Down here, at the wharf, clapboard warehouses of two, three, and four stories crowded together, shuttered against the steaming heat of midday. The salty sea air mingled with the rank stench of open sewers, and Schuyler fumbled at his belt for a handkerchief to cover his nose. A sea journey might be a welcome relief to seamen who spent all their time in this part of Batavia. And any other civilizations they might discover upon the lands of Mar Pacifico could not possibly be as distasteful as the life that existed here along the wharf.
He turned another corner and sighed in relief when he recognized his location. The building that housed the offices of the V.O.C. was just ahead, only a few yards from the docks.
Schuyler halted abruptly at the sight of movement in the shadows of an alley next to the building he sought. His son had warned him that the area was not safe. Even in daylight, Henrick insisted, cutpurses and robbers lingered in every alley and doorway.
He clutched his cane, reassured by the solid feel of the brass handle against his palm, then relaxed when he saw that two young women stood in the shade of the alley. They were simple-looking, both dressed in patched dresses and dingy bodices, but certainly not thieves.
The first girl, a blond, fragile-looking child, leaned against a barrel and held up her hand, her curled index finger serving as a perch for a bright butterfly. The second, a slender young woman, faced the building, her eyes frequently glancing toward the butterfly, her hands almost independently chalking its image upon the wall. Her flaming red hair curled nearly down to the small of her back, its molten coppery shades marked by a brazen white strand that seemed to flow like quicksilver from the girl’s left temple. The mere sight of that tide of hair was unnerving, for all modest women braided their hair and hid it beneath neat little caps.
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 sa
ils; 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.
He paused just inside the doorway and took a deep breath, his eyes searching the gloom, half-hoping that he’d see no sign of the red-haired woman. If he couldn’t find her, he could leave with a clear conscience, satisfied that he’d at least obeyed his impulse to help the ragamuffin. He had come to believe that the merest encounter on the street could be a divine appointment, and the girl’s talent and sincerity had convinced him that she should not be brushed aside. But other than giving her a few art supplies and a dozen encouraging words, he had no idea what else he could do for her.
All too quickly he ran out of distractions. He saw her sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, her fair skin stretched over high cheekbones, her eyes fixed upon the card game at the next table.
He wouldn’t even be able to slip in and cower in a corner, he realized, groaning under the burden of his parcels as well as the imminent blight upon his good name. If anyone tells my children that I’ve been frequenting taverns even before dinnertime …
He glanced around and smiled grimly. Not much chance of that rumor spreading. None of his children’s associates would so much as venture into this part of town without some extremely compelling reason.
She looked up and caught his eye as he made his way through the boisterous crowd, and he gave her a smile, holding the bulky packages to his chest lest they be knocked from his arms. She blushed as he approached, and he wondered if perhaps his attentions embarrassed her. Or maybe she thought he was mocking her.
“I am glad, my dear, that you waited for me.” Schuyler dropped his parcels to the table where she sat. He placed his hand on the back of an empty chair, then lifted a brow. “May I sit?”
“Please do.” She straightened in her chair, her thin fingers tensing on the tabletop. After a moment, a flicker of a smile crossed her face. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all.”
“Of course I came.” He unwrapped the largest package, a stack of parchments and assorted papers. “I promised I would help you, and I want to see you draw again. You show remarkable promise, my dear, and it would be a sha
me if you neglect the gifts God has given you.” He gave her a brief smile. “I particularly liked the butterfly sketch.”
“You saw that?” A pensive shimmer flickered in the shadow of her eyes. “I don’t usually go around drawing on buildings, sir. I only wanted to practice until you arrived.”
“Your drawings would greatly improve most of the buildings in this part of town,” he answered simply, smoothing the parchments. He slid the stack toward her, then produced a freshly sharpened pencil from a pouch at his belt. “Here, my dear. Draw for me.”
She took the pencil and frowned at him. “Draw what?”
“Whatever your heart tells you.” He folded his hands across his belly as he leaned back in his chair. “Forget I am here, forget everyone in this room. Just draw. Let your inner eye see what it will, and record that image on the paper.”
She paused, touched the tip of the pencil to her tongue in a strangely quaint gesture, then ran her left hand down the parchment, seeming to evaluate its texture, sight, and scent. Her eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them again they burned with a faraway look. The pencil began to move over the page, and within five strokes Schuyler saw that she had sketched a man—a craggy-looking fellow of exceptional height, callous hands, and massive oarsman’s shoulders. She sketched the docks under and around the man, lending an air of isolation to the tall figure.
Schuyler said nothing, but he felt his breath catch in his throat as she slowly brought the image to life. The skin of his palms grew damp as he realized he was watching a talent unlike any he had ever seen before. He had trained with the learned painter Joachim de Heem, had traveled to Amsterdam, London, Paris, Nuremberg, and Italy to perfect his art and technique. He was skilled and relatively well known in the art world, but in the space of five minutes this girl had demonstrated more natural ability than Schuyler would ever possess.
She turned the pencil now to shade in the telling details and shadows, and Schuyler thought he could almost see the man’s chest rise and fall, that at any moment those full lips would curl into a laughing smile. He had noticed a similar quality to her picture of the butterfly; he had wondered if the creature might mount the warm breeze and simply fly away.
The Golden Cross Page 5