of the mystery solved. I’d told Strena about the little green book when I’d given her the letters. “Do the letters say what the connection is between Jo and Clara?”

“Jo refers to Vincent and Theo in the letters as your uncle Vincent and your uncle Theo.”

“This is so helpful. Thank you. Wait till I tell Bram.”

“What’s going on with you two?”

“I don’t know. I like him. Too much, too fast.”

“Don’t believe in that. It’s like looking at art. When you know, you know. Someone either speaks to your heart or they don’t.”

“If they do?”

“Like art, you take them home and keep them. Everything else is a waste of time.”

Maybe she was right. “He listens. He cares. He has ideas. He helps, but he doesn’t push. It’s up to me, everything. He—”

We reached the door and burst outside.

Bram was there. “Congratulations on the show, Strena.” Then he shot me a hopeful smile. “Can I drive you home, Emsley?”

He wore an even nicer suit than usual, fitted, no tie, the top button of his shirt open.

Strena raised an eyebrow at me. But instead of commenting on Bram, she said, “Thank you, Emsley.” And then she hurried away.

While I stood awkwardly in front of Bram, painfully aware that I didn’t have on underwear.

Chapter Thirty

Johanna

December 1891, Amsterdam, Netherlands

What was I thinking, hiring Amsterdam street urchins and leaving Vincent’s legacy in their hands?

“Don’t drop that!” I leaped back and nearly tripped on the hem of my dress. I had no time to rejoice over my narrow escape. I had to steady the crate the boys were carrying behind me. I had to deliver Vincent’s art to our destination in one piece.

The younger one, around twelve, teetered, at risk of falling backwards and plunging into traffic. The barely attached soles of his boots slipped off the curb. I grabbed his shoulder and caught him.

Soot stained his threadbare coat. He must have been hauling coal earlier in the day.

“Careful.”

He flashed me a gap-toothed grin, and then he and his brother marched on, through the throng of ladies and gentlemen out for a walk, while I followed, struggling to catch my breath.

If I could have lifted the weight, I would have carried the crate myself. “Watch it! The contents are irreplaceable.”