The Golden Cross (7 page)

Stunned, Schuyler stepped back into the shadows, bracing his back against the building as he watched. The redhead was a capable sketch artist; in just a few deft strokes she had caught the essence of form and movement. She drew with a simple white rock, one like thousands of others that littered the interior of the island, and shaded her drawing with a skill that surprised Schuyler. He watched, entranced, as the butterfly flapped slowly, elegantly pirouetting on the other girl’s outstretched finger.

“Hurry now, Aidan, he’s about to fly,” the blond called in English. “The honey’s not going to hold him much longer!”

“It’s okay, you can let him go. I’ve got him—” The artist absently tapped the side of her head. “—in here. I won’t forget.”

The younger girl gently blew upon the butterfly, coaxing the creature into flight. The insect lazily drifted off, flapping for a moment above the red-haired girl before rising on a current of air and drifting away.

Schuyler rubbed his chin, thinking. ’Twas a pity he was leaving the colony in less than a month. Ability like hers ought to be encouraged. But the girl would undoubtedly think him a fool if he dared to suggest that she had talent. By her dress and attitude he suspected she was one of the unfortunate ne’er-do-wells who dwelt in this area, and if he encouraged her attention, she’d probably pick his pockets bare before he’d even finished wishing her a good morning.

Regretfully pushing his noble intentions aside, he straightened himself and strode forward to cross the alley.

“Aidan, look! It’s him!”

Aidan glanced up, and felt her mouth suddenly go dry as the gentleman she sought appeared as if from nowhere. He walked purposefully toward the V.O.C. office, his cane tapping steadily on the street, his eyes fixed to the cobblestones. He moved with surprising speed for a man so advanced in years, and if she tarried one more instant, her days of waiting would all have been for nothing.

She dropped the stone in her hand. “One moment please, sir!” Her voice was louder than she’d intended, and he jerked at the sound of her greeting as if she’d threatened him with bodily harm. His eyes were wary under the brim of his hat; his mouth pursed with suspicion. And why not?

“Alstublieft
, Heer Van Dyck,” she called in Dutch. Dusting her grimy palms on her skirt, she rushed forward to stop his progress.
She managed a tremulous smile before speaking again. “If you would be so kind, sir, I’d like to sketch your portrait.”

The man stopped abruptly, and his pursed mouth opened slightly in surprise as Aidan fumbled beneath the edge of her bodice and pulled out her remaining sheet of vellum, damp now with perspiration.

“If you please, sir,” she said again, her fingers trembling as she unfolded the crinkled paper, “I have a pencil. I’d like to sketch your picture or any picture you like.”

His eyes, when she looked up, were dark brown and soft with kindness. “And I suppose you’ll charge me a stuiver for the pleasure.” He spoke in careful, clipped English, but there was no trace of annoyance in his deep voice. “Is this some new trick you girls have connived to waylay hapless passersby?”

“No sir.” Aidan rose to her full height, her courage like a rock inside her. “I won’t charge you anything. I only want you to see me draw.” She felt an unwelcome blush creep onto her cheeks. “I have heard, sir, that you are an artist.”

His eyes left her face and drifted to the building beyond. “I should go, I have an important meeting. Other responsibilities call me forward, my dear. Perhaps at some more opportune time.”

“There is no more opportune time.” Startled at her own boldness, Aidan lifted her chin. “I have waited here three days to see you, Heer Van Dyck. I ask only that you watch me draw something—anything you like.”

He pulled away slightly, his eyes roving over her, taking in her ragged hem, her patched skirt, the too-small bodice, the wrinkled sleeves. Then those brown eyes searched her face, and Aidan flushed hotly beneath the pressure of his gaze. Finally, he nodded and clasped his hands behind his back.

“All right,” he said simply, his handsome face reserved in its expression. “Draw whatever you like. You have piqued my interest.”

“No,” she insisted, pulling her precious pencil from her
pocket. “You tell me what to draw. And whatever it is, I shall do my best.”

“A true artist draws what is in his heart,” he answered, a trace of a smile lighting his eyes. “But perhaps you are not accustomed to peering inside your soul. So look yonder, dear child, and tell me what you see.”

Aidan followed his glance, and saw the open sea and the ships that rode upon it. “I see the harbor.”

He jerked his head in a brief nod, sending a shock of white hair spilling into his eyes. “Draw the harbor, then. Let me see what you see.”

Aidan’s mind raced as she lifted the vellum and braced it against the nearest wall. Orabel stepped forward to hold the paper securely against the rough bricks of the Company building, and Aidan ran her hands over the parchment for a long moment, thinking.

What did the man mean by “draw the harbor”? Did he expect to see the ships, the sea, the men upon the docks, or all three elements? She’d heard he was a cartographer—did he want a map of the place? Aidan had no idea of the harbor’s shape or size in relation to the entire island of Java, for she had not been outside Batavia since landing here six years before.

She heard his cane tapping against the cobblestones and knew he was impatient to be under way. In that instant she decided to sketch a ship, for it represented all the elements of a harbor. Its hull was made of deeply rooted island trees, its power came from the men who sailed within it, and its transport was the ocean itself.

In three bold lines she drew the mainmast, mizzen, and foremast; in a series of swooping lines she created the sharp line of the bow and the sensuous curves of the stern. A ship, she told herself, her pencil busily crossing over the vellum, symbolized travel and adventure, a means of escape, and the promise of returning home.

Within a moment she had forgotten about the tall man standing behind her, and with only two more cursory glances over her shoulder she had captured the image and projected it onto the parchment. The wind, full of movement and bluster, filled her ship’s sails; round-cheeked, bright-eyed sailors crowded the decks and peered into a swirling sea where something mysterious and beautiful shimmered beneath the surface. On and on she drew, until Orabel’s discreet cough reminded her that she had an impatient audience.

When she turned around, Heer Van Dyck stood motionless in the middle of the alley. His mouth had taken on a curious twist, and his eyes were fixed upon the vellum in her hand.

“For you,” she said simply, offering with the page her dreams, her future, the only hopes she had dared to conjure in all her years on Batavia. He put out his hand to take the paper, but a sudden gust of salt-scented wind snatched it from her hand. She watched in stunned amazement as the breeze caught the sketch and sent it careening toward the sea, taking her hopes and dreams with it.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Van Dyck murmured, his eyes following the fluttering paper as it rose like a rebellious bird and moved away on the wind. “I would like to have kept that sketch.”

“It was all the paper I had,” she answered, fighting to speak over the lump that rose in her throat. “I had hoped you would be able to look at it and give me some instruction. But I still have this.” From a pocket inside her skirt she pulled out another square, this one folded many times and smudged with grime. She gave it to him, then waited while he took it and slowly unfolded it.

The bird sketch. She had hoped she wouldn’t be required to surrender it, for it was her first attempt at working with a pencil and proper paper, and the scrawny image on the page seemed a sad substitute for the charming winged fellow she had met that afternoon in the brush.

Van Dyck lifted his gaze from the page to meet hers, and his
dark brown eyes grew somewhat smaller and darker, the black pupils training on her like gun barrels.

“How do you do it?” he asked, cocking one silver eyebrow toward her.

“Do what, sir?”

“How do you make the image come to life?” The beginning of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The bird is looking at me, I can almost hear him chirping. And when you sketched the boat, I knew the seamen were eager to be away, happy to be making the journey. So how do you do it?”

How?
she silently quizzed herself. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she whispered, scarcely aware of her own voice. “I just look and draw. That’s all.”

Clothes hanging from a line stretched across the alley made soft snapping sounds in the breeze as Heer Van Dyck stood in silence for a moment. “I believe, my child,” he finally said, speaking slowly, “that I should give you more than a few instructions.” He glanced toward the street. “Is there some quiet spot we can sit and talk? Does some place near here have a proper table?” His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the doors of the Dutch East India Company, then his gaze returned to her face. “Some place where we would be welcomed?”

Aidan understood the subtle question. A woman of her type would never be allowed through the doors of the prosperous V.O.C. Well, if the downtrodden could not rise up, members of the upper class were welcome to descend.

“There’s a tavern near here.” She pointed toward Broad Street. “On the corner. Do you know it?”

“I believe I have seen it.” Heer Van Dyck stroked his beard. “Yes, I know the place. All right, then. You go there and wait for me, and I will join you shortly.”

“Truly?”

“Ja,”
he answered absently. “I will have to get some supplies—pencils, I think, and parchments. It may take awhile.”

“But what about your meeting?” Aidan’s mind raced. “You said you had an important meeting. I wouldn’t want you to miss it on my account.”

“The meeting will wait,” the older man answered. “But you, I fear, will not. So go ahead, while I gather the things I need. Then you shall draw for me again, and I shall have an answer for you.”

Aidan watched him move away, noticing that he walked with a firmer, more resolute step. Orabel reached over and squeezed her hand. “He said he’ll have an answer for you,” she said. “What does that mean, Aidan?”

“I’m not sure.” Aidan shook her head. “I don’t remember asking a question.”

The two girls began to walk slowly back to the tavern, and Aidan took a deep breath, resisting the wave of doubt that threatened to rise from somewhere deep within her. Could she trust this man? She had thought she had seen a gleam of interest in his eye, but perhaps he was merely eager to rid himself of an annoying pest. Perhaps even now he intended only to walk around the block and return to the V.O.C. offices when he was certain she and Orabel had left. He would go about his business without another thought for her.

But he had been surprised at her picture of the ship—of that she was certain. Whether he supported her or despised her, he had at least been surprised that a lowly wharf rat could hold a pencil and draw.

His face burning in hot agony, Schuyler shouldered his way through the rowdy mob gathered outside the Broad Street Tavern, wondering why in the world he had agreed to meet the young woman here. Why had he agreed to meet her at all? He had no desire to take on a student, no time in which to train a protégée. He didn’t even want to recommend another teacher in town, for by the look of the girl’s dress she wouldn’t have the money for private
instruction, and he doubted that any of the girls’ schools would take her. She was too old for school, too poor for a private tutor.

So why was he here with his arms loaded with parchments and pens?

“Excuseert u mij,”
he murmured again and again as he moved through the crowd. Half the faces around him were bleary with drink; at least a dozen men seemed moments away from passing out. How could they be totally inebriated before the sun had reached midday?

But these were not the kind of people he was accustomed to. These were men at liberty after a long voyage, eager for wine, women, and a bit of merriment. Perhaps he would understand them better after he had been at sea for several months.