by Toombs, Jane
"Why weren't you invited there to dinner?" she asked bluntly.
"I be bad boy."
She laughed in delight at his simplified English.
"I like to see you," he said urgently. "Many times."
"I live with my cousins—" she began.
"Nee. No. They hear I be bad boy. Not like to see me."
"They wouldn't let you call on me, is that it?"
"Ja. Yes."
He turned his head. Light from the windows caught his face. A handsome young man—and one with some mysterious past. Romell raised her chin. "If you call on me, I will see you."
He smiled at her, touched his broad-brimmed hat with his finger and slipped back into the shadows.
As Romell slowly retraced her steps toward the house, she saw Cornelia coming toward her.
"I have to lock the door in the back wall," the girl said. "I left it open for Pieter." She sighed. "Isn't he handsome? I think he is wonderful!"
"He's different from any man I've met so far in Amsterdam," Romell admitted. "Why does he say he's a bad boy?"
Cornelia waved her hand. "They're old—they want everything to be like it has always been. They can't understand Pieter because he thinks differently."
"Is that all?"
"Pieter chooses companions my parents and his believe are not God-fearing." Cornelia sighed again. "I hope to see him in his uniform. He'll be the handsomest cadet in the army."
In her mind, Romell reviewed the conversation at the dinner table. "Does Pieter wish to leave Amsterdam for Batavia?" she asked.
"He has to go. His father will make him. Because of the trouble, his family want him to get away from Holland."
"What trouble was Pieter in?"
Cornelia's answer was so vague that Romell finally decided the girl didn't really know.
"Are you going to see him again?" Cornelia whispered as they went back into the house.
"I think so, yes."
Cornelia’s dark eyes turned toward her, and Romell saw the envy in her look. The girl must believe herself to be in love with Pieter, Romell decided.
A week later, Pieter Brouwer came to the Roosevelt house. Romell, who'd paid close attention every time someone knocked at the door, hurried into the hall before the maid could summon Greta.
"I will see to him, thank you, Alsie," Romell said.
For a wonder, the sun was shining. Romell smiled at Pieter. "Shall we walk to the canal?" she asked. The only possible way to avoid Greta was to get out of the house.
He bowed and offered his arm. As they walked away from the house, Romell glanced at him. His blonde handsomeness was set off by his dark blue breeches and shirt.
"You are pretty," he told her in his accented English. "Very pretty."
"Dank U." Do I speak Dutch with as much of an accent? she wondered.
His eyes were like the North Sea, she decided, grey and cool, with a threat of storm. She preferred blue eyes, a bright dancing blue like her father's. Like Adrien's.
No, she wouldn't think of Adrien.
A boat drifted by on the tree-lined canal. Pieter pointed to it. "You like?" he asked.
"Ja," she told him.
"When I come next, a boat."
"You can speak Dutch," she told him. "If I don't understand, I'll say so."
He immediately overwhelmed her with a rush of Dutch words, and she held up her hand. "Slowly," she begged.
"You are so very lovely. I cannot yet believe you consent to walk with me. I've watched you with your cousins—the old ladies—but you've never looked my way. They won't like your being with me today."
"Why is it you're in trouble with everyone?"
His expression took on a look she was coming to associate with the Dutch, a look of stubborn mulishness. "I became friends with men not approved of by the church."
"Why were these men not approved of?"
"They teach the philosophy of Torrentius."
"I've never heard of him."
"Torrentius van der Breeks was driven from the country because of his beliefs," Pieter said. "He taught that nothing is bad because everything comes from God and He is Goodness. I, too, believe this."
Romell was silent a moment. Nothing is bad? But evil did exist in the world—look what had happened to her uncle! Still, whether she agreed with his philosophy or not had nothing to do with liking Pieter. She found him interesting, so would see him again.
Cousin Greta was furious when Romell got home. "You must not be seen with Pieter Brouwer," she said. "You cannot possibly marry him, and it will ruin your reputation if you associate with him."
"I don't want to marry anyone at the moment. I don't see why I can't be friendly with Pieter." Cousin Greta pursed her lips. How old she looks, Romell thought. Old and wrinkled like a prune that's turned grey. In the background, Cousin Halva stood wringing her hands. She was not yet as grey as her sister, but she was fast drying up too. Romell shifted impatiently.
"Young Brouwer is a dangerous man. I suspect him of working with the devil," Cousin Greta said.
Romell stared at her in surprise.
"He mouths the words of that devil's advocate, Torrentius of Haarlem. He practices—God alone knows what—unspeakable rites."
"You have proof of this?" Romell asked.
"Anyone who'd associate with the followers of that evil man could only have a warped soul. Thank God his father is sending him out of Amsterdam. Honest and respectable folk will not tolerate such happenings."
"What happenings?"
"You are too young to be told."
They've taken me in, Romell reminded herself. Though they're not well-to-do, they've bought clothes for me and fed me. I must seem ungrateful, although I'm not. But I can't stand being forced into a mold I don't fit.
"I shall see Pieter Brouwer if I choose to," Romell said quietly but firmly. After all, she was half Dutch and could be stubborn too. Pieter was neither a murderer nor a thief. He only believed differently. Why should she turn away from him because others condemned his view of God?
Besides, he was the first man she'd met in Amsterdam who was at all interesting.
Romell defied Greta and went boating with Pieter. He piloted the small sailing craft along the canals, passing from the farmland near her cousins' house to the rush of the city where he lowered the mast so they might pass under one humpbacked bridge after another. Street vendors called their wares and men and horses pulled carts along the brick pavement.
On impulse, Romell said to him, "Could we go to Bree Straat? I'd like to visit someone there." She'd often thought of Francesca, but Greta always had a reason not to make a visit to the Bonus house.
Pieter readily agreed, saying to her, "Soon we will have to change the name to Jodenbree Straat, for, in truth, it's become the Jewish part of the city."
Pieter soon moored the boat, and they walked a short ways to Bree Straat. Francesca embraced Romell and called her sisters who hurried into the sitting room to hug Romell and chatter. Romell smiled and nodded, not understanding the words but warmed by the welcome. When she had a chance, she introduced Pieter.
Francesca stood back to observe him, nodding her head in greeting as Pieter bowed.
"Adrien?" Francesca said to Romell.
With a tiny shrug, Romell shook her head. She neither knew nor cared what had become of Adrien.
When they were in the boat again, Pieter said to Romell, "They didn't like me you know."
She turned to him in surprise. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I don't speak their language," he told her, "but I knew. The moment you told Mevrouw Bonus my name I saw she recognized it and all but turned her back on me."
"Oh, Pieter, I'm certain you exaggerate."
His face took on its sullen, stubborn expression, and Romell looked away from him toward the city. In the distance she saw the tall tower of Westerkerk—West Church. Three towers, really, she thought, one atop the other, diminishing in size as they strained toward heaven.
Acr
oss the street from the canal they sailed along stood a row of grachtenhuizen—canalside houses—wider and more elegant than any Romell had seen so far. She commented on this, hoping to divert Pieter's mind from himself.
He looked up when she spoke, then stared between the linden trees lining the canal at the elegant facades of the tall houses, their ornamental gables shaped like bells or in steps to follow the roof outline. All the gables had the inevitable hoist on a beam over the attic window for lifting goods into the third-floor storage area.
"Two of the Seventeen Gentlemen of the VOC live on this street," Pieter said, pointing. "There and there. They have more money than most burghers and can pay to be allowed the extra width for another window or two."
"I understand your words, but I don't know the men you speak of or what VOC means," she told him.
"VOC stands for de Vereenighde Oost Indische Compagnie, the Dutch East Indies Company. I know you've heard of that! The Seventeen Gentlemen are the directors of the company. Eight live in Amsterdam. These two live very well, as you can see. The VOC won't be as profitable for me, you can be sure of that." Pieter's tone was bitter.
"I thought, well, aren't you to be a soldier? An officer?"
"A cadet officer. But generals, too, march to the Company's tune in Batavia. After all, the VOC has the power to build fortresses and to wage wars without even consulting the stadholder."
"You talk as if you don't want to go to Java."
Pieter shrugged, "I haven’t a choice, it seems." He stared at her a long moment, then smiled ruefully. "Forgive me for boring you. What a fool I am to parade my problems when I’m with the loveliest woman in all Amsterdam. I wish--" He broke off.
Romell smiled encouragingly. "What do you wish?"
"I wish we might sail on up the canal. Sail until we were magically transported to a land where men and women live as God intended them to. There you and I might be happy with one another."
Chapter 5
After she’d left Pieter that day, Romell thought she wouldn't accept another invitation from him, for she found her original liking for him lessening. She said nothing of this to her cousins, and Greta kept scolding her.
"You must listen, Romell, for the most precious belonging of a young woman is her reputation."
Gradually, Greta's admonitions about the proper behavior for an Amsterdam mejuffrouw shifted Romell's stance.
Pieter was certainly not evil, not dangerous, not at all the kind of person Greta saw him as, and Romell felt obligated to defend him. When, a week later, he called on her again, she decided to accept his offer of a picnic in a nearby meadow—if only to prove to Cousin Greta that Pieter was harmless.
As they walked into the countryside along a canal, Romell tried to be agreeable. "I've never seen so many windmills as I have since I've been in Holland," she said. "There are a few mills along the Thames, in London, but not so graceful-looking as these."
"They are for a purpose. They're workers. If the windmills didn't pump all the days and nights, our country would be flooded."
"Yes, Cousin Greta explained how the mills pump water out of the polders, the lands reclaimed from the sea. But I like to just look at them. See? They look like women. There's the skirt--even the ruff ladies used to wear around their necks."
Pieter smiled at her. "The millers call their windmills ‘he'—so much for your ladies. We have had them here for over four hundred and fifty years. They say the crusaders brought them home from Arab lands."
"Oh, look!" Romell cried. "There's a stork."
Pieter shrugged. "Storks are all over."
"We don't have them in Virginia. They're new to me. I couldn't believe it when I saw my first stork's nest atop a chimney pot. They're such ungainly birds except when they fly, then a stork is beautiful."
He put an arm around her shoulders. "You are beautiful at all times, Romell."
She slipped gently from his grasp, not wishing to hurt him, but not wanting to encourage him either. Why she didn't like him as much as she had at first, she wasn't certain. He was very handsome and obviously interested in her. Still, she sensed something strange about Pieter, something she wasn't able to put words to.
When they came to a small stand of elms, he halted and took a white cloth from the leather bundle he carried on his back. Spreading the cloth carefully on the ground, he looked so much like a housewife putting on a tablecloth before the meal that Romell smiled.
He glanced up and saw her, dropped the tablecloth and strode to her, taking her in his arms before she knew what he intended.
"Nee," she said, "No, Pieter, let me go."
"But you smiled, you invited my kiss." he said, reluctantly taking his arms away.
"A smile is only friendly. Good heavens, would you have me frown at you all the time? Unless you can promise me this won't happen again, I don't know if I care to stay."
His face took on that mulish look. "I’ll behave," he muttered.
When the pickled herring and the eggs and ham were spread out on the cloth, along with the buns and cakes, Romell seated herself across from Pieter.
"So much food! I shall get quite fat."
He filled two cups with some beverage and handed her one. When she took a drink she coughed and sputtered. Hastily, she set the cup down.
"What is that?" she demanded when she could speak.
"Have you never had geneva—gin?"
Romell shook her head. "No, and I don't care for it now. Is there aught else to drink?"
There was not and so she drank nothing. But Pieter swallowed enough gin for them both. She eyed him uneasily, and when he fixed her with an intent look, she hastily took up a cake she really didn't want.
He laughed. "I can wait."
She put down the cake. "It's time to go," she said, starting to rise.
Pieter lunged across the cloth at her, scattering food every which way. He pulled her to him, her head in his lap, and put his mouth to hers. His hands found her breasts, kneading them through the silk of her dress.
His mouth tasted of gin, she felt suffocated and his hands on her body angered her. She twisted and struggled to get away, but his grip was strong. Finally she lashed her head back and then brought it forward, crashing her temple against Pieter’s nose.
He howled and drew back. Romell rolled away, got to her feet and ran out to the road along the canal. Without looking around, she headed for the city. How dare Pieter put his hands on her!
A few minutes later he caught up with her, "I lost my head," he admitted.
Romell didn’t reply.
"You drive me mad," he told her. "Why must you withhold yourself? Making love is not wrong, not bad. God intended men and women to enjoy one another."
"I wasn’t enjoying it."
"But if you let me, I could make you like it. Oh. Romell…"
"Under the circumstances, I don’t care to see you again."
"You’re turning against me like all the rest."
"If you tried to force others, it’s no wonder they turned against you."
"I didn’t mean women—women usually like me. I meant the others, the ones who won’t speak to me because of my beliefs. I thought you were different, more understanding."
Romell glanced at him and saw he was dabbing at his bleeding nose with a handkerchief. Serves him right, she thought.
"What was I to think when you came into the country with me?" He asked. "Women don’t behave like that unless they intend to be more friendly."
"You might have asked what I intended instead of leaping at me. It would have saved both of us trouble. I certainly didn't mean yes. This has all been a mistake, Pieter. I thought we could be friends. I was wrong, just as you were wrong. We'll leave it at that and not meet again."
"Just as well I'm sailing in a month," he muttered.
"I wish you good luck in Batavia."
They walked in silence until she reached the Roosevelt house. "Goodbye, Pieter," she said.
"Wait."
; She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.
"May I call once more before I leave, to say a last farewell? I'll be happy to meet with you here at the house—if your cousins will allow me to."
Romell wavered. Perhaps she had been partly to blame today, been too forward so that Pieter had honestly misunderstood. She didn't seem to be able to behave in accordance with Holland's customs any better than England's. In any case, it could do no harm to let him say his final goodbye in the safety of the Roosevelt house.
"Very well. I'll see you here one more time."
He tried to smile, looking most uncomfortable with his nose red and swollen. Romell nodded at him and turned away. Why do I get into such situations? she asked herself. Is it something I do? Are all men the same?
But she knew, already, that they were not, for she'd felt quite differently in Adrien Montgomery's arms. I shan't think about him, she told herself firmly.
"I hope you learned a lesson," Greta said to her the next day, after hearing an edited account of the picnic. "Maybe now you will listen to what I have to say."
"I always listen to what you tell me."
"Listen, yes. Act on it, no, you do not. However, perhaps you've been taught by this. Think back. Do you recall meeting Pieter's father at a dinner?"
"Yes, I remember meeting Mijnheer Brouwer," Romell said.
"And so you might also recall that I asked him his opinion of Batavia?"
Romell nodded.
"I do nothing without purpose. I had heard of a certain Mijnheer van der Pol through a minister recently returned from Java."
Romell waited. Greta always circled a subject cautiously before attacking it.
"Hendrik is his name. Hendrik van der Pol. He is distantly related to us, even more distantly related to you. A fine man—strong, healthy, and good-looking besides. Now he is also wealthy."
She wants me to meet someone new, Romell thought, and sighed.
"He lives in a fine new home in Batavia and has many native servants."
At least the wonderful Mijnheer wasn't going to be introduced to her tomorrow night, Romell told herself. What did Greta have in mind?