The Golden Cross (2 page)

July 22, 1642

A
idan O’Connor lifted her eyes to the green mountains in the distance and wished for a moment that she could lose herself in their velvet shadows. Surely she could find a cool breath beneath the gigantic trees that soared above the ridges. She knew the natives had built their thatched houses beneath the towering trees, secure in the cathedral-like stillness and shade.

But she was a child of Europe and therefore relegated to the “civilized” sections of Batavia—the squalid, crowded area near the wharf in general, and one crowded corner near the intersection of Market and Broad Streets in particular. Here the air smelled of ale and open sewers, occasionally punctuated by a particularly strong whiff of a prostitute’s perfume. Crowds of sailors and merchants clogged the alleys; wagons and horses jammed the cobbled streets. Drunken seamen draped their arms about each other’s necks and sang sea chanteys; women squealed in pretended protest as whiskey-logged lips pressed against theirs even in the revealing light of day.

Aidan glanced down the sloping length of Broad Street to the place where the cobbled road spilled into the bay. A tall, three-masted ship was sailing into the harbor, her sails fluttering as the eager seamen gathered them in. Soon the ship’s crew would come ashore, thirsty, hungry, and eager to experience all they’d been denied in the strict discipline aboard ship.

Sinking to a stone bench outside the tavern, Aidan pressed the damp fabric of her bodice to her chest, wiping away the pearls of sweat that dotted her skin. Bram or Lili would come looking for her in a moment, demanding to know why she’d run out again. They didn’t mind the noise, scents, and ribald atmosphere of the tavern, but Aidan did—terribly.

One of these days she would be done with the stale odors of frying oil, shag tobacco, and unwashed beer mugs. She’d get up and walk out forever. She wouldn’t be welcome in the civilized part of Batavia, but she could stroll out to one of the native villages. And while the Javanese stared at her in wonder, she’d kneel in front of one of their sacred Banyan trees, close her eyes, and lift her hand in a solemn vow never to return to the tavern again.

God won’t like it, some inner voice warned. The Almighty didn’t approve of his children kneeling to pagan totems. But the God she had loved as a child had done nothing for her in recent years except take her father and blight her hopes. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care if she ran away.

She lifted her skirt for an instant, tempted to forsake all modesty in exchange for the touch of fresh air upon her bare legs. But no lady exposed her feet in public, not even the brassy barmaids of the Broad Street Tavern.

A handsome coach-and-four pulled out of the traffic on Market Street and turned onto Broad, the horses’ hooves clacking merrily upon the cobblestones as the coach moved toward her. Aidan paused, spellbound by the unusual sight. These were people of quality, that much was obvious from the uniformed driver who held the reins. So what were they doing on Broad Street?

The coach gleamed bright in the morning sun, and through the open windows Aidan could see three men and a young woman. The woman wore the contented, slightly superior look of a wealthy lady. Her gaze caught Aidan’s as the carriage passed, and the superior look intensified as a small, smug smile quirked the corners of her mouth.

“Aidan—Lili’s calling for you.”

Orabel’s familiar voice cut into Aidan’s thoughts, and she looked toward her friend. “I’ll be in soon, Orabel. Tell Lili I need a moment alone.”

“You’re an odd one, Aidan.” Orabel sank to Aidan’s side on the stone bench, then leaned forward to stare at the departing coach. “My goodness, did you see that woman’s gown? Yellow satin! So pretty! I’ve always wanted a yellow dress. It’s such a happy color, don’t you think? The color of the sun, of morning, of flowers—”

“She didn’t look like a happy woman,” Aidan answered. Her gaze drifted down the road again. The carriage had moved away; only the bright brim of the woman’s feathered hat was still visible. “I think red would be a better color for that one. Or maybe purple. She seemed a little high and mighty.”

“Of course she did,” Orabel answered, straightening. “Don’t you know whose carriage that is?”

Aidan shook her head. “I can’t say that I care.”

“You should!” Orabel lifted her hand in a regal gesture and pointed toward the departing coach. “The gentleman who just passed was Schuyler Van Dyck, the cartographer. He’s quite famous, you know, for his maps. The seamen all talk about him. They say he’s employed by the Dutch East India Company.”

“Who isn’t?” Aidan looked at her hands, idly musing that all of Batavia might be said to be in the employ of the Verenigde Oost Indische Compagnie, more commonly referred to as the V.O.C. Even she and Orabel spent their lives serving whiskey and ale to seamen who sailed on the company’s ships. Without the V.O.C. there would be no Batavia, no spice industry, no reason for the natives to resent the Europeans who had flooded this lovely island and defiled a natural paradise.

“He’s an
artist.”
Orabel emphasized the word. “Like you, Aidan. You ought to stop him one day and offer to draw for him.”

“Of course.” A cynical smile tugged at Aidan’s lips. “And he will be so astounded at my talent he will be forced to take me
under his wing and teach me all he knows. He’ll write the crowned heads of Europe to alert them to his grand discovery. And then I shall be famous! King Charles of England, or perhaps Louis of France, will invite me to become artist-in-residence at one of their grand palaces. And then I will send for you, dear Orabel, and together we shall sit in a gilded room and eat four meals a day, all the sweet cakes and pudding we like. We’ll have clean slippers for our feet and all the yellow dresses we could ever wish for, of silk brighter than the sun!”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.” Orabel glared at her with burning, reproachful eyes. “I only thought you should meet him. You are a very good artist, Aidan. I only wanted to make you feel better.”

“What is there to feel better about?” Aidan clasped her hands together and stared at them. “I’ll never be an artist, Orabel, any more than you will be the governor’s wife.”

“I might be the governor’s wife.” Orabel spoke lightly, but pain flickered in her eyes and her voice trembled as she continued. “You never know what could happen in a day, Aidan. Things have to get better than this. If I thought this was the best we’ll ever know—well, I couldn’t bear it.”

Stricken with sudden guilt, Aidan slipped an arm around Orabel’s slender shoulders. “Of course things will be better. You’re going to meet someone one day. Some nice man in the tavern will take a fancy to you and ask you to marry him.”

“Just like Lili says,” Orabel murmured, her hands rising to her cheeks.

“Just like Lili says,” Aidan answered, stroking her friend’s pale blond hair. Orabel was young, probably no older than sixteen, and more fragile than most of the others. Hope was all she had, and Aidan had been thoughtless to disparage her dreams.

“You see?” Orabel pulled away and looked at Aidan with suddenly bright eyes. “If I can find a husband, you can be an artist, just like you’ve always wanted to be. You could find this Heer Van
Dyck and draw a picture for him.” A coaxing tone crept into her voice. “He will like it, I know he will.”

Aidan opened her mouth to respond, then cringed as Lili’s sharp voice cut through the muddled sounds of the morning. “Annie! Sweet Kate!” she called, using the girls’ working nicknames. “What are you doing out here when there’s work to be done inside?”

“Coming, Lili,” Orabel sighed. She caught Aidan’s eye and grinned as she stood up. “If we’re going to catch rich husbands, I guess we’d better go back inside where the men are.”

“I’m right behind you.” Aidan stood to follow Orabel, then paused for a moment. She was no more likely to arouse Schuyler Van Dyck’s interest than Orabel was to catch a decent husband in the tavern. But if Orabel wouldn’t give up, why couldn’t Aidan at least try to meet Heer Van Dyck?

The thought was so absurd that she laughed aloud.

Struggling to conceal her anger, Lili swallowed hard as Orabel and Aidan sashayed back into the tavern and moved toward the bar. Bram thrust a tray of pewter mugs toward each of them and gestured at a group of rowdy seamen who sat in the far corner.

Lili pressed her hands against her apron and bit her lip, glad that this time, at least, the girls were of a mind to obey. Orabel had never been much trouble—the girl had a pliant spirit and a gentle one, as easily bendable as a young twig. But Aidan was twenty, well past youth, and as stubborn as a stuck door. She was more than old enough to be married, but she turned her pert little nose up at every lad Lili pushed her way.

“Honey, can I come see you later?” A slobbering sailor leered up at Lili and reached out to tug on her sleeve.

“Not today, laddie,” Lili answered, smiling without humor. “I’ve got me hands full here, can’t you see? But perhaps I can get one of the other lasses to bring you a drink. No sense in dyin’ of thirst in a strange port, is there?”

The sodden fool nodded his head, blindly agreeing, and Lili gave him her brightest smile. “What’s your pleasure, sir? Would you like to drink with the blond, or perhaps the redhead?”

His red-rimmed gaze cast about the room, and a smile ruffled his mouth as he focused on Aidan’s flaming hair. “Faith, she’d do,” he answered, his head wavering as he tried to follow her slender form moving through the room. “She’d do for later, too, if you can get her for me.”

“Och, no sir!” Lili shivered in pretended horror. “Sure, don’t I know she’s a fair lass, but I wouldn’t wish her on me own worst enemy. She’s cursed, that one, and bad luck to any man who as much as touches her.”

“Truly?” The sailor’s eyes bulged in fear, and Lili felt a small fierce surge of satisfaction.

“Truly.” She leaned forward, placing a hand upon the sailor’s arm. “See that white streak of hair over her left ear?” She waited until the breathless sailor nodded, then went on in a broken whisper: “That’s the sign. The white springs from her heart, only a few inches below her ear, don’t you see? Any man who touches her will feel the white-cold hand of death upon him before morning dawns unless he’s been properly married to her first.”

“Blimey!” The sailor’s voice faded into fearful silence.

Lili straightened. “I’ll have her bring you a drink, sir, and you’ll enjoy her company. But mind that you heed me warning. A terrible fate awaits the man who is overly familiar with our Irish Annie.”

Leaving the man to ponder the dangers that awaited a roving hand, Lili snapped her fingers in Aidan’s direction. The coppery head turned, and Aidan’s eyes held Lili’s for a moment before Lili gestured toward the man seated next to her.

A swift shadow of annoyance flitted across Aidan’s face, then she resolutely tucked her empty tray under her arm and painted on a wide smile. “Come talk to this one, Annie, me girl.” Lili forced a light note into her voice as her daughter approached. “Just in port from Ireland, he is. ’Twill do you good to hear a
bit of the brogue. Bring him a fresh pint, lass, and let the man talk.”