The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Orabel’s face emptied of expression. “You are going to sea? As a man? Have you lost your mind? The captain will flog you or clap you in stocks if he finds out! I’ve heard what they do to those who disobey orders, but I’ve never heard such a hare-brained scheme!”

  “Heer Van Dyck will be my protector.” Aidan untied the laces that held her bodice to the full skirts of the gown. She stood and turned her back for Orabel’s help. “So help me now, and you’ll have yourself a fine dress. Perhaps you could go into town and find a position as a lady’s maid.”

  Orabel kept up a stream of steady protest as her fingers tugged on the fastenings at Aidan’s side. “Aidan, think of yourself! You have managed to keep yourself chaste and virtuous, but how do you intend to preserve your honor if you’re discovered on a ship filled with seamen?”

  “I can take care of myself.” A smile flitted across Aidan’s face as she recalled Van Dyck’s rudimentary lessons in self-defense. “I imagine I will handle myself very well. Haven’t I had to dodge the lecherous embrace of every drunk around Bram’s gaming tables?”

  “But why?” The skirt fell to the ground, billowing slightly as it settled. Orabel’s eyes widened further as she took in the sight of Aidan’s fine embroidered undershirt.

  “So I can become a respectable lady on my own terms.” Aidan shrugged out of the bodice and shirt and tossed those garments into Orabel’s arms. Then she reached into her satchel for the plain sailor’s shirt she would wear night and day for the next several weeks. As Orabel covered her mouth and gaped in horrified amazement, Aidan thrust her arms through the long sleeves and pulled the rough shirt over her head. After untying her silk stockings and flinging them toward Orabel, she pulled the thick men’s stockings from her bag, slipped them on, and tied them above the knee with a garter. Finally came the pants, baggy trousers that came up and over the long shirt and tied at the waist with a length of rope Gusta had thoughtfully provided.

  “That should do,” Aidan murmured when she was fully dressed. “I suppose I’m young enough no one will think it strange that I don’t have a beard or a deep voice.”

  Her fingers groped at the bottom of the bag, and she pulled out a rod dagger, one essential piece of equipment every man carried. Gusta had been reluctant to pack one for Aidan, but Heer Van Dyck had insisted. Aidan grinned at the blade, then tucked it into her belt at the center of her back.

  “Aidan!” Orabel’s fine, silky brows rose nearly to her forehead. “If you don’t explain, I’m going to sit on you and keep you here. I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind.”

  “I’m going to participate in a project of Heer Van Dyck’s,” Aidan explained, tucking the excess length of the shirt into her breeches, then adjusting the rope knot. “He will make the map of our journey and the new worlds we explore, and I will draw pictures of the flora and fauna we discover. We will be published, and my name will be recognized. Heer Van Dyck says I may later complete a book of copperplate engravings, and my name will be renowned not only here, but at home in England. Then I shall return to Europe and find a nice gentleman to wed. I shall be respectable, don’t you see?”

  She sank to the floor and looked into Orabel’s wide blue eyes. “I’ll no longer be a wharf rat, a pickpocket, a barmaid, or a drudge. Never again will a drunken sailor paw at me, nor will I have to smile and listen to them spout nonsense while beery breath blows in my face.”

  “Is that all?” Orabel spoke in a slightly strangled voice, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Is that all you’re running from? I think perhaps you’re running from Lady Lili, the best-known procuress in Batavia, and your best friend, the harlot called Sweet Kate.”

  A tear tangled in Orabel’s lashes and fell, smearing the heavy rouge on her cheek. Smitten by a sudden rush of guilt, Aidan reached out and put her hand on Orabel’s shoulder. “Don’t ever feel that way,” she whispered. “I love you, Orabel, just as I love Lili. But each of us is responsible for our own lives. I have to try to do something. Heer Van Dyck has offered me a way out of the wharf, and I have to take it.”

  “And if you die trying?” Orabel clutched the silken bodice and sleeves as Aidan reached into the bag for the bottle of olive oil.

  “It will be worth it,” she answered, uncorking the oil. “Now help me do this, will you? Gusta said I must comb the oil through my hair, then braid it into one long braid. The oil will make the color less noticeable.”

  Orabel set the gown aside and waited for Aidan to settle down in front of her. Aidan handed Orabel the bottle, then sat still as Orabel sprinkled the oil on Aidan’s tresses and finger-combed her hair.

  “I think we may be able to hide the white streak in a braid,” she said, a note of deep regret in her voice, as though Aidan had already gone. “Anyone who had remarked upon it here would not see it and guess your secret.”

  “No one will recognize me anyway. I’ll wear a cap and darken my face with dirt, if I have to,” Aidan answered, resting her wrists atop her bent knees. She had to admit, a woman had far more freedom of movement in breeches than in a bodice and skirt. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Orabel’s fingers in her hair. Lili used to play with Aidan’s hair in just this way, when they lived in England. Before the summer of plague … and her father’s death.

  The memory of her father’s gaunt face came back to her. “Here, me darlin’,” he had said only days before he died on the ship en route to Batavia. Choking back tears, she had watched as he removed his necklace, a solid gold Celtic cross, and pressed it into her palm.

  “I had it engraved before we left London,” he whispered, his voice fainter than air. “I wanted it to be a wee birthday present for you.”

  Aidan had tried to control her feelings, but her lip quivered and her eyes filled in spite of herself. Blinking back tears, she turned the cross over and read the inscription on the back: “My love is yours forever, Aidan.”

  “Da,” she had whispered through her tears. “Da, this is gold. You ought to keep it; we might need it later—”

  “Some things are worth holding on to, darlin’,” he answered, patting her hand. His own eyes were bordered with tears. “Gold might buy a loaf of bread, but on the morrow you’d be without bread or gold. You keep that, until you reach a place where you can’t go back. Like I can’t go back now.”

  The memory sent a hot tear trickling down Aidan’s cheek. Orabel squeezed her shoulder. “Put on your cap, Aidan, and let’s see what you look like.”

  Sniffing, Aidan wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She had reached that place of no return—she couldn’t go back, ever. She would have to cut all ties, move out into the great unknown. What had Heer Van Dyck once told her? To live a fulfilled and creative life, you must lose your fear of being wrong. Just proceed. Believe. And place your faith in God.

  She wasn’t going to live in the shadow of yesterday for one more hour. She clamped her lips, imprisoning a sob, and pulled the chain with its golden cross over her head. “I want you to have this, Orabel.” She turned and pressed it into her friend’s hand.

  Orabel’s smile vanished. “Oh, Aidan, I couldn’t! This is yours!”

  “No, it’s yours now. I want you to have it. You have a new golden dress—a proper lady should have a necklace to match.”

  “Aidan!” A dim flush raced across Orabel’s beautiful face as she stared at the chain and cross in her hand.

  “Tomorrow is a new day for both of us, Orabel.” Aidan shifted her weight and turned to sit cross-legged on the floor facing her friend. Orabel seemed too stunned to move, so Aidan gently took the necklace and dropped it over Orabel’s gleaming blond hair. For a moment the two girls sat silently, then Aidan leaned forward until her forehead touched her friend’s.

  “My da told me never to look back. And Heer Van Dyck told me that I should shoot for the moon, because even if I missed it, I would still land among the stars.”

  “The stars?” Orabel spoke in a weak and tremulous whisper.

  “Ja,” Aidan
answered. “By this time tomorrow night, we should both be on our way.”

  Stepping from his coach at the intersection of Broad and Market Streets, Dempsey Jasper automatically pressed his handkerchief to his nose against the sharp smells that rose to invade his nostrils. Though the Broad Street Tavern was too rough even for his tastes, he often visited other establishments in this area under the cover of darkness. Then the scents and sights of the wharf did not seem nearly so disagreeable as in the bright and unforgiving morning light. This place belonged to the darkness.

  A brief ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover that promised a respite from Batavia’s insufferable heat. Dempsey slowly sauntered toward the Broad Street Tavern, looking for a man who fit the description of one called Witt Dekker. This Dekker, Dempsey’s streetwise groom had assured him, was rough, dependable, and completely at ease with whatever action might be required of him. The groom had sworn that Dekker could be found within or near the Broad Street Tavern, and so was certain to know the girl who had lately left Heer Van Dyck’s house.

  Dempsey strode into the tavern and paused for a moment to peruse his surroundings. The cavernous room was quiet, for the real business of the place would not begin until after dark. Only four people were on the premises: a dour-faced woman sat before a table counting a stack of guilders; in a far corner a musician blew forlornly upon a horn for a sleepy boy, and behind the bar stood a burly man with arms as big as a bull’s thigh. An empty stool stood near the big man, so Dempsey made his way toward the bartender.

  “Goede middag,” he murmured, taking a seat on the wooden stool.

  The burly bartender lifted his gaze, then frowned. “If you’re from the reverend or the constable, I can assure you that nothing untoward happened here last night. I’ll give you a drink, but nothing more, for we already pay the constables enough to keep a horde of elephants away.”

  “I can assure you, sir, that I represent no one but myself,” Dempsey answered, glancing behind him. A group of sailors noisily came in and moved to a table; the old crone lifted her eyes, then continued her counting. Dempsey turned back to the bartender, fished a guilder out of his pocket, and dropped it to the bar. As the coin spun in a wobbly circle, Dempsey lifted his brows and looked up at the barkeeper again. “I’m looking for a man who is a regular customer. I mean him no harm; I only mean to employ him.”

  “Who would that be?” The bartender’s busy brow rose in mock surprise. “We have few regular customers, for the ships are in and out again—”

  “Witt Dekker.” Dempsey suppressed a smile as a mask of indifference fell over the barkeeper’s face. “And don’t try telling me you don’t know him. I know he stays here when he’s in port, and I know he’s in port now. I could probably identify which harlot kept him company last night, but if you’ll tell me where I might find this man, I’ll give you this guilder and another besides.”

  Greed and conscience wrestled briefly in the man’s dark eyes. “Leave the gold on the table,” he whispered gruffly. “Go out of the tavern, walking toward the harbor. Turn into the first alley, and knock on the first door you come to. That’s the women’s room, and Dekker’s inside, still asleep.” An odd mingling of wariness and amusement shone in the man’s eyes. “I’d be careful about waking him if I were you.”

  Dempsey dropped another guilder on the table and moved outside, his resolve strengthening with every step. He had been half-afraid he would actually run into Aidan in the tavern, but apparently the girl had more sense than to return to her old haunts. And despite what he had said last night, Dempsey did not think Schuyler Van Dyck would return his prized pupil to the rough streets. He had undoubtedly found a safe place for her to live while he was away, but Dempsey did not have the time or the freedom to search all of Batavia for one lousy wharf rat.

  He found the door the bartender had indicated, then pushed it open without knocking. “Witt Dekker?”

  In the semi-gloom of the windowless harlot’s den Dempsey could see two forms—a blond girl in a glimmering gown, and a bulky masculine shape sprawled across a pallet on the floor. The girl rose from a low stool as Dempsey closed the door behind him. Her wide blue eyes flickered toward him only for an instant as she moved away from the man on the mattress.

  Dempsey began to move forward, then reconsidered his bold intrusion. Remaining in the doorway so that he blocked the girl’s exit, he tilted his head and studied her for a moment. Too bad this one had fallen; she bore signs of real beauty. Cornflower blue eyes dominated her delicate features, but already her face bore the hard lines of grief and sorrow. Soon that ivory skin would develop the disfiguring pockmarks of venereal disease. She would not live to be thirty, if she lived that long.

  “Girl,” he called, his eyes piercing the short distance between them, “know you a wench called Aidan? She is often in this vicinity, I hear. A lovely creature, with red hair and a fiery temper to match.”

  “There is no one by that name here, sir.” The girl fixed her gaze on the floor. “She is not in Bram’s employ.”

  “I only want to know where she is.” Dempsey tempered his tone and gave her his most charming smile. Still blocking her escape, he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist. As he nuzzled her lovely neck, he whispered into her ear, “I mean her no harm, love.”

  The figure on the mattress groaned and stirred. Dempsey abruptly released the blond and took a quick step toward the man. He stopped abruptly when he heard a low growl from the shadows. A mongrel terrier rose to its feet, its hackles raised, its brown eyes fixed on Dempsey.

  “Kate?” The man looked up and peered at Dempsey through bleary, red eyes. “Who dares disturb my sleep?”

  “I don’t know him,” the girl answered, lowering her eyes again. Her hands fluttered nervously over the front of her bodice, pale butterflies against golden silk. She dropped her voice and whispered intensely: “Please, sir, let me pass.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Dempsey lowered his head in a stiff bow as the girl grabbed up her skirts and ran out of the room. The man on the mattress sat up and sleepily ran a hand through his wiry hair, but his eyes, when they fastened upon Dempsey, flickered with wariness.

  “Witt Dekker, I presume.” Dempsey stepped into the room. “I hear that you are a good man to make problems disappear.”

  The dog released a warning bark, but Dekker silenced the animal: “Down, Snuggerheid!” The terrier obediently dropped to its belly on the floor, and Dekker’s gaze moved back to Dempsey. “When a man is properly motivated, almost anything can be made to disappear. It all depends upon what sort of problem a man is facing.”

  “My problem is a simple one—a woman.”

  Dekker released a scornful laugh. “I have never had a simple problem with a woman.”

  Dempsey drew a deep breath. “My problem is a wench called Aidan, who used to work as a barmaid in this tavern. A certain gentleman has taken a fancy to her, a fancy that will cost his family thousands of English pounds.”

  Dekker’s brows rose in surprise, then he let out a long, low whistle. “That’s some fancy. But I don’t know the girl; perhaps she’s worth the price.”

  Dempsey shook his head. “No woman alive is worth that amount. And the gentleman is not fond of her as you or I might be fond of a wench. She has convinced him that she is better than she is, and he has written her into his will. When the old man dies, she will share in his estate, and I’m certain you can understand why his children would rather that she not appear to stake her claim.”

  Dekker pinned him with a long silent scrutiny, then smiled. “So who are you, and what is your interest in this matter? I know no Aidan, and you are a stranger to me. Why should I help you?”

  Dempsey wasn’t certain how one introduced oneself to a hired killer, but he bowed as if this were a formal introduction and inclined his head in a deep gesture. “I am Dempsey Jasper, formerly of London, presently of Batavia. My wife is daughter to the gentleman I mentioned. We are not thinking of th
e financial profit, of course, but of the scandal that would ruin my wife’s happiness.”

  Dekker closed his eyes while a wide smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, I see. Well. What is your wife’s happiness worth to you then? This will have to be a quick job, for I am due to sail within a fortnight. If I cannot find this wench—”

  “She left my father-in-law’s house last night,” Dempsey answered, his patience growing thin. “Heer Van Dyck has probably arranged for her to stay in some safe house, but she is a woman of the streets, and I am certain she will be returning to her old haunts. We hoped to have this settled as soon as possible, for Heer Van Dyck is scheduled to depart soon, as well. He is sailing with Abel Tasman and one cannot know what might happen on the uncharted sea.”

  “Sailing with Tasman?” The man’s watery eyes held absolutely no expression. “I shall meet him then, for I, too, am sailing with Tasman. I will serve as first mate upon the Zeehaen.”

  Dempsey felt a sudden lurch of his stomach. This ruthless killer would be leaving with Heer Van Dyck. He closed his eyes, considering. What would a certain accident upon the high seas cost?

  He opened one eye, scarcely daring to breathe his thoughts. “If you find the girl and can guarantee that she will not step forward to claim her inheritance,” he said slowly, forcing the words out, “I will pay you five thousand pounds. And if, by some chance, Tasman returns to Batavia and announces that my wife is now fatherless, I will pay you double.”

  “Ten thousand pounds to kill two people?” Dekker propped his arms upon his bent knees. “It is a decent wage.”

  “Are we agreed?”

  Dekker nodded with a taut jerk of his head. “Consider it done. I shall begin with Sweet Kate, for she knows everyone in these parts. If the wench is to be found at the wharf, Kate will know where she is.”