The Golden Cross (8 page)

He paused just inside the doorway and took a deep breath, his eyes searching the gloom, half-hoping that he’d see no sign of the red-haired woman. If he couldn’t find her, he could leave with a clear conscience, satisfied that he’d at least obeyed his impulse to help the ragamuffin. He had come to believe that the merest encounter on the street could be a divine appointment, and the girl’s talent and sincerity had convinced him that she should not be brushed aside. But other than giving her a few art supplies and a dozen encouraging words, he had no idea what else he could do for her.

All too quickly he ran out of distractions. He saw her sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, her fair skin stretched over high cheekbones, her eyes fixed upon the card game at the next table.

He wouldn’t even be able to slip in and cower in a corner, he realized, groaning under the burden of his parcels as well as the imminent blight upon his good name.
If anyone tells my children that I’ve been frequenting taverns even before dinnertime …

He glanced around and smiled grimly. Not much chance of that rumor spreading. None of his children’s associates would so much as venture into this part of town without some extremely compelling reason.

She looked up and caught his eye as he made his way through the boisterous crowd, and he gave her a smile, holding the bulky packages to his chest lest they be knocked from his arms. She blushed as he approached, and he wondered if perhaps his attentions embarrassed her. Or maybe she thought he was mocking her.

“I am glad, my dear, that you waited for me.” Schuyler dropped his parcels to the table where she sat. He placed his hand on the back of an empty chair, then lifted a brow. “May I sit?”

“Please do.” She straightened in her chair, her thin fingers tensing on the tabletop. After a moment, a flicker of a smile crossed her face. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all.”

“Of course I came.” He unwrapped the largest package, a stack of parchments and assorted papers. “I promised I would help you, and I want to see you draw again. You show remarkable promise, my dear, and it would be a shame if you neglect the gifts God has given you.” He gave her a brief smile. “I particularly liked the butterfly sketch.”

“You saw that?” A pensive shimmer flickered in the shadow of her eyes. “I don’t usually go around drawing on buildings, sir. I only wanted to practice until you arrived.”

“Your drawings would greatly improve most of the buildings in this part of town,” he answered simply, smoothing the parchments. He slid the stack toward her, then produced a freshly sharpened pencil from a pouch at his belt. “Here, my dear. Draw for me.”

She took the pencil and frowned at him. “Draw what?”

“Whatever your heart tells you.” He folded his hands across his belly as he leaned back in his chair. “Forget I am here, forget everyone in this room. Just draw. Let your inner eye see what it will, and record that image on the paper.”

She paused, touched the tip of the pencil to her tongue in a strangely quaint gesture, then ran her left hand down the parchment, seeming to evaluate its texture, sight, and scent. Her eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them again they
burned with a faraway look. The pencil began to move over the page, and within five strokes Schuyler saw that she had sketched a man—a craggy-looking fellow of exceptional height, callous hands, and massive oarsman’s shoulders. She sketched the docks under and around the man, lending an air of isolation to the tall figure.

Schuyler said nothing, but he felt his breath catch in his throat as she slowly brought the image to life. The skin of his palms grew damp as he realized he was watching a talent unlike any he had ever seen before. He had trained with the learned painter Joachim de Heem, had traveled to Amsterdam, London, Paris, Nuremberg, and Italy to perfect his art and technique. He was skilled and relatively well known in the art world, but in the space of five minutes this girl had demonstrated more natural ability than Schuyler would ever possess.

She turned the pencil now to shade in the telling details and shadows, and Schuyler thought he could almost see the man’s chest rise and fall, that at any moment those full lips would curl into a laughing smile. He had noticed a similar quality to her picture of the butterfly; he had wondered if the creature might mount the warm breeze and simply fly away.

A crowd had gathered, a quiet knot of men and women who stood behind the young woman and murmured in appreciation as her pencil flew over the paper. But the artist seemed not to hear them. Her entire being was concentrated upon her work; her spine curled toward the page, her fingers willing the pencil to create the image her mind held.

Schuyler gripped the arms of his chair as a sense of inadequacy swept over him. The Almighty had been gracious to give him a measure of talent, but God had obviously given a far greater measure to this girl. Why?

After a few more strokes, the young woman dropped the pencil and slid the sketch away, knowing without being told that her rendering was perfect and complete. How long had it taken him to
recognize completion? For years he had struggled with the temptation to add, to tweak, to erase, to disguise. Even now he often had to put his pens and paints aside and conduct a mental debate over whether or not a work was complete. Yet this young woman—barely more than a girl—seemed to know instinctively.

She sat silently, her head bowed, waiting for his inspection, his help, his approval. What could he say? She had more talent than he; she lacked only what he could not give. With training and time, she might be the greatest artist Batavia had ever known, quite possibly a sensation even in Europe. But he was scheduled to depart within the month. Besides, he was too old to take on an apprentice—

She needs you
.

The Voice came from within, and Schuyler instantly acknowledged it.

Ja, Lord, she does
, Schuyler responded.
But what should I do with her? She is a waif, a young woman of questionable repute. And I am leaving in a few weeks. I will not be here to tutor her
.

You need her
.

Schuyler swallowed hard, then gripped the arms of his chair again. He was not one who heard the voice of God in every slight whisper of the wind, but he had heard it often enough to recognize it. And when God spoke, Schuyler knew he had to obey.

He summoned all the courage he could muster to acknowledge the call.
“Dank you, goed Vader,”
he whispered under his breath. “Give me wisdom now.”

He cleared his throat, searching for words. “Young woman—what, if I may be so bold, is your name?”

The eyes that lifted to his were filled with a curious deep longing. “The people here call me Irish Annie,” she answered, “but my true name is Aidan O’Connor.”

J
offer O’Connor, you have a great gift. There is something about your work … something that shows great promise.” If Heer Van Dyck’s assessment of her ability startled Aidan, she was equally shocked by the fact that he’d addressed her using the respectful Dutch title “Joffer,” meaning “Miss.” His announcement brought cheers and applause from the onlookers, and Aidan tensed at the noise, ready to leap out of her chair and flee. Whatever had possessed her to invite him here, where everyone could see her? And why had she kept this rendezvous with the old gentleman? He was a respected artist, she was nothing.

He said she had a gift … but when she looked up again, she saw that his eyes were fixed upon her picture. He was not smiling.

“Did I—did I do something wrong?” She lowered her voice as the crowd of onlookers moved on to find other amusements.

“No, my young friend,” Van Dyck said quietly. “You did nothing wrong. You did everything right.” He reached out and turned the picture so he could study it more closely. “You have a remarkable talent. Have you studied under a drawing teacher here?”

Aidan felt the corner of her mouth twist. This man wouldn’t want to know about the kind of teachers she’d had in Batavia. Betje had taught her how to pick a man’s pocket; Francisca had taught her how to cut a man’s purse string while dancing ….

“No, sir,” she answered, leaning back. “I haven’t had any
drawing teachers. But if you could give me some instruction or a few ideas that might be useful, I’ll be very grateful. I know you have other important things to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Leaning his chin on his hand, he looked across the table at her, his eyes gleaming with speculation. He might have been planning to offer her a bag of golden guilders or employ her as a maid. Aidan couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but his expression encouraged her. His was a gentle smile, not at all like the leering grins of the seamen who swaggered up to her in the tavern.

“You have a remarkable gift, young woman,” Van Dyck repeated. “Now we should begin to improve it. I’m not quite certain how I can help you, for I will be leaving Batavia in a few weeks, but I am certain God wants me to lend you my attention. And while my artistic eye pales in comparison to yours, I am skilled with the tools of the craft. I am a cartographer by trade, an artist only by avocation, but I think I may be able to offer some assistance as you begin your artistic endeavors.”

Aidan shifted her weight in the chair and glanced at her picture again. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to begin an artistic endeavor,” she murmured. Suddenly her picture looked very poor. “Perhaps this is not a good idea.”

By his own admission, Van Dyck would soon leave Batavia, and what good would a few art lessons do her? Perhaps it was better not to hope, not to whet an appetite that could never be satisfied. A serious study of art would require months—perhaps years—of instruction, time to learn and practice and paint. She would also need a patron, for neither Lili nor Bram would willingly spend good money on a frippery like art.

“My dear.” Van Dyck leaned forward eagerly. “Please listen. I am willing to help you all I can. I am leaving Batavia soon, but I’d like you to come live in my house until I have to depart. I will teach you all I can in whatever time we have, and I give you my word that you will be treated with respect and honor.”

Stunned speechless, Aidan snapped her head back. She’d heard such propositions before, usually from drunken seamen or young gentlemen who wandered through the wharf looking for a night of naughty fun and devilment.

“Sure, and don’t I know what that means?” She blinked in consternation, unable to believe a gentleman could issue such a brazen invitation. “No matter what you may think, sir, I’m a decent girl. I’ve never lived with any man, and I’m not about to begin now, no matter how many lessons you offer.”

“Oh, my.” A flush of color rose up from his collar. “My dear, what you’re thinking—I mean, I never intended what you’re thinking. I can assure you, there is nothing untoward or indecent in my offer. You would be completely chaperoned at all times. My housekeeper will attend to your personal needs, and while you reside with us I will teach you about art.”

He paused, waiting for her reaction, and Aidan pressed her lips together, thinking. He was truly shocked—and that was a good thing. Surely this man was a true gentleman. He had a gentle manner, and his refined features fairly exuded intelligence and good breeding. If he kept his word, perhaps she could learn a thing or two. And often ships were delayed out of port, so an expedition scheduled to depart in a few weeks might be delayed for even a few months.

Yes, this might be a very good thing.

Van Dyck was smiling now, his expression distracted, as though he listened to something only he could hear. After a moment his eyes widened as if he’d just received a revelation.

“You seem to have a skill for the things of nature—that butterfly was really quite remarkable,” he said, running his hand through his white hair. “I’m afraid I am more attuned to lines and geography, images and shapes which do not move or breathe.” He shot her a twisted smile. “Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two, if I am not too old to learn. I have a great need for someone who can teach me to accurately draw the flora and fauna of—”
His voice faded slightly as his eyes turned toward the open doorway. “—of our world.”

Aidan bit her lip. “I wouldn’t know how to teach you anything, sir.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t even know how I do what I do. It just comes out of me.”

“That is very obvious, my dear, and as I said, it is a gift.” Heer Van Dyck fished in his doublet pocket for a moment, then produced a little card scrawled with an elegant handwriting. “This has my name written upon it. Can you read?”

Aidan felt her cheeks flush as she nodded. “Of course. I was educated in England.”

“I should have known.” Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around his eyes as he smiled at her. “But there’s a bit of the Irish in you too. I can hear it in your voice.”

“My parents were Irish,” Aidan answered, smiling back at him. Aping her mother’s brogue, she tilted her head at a jaunty angle. “Sure, and there’s a wee bit of the blarney in me, but ’tis not such a bad thing to be Irish.”

The artist grimaced in good humor. “Of course not. The Irish are a charming lot.” Van Dyck clapped his hands together, then looked around the room. “Have you someone—a guardian, perhaps—that I should speak to on your behalf? I’d like to assure them that I mean you no harm. I believe you can be a great artist someday, and I’d like to help you begin.”