Sterling climbed the companionway ladder in a daze, his thoughts traveling in a hundred different directions. The golden cross hung now about his own neck, and his mind reeled with unanswered questions. Why would Witt Dekker wear a cross inscribed with Aidan’s name? How had he received it? Was it something he meant to give her or something she had given him? Had he stolen or bought it from Aidan—and had it been given to her by another man?
Ask her what it means, Dekker had said, and Sterling fully intended to. There had to be a reasonable response, an answer that would put the pieces of the puzzle into their proper places.
“I’ll have that barge now, Skipper,” Sterling called to Janszoon as he walked out into the bright sunlight on the deck. He ran his hand over the three-day growth of beard on his face. Aidan wouldn’t appreciate his scruffy appearance. “If you’d call the oarsmen for me—”
Janszoon turned and laughed. “Goejehelp you, Doctor, you have been too long below deck! Look up, we are home!”
Sterling straightened, surprised and more confused than ever. A coastline stretched along the port bow, and a harbor loomed in the distance. The Heemskerk sailed ahead of them, her sails already lowering.
“Batavia?” Sterling asked, dumbfounded.
“Ja, Doctor.” Janszoon grinned, then turned toward his cabin. “Wait but a moment,” he called over his shoulder, “and we’ll drop anchor, then you can take the first barge going ashore.”
“But I don’t want to go ashore!” Sterling lengthened his stride to keep up with the skipper. “I want to go to the Heemskerk. My wife waits aboard that ship.”
“Doctor.” The skipper paused in the doorway of his cabin, a look of pained tolerance crossing his face. “We have two barges aboard this vessel. Do you think I can tell this land-hungry crew that one of the boats must take you to the Heemskerk before it can carry them ashore to wives and sweethearts?” He frowned and folded his arms. “I think not. I would have a mutiny on my hands.”
“But, Skipper—”
Janszoon disappeared into his cabin, and the resolute slam of the door made it clear that the discussion had ended. Sterling went to the rail, watching as the outskirts of Batavia, the pride of the Netherlands, slid slowly by. This colony and her people had not welcomed him on his first arrival, but this time things would be different. His wife was a gentlewoman and an heiress, and their child would be born here. He lifted his face to the caressing breeze and the warmth of the sun, enjoying the idea of his own neat little house in the fine part of town.
“Excuseert u mij.” He put out a hand to stop a passing seaman. “What day is it, sir? I’ve been below for so long I lost all track of time.”
“May fourteenth,” the man answered, grinning as he heaved his gunnysack onto his shoulder. “And a fine day for coming home, heh, Doctor?”
“Yes, it is.” Sterling planted his hands on the railing and breathed deeply. It was a fine day for making a new start and—he frowned suddenly, remembering the golden cross hanging above his heart—for settling unfinished business.
After promising one of the oarsman that he would name his child after him, four hours later Sterling climbed the rigging and boarded the Heemskerk. The flagship had reached port at least two hours before the Zeehaen, and the vessel had a desolate, almost ghostly feel as he hurried over the deck. Poor Aidan might be frightened in this solitude, and he couldn’t forget that she hadn’t wanted him to go to the Zeehaen.
He hurdled several coils of rope and piles of canvas, then burst into their cabin. “Aidan?”
Her paintings rested in a neat stack upon the bunk, and a sheaf of parchments lay next to the paintings, alongside the crate with her brushes, palette, and paint boxes. Her brown silk skirt and bodice lay neatly folded at the edge of her crate, and her men’s clothes lay under the brown silk.
His eyes fell upon one painting he’d never seen before. It was the large canvas she’d been saving for home—the one she said she’d paint when they neared Batavia. He lifted it and sat down on the bunk, his eyes blurring with hot tears as he studied the picture.
“Oh, Aidan,” he murmured, caught up in the dark hues, the restless and haunting images on the canvas. “I wanted your homecoming to be happy.”
The painting was fresh, for the back of the canvas still felt damp from the oils. The dominant figure, shining against the background of night sky and sea, was a man in iridescent robes whose starlit hands appeared to create three creatures on a beam of light traversing the sky. The first creature was a mist-colored caterpillar munching on a leaf that dangled from a beam of starlight. The second was a silvery chrysalis, and the third, a vibrant butterfly that seemed to unfurl his lustrous wings before Sterling’s eyes. It was a painting of life and renewal and hope, but the eyes of the Creator were dark with sadness, as if he regretted working his magic at all.
Sterling pressed his lips together as the painting’s message struck his heart with the force of a physical blow. Aidan saw the beauty in her life, in their love, and yet she was sorry for it. Why? Did her sadness have anything to do with Witt Dekker?
“Mondejuu!”
Sterling whirled around, surprised by an unfamiliar voice. A stout, bearded man in a heavily ornamented doublet stood behind him, his eyes intent upon the painting, his mouth gaping in admiration. He murmured something in Dutch that Sterling could not understand.
“I’m sorry.” Sterling frowned in confusion. “But I am Sterling Thorne, the ship’s doctor. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
The gentleman snapped to attention and answered in clipped English. “Of course, Dr. Thorne; I have heard nothing but good about you.” His round eyes darted again to the painting in Sterling’s hand. “But I had no idea you were an artist!”
“I’m not. My wife painted this.” Sterling lifted the painting, then carefully lowered it back to the chair where he’d found it. “And if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d like to find her.”
“Your wife?” The man’s nose quivered for a moment, then he swelled his chest and abruptly inclined his head. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Anthony Van Diemen, governor general of the Colony. Let me be the first to welcome you home, Doctor, and to congratulate you on your choice of a talented wife. I have never seen anything like that picture. Though I expected great things when I asked Heer Van Dyck to accompany this expedition, I never dreamed that treasures like this would result.” His fat finger pointed toward the metamorphosis painting. “That work is quite exceptional.”
“My wife is exceptional.” Sterling shifted and glanced toward the door, eager to be rid of his pompous visitor.
“Could I interest you in selling one or two of her works?” The governor’s eye wandered greedily toward the stack of canvases on the bunk. “I would love to look through this treasure trove before her work reaches the gallery.”
“I think she would be very pleased,” Sterling muttered, sidling toward the doorway. “But if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll leave you to look through them at your leisure. I really am late, and I must find her.”
Without waiting for a response, Sterling rushed out, his eyes searching every exposed deck, the rigging, the piles of canvas where she might be hiding in some sort of teasing game. “Aidan!”
“Ahoy, Doctor,” came a voice cracked with age and disuse. “Are you looking for your wife?” One of the seamen, a grizzled veteran, grinned down at him from the rigging.
“Have you seen her?” Sterling called. “Is she below in the galley?”
“The lady went ashore in the first boat,” the sailor answered. “Meester Holman escorted her. He was very eager to see his family.”
Sterling’s mind reeled. Aidan left the ship! But where would she go? Where did she live? He suddenly realized that he knew very little about the woman who bore his name and carried his child.
He dashed forward and sprinted across the deck. The barge that had brought him from the Zeehaen was now halfway across the bay, nearly to the docks.
/> “Won’t be another barge for a while,” the old sailor called from his perch. “So you might as well sit and wait. Those of us who are left are in no hurry.”
Biting back his impatience, Sterling settled himself atop a mountain of coiled rope and stared at the dock, willing a boat to come back for him.
The first stars had appeared in the vault of the heavens by the time Sterling reached Schuyler Van Dyck’s house. An elderly woman with red-rimmed eyes opened the door to his knock, but when Sterling inquired about Aidan, she forcibly slammed the door without a word of explanation.
“Wait,” he shouted, pounding on the door. “I must know what has happened to her! She is my wife!”
“That wench will not be allowed over the threshold of this house again,” the old crone rasped through the keyhole. “And you dishonor my master’s memory by speaking her name. Now be gone!”
He backed away, stunned by such a reception. Had Aidan endured the same disdain today? If she was not welcomed here, where would she go? And why had she gone off without him? She had been unhappy when he left to tend Dekker, but surely her anger had faded by now.
He paused, remembering the brooding emotion evident in her last painting. Perhaps her anger hadn’t faded. Or perhaps she thought he honestly intended to abandon her. The idea made no sense, but sometimes Aidan brooded about things that mystified him.
He walked to the street and sat on a carriage block, twisting his hat in his hands as he considered her options. She might have gone to an inn; an unescorted lady could take a room with no questions asked if she had a good reputation in the town. The bulge of impending birth had not yet begun to show beneath her gown, so no one would think ill of her for traveling alone … yet.
He forced a smile. Perhaps this was some sort of game, something they would laugh about in years to come. “But darling, I thought you’d know I’d go to such-and-such a place,” she’d say, and he’d smile and kiss her forehead, amazed at how ignorant and foolish he had been in their early days.
But at this moment, he could not find any humor in the situation. His labors aboard the Zeehaen had left him exhausted, hungry, worried, and badgered by a series of questions revolving around a golden cross …
A coach and four approached from the center of town, and Sterling stood, noting that the black plumes of mourning adorned the horses’ heads. He stepped back from the carriage block so the occupant of the coach could alight. A young woman, soberly dressed in a mourning veil and black gown, exited, then nodded to her husband. The second man, however, halted upon the carriage block and stared curiously at Sterling.
“I know you,” he murmured, removing his crepe-rimmed hat.
The first man, his arm linked through the young woman’s, paused on the cobblestone path. “Henrick, Gusta is waiting for us.”
“I’ll be along in a moment,” the second man answered. He waited until the couple had entered the house, then he lifted a finger and pointed to Sterling. “You were the doctor aboard the Heemskerk, my father’s ship. I spoke to you briefly before the ship sailed.”
“Yes.” Sterling bowed formally. “Let me be among the first to convey my condolences. Your father was an exceptional man, and a gentleman in every sense of the word.”
The young man nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Thank you, sir.” His brows lifted. “I don’t mean to inconvenience you, but sometime I would like to hear exactly what happened to my father. Captain Tasman came by earlier this afternoon to bring the sad news, but my sister and I still have many questions.”
“Tasman came here?” Sterling felt a curious, tingling shock. “Did he, by chance, mention what happened to Aidan, your father’s protégée? She seems to have disappeared from the ship.”
“The captain did not mention her.” Henrick leaned heavily upon his cane. “But I would imagine she has returned to the gutters where Father dug her up.” An icy expression settled on his face. “If you have the bad taste to seek that sort of entertainment, Doctor, I would imagine that you could find any number of women like her on the corner near the Broad Street Tavern. The procuress there has a stable of women who will do most anything for a coin or two, and I’ve heard that my father’s little protégée, as you called her, is the procuress’s own daughter.”
A sudden surge of rage caught Sterling unaware, like a bolt of white-hot lightning that struck his chest and belly. He stared at the man in astonishment, his fury almost choking him. Then he reined in his emotions. Young Van Dyck had just suffered a serious blow. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly. Certainly he was misinformed.
Numb with shock, Sterling stiffly thanked Henrick Van Dyck for his help and walked slowly down the street.
Sterling wandered the streets, stumbling through alleys, over cobblestone paths and dusty trails. He begged the innkeepers to search their guest registers, but no one had seen a young woman who called herself Aidan Thorne or Aidan O’Connor. Sterling’s panic began to rise. His steps led him back toward the wharf, toward the docks, the taverns, and the flophouses. He didn’t think he’d find Aidan in such miserable conditions, but she had come ashore in a barge crowded with seamen, and one of the men from the Heemskerk might know where she had gone.
After the clean scents of the sea, the odors of the crowded wharf seemed to close in on him like a vile mist, and the cheerful vulgarity of the crowds near the dock irritated him beyond measure. He paused before the threshold of the Broad Street Tavern. The name of the place registered in his frenzied brain, so he pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood there, one hand on the spout of a cask, the other holding a pewter mug.
The barkeep caught Sterling’s eye and dipped his chin in a slight nod. “What will you have?” he asked, filling the mug. “Rum, ale, wine, or whiskey?”
“Nothing for me.” Sterling turned to search the room. The place teemed with loud women and tipsy seamen, and a cloud of tobacco smoke hovered over everything.
“You can’t stand at my bar for nothing.” The bartender’s fist rapped the bar near Sterling’s elbow. “So I’ll ask you again—what will you have?”
Sterling glanced over his shoulder. The man’s face had darkened menacingly. “Pour me a pint of ale then.” Sterling fished a coin from his purse, dropped it on the counter, then turned back to the room. “And leave me alone for a while.”
“Suit yourself.” A moment later the promised pint slid over the polished mahogany counter. Sterling ignored it, his eyes flitting instead over the crowd that swayed and stirred to the boisterous music. He thought he recognized a couple of seamen, but they were happily engaged with the tavern maids: each had an arm already entwined about a slender waist.
Sterling clenched his fist against the rising tide of frustration and despair that rose within him. Confound the woman! Where had she gone, and why hadn’t she left word or sent a message to him? This was no accident and no game. The Aidan he knew and loved wouldn’t want him to worry. She had either come to great harm, or she had not forgiven him for leaving the ship to tend Witt Dekker.
The memory of her face loomed before him as if a curtain had been ripped aside. “Sterling, please,” she had begged him, her eyes filling with tears. At the time he had thought her passion and unreasonableness merely harmless symptoms of her pregnancy. But what if his leaving had caused her to doubt his love? Did she think he would always place his patients before her? She knew he lived for her and the coming baby—or did she?
He turned and scrubbed his hand through his hair, as if it might stimulate his brain to more effective thought. He wrapped his hand around the pewter mug and squeezed it hard, searching for a reason, a clue, some insight that might lead him to where Aidan was.
The bartender came forward and glared down his prominent nose. “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked, his voice as flat and rough as sandpaper.
“What?”
“Around your neck,” the bartender growled. His huge hand reached forward and tugged on th
e gold chain until the cross clinked against the polished bar.
“It’s a cross,” Sterling answered dully. “Lots of people wear them.”
“Not like this,” the man responded. He leaned closer, and Sterling flinched at the sour smell of the man’s breath. “This is Aidan’s cross—her daddy gave it to her.” The glitter in the man’s half-closed eyes was both possessive and accusing. “So tell me how you came by it.”
Sterling stared in silence for a moment, then the man’s words registered. He knew Aidan! And he knew this cross had been hers!
“Where is she?” Sterling demanded, stiffening. His own hand reached out and closed around the bartender’s wrist. “If you’ve seen her, you must tell me now.”
More surprised than frightened, the bartender blinked. “Why do you want to know?” His eyes narrowed again in suspicion. “And who are you? Aidan’s got herself in a bad way, and she’s with Lili now.”
“Lady Lili—the procuress?” Sterling’s stomach churned. The procuress would know how to take care of an unwanted baby, and if Aidan was ‘in a bad way’ …
Accepting this knowledge as a sort of password, the bartender nodded. “Ja, though Lili’s not procuring any more, if you take my meaning. But I still let her and the girls live in my spare room, and they still serve food and drink here.”
“Aidan!” Sterling gritted his teeth. “Where is the girl?”
Exasperation flitted across the tavern owner’s features. “I was getting to that.” He frowned as if Sterling had greatly offended him. “Some old fellow took Aidan away, but she’s back, and not at all happy. Lili’s with her now.”
“Where?” Sterling’s grip on the man’s wrist tightened with a force that surprised them both.
“The back room,” the man answered, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “You’ll have to go out the building and through the alley, but that’s where I let the girls sleep—”
The Golden Cross Page 38
