The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Enough!” Aidan couldn’t believe that one man could be so ruthless and cruel. But she was trapped, with no way out. She could not expose him without exposing herself, and she could not be rid of him without dealing with his lies as well as her own.

  Her lungs tightened as if a gigantic hand had suddenly begun to squeeze her rib cage. For a moment the room whirled madly around her in an explosion of colors and buzzing sounds, then all went black.

  She awoke to the sight of Sterling’s concerned face above her a moment later, but his presence did nothing to ease her fears. She was lying on his bunk and Witt Dekker was fanning her, the palmetto frond pushing hot air across her face and blowing curls in all directions. She recoiled from him, but now he wore an expression of dutiful, compassionate concern, without a trace of malevolence in his dark eyes.

  “Darling, are you all right?” Sterling slipped his hand under her head and held a glass of water to her lips. She pushed the glass away, spilling half of the precious liquid over her bodice and skirt.

  Sterling glared up at Dekker. “What happened?”

  “I was just describing the poor man’s broken arm,” Dekker said, his eyes wide pools of innocence. “And suddenly she claps her hands over her ears, tells me, ‘Enough,’ and faints dead away.” He nodded in a generous display of compassion. “Women are a weak sort, Doctor. You can’t say much without having them get all queasy on you.”

  Aidan blinked rapidly, forcing the room into focus. Dekker stood above her on one side, Sterling sat on the other. One man she wanted dead; the other she would give her life to protect.

  “Come darling, drink this,” Sterling offered again, holding up the glass. Closing her eyes to block Dekker from her sight, Aidan dutifully obeyed.

  An ocean away, Lili halted in midsentence. She had been bent over a book spread on a tavern table, teaching Sofie and Francisca how to read, when for no explainable reason her heart began to burn with the certainty that Aidan was in trouble.

  “Almighty God,” she whispered, unable to shake the sense that her daughter needed help, “be with her now.”

  “Are you all right, Lili?” Sofie asked, arching her brows. “You’re as pale as milk.”

  “Pray, ladies,” Lili murmured, grasping the back of a chair as she slowly lowered herself into a seat. Her legs felt like water beneath her, and unbidden tears had risen to cloud her sight. “Pray for Aidan. Wherever she is, she needs us now.”

  The women did not hesitate, but pressed their hands together and began to pray as Lili had taught them. Lili’s own heart, however, was too full for words. She lowered her forehead to the table and let her tears water the wooden surface.

  God had a son. He would understand her pain.

  On the pretext of giving Sterling room enough to set the injured man’s shattered arm, Aidan left the cabin. Dekker and his oarsmen had already returned to the Zeehaen, so she felt safe roaming the decks of the Heemskerk. She needed time and space to think, and she needed privacy. As much as she loved Sterling and wanted to share her life with him, there were some aspects of her heart she could not let him see.

  A pale sun had shone on the water when Aidan first looked out the porthole and spied the barge, but now an ugly haze veiled the sky. The rising wind blew past her, lifting her hair off her shoulders, whipping her skirts tight around her legs. The wind was hot and humid; in a few moments it would begin to rain. Aidan lifted her face to the gray sky to welcome whatever weather would come.

  She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and braced herself on the railing as she considered the dreadful facts. Witt Dekker, a distinguished officer with this expedition, had killed Orabel trying to get to her! And now the past she had thought she could bury had risen to haunt her footsteps and overshadow her happiness.

  The ship trembled slightly under Aidan’s feet, the boards brushed by some huge sea creature. Aidan gazed across the dark surface of the heaving ocean. “Lili, you tried to preserve my purity,” she whispered, seeing her mother’s reflection in each little cat’s paw the wind ruffled up, “but you couldn’t do enough. The truth will come out, no matter what. Perhaps Sterling could have understood if I had been honest from the beginning, but to tell him now, with Dekker breathing threats and lies … ”

  She gripped the railing. Sterling must never know. He would never understand. His was an honest soul. Like Schuyler Van Dyck, he could no more tell a lie than he could commit wanton murder. She had no choice—she would have to agree to Dekker’s plan, pay him whatever he demanded, and pray for deliverance. If God was merciful—if he would forgive her sins and the bitterness of the past years—then perhaps he would rid her of Dekker. The man could be swept overboard in a storm at sea; he could be cracked over the skull in a tavern brawl; an insanely jealous girlfriend could stab him in the heart. But he would need to die quickly, with his mouth closed and his eyes open to see God’s justice worked on Aidan’s behalf.

  “I don’t care about the money, God,” Aidan whispered as the first drops of rain began to sting her cheeks. “But Sterling must never know what I was. He must always believe me a gentlewoman, for he could not love me otherwise. So if you will kill this vile man for me, I will—”

  She would what? What could she give the God who already had everything? She already believed in him, and she had already mended her behavior—she hadn’t picked a pocket since deciding to become respectable. The life she lived here, as a woman, was as honest and virtuous as any matron’s in Batavia. So what could she promise to seal the deal?

  Her mind floated in a sepia haze, then focused on a memory of Heer Van Dyck. One afternoon they had been painting together in his garden, and she had tried to explain why she wanted to leave the tavern and take charge of her own life.

  “Ja, I see,” he had answered, his eyes sparkling. “But you don’t understand, my young friend. Take your life into your own hands, and you have only yourself to rely on. Give your life over to God, though, and you have the limitless treasure of his mercy and love at your disposal.”

  He put down his paintbrush and turned toward her. “All the arts we practice,” he said, gesturing toward the canvases they were painting, “are but an apprenticeship. The big art is our life. I wouldn’t want to paint that picture alone, so I have placed the brush into the Master’s hands.”

  On that summer day so long ago, Aidan hadn’t had the faintest idea what Heer Van Dyck meant. Now his words took on meaning and substance. God had her faith, her good deeds—but what he wanted was her paintbrush. Control. Her surrender.

  Aidan looked toward the sky, where stark white bones of lightning cracked through the gray skin of the clouds. “All right, God,” she said, raising her voice above the howling of the wind. “I yield to you. Take my life, I’ve made a mess of things, and there is no one else to blame.”

  There was no answer from the overcast heavens save the rains, which fell like needles against her skin. Aidan lingered a moment more, hoping for some sign that she’d been heard, then slowly turned and sought refuge in the sanctity of Sterling’s cabin.

  Four weeks passed without incident. In thoughtful moments, Aidan stared across the sea toward the Zeehaen. That sturdy little ship followed the Heemskerk like a puppy following its master, and she noticed no signs of distress, no signal that anything untoward had happened within its belly. Once, spying Dekker’s broad form on the deck, Aidan retreated into the shadows of the forecastle as if she’d seen a ghost.

  One thing was clear: God wasn’t going to kill him for her. He would take her father, her best friend, and her mentor, but he wouldn’t take her enemy.

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting that fiend,” she muttered. “But you leave me with very hard choices, God.”

  The sight of Dekker had left her feeling queasy. Pressing her hand to her churning stomach, she paused and looked around the tiny cabin. Last night she had arranged her sketches into one neat pile, then stacked the painted canvases as carefully as she could. She spent most of he
r time sketching now, for her paint supply was dwindling and only one blank canvas remained.

  Just this morning, Sterling asked why she had reserved that one canvas.

  “I’m waiting,” she answered.

  “For what?”

  She had smiled to herself, and for the first time voiced the idea she had not been able to articulate. “For the feeling of almost home. That’s when I’ll know what to paint.”

  Aidan shook her head regretfully. After days of praying and wondering what God would have her do, she had awakened to the realization that since the Almighty honored truth, truth was what she should offer her husband. When Sterling had left the cabin this morning, she pulled his battered English New Testament from his trunk and read these profound words: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

  Today she would tell him about Dekker, about Orabel’s death, about her parents, about Lili’s desperate bid to survive in Batavia. And she would tell the truth—she had never been a harlot, but she had picked more pockets than she could count, and she had served a term or two in the public workhouse. She had lived and consorted with harlots, beggars, and other ne’er-do-wells, yet she had never considered herself one of them—well, she had never wanted to remain one of them.

  And if he hated her, she would let him go. With a broken heart, she would take her inheritance from Van Dyck and return to England. Dekker would no longer have power over her. She could slip away, shedding the past in order to find a place where her heart could heal—

  No!

  Sickness and desolation swept over her at the very thought of living apart from Sterling. Wherever she went, every man would remind her of him in some way, though no other man could begin to fill his place in her heart.

  She pressed her hand to her forehead, feeling a wretchedness of mind she’d never known before. If Sterling could not love her, she would throw herself overboard, leaving him alone with his cherished ideals and false conceptions. Her misery, like a steel weight inside her heart, would pull her to the bottom of the sea. If she were dead, she’d no longer have to worry about Witt Dekker or feel her heart breaking every time she looked at the man she adored.

  No, beloved. Think not of death but of life.

  The Voice shook her to the core. Heer Van Dyck had occasionally spoken of hearing God’s voice, but Aidan had never expected to hear and feel it herself. Hot tears rolled down her face, tears of loss and fear, and it was then that Sterling opened the door.

  “Aidan!” His face contorted into an expression of alarm when he saw her tears. “What is wrong? Has anyone—”

  “No,” she whispered. She clutched her cramping stomach. “But I need to talk to you—oh!”

  Without warning, she gagged. Sterling guided her to the chamber pot by the bed, holding her head steady while she vomited. When her empty stomach had heaved its paltry contents into the basin, she stood motionless, gasping for breath, as fresh tears stung her eyes. Now he knew something was wrong. She could no longer hide her fears behind a false smile, and she could not postpone this confrontation. Her own body had betrayed her, leaving her soiled and smelly, an object of disgust and revulsion. But no matter. He would undoubtedly feel the same way when he discovered what she had been before Heer Van Dyck pulled her off the street.

  “Aidan, darling!” He took her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder as she broke down and sobbed. This would be the last time he held her, for even now he was deluded.

  “Sterling—”

  “There now.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the dampness from her fingers and lips. “Did you eat something distasteful? Was the fish at breakfast undercooked?”

  “I didn’t eat breakfast.” She closed her eyes as his hand pushed her sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. “Sterling, I need to talk to you. About something important.”

  “All right, but you can talk sitting down.” He lowered himself to his bunk, then pulled her into his lap. She allowed herself to remain there, wiping the last tears from her eyes. She needed to have all her wits about her, she wanted to be clear-eyed and strong when she told him the truth.

  “Aidan—” His voice was softer now, and thoughtful. “You fainted the other day.” His clear blue eyes shone up at her. “How many times in the last week have you vomited?”

  She flushed miserably. She had tried to hide her distress from him, but ever since Dekker’s visit she hadn’t been able to think straight, let alone hold down a decent meal.

  “I—I can’t remember.”

  His eyes grew large and liquid, and his hand tightened on her shoulder. “Aidan, my love, I know it’s hard to keep track of time aboard a ship, but think—when was the last time you bled?”

  Her face burned with sudden humiliation as her mind exploded in sharp awareness. Heaven above, she hadn’t even considered the possibility! Lili’s girls had explained certain things she could do to avoid an inconvenient or ill-advised pregnancy, but she’d never thought to implement any of those procedures with Sterling.

  “Faith, Aidan, I am a physician!” Sterling’s eyes were bright with speculation and a muscle quivered at his jaw. “Do not be coy or modest now, but tell me! When was the last time?”

  “Four months ago, I think,” she whispered. “Before we landed at the Friendly Islands.”

  For a brief instant his face seemed to open, and Aidan watched her words take hold. She saw his surprise, a quick flicker of fear, and then joy unlike anything she had ever seen on another human face. Then his arms closed around her.

  “Aidan, my love,” he whispered reverently, “you are carrying our child.”

  She sat frozen as Sterling buried his face in her neck. She felt his tears upon her flesh and the subterranean quiver that passed through him. Over his shoulder, she lifted her gaze and stared at a knothole in the wall. Her plan to tell him the truth had just been completely scuttled.

  The late-morning sun was warm, burnishing the objects in the cabin with May’s golden glow as it streamed through the porthole. Sterling lay stretched out on the bunk with Aidan crowded in next to him.

  After he explained the significance of her physical symptoms, she had worn herself out with weeping and now lay in his arms. She had not spoken or moved in the last hour, and Sterling hoped she slept.

  He had been scared silly by the frightened look on her face and terrified by her tears. But this was not sad news—it was wonderful! He had barred the door and lay down to comfort her, and he wouldn’t have minded staying in that position throughout the rest of the day and night. Anything to be of service to his wife and child. He didn’t mind being Aidan’s pillow, and he would talk all night if the sound of his voice comforted her. He would quietly fill her dreams with joyful plans for their child in order to take her mind off the discomforts of early pregnancy.

  “Of course, if it’s a girl, I won’t be disappointed,” he said, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to wake her if she dozed, and he wasn’t ready to share this news with the entire ship. He knew the first months of a woman’s pregnancy were crucial; Aidan had to be protected and sheltered even when the baby had not yet shown itself. And so he would protect his wife, even if it meant holding her on his lap until they reached Batavia.

  “I wish you could see what the baby looks like now,” he went on, a blush of pleasure rising on his face as he remembered what he had learned in medical school. “’It’s a tiny thing, small enough to fit into the palm of your hand, but you’d be able to see all his tiny parts. Fingers, toes, a wee chin, a tiny pert nose—like yours.” He gently, tenderly lowered his hand to the gentle swell of her abdomen. “Soon you’ll be able to feel the baby moving inside you. They say it feels like a gentle butterfly fluttering, at first.”

  A breeze gusted in through the porthole, stirring Aidan’s hair. “What if it’s a lovely red-haired girl?” Sterling propped himself on one elbow and ran his hand over Aidan’s gleaming tresses, thick and glossy and full of fire. “I’d like
a girl, you know. Or a boy. Or both, if you’re thinking of twins. And I’ll try to be a good father. Of course, you’re so genteel and fine I know you’ll be a wonderful mother, but I’m from sturdier stock—I might have to mend my manners a bit. But you won’t catch me saying anything that would be bad for the baby to pick up. I promise you that, Aidan. I’d promise you the world, if you wanted it.”

  Loose curls softened her oval face, coppery in the waning light—except for that one strand of white at her temple. He lightly ran his palm over her hair, but she didn’t move. Good. She slept soundly. She needed to rest now, and anyone who tried to disturb her would regret it. With wonder he gazed down at her features, where delicacy combined with strength—the fragility of a lady blended with the fervor of a girl bold enough to follow her dreams.

  “We’ll stay in Batavia until after the baby is born,” he whispered. “No woman should have to endure a sea crossing when she’s with child. And then we’ll announce the birth in church, and let all the fine citizens of Batavia come to pay their respects.”

  He grinned, imagining Dr. Lang Carstens bowing before the cradle. That cranky doctor would change his tune when he realized that Sterling Thorne had married into the snobby society he served.

  “I suppose there will be a bit of scrapping over who will be the first to visit our child, him being so highly regarded and all. Governor Van Diemen will visit, of course, because we have him to thank for bringing us together.” He chuckled at the thought of the portly governor’s part in the baby’s conception. “Perhaps we should name the baby—if it’s a boy, of course—Anthony, after the governor?” He smiled down at his sleeping bride’s face. “What do you think, love? Anthony Thorne? It has a certain noble ring to it, I think. In any case, we’ll invite the governor to the christening—”