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.”
Joffer 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.”
Aidan frowned, thinking of Lili. Faith, Lili would wet her skirts if she knew her daughter had encountered an honest-to-goodness kind and generous Rich Gentleman. She would stop at nothing in her effort to marry him to Aidan, herself, or one of the other girls ….
“I have no one; I speak for myself,” Aidan answered, “but I might be inclined to visit your house before I agree to this arrangement. Where do you live?”
“Follow Broad Street west of this place,” Van Dyck answered, pointing toward the doorway. “It’s a white house, surrounded by a wide porch. The door is painted blue, like the sea.”
He lived on the Other Side of Batavia—the place where good-wives and housekeepers scrubbed their faces and their floors and condemned to the workhouse anyone who didn’t meet their high standards of physical and moral neatness.
Aidan pressed her damp hands to her skirt, wiping away sudden drops of perspiration. “Perhaps I’ll come.” She lifted her chin and forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile. “But I don’t need a nursemaid. If you agree to teach me, I’ll work hard. I want to learn.”
“Indeed.” His eyes flashed with something that might have been admiration or humor, then his eyes fell upon the drawing on the table. “Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked.
“No, please do,” Aidan answered, amazed that he would want anything she had done.
He took the sketch, rolled it up, then stood and bowed as formally as if she were the Queen of England. A group of barmaids watching from a nearby table tittered with laughter at his dignified gesture, but Heer Van Dyck seemed oblivious of them. After saluting her, the gentleman moved through the doorway and left Aidan alone at her table.
“Got a new gentleman friend, Irish Annie?” A sailor yelled over the noise of the tavern. “I could show you a better time than that old goat.”
“You’ll not show me any kind of time, haven’t I said so before?” Aidan called back, rising from her chair. “And if you can’t tell an honest gentleman when you see one, then you, sir, don’t have both oars in the water.”
Undiluted laughter rang through the room as she walked back to the bar.
Schuyler Van Dyck,” Orabel mused, fingering the damp little card. She and Aidan were sitting in the small chamber Bram leased behind the tavern, the only place where Aidan and the other women felt they were not on public display.
“Van Dyck,” Aidan repeated. She leaned back upon one of the loosely stuffed pallets that served as a mattress. “Sort of a stuffy-sounding name, isn’t it? I imagine he’s right up there with the Vanderveers and the Van Diemens—”
“He seemed like a nice man.” Orabel pushed a pile of soiled garments out of the way, lay back, and gazed dreamily at the ceiling. “I think you should accept his offer. Even if he can only teach you for a few days, it wouldn’t hurt you to go to his house and enjoy a bit of the good life.” She turned on her side and smiled at Aidan. “Can you imagine what they serve in his house? Real tea with sugar, Aidan, and sweet biscuits. Doesn’t that sound a sight better than the gruel and ale Bram gives us?”
“I don’t know.” Aidan rolled over and propped her head on her hand. “What good will only a few lessons do? He’ll have to leave, and I’ll know a wee bit more about painting—but what good will that do me here in the tavern? I’ll still be nothing but a barmaid, Orabel.”
“Being a barmaid’s not the worst thing in the world.” Orabel’s voice was soft with hurt. “And you’re luckier than most of us.”
Aidan bit her lip, shamed into silence by her own thoughtlessness. Bram couldn’t afford to put all the girls to work in the tavern; as a favor to Lili he usually kept Aidan pouring at the bar. But Orabel, Sofie, Brigit, and several of the others had to pick pockets and beg for money enough to eat. Though they rarely spoke of it, Aidan knew they sometimes found other ways to earn their keep.
“I’m sorry, Orabel.” Aidan shrank from her friend’s wounded expression. “I’m truly sorry. I’d give anything if I had enough money to get us both out of here. I’d buy us a little house on the other side of town where we could live in peace, and we’d be genteel ladies. No drunken seamen around, no bossy Bram. No fights, no one cursing in our ears all the livelong day, no threats of the workhouse …
Aidan’s voice trailed away as a deep, painful blush washed up from Orabel’s throat and lit her face. “That would be nice, Aidan. But I’m not expecting anything from you or anybody else. I’m fine. I’m really fine.”
Aidan closed her eyes for a moment, regretting her words. Two years before, frightened, fragile, and slightly daft from her experience on an ocean-going ship, Orabel had disembarked in Batavia. Her parents had sailed with her from England, but both had succumbed to a mysterious ague that plagued the passengers. With no protector aboard ship, thirteen-year-old Orabel had been attacked by drunken seamen and abandoned on the wharf—forlorn, orphaned, and pregnant.
Lili and the others had taken the child in. Sofie tried to teach Orabel the finer points of picking a sailor’s pocket, but the girl was too shy and hesitant to be much good at filching a man’s money belt. Orabel found herself working with Aidan in the tavern, and as the girl’s pregnancy progressed, Lili assigned Aidan to the task of caring for her.
One hot day in May, the baby came much too soon. The infant, blue and frail, spilled into Aidan’s waiting hands and died without uttering a single cry. Weeping silently, Aidan wrapped the baby in an old shawl and left it on the church doorstep, knowing the minister would give the baby a proper burial in the pauper’s graveyard.
Throughout the ordeal of childbirth, Orabel never uttered a word or shed a tear. After a week of silent mourning, she rose from her bed, dressed, and went out to the corner as if she’d been born to the role of streetwalker. With her wan complexion, petite frame, and cornflower blue eyes, “Sweet Kate” brought Bram and Lili a great deal of money.
But Aidan knew Orabel hated her life. She had not been born to play the guttersnipe; some twist of fate had simply placed her in a role for which she was disastrously well-suited.
“Well, girls, fancy finding you here when there’s work to be done.” Lili’s voice, breathless and mocking, broke into Aidan’s thoughts as the woman came into the room. “A bit soon, isn’t it,to be resting on your laurels? Last time I checked, there was a room of thirsty men waiting in the tavern, or could I have been seeing things?”
Aidan frowned as her mother loomed over her and continued her diatribe: “How much did you earn this morning, dearies? A gold florin? A guilder? Surely a king’s fortune rests in your pockets, or you’d not be here lollygagging about when there is work to be done.”
Wordlessly, Orabel held the small rectangular card under Lili’s nose.
“What’s this?” Lili eyed the card suspiciously.
“An elderly gentleman’s calling card,” Orabel answered. “He watched Aidan draw, and he’s offered to give her lessons.”
“Lessons?” Lili cocked an eyebrow at the girl. “Aidan knows how to read and write, for all the good those lessons did her. And it’s to
o late for either of you to be learning anything new, haven’t I said so? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Her painted mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “It’s nearly too late for you to be marrying, and you’ll never find a husband if you’re laying about in this room whilst the men are out in the tavern!”
“I don’t want a husband!” Aidan snapped, jerking upright. Resentment struggled with affection as she stared across the empty space between them. “Heer Van Dyck is an artist, a respectable gentleman, and he has agreed to teach me a few things about art. Perhaps it will not amount to anything, but I will never know if I don’t take the chance!”
“Teach you? About art?” Lili’s shook her head contemptuously. “Aidan, lassie, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. What kind of food will art put on the table? How are you supposed to clothe yourself with pictures? In faith, will paintings buy shoes for your feet? No! Only rich folk have time and money to fiddle with such things.”
“He’s willing to teach me,” Aidan repeated, plunging on carelessly. “And I trust him. He’s a good man, a real gentleman.”
“’Tis a bit strange, don’t you think, that a gentleman of wealth and position should be taking such an interest in you?” Lili paused, her tobacco-stained teeth shining faintly in the dim light of the room. “Have you stopped to think that maybe he’s got immodest designs on you? You’re a pretty lass, in case you’ve forgotten, and I’ll not have my daughter being some gentleman’s mistress when she could win an honest husband.”
“He doesn’t want me like that.” Aidan spoke slowly, straining to hold her temper. She sat up and pushed a wayward curl from her eyes, watching as two deep lines of worry appeared between Lili’s brows. Lili loved her, to be sure, but that love was sufficient to drive Aidan to distraction. Lili loved her enough to allow Aidan to work in the tavern instead of joining the girls on the street; she loved her enough to criticize her appearance, her way of walking, her way of speech, even her way of thinking. But Lili didn’t understand her daughter. She had no idea of the passions and thoughts that burned in Aidan’s heart, of Aidan’s heartfelt conviction that she was not meant to live this life.
The Golden Cross Page 6
