By Lynn Cullen
Along with her mom lifeless of the plague, and her loved brother newly married and moved away, Cornelia van Rijn reveals herself with out a good friend or confidante--save her tough father. Out of style with Amsterdam's elite, and thought of brash and unreasonable by way of his buyers, Rembrandt van Rijn, as soon as respected, is now teetering on the point of insanity. Cornelia by myself needs to deal with him, although she herself is haunted through secrets and techniques and scandal. Her merely happiness is available in likelihood conferences with Carel, the son of a prosperous delivery rich person whose ardour for paintings stirs Cornelia. after which there's Neel, her father's final ultimate student, whose steadfast devotion to Rembrandt either baffles and touches her. in line with historic truth, and jam-packed with relatives dramas and a love triangle that may make Jane Austen proud, i'm Rembrandt's Daughter is a strong account of a tender woman's fight to come back of age in the shadow of 1 of the world's so much impressive and complex artists.
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Extra info for I Am Rembrandt's Daughter
Though it is customary to name girls after their grandmother, after the second death, one would begin to think about the luck that name carries. I do. The front door opens. I hide my book under my apron. With Titus gone, it could only be Neel. Sure enough, he leans his head into the kitchen. A grimace of apology flashes across Neel Suythof’s long face before it resumes its somber appearance. ” It would not put him in the grave to smile once in a while. If he did, the faded marks left on his neck by a childhood case of the pox would be almost unnoticeable.
The taller man, the one in the black wool doublet that is short in the sleeves and shiny with wear across the shoulders, pokes a bony finger through the rusty eye slit of an antique helmet. His long neck takes a dip at his Adam’s apple, which, combined with the thistledown knot of hair on the top of his head and the feathery white tufts of his brows, gives him the look of a new-hatched stork. ” The other man takes the helmet from the first man’s hands. “Damage to the nosepiece. Ruins its value,” he says, though he doesn’t put it down.
The snow is gone. I am too late. A man comes over the bridge. When he tips his hat at me, I see his mustache in the shade of his brim. It is as gold as the coins Moeder keeps hidden in a leather pouch in the back of her cupboard. He taps his finger to his lip. ” “Shhhh,” I say back, tapping my mouth. It is our game. I’ve seen this man before. He is tall and has curly gold hair down to his shoulders and gold hairs over his mouth. He smiles, then goes on his way without another sound, as he always does.
I Am Rembrandt's Daughter by Lynn Cullen