He gave her a little appreciative bow. "Well, then. It seems quite obvious. By all means, let us stay in Amsterdam. Within a year-two, at the outside-you will have a medical practice here that dwarfs that of all other so-called doctors in the city. And since your clientele-your extremely loyal, even devoted-I will not say fanatical clientele, although I could-consists mostly of CoC members, it's not as if you'll have any worries that the medical or apothecary guilds will be able to shut you down. Much less threaten you with physical reprisals."
Anne chuckled again, quite a bit more loudly. "Ah… no. That's not likely. As in snowball's chance of hell likely." She cocked her head slightly. "Do they really do that in most places?"
"Oh, yes," Adam said solemnly. "Believe it that they do, dearest. The guilds will not tolerate even a man who officially and publicly practices medicine or dispenses medications without their license. A woman, except as a midwife? Unheard of."
"Jesus." Anne looked around, as if finding reassurance from the familiar sights of Amsterdam. Which, in fact, she did. After months of the siege-more to the point, months of Gretchen Richter-the largest Dutch city was a CoC stronghold. Not even the prince of Orange tried to pretend otherwise, any longer. Not after, a few weeks since, the CoC had simply disbanded the former city council-most of whose patrician members were in exile to begin with, having been wealthy enough to flee the city before the Spanish army invested it-and replaced it with a new one of their own creation. To which eight out of ten members elected had run openly on a CoC platform.
Two days later, they'd done the same to the city's militia, most of whose officers had also fled into exile. Nine out of ten of the officers who'd replaced them had been CoC members. To be sure-Gretchen Richter had gotten far more sophisticated, with experience-they'd been quite careful to elect the prince of Orange's seven-year-old son William as the official commander of the city's military forces. No one except possibly the boy himself was fooled by the formality; certainly not Fredrik Hendrik. Still, it allowed the prince of Orange to maintain the necessary public image.
Gretchen would be gone some day, of course. Probably, Anne thought, with as many regrets as Anne would feel, if she had to leave. Amsterdam was the place where Gretchen Richter had finally come into her own. The place where she'd learned to make herself and her skills match her reputation; where she went from a famous but uncertain firebrand and orator to a superbly capable organizer and revolutionary political leader.
Which meant, in turn, that it wouldn't really matter to Anne whether Gretchen was still here in the flesh or not. Firebrands are very visible, but they leave few traces behind. Gretchen's footprints would stamp Amsterdam for at least two generations, and probably forever. Deep enough, certainly, that if any guild doctor or apothecary returning from exile was foolish enough to protest Anne's medical practice, he'd be lucky if he just got out of it with his shop turned into a wreck. The journeymen and apprentices who were the backbone of the city's CoC were in no mood to tolerate any presumptions by returning guildmasters. Not any longer; not after they withstood the might of Spain, while their former masters fled into exile.
Anne took Adam by the arm again and resumed walking. "But what will you do? Adam, I really don't like the idea of you leaving for long stretches on diplomatic missions."
He grimaced. "Neither do I. But I probably won't have any choice, dearest."
Anne took a deep breath. "Uh… How's your testosterone level doing, at the moment?"
He looked down at her, curious. "No worse than ever, I'd say. Why?"
This time it was she who stopped, disengaged her hand, and turned to face him squarely. "Okay, fine. Then let's cut through all of it. Here's the truth. If I put my mind to it-yes, even with children-I can turn this half-assed medical practice I started on the side, more to keep from getting bored stiff than anything else, into a serious money-maker. I wouldn't even have to gouge anybody. I've already got such a long line every time I open my door that what I really need to do anyway-I'll ask Mary Pat if she thinks Beulah MacDonald is up to leaving Jena for a couple of months to come here and walk me through it-is set up a real medical clinic. Eventually, maybe, the city's first hospital worth calling by the name. You follow my drift?"
He frowned. "I'm not sure I even follow your idiom."
"Oh. Sorry. I forgot we were speaking English instead of German. Easy for me to lapse into American slang when we do that. What I meant was, do you understand what I'm proposing? We both stay here. You only take diplomatic missions that won't keep you from home for… what's reasonable? Two months?"
He shook his head. "You have to allow at least four, Anne, for anything serious. Even if I'm going no farther than a hundred miles."
She thought about it. "Okay. I can live with four months. Six, tops. But that's it."
"That would mean I'd be unemployed most of the time."
"Don't be silly. You just do the work you really want to do, anyway. Your mathematics. And-pardon my English-fuck whether or not you're getting paid for it. Who cares? I'll make enough for both of us."
He looked away. "Let me think about it."
"Sure. How long?"
"Um. Two days?"
"Make it four."
He laughed, and they went back to walking. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Adam cleared his throat.
"Do you think that was really true? What Rebecca said, I mean, concerning Gretchen's-ah, what was the phrase?-rigorous and ruthless methods for preventing pregnancy. Granted that Gretchen is the dominant one of the couple, but I wouldn't have thought she could keep her husband that much under her thumb." He looked a bit alarmed. "I trust that you have no such plans?"
Anne grinned. "You haven't seen any signs of it so far, have you? Relax. I'm a doctor, remember? Well, nurse-but that makes me one of the few doctors worth calling by the name, in the here and now. I've got other ways of handling that little problem. Which I've been using since the first time you finagled your way into my bed, not that you'd ever notice. Men. So would Gretchen, if she'd follow my advice. But you know what she's like. Politics aside, she's almost a reactionary. The old methods work, so why mess with them?"
Adam had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I had wondered, actually. But… ah… since you didn't seem concerned…"
"Ha! Men, like I said. And besides, you're wrong about the rest of it, anyway. The part about Gretchen and Jeff, that is."
"How so?"
"She's the flamboyant one of the two, no doubt about it. And since she also knows what she wants to do with her life and has the determination of a glacier-and Jeff really doesn't care otherwise and is willing to go along for the ride-you make the mistake of thinking there's dominance involved. There really isn't, Adam. I think Gretchen would be quite lost without him. He's her anchor, you could say."
"You know them much better than I do, so I shan't question your judgment. Still, it seems odd. He's such an unassuming young man."
Her eyes narrowed. "And this became a problem for women… when, exactly?"
He laughed. "I surrender!"
"Best you do, buddy. Or the next time Rubens asks me to pose for him, I'll do it in leather and spike-heeled boots."
After Rebecca finished her report of the outcome of her last meeting with the prince of Orange, Gretchen rose and went to the window.
Jeff, from the couch where he'd remained, said: "I don't get it. Why doesn't Don Fernando just cut the deal now? I mean, what's there left to squabble about? Nothing but a bunch of third rate issues that neither he nor Fredrik Hendrik cares that much about anyway."
His wife shook her head. "You're thinking like a commoner, husband. A level-headed and unassuming one, at that."