“Who isn’t?” Aidan looked at her hands, idly musing that all of Batavia might be said to be in the employ of the Verenigde Oost Indische Compagnie, more commonly referred to as the V.O.C. Even she and Orabel spent their lives serving whiskey and ale to seamen who sailed on the company’s ships. Without the V.O.C. there would be no Batavia, no spice industry, no reason for the natives to resent the Europeans who had flooded this lovely island and defiled a natural paradise.
“He’s an artist.” Orabel emphasized the word. “Like you, Aidan. You ought to stop him one day and offer to draw for him.”
“Of course.” A cynical smile tugged at Aidan’s lips. “And he will be so astounded at my talent he will be forced to take me under his wing and teach me all he knows. He’ll write the crowned heads of Europe to alert them to his grand discovery. And then I shall be famous! King Charles of England, or perhaps Louis of France, will invite me to become artist-in-residence at one of their grand palaces. And then I will send for you, dear Orabel, and together we shall sit in a gilded room and eat four meals a day, all the sweet cakes and pudding we like. We’ll have clean slippers for our feet and all the yellow dresses we could ever wish for, of silk brighter than the sun!”
“You don’t have to make fun of me.” Orabel glared at her with burning, reproachful eyes. “I only thought you should meet him. You are a very good artist, Aidan. I only wanted to make you feel better.”
“What is there to feel better about?” Aidan clasped her hands together and stared at them. “I’ll never be an artist, Orabel, any more than you will be the governor’s wife.”
“I might be the governor’s wife.” Orabel spoke lightly, but pain flickered in her eyes and her voice trembled as she continued. “You never know what could happen in a day, Aidan. Things have to get better than this. If I thought this was the best we’ll ever know—well, I couldn’t bear it.”
Stricken with sudden guilt, Aidan slipped an arm around Orabel’s slender shoulders. “Of course things will be better. You’re going to meet someone one day. Some nice man in the tavern will take a fancy to you and ask you to marry him.”
“Just like Lili says,” Orabel murmured, her hands rising to her cheeks.
“Just like Lili says,” Aidan answered, stroking her friend’s pale blond hair. Orabel was young, probably no older than sixteen, and more fragile than most of the others. Hope was all she had, and Aidan had been thoughtless to disparage her dreams.
“You see?” Orabel pulled away and looked at Aidan with suddenly bright eyes. “If I can find a husband, you can be an artist, just like you’ve always wanted to be. You could find this Heer Van Dyck and draw a picture for him.” A coaxing tone crept into her voice. “He will like it, I know he will.”
Aidan opened her mouth to respond, then cringed as Lili’s sharp voice cut through the muddled sounds of the morning. “Annie! Sweet Kate!” she called, using the girls’ working nicknames. “What are you doing out here when there’s work to be done inside?”
“Coming, Lili,” Orabel sighed. She caught Aidan’s eye and grinned as she stood up. “If we’re going to catch rich husbands, I guess we’d better go back inside where the men are.”
“I’m right behind you.” Aidan stood to follow Orabel, then paused for a moment. She was no more likely to arouse Schuyler Van Dyck’s interest than Orabel was to catch a decent husband in the tavern. But if Orabel wouldn’t give up, why couldn’t Aidan at least try to meet Heer Van Dyck?
The thought was so absurd that she laughed aloud.
Struggling to conceal her anger, Lili swallowed hard as Orabel and Aidan sashayed back into the tavern and moved toward the bar. Bram thrust a tray of pewter mugs toward each of them and gestured at a group of rowdy seamen who sat in the far corner.
Lili pressed her hands against her apron and bit her lip, glad that this time, at least, the girls were of a mind to obey. Orabel had never been much trouble—the girl had a pliant spirit and a gentle one, as easily bendable as a young twig. But Aidan was twenty, well past youth, and as stubborn as a stuck door. She was more than old enough to be married, but she turned her pert little nose up at every lad Lili pushed her way.
“Honey, can I come see you later?” A slobbering sailor leered up at Lili and reached out to tug on her sleeve.
“Not today, laddie,” Lili answered, smiling without humor. “I’ve got me hands full here, can’t you see? But perhaps I can get one of the other lasses to bring you a drink. No sense in dyin’ of thirst in a strange port, is there?”
The sodden fool nodded his head, blindly agreeing, and Lili gave him her brightest smile. “What’s your pleasure, sir? Would you like to drink with the blond, or perhaps the redhead?”
His red-rimmed gaze cast about the room, and a smile ruffled his mouth as he focused on Aidan’s flaming hair. “Faith, she’d do,” he answered, his head wavering as he tried to follow her slender form moving through the room. “She’d do for later, too, if you can get her for me.”
“Och, no sir!” Lili shivered in pretended horror. “Sure, don’t I know she’s a fair lass, but I wouldn’t wish her on me own worst enemy. She’s cursed, that one, and bad luck to any man who as much as touches her.”
“Truly?” The sailor’s eyes bulged in fear, and Lili felt a small fierce surge of satisfaction.
“Truly.” She leaned forward, placing a hand upon the sailor’s arm. “See that white streak of hair over her left ear?” She waited until the breathless sailor nodded, then went on in a broken whisper: “That’s the sign. The white springs from her heart, only a few inches below her ear, don’t you see? Any man who touches her will feel the white-cold hand of death upon him before morning dawns unless he’s been properly married to her first.”
“Blimey!” The sailor’s voice faded into fearful silence.
Lili straightened. “I’ll have her bring you a drink, sir, and you’ll enjoy her company. But mind that you heed me warning. A terrible fate awaits the man who is overly familiar with our Irish Annie.”
Leaving the man to ponder the dangers that awaited a roving hand, Lili snapped her fingers in Aidan’s direction. The coppery head turned, and Aidan’s eyes held Lili’s for a moment before Lili gestured toward the man seated next to her.
A swift shadow of annoyance flitted across Aidan’s face, then she resolutely tucked her empty tray under her arm and painted on a wide smile. “Come talk to this one, Annie, me girl.” Lili forced a light note into her voice as her daughter approached. “Just in port from Ireland, he is. ’Twill do you good to hear a bit of the brogue. Bring him a fresh pint, lass, and let the man talk.”
Lili moved away, feeling the pressure of Aidan’s hot eyes upon her. Aidan hated talking to the men, hated serving them, hated smiling and pretending to be interested in their ships and their mothers and their dreams of God, gold, and glory. But it was a decent life, the best a penniless girl could hope for, and Lili was grateful that she’d been able to offer it to her daughter—whether or not her daughter appreciated it.
Lili pushed past a pair of arguing men and another barmaid, then leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply of air that had been breathed far too many times. Shifting her weight, she folded her arms across her chest and lowered her head for a rare moment of silence.
“Well, Cory, ’tis not what you had in mind when you took us from England.” She lifted her eyes long enough to see Aidan smother a yawn as she struggled to pay attention to the petrified sailor. “But I’ve kept her pure and reasonably virtuous. She’ll make somebody a good wife, you mark me words.”
Even now, after all these years, her eyes misted as she turned her thoughts toward the husband who lay somewhere at the bottom of the sea. “If you’ve an audience with the Almighty, put in a word for me and the girl, will you, laddie? We could use a bit of help now and again. Aidan’s getting older, too old by many standards, and if I don’t get her married soon, she’ll spend all her days here at the tavern, just like me.”
Lili paused to dash a
tear from the corner of her eye. “Not that I mind, Cory, me love. But you left us with nothing. Bram offered this wee bit of help, and he’s kept us out of the workhouse … most times.” Her eyes focused on Aidan’s gleaming red hair. “I’ve been left with nothing, Cory, and I wouldn’t wish me lot upon another soul. So, if you’ll beg the Almighty to overlook me sins, I won’t hold your departing this life against you.”
“Lili!”
Bram’s roar shattered her momentary serenity. Lili pulled herself off the wall and began threading her way through the milling crowd. She was as much in control of her life and destiny, she supposed, as any woman had a right to be.
Carrying a gunnysack containing all his earthly possessions—an extra change of clothes, a knife, a few packages of herbs, and that universal symbol of a physician, the urine flask—Sterling Thorne dropped heavily into the barge that would row him to the docks. Witt Dekker, first mate aboard the Gloria Elizabeth, followed, nearly upsetting the skittish craft with his massive weight. His yappy terrier, a brown mongrel the Dutchman loved with an unseemly passion, sprang from the deck into his master’s arms.
Sterling moved silently toward the side of the boat, unwilling to risk an encounter with either the surly Dutchman or his dog. Dekker had been a hard taskmaster on the voyage, trying the patience of the predominantly English crew with his constant boasting about Dutch intelligence, foresight, and might. Well, now they were in Batavia, a Dutch colony, and Sterling intended to see for himself what the commercially minded Dutch had accomplished in this part of the globe.
Dekker settled on the bench with a self-satisfied sigh, drew the barking terrier into his lap, then nodded toward the oarsman. The barge set off, pulling through green water that sparkled in the afternoon sun. Around them, small barks and sculls paddled like curious ducks, skittering in and out among the larger ships at anchor in the harbor.
“So this is Batavia,” Sterling remarked, clasping his hands as his eyes roamed over the horizon. Beyond the docks, a line of brown rooftops stood like a wall; behind the rooftops, majestic green mountains rose like ancient warriors, determined to safeguard the heart of the island against the encroaching Europeans.
“Ja, it is,” Dekker answered, his broad hands holding the dog firmly in the boat. His deep voice rasped with excitement. “And what a time we shall have tonight, my friend. If you want to know where to find a drink, a bed, or a woman, you ask me, ja?”
“Thank you, Dekker.” Sterling narrowed his eyes as he studied the settlement that slowly came into view. “But I only want to find the home of my friend Dr. Lang Carstens. I hope to join him in his medical practice.”
“Why would you want to stay on land when you’ve had a sweet taste of the sea?” Dekker asked, slapping Sterling on the back with more friendliness than he had shown in their entire journey. “Why not remain a ship’s surgeon? The V.O.C. sends out a convoy or expedition nearly every month. And if you have a question about a particular captain’s reputation, you come find me.” One corner of his broad mouth twisted upward in a half-smile. “I know all the sea captains, and they all know me. And I can usually be found at the Broad Street Tavern, or thereabouts. That’s a friendly place, and they don’t mind if I bring Snuggerheid with me.” He scratched the animal under its scruffy chin and chuckled.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sterling answered absently. He glanced for a moment at the obnoxious dog. Dekker had told Sterling—and anyone else who would listen—that he’d named the animal with the Dutch word for intelligence because his father had always insisted Dekker was as dull as a clod. The Dutchman obviously hadn’t known his son very well, for Witt Dekker was cunning, able to manipulate men in a ruthless manner that often sent a shiver down Sterling’s spine.
Sterling leaned forward as the barge pulled up to the docks. A loader tossed down a rope and he caught it, tying the hawser with ease. Without lingering to say farewell to Dekker or the oarsmen, he leaped onto the dock and hurried to lose himself in the crowd.
He’d had enough of seamen. He yearned for the quiet atmosphere of a home, someplace where he could sit and converse with an intelligent man about something other than sailors’ superstitions and seamen’s complaints. He’d seen enough contusions, rope burns, and bleeding gums to last a lifetime. Though he didn’t expect to find better conditions in this Dutch outpost, at least he’d be able to attend his patients in a room that didn’t roll with every swell of the sea.
The long wharf curved nearly a half-mile around the edge of the harbor, with smaller docks protruding from it like stumpy teeth from an ill-tended mouth. Three-masted frigates and brigantines, schooners, and small sloops rode at anchor along the wharf, a full range of the ships that provisioned Batavia, a colony only twenty-three years old.
Sterling felt a shiver of anticipation ripple through him at the thought of working in a place not far removed from its frontier days. For this kind of experience he had left England and its traditional thinking. After spending seven years obtaining his Master of Arts at Oxford, he had acquired his M.D. degree at Montpellier, then had returned to London to be examined by the College of Physicians. Now, duly licensed and recommended by a letter from none other than King Charles’s personal physician, he was eager to practice in a place where he would treat more than ague and the sweating sickness so common in England.
Sterling absently patted the parchment tucked between his shirt and his skin. The letter was from Dr. Beaton Norwell, Lang Carstens’s English cousin and Sterling’s friend. Beaton had never met his renowned Dutch cousin, but he was a good enough sport to give Sterling an excuse to leave the country. The renowned Dr. Carstens was bound to be advancing in age, Beaton told Sterling, and might be eager to acquire a younger partner to assist in his medical practice. “In any case, he is a gentleman,” Beaton had assured him as he handed over the letter of recommendation. “Good manners, at least, will prevent him from tossing you out on the street without at least a meal and the offer of a night’s hospitality.”
The two men shook hands before Sterling departed, and even then his blood had run thick with guilt. He had told his weeping mother that he wanted to leave England to investigate prospects of opportunity for his brothers in Batavia, but everyone in the village knew better. The real catalyst for Sterling’s abrupt departure was Ernestina Martin, a simpering country beauty who’d rather faint than fight. She had set her cap for Sterling long before he became a doctor, long before the crops failed and Sterling’s father had to sell off most of the family acreage. Not even the threat of poverty could dissuade her from pursuing Sterling. Since his return from London she’d taken to sitting in his mother’s kitchen, her eyes and ears attuned to anything that had to do with the Thorne’s eldest son.
His mother wanted Sterling to marry her; his father had approved the match even before he died. But though Sterling could find no fault in Ernestina’s beauty or her background, he did not think he would be able to abide her whining little sighs, her affected expressions, or her distracted feminine helplessness. How could a man lay down his burdens to sleep at night, knowing he would be driven batty all over again with the next sunrise?
As the eldest son, it should have been Sterling’s place to inherit and maintain what little remained of the estate, but he had never felt called to be a farmer. And so, to escape Ernestina’s earnest promise of a position in her father’s house, he’d gathered a few belongings, cozened a letter of recommendation from Beaton, and signed as a surgeon on the first ship sailing from London to the Spice Islands. In the new colony he hoped to make a place for himself and one of his brothers—whoever did not end up marrying the simple-minded Ernestina. Neither Mayfield nor Newland would mind marrying the pretty girl, and Sterling would be happy to let them have the family estate as a wedding gift. But the other brother would have to find his own way in the world. Feeling responsible, Sterling wanted to do all he could to help.
Now he repressed a smile at the sound of his boots clumping loudly over the docks. He wal
ked stumpily, like a man unused to the solid feel of land beneath his feet. It had taken him three days to acquire “sea legs,” and now it seemed as though it would take some time to acquire “land legs” as well.
The dock ended at a broad street jammed with carriages, horses, donkeys, and carts. He crinkled his nose at the sudden onslaught of scents, far different from those of the sea. The smell of grease and cooking meat drifted from an open window; the sharp stench of sweat and horse dung hovered above the street. He had heard the Dutch were famous for fastidious cleanliness, but there was no evidence of that quality here at the wharf.
Slinging his bag across his shoulder, Sterling stepped off the dock and into the sweaty, shoving mob, eager to find his place in the thriving colony of Batavia.
“Sterling Thorne?” Lang Carstens crinkled his nose as if he had caught a whiff of rotten potatoes. He was a plump little man with a curly gray beard that surrounded his face like a storm cloud, and from the bleariness of the old man’s eyes, Sterling deduced that his visit had interrupted the doctor’s afternoon nap. The housekeeper had led Sterling to the doctor’s study, and after the space of several minutes, the elderly doctor had finally appeared in the doorway and tottered to his desk, his eyes intent upon the letter Sterling had delivered to the housekeeper.
“At your service, sir.” Sterling bowed respectfully, then pointed to the crinkled parchment in the doctor’s hands. “I believe the letter will explain all. Dr. Beaton Norwell, one of King Charles’s personal physicians, is your cousin and my friend. Since I am rather in need of a position to practice the medical arts, Dr. Norwell thought you might be willing to take on an associate.”
“An associate?” The doctor’s frown deepened as he looked up.
“An assistant then.” Sterling spread his hands and tried to smile. “At the risk of seeming immodest, I can assure you, sir, that I am quite capable. I served as ship’s surgeon on the voyage from England, and—” He managed a weak laugh. “—we didn’t lose a single man.”
The Golden Cross Page 2
