The Golden Cross (16 page)

“Scurvy,” Schuyler interrupted, looking at the captain. “I heard you lost nearly half your men.”

The corners of Tasman’s mouth tightened. “It couldn’t be
helped. Matthijs Quast was the commander, I was only a skipper of one ship.”

Schuyler instantly regretted his words. “I’m not blaming you, my friend,” he added softly. He couldn’t help overhearing rumors that Tasman often mistreated his crew and lacked the stomach for true adventure, but he couldn’t afford to offend the man who held the reins of his own future.

He took a deep breath and adjusted his smile. “God often works in ways we cannot understand.”

“Indeed.” Cold dignity masked Tasman’s features. “Well, Heer Van Dyck, we trust that our upcoming voyage will meet with more success. I have engaged the services of a doctor, an English gentleman who comes highly recommended by no less a personage than King Charles’s physician.”

“Truly?” Schuyler’s brows rose in amazement. “How did you come by such a man?”

“As you said,” Tasman answered, a look of satisfaction creeping over his features, “God works in mysterious ways.”

Visscher shifted heavily in his chair. “We wanted to discuss the voyage with you so you will be prepared with the sea charts.”

“Of course.” Schuyler reached over his desk for a pencil and paper, ready to take notes.

Tasman folded his hands on his knee. “We are to sail first to Mauritius, then south into fifty-two or fifty-four degrees south latitude, searching for the southern continent.” His words, flat and uninflected, ran together in a monotone. “You, of course, will map our progress, our depth soundings, and our landfalls. We hope your work will be a valuable addition to the charts in the archives of the V.O.C.”

“It will be my privilege and honor to assist the Compagnie,” Schuyler answered, placing his notes back on his desk, “but I must confess that I look forward to the work with a different motivation. The thrill of discovery drives me, gentlemen—the desire to leave a mark upon the world before I depart for a more heavenly
clime. You, sirs, are explorers and seamen, while I am an artist, a soul in search of expression.”

He avoided their eyes, certain they would not understand, but determined that they should know why he wanted to sail with them. “My gift to the world,” he said with quiet emphasis, “will be a map unlike any other in existence. It will reveal not only the geographical layout and such knowledge as one might expect to find on a sea chart, but will also illustrate the flora and fauna and the peoples we may discover … out there.”

Schuyler paused, smiling as he thought of his secret weapon. Last night he had sat in this very chair and reexamined Aidan’s sketch of the bird, wondering how he could ever replicate it, and the answer had come to him like a voice on the wind.
Why not take the girl on the voyage?
He could not ask her yet, of course; he’d had difficulty enough persuading her to join him at his house. But if he gained her trust and her agreement, she could sail on the Tasman voyage and embellish his map with the finest, most lifelike renderings he had ever seen—better by far than the works of Sibylla Marion.

“So of course, gentlemen,” he said to his guests, “though I hope we find gold and lands and honor, I care far more for the lasting benefit of the chart we shall produce.”

“Your commitment to excellence is noted and appreciated.” Tasman’s brown eyes had glazed slightly during Schuyler’s speech, and he turned restlessly toward the window. Schuyler frowned as he followed the captain’s gaze. Tasman had focused on Aidan’s slender figure at her easel in the garden. “By heaven, Schuyler, I thought your daughter had married.”

“She has,” Schuyler answered, folding his arms. “That young lady is my … ward, a most talented artist in her own right.” He cleared his throat as the light of inspiration dawned. “Indeed, Captain, you might find her useful aboard the
Heemskerk
. She is a wonderful illustrator of animals and flowers.”

Visscher rose from his chair for a look. “A pity there are no
women allowed aboard ship,” he murmured, crossing his hands behind his back as his eyes studied Aidan’s fair form through the window. “Just the sight of her would be art enough to satisfy.”

“No women?” Schuyler lifted a brow. “But I thought women were perfectly welcome. You, Captain, sailed with your wife when you commanded the
Engel
.”

“Wives are not women, sir, if you catch my meaning,” Tasman answered, giving Schuyler a knowing smile. “The men will respect another man’s wife, knowing that he has vowed to guard her with his life. But unattached women are a plague upon any ship. They distract the men, they sow strife at every turn. And two women together—” He closed his eyes, and waved his hand, a clear signal that two women aboard ship would transgress the boundaries of any man’s patience.

“No woman will ever sail aboard my ship unless she is married.” Tasman drew his lips into a tight smile. “And I’d prefer never to take along a wife. I’ve convinced my own Jannetje to remain in Batavia with our daughter while I am gone.”

“And how is your lovely daughter?” Schuyler smiled at the memory of the pale young woman he had met on several social occasions. Lina Tasman had been Rozamond’s chief rival for the affections of Dempsey Jasper, and many a night Schuyler had been kept awake by Rozamond’s sharp criticism of the captain’s daughter.

“Lina is well, thank you.” Tasman’s face betrayed no knowledge of their daughters’ rivalry. “She is engaged to be married as soon as God grants us a safe return.”

“You had best keep a sharp eye on her,” Schuyler answered, rising as Gusta entered with a tray of drinks and sweet cakes. “My daughter was so determined to be wed that I found it hard to restrain her enthusiasm. If we are detained on the voyage, your little Lina might slip away and marry with only her mother’s blessing.”

“She would never do that, sir.” Tasman’s stern expression cracked in a smile. “I will have her intended groom on board my
ship. He is Sterling Thorne, my ship’s surgeon and a most excellent physician.”

“Sterling Thorne?” Schuyler tilted his head. “I do not know the name. It is not Dutch.”

“He is recently arrived from England. Witt Dekker, who will serve as first mate aboard the
Zeehaen
, brought him to me, and I was impressed when I interviewed the man. Lina was likewise pleased by his manner and intelligence, and I am only days away from finalizing the arrangements of their betrothal.”

“Ah, very good then.” Schuyler clapped his hands together and regarded his guests. “Shall we drink to their health and happiness?”

“And to profit,” Visscher answered, standing. He lifted his glass of water from the tray. “There is certain to be gold in the undiscovered continent, my friends.”

“To discovery.” Tasman lifted a china teacup.

“To God’s blessing.” Schuyler took the final cup from the tray. “And to posterity, for those who come after us will review what we have done and know that it was accomplished by the grace and will of God.”

“Amen,” the other men echoed.

Schuyler lifted his cup and sipped his tea while his mind raced with a new and perplexing question. He knew he wanted Aidan to sail aboard the
Heemskerk
, but how could his plan be accomplished now that Tasman had forbidden women aboard ship?

His mind burned with the memory of their first meeting. The Spirit of God had clearly said,
She needs you. You need her
.

Sighing in frustration, Schuyler replaced his cup on the tray and walked with his guests to the door. Visscher and Tasman offered their farewells, then turned and left, their figures gradually disappearing down the cobbled walkway.

Schuyler closed the front door and leaned against it, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. If Aidan could not sail with him and help with his grand map, then for what possible reason had God urged him to invite the girl into his home?

“No, no!” Gusta shook her head. “A thousand times no! A lady does not gobble her food. She nibbles it with the utmost delicacy.”

Aidan let her knife fall to the table with a resounding clatter, then folded her hands in her lap and fought to restrain the temper that bubbled under the surface. She had passed a wonderful morning in the garden, another in a glorious succession of hours where she was learning to paint and create under Heer Van Dyck’s patient tutelage. But her new master had declared that Aidan’s afternoons would be devoted to Gusta and lessons in ladylike deportment.

“You will never make a lady,” Gusta was saying now, her face wrinkling in a dour expression of disapproval. “Not in a thousand years.”

“I hope,” Aidan answered, gritting her teeth, “that I won’t live that long. Especially here! I cannot abide another hour of this, much less another week!”

The housekeeper drew herself up to her full height, her bosom jutting forward like the prow of a ship. “You ought to be grateful that Heer Van Dyck sees something of promise in you. And you should thank God above for such a gift, for there is certainly no other reason why the master should have glanced twice at you!”

“I didn’t ask God to give me anything.” Aidan cast a withering stare in the woman’s direction. “And I only asked your master for a wee bit of instruction, not lessons in dining and etiquette.”

Aidan heard a soft hiss as Gusta drew in her breath through her teeth. “You didn’t
have
to come.”

Unable to answer, Aidan strangled on the words that rose to her lips.
Yes I did. If I am ever going to be respectable, if I am ever going to be more than a guttersnipe, I have to learn how to be a great artist
.

But Gusta would not understand the motives that drove Aidan. The housekeeper was not a great lady, but she was genteel and respectable. She had never fallen to the bottom of humanity’s
barrel, never watched her friends suffer with disease and starvation and fear.

Neither could she understand the yearnings and frustrations that rose in Aidan’s breast every time she saw the sun falling at a certain angle upon a rose in the garden. Her heart stirred in the same mysterious way when she saw a butterfly lighting on a hibiscus blossom, and she knew she could paint that picture. If she were only given the materials and instruction, she could make that butterfly live forever; she could preserve that sunset-gilded rose for all time.

Once, long ago, Aidan imagined that all people were plagued by those frustrated feelings and visions, but over the past few years she had come to realize that she was decidedly odd. Orabel could look at a sunset and feel nothing but relief that the day would soon cool; her mother looked out upon the sea and saw only the miles and miles of ocean that separated her from Ireland. But Aidan saw textures, shapes, and colors of a million hues. A sunset could make her delirious with joy; some dark aspect of the sea could cause her to weep. But these things did not seem to affect anyone else.

Except Heer Van Dyck. Yesterday she had discovered a small caterpillar in the garden—a wondrous creature colored with orange and green, with a perfect brown circle on his back, like a saddle. Long, tufted hairs adorned his head and tail, and she had stared at the animal in simple fascination for what felt like only a few seconds.

But when she let the leaf fall and stepped back to her easel, she found Heer Van Dyck watching her, a gentle and bemused smile on his lips. “I was wondering what caught your attention,” he said softly. She gestured toward the bush, thinking that he would want to see the unusual creature for himself, but his eyes never left her face.

“A caterpillar,” she answered simply, pointing toward the hibiscus. “I’ve never seen anything like him.”

“You stared at him for nearly a quarter of an hour.” Van Dyck tilted his head slightly and studied her in a way that made her feel a bit like a wee bug herself.

“Really?” Aidan felt a slow blush burn her cheek. “I had no idea.”

“You were caught in the Creator’s time.” Van Dyck sank to the small stone bench in the garden and gestured for her to resume her seat by her easel.
“Chronos
time, everyday time, seems to stand still when creativity is present. Just now, my dear, you were watching the caterpillar in
kairos
time, God’s time. When we are lost in contemplation of God’s creation, when our inner artist is at work, we are living in
kairos
time.
Chronos
time passes without our noticing it. We accomplish more—we
are
more—than we are when we live by a timepiece.”

Watching Gusta’s face now, Aidan suddenly wished she might abandon
chronos
time forever. These hours with the determined housekeeper were pure torment, for Aidan wanted to be painting, she wanted to lose herself in her work. Under Heer Van Dyck’s forbearing instruction she could almost believe again in a patient and loving God … but every paradise had its resident serpent to contend with.

A scullery maid thrust her head through the door. “Beggin’ your pardon, Gusta, but the master wants to see the young lady in his study.”

“But we’re not finished!” Gusta snapped.

Aidan stood and cast the older woman a triumphant grin. “Yes, we are,” she said, pushing back her chair with far more noise than grace. “Thank you, Gusta, for your instruction. But as I shall never make a lady, I don’t see how it will benefit me.”