by Toombs, Jane
In Virginia, Romell’s father had told her about the Indian chief Opechancanough, who had broken the treaty agreed to between the colonists and his predecessor, Powhatan. In 1622, over three hundred colonists had died when Opechancanough's warriors attacked. Of course since then there'd been peace, more or less, between the Indians and the colonists. But those were American Indians and these were Javanese. Could natives of one land really be compared with those of another?
"Enough of such talk." Hendrik smiled down at her. "Has the dressmaker finished with your gowns? I told her she must hurry."
"I'm certain she's doing the best she can," Romell said. "I really don't feel you should have gone to such expense to provide a trousseau for me. I'll never be able to thank you enough for all you've done."
He waved his hand expansively. "I don't expect thanks from the beautiful young woman who is to be my wife." He stopped walking and took her hand. "You will marry me, Romell?"
She liked him, felt comfortable in his company. Why did she drag her now well-healed feet?
"Yes, Hendrik, I will."
"Soon? In August, perhaps?"
She looked into his light blue eyes, intent on hers. "Yes, Hendrik," she said. "In August—August thirty-first."
"Wonderful!" He broke into a delighted grin and, putting his hands about her waist, lifted her high into the air, whirling her around before he set her on her feet again.
Romell laughed, touched and surprised by his high spirits. She put a hand on his arm. "I'll do my best to be a good wife to you, Hendrik."
"You couldn't be otherwise. What do you say, my dear, to a feestje—to a little celebration? I want to let all of Batavia know we've set the date."
Romell clapped her hands. "I'd love a party. Only, I'm not certain I'd be any help to you yet in arranging--"
"I will do everything. This is my celebration for you. You shall be the honored guest." He bent and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
She took his arm and they walked on. Beyond the walls of the city mountain peaks rose smoky blue into the sky. Batavia may have been patterned after Amsterdam, but the ever-present view of the mountains and the devastating thrust of the tropical heat reminded Romell that she was in Java.
"Who is the ruler of Java?" she asked after a time.
"The VOC."
"You're teasing me, Hendrik. I mean the native ruler and you know I do."
"I do not tease you. But I will tell you that Sultan Agung of Mataram rules what we do not. We've had to show him his place, and he knows not to interfere with Batavia. We are not much interested in the Javanese except for trading with them.”
"And as servants."
"Yes, that, of course."
"When we are married, will you take me outside the compound to visit the rest of the island?" she asked.
Hendrik stopped again to stare down at her. "Whatever for? There's naught but jungles and volcanoes and rice paddies."
"I've never seen a volcano, or a jungle, or a rice paddy."
Hendrik swept his arm in a semicircle. "You can see the mountain peaks from here--what need to go closer?" He put his arm possessively about her shoulders. "You have romantic fancies about these things, I fear. The jungles are full of tigers and large snakes, most unpleasant and dangerous. Even I avoid traveling outside the walls as much as possible."
"Then are we to stay shut up behind these walls for as long as we live in Java?" she demanded.
"No, no, perhaps someday an expedition to the central plains can be arranged. The weather there is less humid than here, so it makes a nice change. But we must go, of course, with others and with soldiers in the party. Any other way is foolish." He squeezed her shoulder and dropped his arm. "I will work hard to keep you happy, my dear."
Happy? Romell took a deep breath. She would be happy with Hendrik, of course she would.
Every day Romell talked to the Reijts' servants in their language. Sometimes the chambermaid, who always wore a flower in her hair, giggled so hard at Romell's attempts that they both wound up laughing instead of talking. But she added more Javanese words to her small vocabulary.
Romell never asked for news of Adrien, and though she looked every time she went out with Hendrik or with Elysabet, she never so much as caught a glimpse of him. Nor did Margitte come to visit.
The Dutch dressmaker finished her work, and Romell gladly wore the new gowns of thinner cotton, batiste, and fine muslin. Even so, she was always uncomfortable in Batavia's steaming heat.
"Is it cooler in the winter?" she asked.
Elysabet shook her head. "Just rainier. The rain hardly ever stops between November and March. The wet monsoons, you know."
Hendrik took Romell out in the trap the next day, she wore a white scoop-necked muslin trimmed with lace, with capelet sleeves and, daringly, only one petticoat underneath. Her hair had grown enough so she dispensed with the cap and her cinnamon curls framed her face. She carried a small waxed silk parasol.
"You're dressed like a bride," he said, taking her hand and tipping the parasol back to gaze into her eyes. "All in white, as I first saw you."
Doubt assailed Romell. Does he think me un-touched? she wondered. Will he be angry after we're married and he finds out I'm not? Can I possibly mention such a thing to him?
"Well, your fellow Englisher sailed for Sumatra today," Hendrik told her, settling back into the seat. "No place for him here. I'm surprised the widow Van Slyke put up with his company as long as she did."
"But--I thought--weren't Margitte and Adrien—that is, Mister Montgomery—to marry?"
Hendrik shook his head. "She's too wise to wed a penniless adventurer."
"Adrien isn't an adventurer!" Romell said hotly.
"No? Penniless he certainly is. But I owe the fellow eternal gratitude for your rescue. Not in my line, that sort of thing." He gazed fondly at her. "I did what I could, grant me that."
"Hendrik, of course you did. Without the ship you paid for, I'd still be—" She broke off and shuddered.
"Yes, but I can see this Montgomery fellow took your fancy, setting sail to the uncharted Southland and battling the natives to bring you out safely."
"It's you I'm going to marry," she reminded him.
"And next month!" he said, brightening. "I have plans for the party to be held two weeks from today. Everyone is invited. We will have a jolly time. As the Javanese say, make ramee-ramee—that's twice merry."
"I can hardly wait," Romell tried to sound properly enthusiastic while wondering how soon she could get away to pay a visit to Margitte. Why had Adrien left Java? Had Margitte lied to her?
Elysabet made a face when Romell suggested that they call at the Van Slyke house.
"I don't care for the woman, widow though she be. She makes great eyes at every man in sight, and men need little enough encouragement to act foolishly. Not that I worry about my Christoffel." She frowned. "At least, not much."
"I don't mind going alone," Romell said.
"Hendrik would never forgive me," Elysabet said. "He's made me promise not to let you go out alone. Still, it's strange the woman never came here to see you, advancing money as she did for your rescue. You must have grown very close aboard the Indiaman."
"I wouldn't say Margitte and I are fond of one another," Romell told her. "We survived together and perhaps that creates a bond."
"Very well. I'll arrange the visit."
Romell curbed her impatience. While still on the rescue ship, she'd made up her mind to do her best to act the proper lady in Batavia. She'd abide by all the Dutch customs and not behave rashly. Although she would have much preferred to visit Margitte this minute—and alone—she'd let Elysabet have her way.
"Oh, but I'm charmed," Margitte greeted them the next day as a servant bowed them into a living room done in cool greens. The house was similar to the Reijts'. In fact, most houses in Batavia resembled one another, just as the houses in Amsterdam had.
Margitte lifted a small silver bell and rang three times for
refreshments to be served. Romell expected the usual lemonade and fruit, but the Number One Boy entered with a cut glass wine decanter and three glasses. Elysabet's eyebrows went up when she saw the wine, but she didn't refuse the glass.
"I've been invited to Hendrik's party," Margitte said at once. "I understand the wedding is next month."
"I'd expected you to marry before I did," Romell said carefully, not wishing to give Elysabet more than was necessary to mull over.
Margitte gave her husky laugh. "Why would you think such a thing? I'm not yet out of mourning." She touched her black silk.
Romell stared at her. You know why, she wanted to cry. "Adrien Montgomery," she said hesitantly. "I thought. . . ."
"Oh, good heavens, no! A pleasant enough young man, of course, but as for marriage--!" Margitte waved her hand languidly.
What had happened? Romell wondered, wishing she could grasp Margitte's white throat and shake the truth from her. Did Adrien change his mind or had Margitte been lying from the beginning? Had Adrien ever asked her to marry him?
"The party sounds enchanting," Margitte said. "Luckily, I'll come out of mourning the week before. Hendrik was such a pet to wait."
Now Margitte was making it sound as if Hendrik had discussed the party with her and picked the date to suit her. Romell knew that wasn't true.
"Dirk was a good man," Elysabet said abruptly. "We all liked him."
"Poor Dirk, suffering all alone here in the tropics." Margitte shook her head. "If I'd been with him, it never would have happened."
"Dysentery doesn't care who it kills," Elysabet said dryly. "There isn't much will stop it once it gets a start." She finished her wine. "I thank you for your hospitality. Romell, we must be going."
"So Adrien is in Sumatra," Romell said to Margitte, throwing caution to the winds.
"My dear, he left to make his fortune, or so I understand. Such energy." Margitte smiled.
"But then he always was an energetic young man." Her tone of voice suggested to Romell that Margitte meant something quite intimate.
"Yes," Romell said stiffly. "It's been . . . pleasant to see you again." Romell almost choked on the "pleasant." She rose but couldn't summon even a false smile.
The Reijts' Number Two Boy was waiting on Margitte's verandah for them and sprang forward, his silk parasol ready, as they came out. He held the parasol over their heads on the walk from the house to the road. Just before they turned into the street, Elysabet cried out and clutched Romell's arm, stopping so abruptly the Number Two Boy almost ran into them.
"What's wrong?" Romell asked.
"Oh, oh! A frightful man!" Elysabet pointed to where green foliage grew lushly next to the fence. "He stared out of those bushes—he had the most awful face I've ever seen!"
"No one's there now."
"I don't care—I saw him! Oh, Romell, I'm quite beside myself. One of his eyes was gone-- and such terrible scars!"
Chapter 17
Despite increasing apprehension about marrying Hendrik, Romell looked forward eagerly to the party. She still liked Hendrik and enjoyed his company, but he more and more frequently sought excuses to touch her or kiss her cheek. So far, she'd avoided having his lips touch hers. This he put down to maidenly modesty and Romell didn't correct him.
As she dressed for the party, she thought how she really didn't mind his arm around her shoulders, or even a friendly hug now and then, but when his fingers caressed her bare arm or he tried to touch her breast, she felt a revulsion that was hard to hide. How was she going to control her feelings when he was her husband and had the right to her body whenever he wanted? To do whatever he wanted? Why could she take no pleasure in his touch?
Romell sighed and thrust all such unpleasant thoughts away, concentrating on her gown as the Javanese maid finished fastening the last of the buttons at the back.
"I like this dress," Romell said to her in Javanese. "Do you like it, Manisan?" she called the girl by her name, although this was not the Dutch custom.
Manisan giggled and ducked her head. "Nonee very pretty," she said finally.
Romell gazed into the mirror. She could see both her reflection and Manisan's. I've never looked better, she told herself. The dress, Hendrik's choice, was white and silver, silk and brocade. The neck scooped low to reveal the tops of her breast, the tan of her skin contrasting with the white of the gown, for she'd gotten very sunburnt in Southland and her skin was still darker than usual.
The contrast called attention to the rounded curves of her breasts and the gown also made her cinnamon hair look even redder. She'd had Manisan pull a few curls to the top of her head and pin a white orchid among them.
Manisan stood beside her, partly hidden by the full skirt of Romell's gown. The top of the little Javanese woman's head was just above Romell's shoulder. Manisan stared into the mirror, her eyes on Romell's reflection. There was no trace of envy in her gaze.
Romell, in turn, examined Manisan in her batik sarong of muted blues. The Javanese girl's bare shoulders were brown and smooth, and although her figure was slight, the cleverly-draped sarong emphasized the curves of her body, ending at her ankles.
Romell knew Manisan wore no undergarments, unlike the multiple petticoats she had on under the silver and white gown. Suddenly, Romell envied her.
The August evening seemed every bit as sultry as the day had been, as every day was. Manisan must be far more comfortable than any of the Dutch in their Holland clothes, or Romell in this elaborate dress.
Manisan had taught her how to fit a sarong to her body. One took the several yards of batik, raising the material well above the waist, using the width of the material as the length of the skirt. While wrapping it around, one had to remember to pleat the batik to allow room for walking, then the end was tucked in at the waist if a man, above the breasts if a woman. A silk scarf tied about the breasts and draped over one shoulder was an elegant touch discouraged in the maids.
When Romell had tried it, the sarong had felt cool and comfortable. A smile curved her lips as she pictured Hendrik's astonishment if she should arrive at his party barefooted and wrapped in a sarong.
"Are you dressed?" Elysabet asked from outside Romell's bedroom door.
Romell turned away from the mirror. "I'm ready," she said, going to the door.
Elysabet's glance traveled over her. "Lovely. You look as cool as winter snow in Holland."
"Thank you." Romell thought of adding that she'd toyed with the notion of wearing a sarong instead, but she knew Elysabet would not be amused.
When she'd asked Elysabet how the Javanese dyed the batik to form their unusual patterns, the Dutch woman had said vaguely, "Something to do with wax, I believe."
Manisan had since instructed Romell on the method, a series of dye dippings with wax rubbed into portions of the material so the dye wouldn't color these sections. Romell thought the cloth strangely beautiful.
"You look most attractive tonight, Elysabet," Romell said. "I think green is very becoming to you."
The Dutch woman smiled and patted her hair. An emerald necklace with three small stones set on either side of a large one adorned her pale neck. Christoffel enjoyed decorating his wife.
Elysabet frowned. "If only you'd let me lend you my pearls."
"No, you've already done too much for me. I can never repay you for your kindness."
As she could never repay Hendrik. Ah, but soon she would be his wife. Would that be repayment enough? Romell shook her head. Why were her musings so drear? Everything would work out for the best. Hendrik would never be Adrien, but--
Romell raised her chin and started toward the stairs. Adrien was gone, lost to her. Hendrik wanted her. Look to the future and not the past.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm good enough for Hendrik," Romell said to Elysabet as they waited by the front door for Christoffel.
Elysabet turned a long, considering gaze on her. "That's a foolish notion."
"I think he feels more for me than I do for him. Do
you think it's fair . . . ?"
"You are a goose. Hendrik needs a Christian woman for his wife." She smiled and patted Romell’s shoulder. "You may be better than he deserves, in view of—"
Elysabet stopped abruptly, turned away to peer down the corridor for her husband. ''Where is that man?"
Romell had no chance to question Elysabet about what she had meant because Christoffel appeared. As they strolled down the path toward the trap, Romell caught a flicker of movement in the shrubbery by the street. She cried out as a dark figure eased away and melted into the dusk
"What is it?" Christoffel demanded.
"I—I thought I saw a man by the sempur tree. "He was large--too large for a native," Romell said slowly. "I don't think he was one of the Chinese workers. All I'm sure of was that he limped."
"Scum off the waterfront," Christoffel said. "I won't stand for that. Wait'll I see the commandant—lazy bugger'll be at the party, no doubt. Can't have louts from the boats bothering us. I'll give him what for!"
Elysabet clutched Romell's arm. "Was it the same man I saw outside the Widow Van Slyke's house?" she asked.
"I didn't see anyone at Margitte's," Romell re-minded her. As she spoke, the fireball sun plunged suddenly out of sight, as it did every night in the tropics, and they stood in darkness.
"Come," Christoffel said, "nothing can be accomplished here."
As they neared Hendrik's house, Romell saw he had torches set near the entrance and lining the walk. She stared up at the purple-blue sky, saw the four stars of the Crux—the Southern Cross—and was suddenly stabbed through and through by desperate homesickness for the familiar night sky of her childhood.
"Romell. .." Elysabet touched her arm.
Yes, of course, she must go in. She had been looking forward to the party, why was she dawdling here? But she had to force herself to walk between the two rows of torches to where Hendrik stood waiting.
Hendrik hugged her exuberantly when she greeted him, momentarily making her speechless. She smelled genever and knew that he'd already had more than one pijt, gin and bitters.
"A vision!" he cried. "Just see how beautiful she is, my bride to be."
