Crispijn is the first person outside the orbit of her own family whose opinion she has ever trusted. Given time, might it be possible for them to exchange even deeper confidences? She cannot imagine he would ever stoop to marry her. That is a fantasy even her overactive imagination cannot reliably conjure. But they could be friends, couldn’t they? Perhaps one day he will marry and she might be employed to watch over his children and organise the household laundry. It’s a harmless dream and one she has indulged in often of late. He would treat her kindly, just as he does the rest of the staff. She imagines his children – a girl and a boy, both sporting the van Shurmans’ coppery mop and serious dark gaze, loose curls framing their solemn faces. When she tries to imagine her own children, she always draws a blank. It’s as if her subconscious cannot conceive of a future beyond Sterrenwijck. But there’s no time to brood any further, for she hears the sudden creak of wheels and spies Mrs Hartog hurrying past the room on her way to open the front door.

Catharina takes a long inhalation and shuts her eyes to compose herself as muffled voices echo in the hallway. A moment later, the housekeeper announces the visitors and Catharina’s eyes fly open, her lips forming a bright, welcoming smile.

Maarten is dressed in his officer’s uniform, a red sash tied across his chest, medals pinned to his collar. He accepts Catharina’s greeting formally, bowing to her and then to Anna, who shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. She is merely a servant, a nobody. Why should he bow? She turns her attention to Blanche, assisting the girl to shrug off her muddy cloak and passing it out to Lotte in the corridor who bears it away, holding it carefully.

Blanche seems even paler than the last time Anna saw her. She smiles wanly at Catharina’s enquiries about her health and tells them in a soft voice that she’s been confined to her bed with a bad cold. That is the reason, she says, for the delay arranging the portrait sitting. They could not come sooner, could not find the time between daily visits from the doctor and the hours where she felt too weak to even lift her head.

‘But you feel better now?’ Catharina says, playing anxiously with the cord she has wound around her smock to belt it in.