He has Catharina’s strong jaw and brown eyes, so dark as to be almost black, and thick copper hair which falls in loose waves around his shoulders. Anna’s gaze travels along the tablecloth to his hands. Compared to Catharina’s and her own, his are virtually unmarked. They are smooth and alabaster pale, as if carved from a stone slab, and clearly belong to a gentleman of leisure whose entire existence involves being waited on. For some reason, their purity bothers her. Even her father’s hands were rougher, marred by his early merchant days, the calluses and blackened nailbeds standing testament to his daily inspection of goods in the company warehouse. The van Shurmans’ wealth, by contrast, seems somehow ill-gotten, not the result of hard labour, but something far uglier – idleness, perhaps. An inheritance that has not been earned. Anna has heard tales about the glaring pretensions of Catholic families, their rooms shamelessly papered with tooled leather and gold leaf, their gardens overflowing with expensive water features and marble statues. But the van Shurmans are devoted Protestants. Perhaps this is simply how people live who have amassed so much wealth it can’t be spent any faster.