The Golden Cross (13 page)

The woman’s caustic tone made Aidan flush. “No more than anyone else!” she snapped. “I’ll have you know we aired out the chest at least once a month, and beat the buggers off our clothes. I’m not a wallowing seaman, no matter what you’re thinking. I’m a woman, same as you, and as decent as you, too.”

The housekeeper marched to the tall bed and snatched the quilt from it. “Take this.” She tossed the quilt toward Aidan. “Take off your skirt, bodice, and shirt—every stitch of fabric you have on. Wrap yourself in the quilt while I have the laundress bring up the tub and hot water.”

“Hot water?” Aidan gasped in honest horror. “Sweet sky above, surely you’re not planning to boil me alive?”

Gusta nodded with enthusiasm. “Boil you, scrape you, parch you, and iron you if need be. But when you go to bed tonight you’ll be clean, by heaven, or—” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Or I’ll tell the master I’m afraid you’re planning to steal the silver in the kitchen.”

Aidan’s mouth dropped open. “You’d tell such a lie? I haven’t done a thing!”

“But you might.” The grim line of the woman’s mouth relaxed slightly. “I know your type, sloven, and I know what’s going through your mind. You’re thinking you’ll stay here a night or two, and if you find the work too hard you’ll be on your way with a pretty bauble or two for your trouble.”

Aidan clamped her mouth shut, stunned by the woman’s
bluntness. ’Twas almost as if the housekeeper had overheard her conversation with the other women this afternoon. Sofie had advised Aidan to do exactly as Gusta said.

The frown of concentration deepened above Gusta’s brows. “Tell me this, girl—why are you here? Are you here only to steal? If you are, why don’t I give you a trinket and let you be on your way?”

The question caught Aidan off guard, and she shifted through her own thoughts. What
had
brought her to this place? Had she come only to spite her mother? No, her reasons went deeper than that. Heer Van Dyck had promised that art could make her respectable, could make her a great lady.

“I’m here to learn.” Aidan stiffened, momentarily abashed, then looked up and gave the housekeeper a twisted smile. “You may not believe me, but I’m here to learn about art. That’s all. And I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”

The woman lifted her head, like a dog scenting the breeze, and crossed her arms. “Well,” she said, “I’m going to see that you don’t take advantage of my master. There’s more going on in this house than you know, and if Heer Van Dyck asks you to work hard, you’ll work hard. You’re here, and I can’t help that, but if you stay you’ll do all he asks with a willing heart.” She gave a snort of warning. “Because if you don’t, I have the power to make your life miserable. And I will, mark my words.”

Aidan clutched the quilt in front of her like a shield against the woman’s aggressive devotion. “I’m not a slave,” she whispered. “You can’t beat me or force me to do anything against my will.”

“Of course not, none of us would. But you’re not quality folk, either, and you mustn’t be forgetting your place. The Van Dycks were a first family of the Netherlands, fine people, important people. And if you want to live in this house, if even for a short time, you must clean yourself up.”

“Live
in this house?” Aidan glanced pointedly at the tall, narrow bed, the neat dresser, the polished chamber floor. “This isn’t a house, it’s a museum! How can anyone live here? The bed is so high I’m
liable to break my neck if I stumble in the dark while getting up to answer the call of nature—”

“Be that as it may,” Gusta answered, a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice, “at least you will have the comfort of knowing you have died in clean linen.” She held out an imperious hand. “Now give me those clothes. You’ll find a clean shirt in the wardrobe, but don’t you dare put it on until after your bath. I’ll send up some lye soap to take care of the lice.”

Still holding the quilt to her chest with one hand, Aidan struggled to untie the strings holding her sleeve to her bodice. “All right,” she murmured. If one had to bathe and scrub in order to be respectable, she might as well begin.

S
chuyler struggled to contain a gasp of pleased surprise when Gusta announced Aidan’s presence the next morning. After walking past the housekeeper, his young guest turned in the doorway and managed to complete a most graceful curtsy. “Good morning, sir,” she whispered, her voice softer than he had imagined it could be.

He gazed at her wordlessly. Pretty enough even in the tattered gown she had worn yesterday, the girl positively glowed with radiance in her new attire.

The housekeeper’s broad face wore an expression of mingled pride and disapproval. “My compliments, Gusta,” he murmured. “You have done well.”

Gusta had outfitted the young woman in one of Rozamond’s old gowns. A full skirt fell in gracious wide pleats from a high, narrow waistline, and the young woman’s slender, freshly scrubbed arms hung gracefully at her side beneath short, puffy sleeves. A double linen collar framed Aidan’s pink face, and her rebellious mane of red hair had been neatly corralled into a sizeable topknot at the crown of her head.

All in all, the young woman appeared tidy, neat, and nearly civilized, but the green eyes were still flashing—a sure sign that the housekeeper had managed to tame and polish only the exterior.

“Good morning.” Schuyler found his voice and pushed back his chair. “I trust you slept well.”

“Tolerably enough.” Aidan’s mouth pulled into a slightly sour
smile as she clasped her hands at her waist. “It was too quiet in that room. I kept dreaming—an old dream, a pleasant one where I’m dancing on the beach—and then I’d suddenly wake up, realizing that there was no music, no sound at all. I feared that something terrible had happened.”

“Ahem, well.” Schuyler looked down at his desk, not wanting to ask what sort of sounds usually kept the girl awake. Given where he had found her, a typical evening could have contained all sorts of nefarious activities.

“I’ve been busy,” he looked up, “preparing a schedule for our next several days together. I plan to teach you a lesson each morning and set you to a task, then I must be about the business of preparing for my upcoming expedition. I do hope you understand.” He gave her a proud smile. “You may have heard the rumor that I am to sail on Abel Tasman’s next voyage. If the weather holds and the arrangements are finalized, we shall sail sometime in mid-August.”

She did not answer, but twisted her hands slightly. Was she nervous?

Better to keep her busy; tomorrow would take care of itself. “I’ve been gathering the equipment you will need to get started,” he said, moving toward the easel he had set up near the window. “You have the gift and the artist’s eye, I could see that straightaway, but I suspect that you have not been exposed to the different mediums.”

“The what?” Uncertainty crept into her expression.

“Watercolors, oils, pen and ink, pencils.” Schuyler gestured toward his worktable. “I think I would like to tutor you most particularly in watercolors. Of course, you can learn other techniques later, but I’ve a particular project in mind where watercolor will be most appropriate.”

She walked slowly toward the worktable, her expression softening as her eyes took in the collection of paints, brushes, and papers. “Do you work in watercolor, sir?”

“Sometimes.” He pulled a portfolio of his own work from a shelf. “I’m a cartographer, and I usually paint maps.” Interest gleamed in her eyes as he lifted the cover and pointed to some of his previous work. “Cartography is a science and an art, you see, a necessary meeting of the two. I take the charts compiled by ships’ captains and then translate their readings and notations onto the page.”

He turned the page and picked out one of his favorite pieces, a map of the Indonesian archipelago. “See this?” He ran his finger over the fine lines. “This is Indonesia, and this island is Java, where we live. This small dot,” he pointed to a spot on the northwestern shoreline, “is Batavia, our own city.”

He heard her breathing, quick and light, as her own hand gently traced the island. Those observant eyes absorbed every detail. “This space,” she whispered, “is the sea?”

He nodded. “The Pacific Ocean. And these shapes are other islands which surround us—New Guinea and New Holland.” He paused, then lowered his head in order to look up into her eyes. “Have you never seen a map, Miss O’Connor?”

One of her shoulders rose in a shrug, then he saw a blush run over her cheeks. They would make slow progress if she insisted on becoming embarrassed or defensive every time he asked a simple question.

“My dear Joffer O’Connor,” he said, “you need not fear ridicule from me. A student learns best when she realizes that she has much to learn, and you need not be embarrassed by your lack of knowledge. Question freely; speak your thoughts, for I will not castigate you, nor will I be astounded at anything you say.” He offered her a small smile. “Indeed, I shall only be amazed at your talent, which gives you every right to be here.”

She looked fully into his eyes, and in that silent moment he felt something—a transfer, however brief, of her trust. “I am not afraid of you, sir. It is only that—” She hesitated and bit her lip. “You cannot know how much I have longed for an opportunity like this. But I was certain it was never meant to be.”

“God works in mysterious ways, my dear.” He turned and walked toward the glass-paned door that opened into the garden. With one gesture he turned the doorknob and flung the door open, then smiled as Aidan gasped in delight at the sight of the summer garden beyond.

“You drew a butterfly, so I guessed that you have an affinity for nature.” He silently congratulated himself upon his first success with her. “I believe we will start with a lesson on how to paint flora in watercolor. So please, come with me into the garden, and let us find some flower you’d like to paint today. I’ll have one of the servants set up your easel in a suitable spot.”

They walked together, silently, through flaming beds of winding bougainvillea, bright hibiscus, and flowering frangipani, the sweet flowers the natives used to create wreaths and circlets of fragrant blossoms. After a few moments, she paused beside a pool in which lotus lilies grew in abundance.

“Here,” she said. Her eyes fastened upon a single elegant blossom that lifted its head far above the others. “I would like to paint this.”

Schuyler nodded to his steward, who had quietly followed with the easel. A sheet of prepared parchment and a small tray of watercolors arrived a moment later, and he saw Aidan’s eyes fill with appreciation and delight to find such treasures at her fingertips.

“You might wish to sketch it first,” he suggested, indicating the pencil in the tray. “I shall leave you to your work.” He took the small stool from the steward and positioned it for her. “When you have finished, I shall answer any questions and provide a helpful critique.” He bowed slightly. “But only if needed.”

She sank onto the stool, her eyes moving again to the jewel-bright flowers, and Schuyler backed away. She was very much like him, this young woman. Already he could see the creative spirit of the artist within her, a spirit he had not found in either of his children. But such things came from God, and the Almighty had
gifted Rozamond with charm and wit, while Henrick had obtained a steadfast heart and the will to work.

He left her alone and walked slowly back to his library. Strange, how God worked. The Lord had given him two wonderful children, but the offspring of his body did not share in the artistic depths of his soul. And now, after all these years, the Almighty had sent him this girl—not his own blood, but someone to whom he could pass on his knowledge and his love for art, beauty, and creativity.

“Ja,”
he murmured to himself, moving slowly back to his worktable. “God is good.”

S
eeling irritable and out of sorts, Sterling Thorne moved swiftly down the street, his jaw tight and his hands locked behind his back. He had been in Batavia for six days, and in that time he had come to the conclusion that the Dutch were the most stubborn people on God’s green earth. Lang Carstens had not softened his stance one whit, even in the face of Sterling’s dedication to winning the old doctor’s approval. The physician had proved an able—if grudging—host, but he was no more willing to share his medical practice than a two-year-old child was to share a toy.