The Golden Cross (21 page)

“You have taught me so much,” she murmured. Sinking onto her stool, she rested her hand under her chin and studied the painting on the easel. It was so much better than anything she had ever dreamed she could create. She owed everything to the gentleman beside her. Perhaps he was right. In time, she might become the great artist he dreamed of and the great lady she wanted to be.

But though Heer Van Dyck had taught her many things, she knew she still had much to learn. Always, he smiled at her work and complimented her by saying that she held “great promise,” but what did he mean? What sort of promise did he see in her? The promise of greatness? Of excellence?

And how would she know when she had fulfilled his expectations?

“Alas, there is something else I must teach you,” he answered, shifting his cane from one hand to the other. His bearded cheeks fell in worried folds over his collar. “Come with me to the barn. If you’re to sail with me as a young man, you must know what every young man should know.”

Curiosity reared its head as she stood and followed her mentor. “What every young man should know?”

“Ja.”
A wide grin split Van Dyck’s face as he opened the garden gate and waited for her to precede him. “’Twill be my pleasure to teach you.”

The wide doors of the barn yawned open, and Aidan was pleased to see that the stable boy and groom were nowhere in sight. Van Dyck’s horses, a quartet of handsome sorrel geldings, stood in their stalls, munching contentedly on their oats. With his distinctive lumbering gait, Van Dyck moved to the center of the barn where a thick layer of hay lay upon the floor.

“If you are to be a boy—a young man, really,” he said, propping both hands on his cane, “there are some things you should know.” His lids came swiftly down over his eyes. “Men are not like girls, Joffer O’Connor.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” Aidan answered dryly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the open barn door, “but I’ve noticed.”

The color in Van Dyck’s cheeks deepened, and he gave her a quick smile before looking down at his hands again. “No, there are subtle differences. And though I have not spent too much time
aboard ship, I did notice a few things on my voyage to Batavia.” He rubbed a hand over his face as if to assist his thoughts. “For one thing, men are quick—women take far more time. You must be quick if you are to pass as a boy.”

“Quick—about what?” Aidan frowned, not understanding.

“In the head,” he answered, blushing furiously. “When you go to relieve yourself. On a ship filled with men only, many will doubtless relieve themselves standing up, perhaps off the bow itself, so you may occasionally have to resort to a bit of pantomime. But when you do find it necessary to visit the head, make sure you are quick about it.”

Aidan bit her tongue in an effort to keep from laughing aloud. Without doubt, if women took longer than men in that very private function, it had more to do with the voluminous skirts they wore than any biological difference. But if Heer Van Dyck wanted to believe that dawdling over a chamber pot was a particular feminine quality, then so be it.

“Thank you, sir, I will remember,” she said simply, lifting her face to look at him. “What other advice have you?”

“Women,” he said, moving to a low stool just inside the doorway, “are always touching one another. Gusta is quick to embrace Rozamond, and even as a child, Rozamond was always patting Henrick, much like a beloved pet.” He looked toward the horizon for a moment, and his eyes softened. “My wife was fond of patting my arm or my shoulder. In any case, I’ve noticed that women are more tactile—and so you must be careful not to pat a man, or pull a friend into your embrace. Such a move might reveal more than you want others to know.”

Aida nodded, mentally filing this recommendation away. It was an astute observation, and something she’d not thought of. And he was right—the women down at the Broad Street Tavern were a very tactile bunch, and if she wasn’t careful she might find herself tugging on some sailor’s arm just from the force of habit.

“Another thing,” Schuyler added, apparently gaining courage
with each suggestion. “Women always want to know how someone
feels
. Men don’t care about feelings, they care much more about another man’s
actions
. Men want to
do
exploits, not
feel
emotions. If something happens aboard ship, remember—no one will want to talk about his feelings. Men don’t like to talk as much as women, in any case. They would rather take action than discuss a matter.”

That
revelation was certainly no surprise. “I’ll remember,” Aidan promised.

“One more thing,” Schuyler said.

Aidan sighed. Thus far she had promised not to touch, talk, or take too long in the privy—what else could he possibly have in mind? “Yes sir?”

“A man must know how to defend himself. There is a sort of pecking order aboard ship—and since you’ve not sailed before, you’ll be at the bottom, though I will ask Captain Tasman that you be allowed to serve me. As I said, young men do not debate matters of dispute, they usually take action. And as part of establishing that pecking order, I’m afraid some of the others may want to take a punch at you—”

“A punch?” Aidan burst out, shocked. She straightened and lifted her chin. “Whatever for? I’ve never hit anyone in my life!”

“Women don’t generally fight.” Van Dyck rubbed his bearded chin. “Though I’ve heard that some of those poor souls down at the workhouse get into it now and again. But you most certainly will have to prove yourself. And though it will be over quickly, the important thing is that you do not run away. Stand there like a man, take the punch or two that’s thrown, and throw one back if you can. I thought I could show you a thing or two, that’s why I brought you out to the barn. The hay is soft; it will cushion your fall.”

As Aidan watched in amazement, Van Dyck dropped his cane and lifted his fists, holding them in front of his face like a back-alley brawler. When she did not move, he jerked his head abruptly and shook his fists at her. “Come now, dear, I won’t hurt you. But
this is important. Please consider it just another lesson.” He circled slowly in the barn, raring to go. “Please. Come.”

The artist Van Dyck was an ever-changing mystery. Shaking her head, Aidan slowly left the wall and moved to the open space before her master.

“Bend your knees a little,” he said, frowning at her skirt. He bobbed his head in satisfaction when she bent her knees and the material creased. “That’s good. Now—drat those skirts, I can’t see a thing—spread your feet apart enough that you have a wide base. Think of yourself as a statue, a solid sculpture. You must have a good base upon which to balance yourself.”

“All right.” Aidan spread her feet shoulder-width apart, then moved in tiny, shifting steps, mirroring her master.

“That’s good.” His voice rang with approval as she bobbed and shuffled in the hay. “Of course it will be easier when you’re wearing trousers. You’ll feel as light as a bird then, and you’ll likely be quicker than any sailor. The heavy ones tend to be slow and clumsy—remember that.” With a distracted nod, he returned her smile. “Now. Put your hands up like mine.”

Laughing, she did as he ordered, mimicking his positions exactly, even as he moved over the straw in a hopping motion. She’d seen lots of fights in the bar between drunks, but those sloshing fools did little but smash each other over the head with chairs and clubs. This light footwork was quick and lively, almost like a dance. This she could learn to enjoy!

“Drat these skirts!” she mumbled. “You’ll forgive me, sir, if I can’t keep up with you—”

“Don’t mind your feet now, look at my hands,” he instructed. “Use your feet to sidestep your opponent, to keep him off his guard. But when you intend to land a blow, plant your feet firmly on the floor and keep your eyes locked upon your opponent’s. Anything is legal, my dear—stomping kicks to the feet, a straight punch to the nose—the bigger the nose, the better the target—and, if you’re really in danger, remember to poke a finger in your
foe’s eye. But to quickly rid yourself of a noisome pest—” He paused and lowered his voice to a secretive whisper. “Nothing defeats a swift kick to the groin.”

Aidan stopped suddenly, resisting the urge to throw her head back in a great peal of laughter. He had just told her what every tavern maid knew by instinct.

“All right now, no time for dallying.” Van Dyck lifted his fists again. “Use one hand to punch, keep the other high to protect your lovely little face. There—that’s good. Now let’s pretend. I’ll take a jab at you, slowly, and you bring your arm up to block it. There—no, too slow. Try again. You see, I’m coming in with my right hand, so you must lift your left arm to block me.”

Biting her lip, Aidan whirled slowly and played along. After a moment or two she discovered that she had a gift for this sort of thing. “You know, sir,” she called, dodging his blow with her arm, then playfully tapping the end of his nose with her fist, “I think I’ve got it!”

“Right,” he answered, tossing another blow and checking it just as it landed short of her ear. “You’ll have no problem if you face a sixty-two-year-old tormentor who fights in slow motion.”

He ducked suddenly as her arm came from out of nowhere, but his reflexes were not what they had been in younger days. Her fist struck his cheek, and her squeal of dismay filled the air as the blow sent him reeling in the straw.

S
terling walked slowly over the cobblestones, his thoughts wrapped around the difficult situation into which he had blundered. He hadn’t meant to propose to Lina Tasman; in retrospect he seemed to recall that the idea had been suggested, approved, and voted on before he could even voice his opinion of it. Abel Tasman, of course, had been the one to broach the topic of a union between his daughter and his new surgeon, and Jannetje Tasman, to Sterling’s complete surprise, had enthusiastically endorsed the idea. She and Lina would plan the wedding while the men were at sea, the lady said, and as soon as the
Heemskerk
returned, Lina and Sterling would be married and establish a household in Batavia.

Tasman’s suggestion had swiftly progressed from idea to confirmed betrothal, but Sterling had not objected. Lina Tasman was not a great beauty, but she was certainly quiet and pleasant. She did not speak unless spoken to, and her answers were well-formulated and voiced in a pleasant tone. She was slender, with brown hair that sparkled in the lamplight and large brown eyes like a doe’s. She would undoubtedly bear him many children with eyes as dark as hers, and they would have a pleasant life as Doctor and Mistress Thorne in Batavia.

The marriage certainly seemed to answer his current problems. With Tasman’s sponsorship and his new bride’s dowry, he would have the means to establish a practice in Batavia, Dr. Carstens be hanged. Within a year he’d be able to send for one of
his brothers—whichever one had managed to elude the matrimonial plotting of Ernestina Martin. His grand plans, doomed to failure only a few days ago, vibrated now with new life and hope.

The cost? Several months of his life on a voyage and marriage to this shy girl. At least Lina Tasman was not the simpering fool that Ernestina Martin had been; he was certain he could endure and perhaps even enjoy marriage to the captain’s daughter. Of all the girls in Batavia he could consider for a wife, surely there were dozens less pleasing than Miss Tasman.

And he would enter this marriage with his eyes open. Immediately after dismissing his wife and daughter after dinner on the night of their first meeting, Abel Tasman had made it clear why he wanted Sterling for a son-in-law. “You may think it strange that I should offer you my daughter’s hand on such short notice,” he said, swirling his goblet as he regarded Sterling over the dining table. “After all, though Witt Dekker spoke well of you, I scarcely know you. But I know you are no simpleton; you are too well-spoken. You are obviously ambitious, else you would not have journeyed across the ocean to establish a place in this colony.”

“The question did occur to me,” Sterling answered, running his hands over the fine damask tablecloth. “You should know, sir, that I am not a man of great means. I have come here to make my fortune, not to transport it.”