by Toombs, Jane
"Such a good girl," Margitte told her, putting the mug down. "I'll be back later with food. You must eat all you can before we arrive in Batavia, so you won't be ashamed to be seen in public."
Margitte slipped out of the cabin before Romell could ask about Adrien. With great effort she pulled aside the covers to take stock of herself. Under the too large nightgown she was thin, yes, but not so skeletal as she'd feared from Margitte's words. In fact, she was a good deal plumper than any Southland native women she'd seen. Still, compared to Margitte…
Fighting sleep, she drew her feet up to examine them. Scabs and sores crisscrossed the soles of her feet; walking would be painful once she was strong enough to try.
I want to see Adrien, she thought. I must see him. But drowsiness overwhelmed her.
When she woke, the Javanese woman, Tima, was bending over her.
"Nonee," Tima said in a soft pleasant voice. "Nonee."
Romell realized that this was what had roused her.
Tima offered her a bowl of food, helping Romell to sit up to swallow. Romell ate the rice and fish mixture without relish, not feeling hungry. Instead, she felt logy and heavy-headed.
After she'd eaten and Tima had given her water, Romell pushed herself upright with her legs dangling over the edge of the bunk.
Tima murmured in protest, but Romell went no further, thinking that if she tried to stand she would crumple to the floor. She eased back under the covers but remained sitting. She gazed at Tima, who smiled shyly and bowed her head.
The Javanese woman wore a patterned garment that covered her breasts but left her shoulders bare. The cloth was draped and tucked about her small form in a pleasing style, falling almost to her ankles. She had a pointed face, even features, and large brown eyes. Quite pretty, Romell thought.
But it soon developed that Tima spoke almost no Dutch and understood very little more than what she spoke.
Romell slept, waking to find Margitte with her again.
"I'd like to get out of the cabin for awhile," Romell told her. "If both you and Tima help me, I could--"
"No, it's not a good idea," Margitte said quickly.
"I want to." Romell raised her chin stubbornly.
"You have everything you need in your cabin, and you're not strong enough to be up."
"If you won't help me, I'll crawl."
Margitte frowned. "You're a most ungrateful girl. I've taken the time to nurse you back to health and now you—"
"You told me Tima did all the nursing."
"Well, naturally, but I've had to direct her. And after all, Tima is my maid—just as the ship was chartered by me."
"By you? But I thought Adrien—" Romell stopped, Wishing she hadn't mentioned Adrien's name.
"Adrien helped arrange the details, but it was my money that brought the ship to rescue you from those dreadful cannibals."
Romell stared at Margitte, not doubting her. Adrien had no money to hire a ship, or pay a crew.
"Why?" she said at last. "You don't even like me."
Margitte shrugged. "I don't dislike you, you misunderstand me. But you're quite correct in believing I wouldn't spend poor Dirk's hard-earned guilders to rescue you. No, I did it as a wedding present for Adrien. He's so softhearted."
A wedding present? What was Margitte talking about? Romell's pulse speeded at the thought of marrying Adrien. Instantly, she dismissed the idea. Margitte meant something else.
"I didn't want to tell you until you were stronger, for I know how fond you are of Adrien. He and I will be married as soon as my mourning period is over. Since poor Dirk actually died some ten months ago, I've set the date for August, just a bit over a month from now." Margitte smiled at her.
"Adrien hasn't wanted to look in on you in case you--well, misunderstood how he feels. He's concerned about you, but I'm the one he loves."
Romell fought hard to hold back tears. She wouldn't let Margitte see her cry—she wouldn't cry over Adrien, in any case.
Margitte patted Romell's hand. "I do have to confess I didn't put up all the money for your rescue." She spoke almost coyly. "A certain Mijnheer van der Pol shared the cost. He's terribly anxious about your welfare. I took the liberty of describing you to him and telling him how excited you were about meeting him."
Margitte's words seemed to surround Romell like a soft and sticky web from which she could not escape. Margitte and Adrien. Romell and Hendrik van der Pol.
I've never seen him, she thought, suddenly panic-stricken. I can't marry this man.
"He's quite a catch," Margitte went on. "Very good-looking, a giant of a man. Forceful but charming. You're a most fortunate girl, Romell."
Romell said nothing, letting Margitte give her more of the liquid in the mug even though she suspected it was a drug to make her sleep. Sleep was her only escape.
Still, the next time she woke, Romell made Tima help her stand and, despite the pain in her feet, staggered about the cabin for a few moments until weakness drove her back to the bunk.
When Margitte next visited, Romell was sitting up in bed.
"I'd like some clothes," she said.
"When we land," Margitte told her.
"I see."
"Do you? I'm trying my best to protect you from the stares and speculations of the riffraff crew we have aboard. Naturally they believe the savages abused you in every way, even to taking you against your will. I fear you'd be subjected to undesirable attention if you stepped out on deck."
"I wasn't molested in the way you mean," Romell protested. "The Southland natives didn't feed me well, but that's their custom. I had to work hard and go naked as their women did. But I ran away before—before anything else happened."
"I don't doubt your word, dear, but you know how men are, always suspecting the worst. Even hoping for the worst. Every man aboard this ship knows what he'd do with a helpless woman, so you'd never convince a one of them with your story. Even Adrien—" She broke off.
Adrien would believe me! Romell told herself fiercely. Then she sighed. What difference did it make what Adrien thought? He loved Margitte, not her. Hadn't he run past her on the castaway island to go to Margitte first?
"I suppose you're doing your best to help me," Romell said dully. "I must sound ungrateful indeed."
"After such an ordeal, your conduct can be excused. I'm amazed you survived. Pieter evidently didn't."
"I think the natives killed him." Romell found she couldn't go into detail; the idea of Pieter being burned was so horrifying that she closed her eyes.
"Please don't tell me any more," Margitte said hurriedly. 'They hanged Jan Hardens, you know, then strung him in chains on the Castle wall. He's still there, you can see him if you've a mind to. And Loulie's in prison." Her mouth twisted. "I hope they hang her too."
Romell opened her eyes. What had happened on the island where the Zuiderwind went aground seemed far away, remote, as though it had happened to someone else.
"How did Adrien know where to find me?" she asked; for it was Adrien who had found her, no matter whom he loved or who had paid for the finding.
"Something to do with the wind and the currents. He was pouring over charts with the captain all the time. As it was, if the raft hadn't been left on the shore, I doubt you'd ever have been found."
I'm here, Romell told herself. I'm alive. No matter what happens to me, I'm glad to be here and not spending what remains of my life with the Southland natives she thought, then, of the castaway island she'd also escaped, and poor Catarina came to her mind.
"What happened to the minister's daughter, Catarina Deeters?" she asked Margitte.
Margitte thought a moment. "Oh yes, the mad girl. A married couple sailing back to Holland took her with them." She shook her head. "The girl had improved a bit, I believe, but. . . ." Her words trailed off, and neither of them spoke for a time.
"We're two days out of Batavia," Margitte said abruptly. "I'll bring clothes for you to try on tomorrow."
After Margitte left,
Romell motioned to Tima to help her walk about the cabin. She was feeling stronger and since she now refused to take any more draughts of medicine from Margitte, her head was clear.
The day after tomorrow the ship would land at Batavia. Once there, she would meet Hendrik van der Pol, the man who had not only paid her passage on the Zuiderwind but had helped pay for her rescue. She certainly owed him a debt.
The Romell who had boarded the East Indiaman in Amsterdam was gone—that young and foolish girl who'd made the journey because Adrien was going to Java and because Java was a strange, exotic land far from the staid burghers of Holland.
That Romell hadn't given more than a passing thought to the man who'd made it possible for her to escape Amsterdam. She'd taken his money, agreed to be his wife, and hadn't meant to keep her part of the bargain—not if Adrien wanted her.
What kind of person was she? Sir Thomas would be aghast at a Wellsley breaking her word, and her father had been known throughout the colony of Virginia as a man to be trusted.
"Hendrik van der Pol," she whispered to herself. Will he like me? she wondered, fingering her short hair. Well, a cap would hide that. She would be a proper Dutch woman and wear a cap. Her arms and legs looked less like sticks every day, and her breasts had never completely lost their fullness. Under a gown her thinness wouldn't be so noticeable, especially a gown with long sleeves.
Perhaps he won't want to marry immediately, she thought. I'll look quite like myself in another month. He'd promised her cousins she could stay at the home of friends until they became better acquainted. Very well, she'd have time to regain her health and be the kind of bride he deserved, for he must be a kind man, this Hendrik, to pay good guilders to finance the chancy rescue of a woman he had never seen. She had learned that most Dutchmen were not given to spending money without a sure return.
I will like him, she vowed. Margitte and her cousins had called him handsome. Not important, maybe, for Pieter had been the best-looking man she'd ever met. Still, a comely man was pleasant to see. Hendrik had already proved himself kind. It could be she'd grow to love him—she'd heard love often came after marriage.
I'll not dream uselessly of a man who doesn't want me, she assured herself. I won't talk of Adrien or think of him. But as she drifted into sleep, the last thing she saw was Adrien's face above hers as he had held her there on the Southland shore.
Margitte adapted one of her gowns to fit Romell, taking a tuck here and shortening it there until she was satisfied. By the time the ship anchored off Batavia, Romell was dressed as befitted a lady.
How strange it feels, she thought, to wear this weight of clothing again-—the white gown, the petticoats, the chemise, the sleeves and the stockings, and a lace-trimmed white cap to hide her short hair. Fortunately, Margitte's feet were bigger than hers, so her white slippers didn't pinch Romell's not-completely-healed feet.
Romell left the cabin on Margitte's arm, blinking as the sunlight dazzled her.
"Mind, now," Margitte whispered, "no good will come of telling Mijnheer van der Pol what happened on that island with Pieter. It was nothing you could help, anymore than could I. I didn't tell anyone about Jan."
Romell turned her head to stare at Margitte. Tell Hendrik? Would he ask? Romell tightened her grip on Margitte's arm. She hadn't thought she'd ever have to discuss that time on the castaway island with anyone.
"Men don't like to know about other men," Margitte warned, then raised her voice. "Tima, come and help."
But it was Adrien's arm that was offered to Romell, Adrien who helped her off the ship. Romell couldn't look at him, only too conscious of the pounding of her heart as she responded to his touch . . . even now, though she knew better.
"Are you all right? You look wonderful," he told her.
"I—I'm quite recovered," she managed to say before Margitte was between them, fussing over Romell.
When Romell stood on the dock, she glanced about for Adrien, thinking she must thank him for all he'd done, but she didn't see him. Instead, a gigantic Dutchman caught her eye. He swept off his broad-brimmed hat.
"Mejuffrouw Wellsley?" he asked.
Romell gazed at him in fascination. Not only was he one of the tallest men she'd ever seen, but he was also massively built. The sun blazed down on his golden hair and turned his pale blue eyes a strange no-color. She swallowed and nodded, knowing what he would say.
"I am Hendrik van der Pol."
Chapter 16
Romell immediately liked the Dutch family who were to be her hosts. Christoffel Reijts was a jolly, fat VOC merchant nearing forty. His wife, Elysabet, was younger, but also plump and good-natured. Their ten-year-old son, Johan, was in Holland with his grandparents, since "the air here doesn't agree with him," but the baby, Sara, toddled happily about, her pink cheeks glowing with health.
Romell’s own health improved rapidly--she'd never seen so much food served just for one family. The rijst tafel, rice table, covered an entire table with serving dishes. Besides the rice, there were tiny, inch-long fish in red sauce, shrimp, blue beans, unfamiliar brightly colored fruits, a fish delicacy wrapped in pastry, and whatever else the cook happened to buy from the food peddlars.
"Ah, it's good to see you eat," Elysabet told Romell, giggling as she spoke. "You soon will be a proper Dutch bride for Hendrik."
The Reijts' large frame house had an imposing verandah in front, tile floors, and a huge living room with high ceilings. The two-story building was L-shaped, with a garden and fruit trees in the back enclosed by the house wing and a covered walk leading from the back porch to the kampong, a long, low building set at right angles to the house.
"Do the servants live there?" Romell asked Elysabet when she was first shown about the grounds.
"The servants' quarters, yes, but the storeroom, too, and the kitchen and bath." Elysabet opened a door marked bath and Romell saw a stone-walled cistern in the middle of the room with a small bucket next to it.
She smiled, thinking of the early days in Virginia, before her father had built the brick house. The arrangements for bathing had been much the same except for a water barrel in place of the cistern.
"I admit it's not Amsterdam." Elysabet sighed. "But one must adapt to the country where one lives."
"I think your home is lovely," Romell assured her. "I like Batavia."
It was the truth. Although, in Romell's eyes, the Dutch had done their best to turn Batavia into a miniature Amsterdam, complete with canals, she found Java exciting. The Reijts, like the other Dutch, lived inside the walls of the VOC compound, but the houses all swarmed with Javanese servants in batik sarongs, the men wearing turbans on their heads.
In the gardens, purple passion flowers and orange flame vines splashed color over walls and porches. Doves cooed and parakeets chattered from cages hanging among a wild profusion of orchids growing under the eaves.
Romell immediately began to learn to speak Javanese since none of the servants seemed to know more than a few Dutch words.
"Oh, they understand better than they let on," Elysabet insisted. "They could speak a Christian language if they wished." She shook her head, looking at her Jongens Sato, her Number One Boy, as she talked to Romell.
Romell wasn't accustomed to talking about servants where they could hear what was said. Sir Thomas had never done so and neither had her father.
"I'd like to learn their language though," she said politely.
Elysabet shrugged. "I'd find it terribly dull, but do as you wish."
"Want to learn the native tongue, do you?" Christoffel chuckled indulgently when his wife told him about Romell’s odd notion. "Can't see it will do any harm. Know a bit myself. One thing you must remember at the start, these people don't have plurals to their words—they just repeat the word. They say orang for man, for example, two or more men is orang-orang."
As it turned out, Elysabet had picked up quite a bit of Javanese in order to be able to direct her servants. She didn't think of it as "speaking the language
," but she started Romell off with a basic housekeeping vocabulary.
"Nonee, that's miss, what they call you. Once you marry Hendrik, you'll be Nonya Besar, Mrs. Big, just as I am. Hendrik and Christoffel are Tuan Besar, Lord Big." Elysabet giggled. "I suppose to Javanese eyes we must seem superior in all ways, not simply in size."
"Do you really think so?" Romell asked.
Elysabet stared. "These are heathens, worshipping false gods. They even offer food to dolls made of rice straw. Of course we're superior."
Romell hadn’t meant exactly that, but she didn’t go on with the discussion. It was difficult enough to understand the Dutch, how could she ever hope to know want an even more alien people thought?
"The storeroom is the godown," Elysabet went on, "and if you buy anything you must always bargain. You ask how much—brapa—and then refuse to pay what they ask. Offer less. You'll soon get the feel of it."
Hendrik visited Romell every day, and as soon as she could get about without hobbling, he took her for walks, or for drives in a small trap driven by a miniature horse she learned had come from China. They never went outside the compound.
"Why do all the Dutch live inside the walls?" she asked. "Are the Javanese dangerous? Everyone has them here as servants and many of them live in the kampongs by the houses."
He laughed and patted her hand. Walking beside the tall Dutchman, Romell often felt like a child and he frequently treated her like one, although he wasn't yet forty.
"Don't worry your pretty little head about danger. We've got a fully armed garrison at headquarters. At that, the soldiers aren't here entirely because of the natives. We must protect ourselves from the English and the Portuguese, as well as those damned Chinese pirates."
She nodded. Her father had often spoken of what a nuisance the French and Spanish were in America. "There will be a war over it one day, you mark my words." In any newfound land, countries would vie for power.
"The Javanese rulers don't mind the Dutch living here?" she asked.
"Not them. All they're interested in is filling their coffers with silver. We have treaties and such, trade agreements."