“I approached him, Mother,” Aidan said again, tucking the renegade strand of white hair behind her ear. The other girls said the singular white streak, which grew like a weed from Aidan’s left temple, was proof that Aidan had been set apart for some special destiny. Lili didn’t understand that either. Her own hair was still full and brown, even at her advanced age. She was always harping on Aidan, telling her to cut the white streak out, to color it with wine, to hide it beneath a cap, but Aidan steadfastly refused. The brazen mark that set her apart, that would have made her extremely identifiable if she were ever caught snitching a gentleman’s purse, only reinforced her conviction that she was different.
“Heer Van Dyck would not have spoken to me if I had not approached him,” she told her mother now. “I heard about his art, and I wanted to know more. And so I waited for him, and I spoke to him before he could slip by. And I hoped that he would listen, and would see my art. Though he can’t help me for long, he has promised to help me while he can.”
“He’s an old man, you say? Old men tend to be daft,” Lili countered stubbornly. “You are being foolish as well, lassie. You’ll be sorry when you come to harm in his house. All I have done to keep you safe and pure will be for nothing!”
Aidan’s eyes fell upon Orabel. “Then I’ll take Orabel with me when I visit his house.” She winked at her friend. “And while I’m talking to Heer Van Dyck, Orabel can look around. Who knows, maybe she’ll spy a bag of Dutch florins within reach at the front door.”
“Or a handsome son in the parlor!” Orabel added, joining in the joke.
But Lili just stared at her daughter, and Aidan could find no answering trace of humor in her mother’s eyes.
Heer Van Dyck.” Standing in the doorway of the library, the housekeeper spoke hesitantly, as if about to say something she knew she would regret.
Schuyler looked up from his letter and saw that a warning cloud had settled upon the woman’s features. “What is it, Gusta?”
“There are two young women—slatterns, really—at the door. They say they are Aidan O’Connor and Orabel.” The housekeeper’s thin mouth drew downward in distaste. “The other woman gave no surname, of course.”
Schuyler pushed himself back from his desk, surprised beyond speech. The girl had come! He had been right to invite her; God knew she would respond.
“Ja, bring them in at once.” Hurriedly he sprinkled sand over the wet ink that glistened on his parchment. As Gusta moved away, Schuyler shook his head and slid the letter to a corner of his desk. In spite of himself, he chuckled at the thought of his housekeeper’s dour disapproval. He would love to have seen Aidan O’Connor’s encounter with Gusta at the door. He had the distinct impression that the fiercely opinionated housekeeper might have met her match in the young artist.
The wide door creaked open, and the two young women walked in, followed by Gusta’s stalwart form. Aidan led the way, moving with the hard grace of a woman who has total control of herself, her manner as regal as any highborn woman in Amsterdam. He rested his chin on his hand, welcoming the opportunity to examine her under the more genteel circumstances of his library. She had said she was twenty and she looked her age, though her countenance still maintained a youthful flush of innocence. She was slender, of medium height and delicate features, and from her left temple that remarkable white streak coursed through her riotous red hair like lightning through a fiery sunset sky.
Her pale green eyes fastened tenaciously upon him. “Heer Van Dyck,” she said, as formally as if she paid social calls every afternoon. But beyond that greeting she apparently had no gift for social conversation; she came immediately and directly to the point. “You said you might give me art lessons. I think I should know why you would be willing to do this, knowing that I cannot repay you.” Even wide open, her eyes had a faint catlike slant to them. Those eyes narrowed slightly as she added, “And what sort of things could you teach me?”
These two might not know how the proprieties were observed, but Schuyler would not take advantage of their naiveté. He smiled and stood, bowing first to Aidan, then to the younger girl.
“A pleasure to see you ladies again,” he said, noticing the blush that rose in Aidan’s face as he observed the proper social ritual. “Won’t you have a seat?” He spread his hand, indicating two carved chairs that sat before his desk. The two young women hesitated, and Schuyler nodded to his housekeeper.
“I think our guests might like a cup of tea,” he suggested, giving Gusta a knowing look. “And those sweetbread cookies might be nice, as well as the little sandwiches you served for dinner last night.”
At the mention of refreshments, both girls sank into the chairs, Orabel sighing in satisfaction. Schuyler smiled at the success of his little distraction and moved out from behind his work area. Perching on the edge of his desk, he folded his hands and regarded the young artist with somber curiosity.
“Aidan O’Connor,” he murmured. He spoke slowly, feeling his way through his thoughts and her apprehensions. “A lovely name for a lovely young woman. As I told you before, Joffer O’Connor, you have been given a great gift. As to why I want to help you—” He paused, lifting a brow. “—I seem to recall that you asked for my assistance.”
“I know that.” Her flush deepened to crimson. “But nobody’s ever given me whatever I asked for just because I asked. So why are you willing to help me? I can’t pay you anything. It took a blessed miracle for me to buy two sheets of vellum and a pencil. And I know this can’t be a good time for you, not if you’re planning a journey.”
“Death, childbirth, and travel,” he said, smiling. “Never a convenient time for any of them, I’m afraid.”
Neither girl laughed at his joke. The younger girl smiled blandly, while Aidan’s pretty mouth dipped into an even deeper frown. Schuyler weakly slapped his leg and looked toward the door, fervently hoping that Gusta’s insatiable curiosity would bring her back soon.
“Why are you willing to help me?” Aidan persisted. She gave him a bright-eyed glance, full of shrewdness. “You don’t know me. For all you know, I could be the worst thief in Batavia, and yet you would allow me to live in your house.”
Schuyler gazed at her in amused wonder. Did she truly have no idea how gifted she was? “If you robbed me blind while I taught you,” he answered, easing into a smile, “I believe I’d consider the loss a worthwhile investment in your talent.”
She did not respond but still stared at him with confusion in her eyes. He gentled his tone. “My dear, I did not invite you here to bully or mistreat you, if that’s why you’re worried. I invited you because God urged me to. And I see that you have the artist’s eye.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The artist’s eye.” How could he explain it so she would understand? “The artist’s eye, you see, is a rare way of seeing the world and other people. It’s a unique gift. Some people are born with it. Most are not, but those who have it must create or die unfulfilled. Tell me—why did you draw that butterfly on the building? Surely you had other things to do. Certainly you knew the rain would wash the picture away. So why did you bother drawing it at all?”
She kept her features carefully composed. “I was only practicing—to meet you.”
“Then tell me about the man you drew in the tavern? Who was he? A special friend? Someone you’ve met and admired?”
“No.” Her expression darkened with unreadable emotions, and she looked away. “He was just someone I saw on the street—a gentleman from one of the ships. I never met him. He would never talk to … someone like me.”
He had struck a nerve, yet the flame of defiance still burned strong in her eyes. Schuyler waited in silence for her to collect her thoughts, marveling at the persistence of the creative spirit within her. From the looks of her patched skirt and faded bodice he surmised that she had spoken truly when she said she had no money for art supplies. Yet she had found a way to create with a blank building and a chalky island rock.
&nbs
p; “There is more to it than you realize,” he murmured when she looked up and her gaze met his again. “Art and insight come from the creative Spirit. Almighty God has given you a gift, and I have seen the depth of the gift within you. I would be neglecting my responsibilities to God himself if I did not help you as much as I am able.”
The girl met his gaze evenly. “I don’t care much about God these days,” she answered, “but I know a lot about life. I’ve lived six years in that tavern, Heer Van Dyck, and I’ve seen things that would make a gentleman like you shudder. But I want to be an artist. If being a good artist can take me away from the tavern, I’ll do anything to learn.”
Schuyler crossed his arms, impressed by the depth of determination in her voice. “There is much to learn, my dear. Though you have an incredible eye and a sure touch, you must learn how to apply that eye and that touch to canvas. I can teach you to work in oil and watercolors, to outline skillfully and to blend color. If you want to take your art to the world, if you want it to be enjoyed,” he lowered his voice and smiled, “you must trust me. We will not have time to waste. Your will is formidable. I can see it in your eyes, and I do not have time to break or tame it. I am sailing from Batavia in less than a month, and may be gone for a very long time.”
An almost imperceptible expression of pleading filled her face. “When might I begin—that is, if you agree to teach me?”
Schuyler smiled in approval. The apple was overripe and ready to fall from the tree. He would never have a more eager pupil. If only he had discovered her a year ago!
“Come again tomorrow,” he said, standing. “Bring whatever you like, and I will supply whatever you lack. You will have my daughter’s upstairs room.”
“Your daughter?” Aidan’s green eyes flashed like jewels. “Won’t she mind having company in her room? I don’t suppose she’s used to sharing her chamber with … a woman like me.”
Schuyler folded his hands. “Rozamond is married now, with a home of her own. Her room is vacant, and I have no doubt she would be pleased to know someone is using it again. My son, Henrick, lives here, too, but spends most of his time at his place of employment.”
Aidan fell silent for a moment, and he could feel the strength of her desire. She was tempted; she wanted to learn, yet something held her back. Was it fear? Uncertainty?
“How do we know,” the blond girl suddenly blurted out, her blue eyes peering out from sockets like caves of bone, “that this isn’t a trick? Aidan is a proper young woman, you know. She’s not a hussy; the most wrong she’s ever done is filch a purse or two when a sailor’s too drunk to walk—”
“Orabel!” Aidan gasped.
Schuyler looked down at his hands and tried to ignore Aidan’s sudden embarrassment. “I’m certain Joffer O’Connor will have no need to filch anything while she is here with us,” he said easily. “I will provide everything she needs. My housekeeper, Gusta, will serve as chaperone and teacher.”
Aidan gave a grimace of distaste. “What does that old crone know about art?”
A violent rattling of teacups and saucers brought Schuyler’s heart to his throat. The “old crone” had appeared in the doorway at an extremely inopportune moment, and obviously had heard Aidan’s comment. Gusta scowled furiously at her master, her brows knitting together over eyes that burned hot with resentment.
“Gusta will teach you about life, Joffer O’Connor,” Schuyler sighed. “If you are to move and live in the art world, you’ll have to know more than how to hold a paintbrush. I will teach you about art; Gusta will teach you how to live in, ah, refined society.”
In acknowledgment of her name, Gusta strode into the room, huffing her disapproval as she lowered the tea tray to Schuyler’s desk.
“I’m not certain I understand why I have to live here.” Aidan’s brows pulled together into a frown as pronounced as the housekeeper’s. “I could stay where I’m living now.”
“If I am to give you a complete course in the short time I have available, I will not be able to spend precious hours escorting you to and fro or searching for you in that tavern.”
A blush began to creep up her cheeks again, and Schuyler moved his gaze to the tea tray. Considering where the girl had come from, she had an uncommon amount of pride. Quite unusual for a barmaid.
From the corner of his eye he saw her swallow hard and lift her chin. “How do you expect to be repaid for this kindness, Heer Van Dyck? I’ve been on the street long enough to know that no one does something for nothing. Even the minister down at the church makes the natives give up their idols and such before he’ll give them a decent meal and a clean shirt.”
“How will I be repaid?” Schuyler took a moment to ponder the question, then stood and moved to the shelves behind his desk. He ran his fingers lightly over the leather spines of several volumes, then pulled out a thick collection of copperplate engravings done by Sibylla Marion.
“Joffer Sibylla Marion,” he said, placing the book on his desk and opening it to an especially lustrous engraving of insects upon plant life, “is a Dutch woman who specializes in painting butterflies and other assorted insects. She has published this book and others like it. The sale of such books provides a steady income for her family.”
He slid the book toward her, noticing with approval that Aidan leaned forward in anticipation. Her hand trembled as she reached out to leaf through the heavy vellum pages, and he let her peruse it at her leisure, watching as her green eyes began to sparkle with pleasure and an undeniable look of awe overtook her face.
“She is paid for painting things like this?” she whispered, a catch in her voice. “These pictures are beautiful. They’re so real!”
“Positively yummy,” Orabel agreed, nibbling on one of the sweetbread cookies from the tea tray. She gestured toward the teapot and lifted a brow.
“Help yourself please,” Schuyler said, moving so the girl could have better access to the refreshments. Slowly he came round to stand behind Aidan and looked at the Marion book over her shoulder.
“You could create a collection just like this one,” he said, lightly tapping her arm. “You have the gift, the artist’s eye. You only need the training—and the opportunity.” He smiled when she looked up at him. “And if you cannot believe that I would help you from the goodness of a godly impulse, then perhaps you could be convinced to believe that I would appreciate a share of your future earnings.”
He had no intention of ever taking a single penny this young woman might earn, of course, but the idea seemed to make sense to her, and she nodded. Her world was much more primitive and harsh than his, he reminded himself, and she was obviously unacquainted with selfless generosity.
Moving toward his worktable at the window, he pulled a sheet of heavy vellum from the drawer, then attached it to the clips upon his cloth-covered easel. “Have you ever worked in watercolors?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. All traces of concern and false pride had vanished from Aidan’s eyes; she watched him now with undisguised curiosity and eagerness.
“No.” With self-conscious dignity she moved to stand behind him and reached out to touch the easel.
“Paper is important.” He gestured toward the vellum. “Feel this—notice how smooth it is? This is Not paper, my particular favorite.”
“It’s not paper?” She crinkled her nose. “It feels like paper—”
“That’s merely the name, Not paper,” he answered, smiling at her. “There are smooth papers, medium papers, and rough papers.
Most artists prefer Not, a medium paper, because it has enough texture to hold the paint but not enough to interfere with color and detail.”
Her eyes clouded. “Is it terribly rare? I could never afford an expensive paper.”
“Another reason you will be better off living in my house.” Schuyler removed the sponge from its tray. “I can supply all the materials you will need. I may be wrong, but I imagine you would have difficulty even storing the necessary equipment at your home—er, where you live.
”
He unclamped the paper, turned it, and wiped the damp sponge over the back of the sheet. She moved closer. “What are you doing now?”
“Thinner papers must be stretched so they don’t buckle when you apply paint,” he explained, wetting the paper in broad, smooth strokes. “The piece of fabric upon the easel will absorb any residual water, but the paper is now flexible, ready to catch the ideas you will put on it.”
“Me?” Surprise siphoned the blood from her face, and she took a hasty half-step back. “Oh, I could never use your paints and papers, sir. I don’t know anything about paint, I’ve only worked with chalk and a pencil.”
“Don’t fret about paints and papers; they can be easily replaced.” Schuyler turned and leaned upon his worktable. “I’ll be giving you my time, and at my advanced age, time is infinitely more valuable than parchments and paints. I am willing to give, dear girl, so what keeps you from accepting? Come to my house; be my apprentice. I will train you until I have to sail.”
Beneath the smooth surface of her face there was a suggestion of movement, as though a hidden desire were trying to break through a layer of ice.
“Why should you draw on sidewalks and buildings?” Schuyler went on. “God has gifted you with the tools to be a great artist, Aidan, but you must not be afraid to begin.”
She took a quick, sharp breath and stepped back, nearly colliding with the girl at the tea tray. “I’ll—I’ll have to think about it.” Her face was firmly set in deep thought, her eyes fastened to the blank page upon the easel.
“There is not much time,” Schuyler answered, praying he would not betray his impatience. “Come tomorrow if you will come at all. Go home, think about my offer, consult with anyone you must. And I pray you will join me in learning.” He smiled as he remembered her eagerness to accost him in the street. “I am sure I would find the experience of teaching you quite … memorable.”
The Golden Cross Page 7
