He paused, but the faces before him—including Aidan’s—were frozen in expectant silence. When Rozamond recovered enough to lift a brow, he turned and stared at his son with earnest concentration. “It is my hope, Henrick, that you might consider taking Aidan to be your wife. She is a wonderful girl, strong, spirited, utterly charming. And talented! She would make a great name for you and honor this family.”
“Father!” A rich rose color suffused Henrick’s face from chin to hairline.
“Heer Van Dyck!” Aidan gasped. There was a flash, like light caught in water, when her gaze met his. “This is not the plan I hoped for.”
“Why not?” Surprised by the tumult, he glanced around the table. Rozamond was openly glaring at Henrick, while Henrick’s gaze was fastened to his plate, his face a study in humiliation. Schuyler glanced at his son curiously—he had never seen quite so many shades of red upon one man’s countenance. This scene would make an interesting painting, if one could only capture the right hues of burgundy, cerise, crimson, garnet, and vermilion.
“Father Van Dyck!” Dempsey protested, his own face an interesting example of repressed contempt. “Surely your son has a right to choose a bride from his own rank and station.”
“He has the right to agree or refuse, of course, Dempsey.” Schuyler picked up his knife and spoon again. “But I seem to recall partaking in the arrangement of your own marriage. It is a father’s right to make suggestions. If, however, marriage is not agreeable to either Aidan or Henrick, there is always the option of adoption.” He took a bite of chicken and paused to chew it, smiling benignly at Rozamond’s horrified expression. “I will adopt the girl,” he said, swallowing. “She will be my daughter, and thus she will remain under my protection. Tasman plans to leave his daughter at home, but there is no reason I should not bring mine on the voyage—”
“You would adopt this harlot?” Rozamond shrieked.
Dempsey gasped in delighted horror, then an unnatural silence descended over the dinner table. The empty air between them vibrated, the silence filled with anger, shock, and dismay.
Rozamond was the first to recover. The veins in her slender throat stood out like ropes as she stared at Schuyler from across the table. “Father, are you insane? Have you lost all sense? This girl is—”
“I know what I am,” Aidan snapped. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she stood, pushing back her chair. She pressed her hands to the dining room table, her eyes blazing as she looked from Rozamond to Dempsey to Henrick. When she spoke she made no effort to hide the rough Irish brogue of her heritage: “I am Aidan O’Connor, daughter of England and Ireland, and proud of it. I’d not marry any one of you, not if the state of my eternal soul depended upon it!”
Her glittering green eyes found Schuyler’s and held them. “Thank you, sir, but this is the most foolish idea you’ve had yet. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I have lost my appetite.”
In a flurry of silk she whirled away from the table and left the room, leaving Schuyler and his three stunned children to stare at each other. Jagged and painful thoughts pressed against Schuyler’s forehead, and he rubbed his temples with his hands, sensing the beginning of a monstrous headache.
“Mama will be turning in her grave,” Rozamond finally hissed, turning the full fury of her eyes upon Schuyler. “Her lovely things! How could you even think to share them with a woman like that? She’s a tavern tramp, one of those hussies—”
“I don’t think so.” Schuyler rested his aching head against his hand. “At worst, I believe she was a barmaid, and probably not above picking a pocket or two if the need arose.”
“The need?” Rozamond frowned with cold fury. “Why would anyone ever feel the need to steal?”
“I believe it’s called hunger.” Schuyler’s head began to throb in earnest. “Often akin to starvation, it affects people at the wharf more often than you might think.”
“Father, you can’t be serious!” Henrick straightened in his chair. “I can’t believe you would suggest that I marry her! Have you no higher regard for me? She is not qualified to be my wife.”
“I have the highest regard for you, Henrick,” Schuyler answered, blinking slowly at his son. “And I think Aidan may be overqualified to be your wife. You have no need of property, since you and Rozamond will inherit all I possess. You will want a wife of charm and of beauty, and Aidan possesses those traits in full abundance. Why shouldn’t you also seek a woman with skill and the rare gift of artistry?”
“Father, I don’t understand artists.”
“No,” Schuyler answered softly, smoothing his brow with both hands. “You do not.”
Silence filled the room, giving emphasis to his words. His children had never understood him, and yet he had loved them anyway. The time had come for them to put aside their petty concerns and learn to respect the gift that had brought honor to the family.
“Father, you can’t do this.” An escaping curl tumbled over Rozamond’s forehead as she shook her head. “You are tired from your preparations, and you are not thinking clearly. Have you consulted with Captain Tasman? Perhaps you need to seek advice from the minister. I know he would tell you that it is folly to take a viper into your home, to hold a snake to your bosom.”
“I have spoken to a counselor,” Schuyler sighed. He might as well tell them everything, they’d find out in due time if anything happened to him on the voyage.
“A counselor?” Henrick sent a wide smile winging toward his sister. “Well, then, surely you were advised to disavow this ridiculous notion of yours.”
“I spoke to my lawyer this morning,” Schuyler went on, “and he has made provision for Aidan in my last will and testament. If something happens to me on the journey, she will inherit one hundred twenty thousand florins—enough that she will not have to worry about living expenses while she pursues her art.”
“Why—that’s nearly twenty thousand English pounds!” Dempsey Jasper slapped his hand on the table. “Surely, sir, you could have put that money to better use!”
Schuyler ignored Dempsey and glanced up at his son. “Henrick will inherit my art pieces, my estate, and my house.” He turned his gaze toward his dumbfounded daughter. “And you, dear Rozamond, have already received your dowry and your husband. My endowment to Aidan will have little effect upon you.”
“Little effect?” Her voice, hoarse with shock, held a note halfway between pleading and disbelief. “Father, by your gift, you are elevating that—that tramp—to a social level equal to my own!” Her dark brows slanted downward in a frown. “How am I supposed to attend balls and parties knowing she might be there?” She flung up her hands in disgust and sent him a fiery glare. “People will talk, Father! They will know her money came from you, of course. They will speculate that you had some sort of immoral relationship with her.”
“Rozamond!” Henrick’s face went pale.
“Well, they will!” She turned on her brother with the fury of a determined tigress. “You don’t listen to the women talk, Henrick. You have no idea how cruel they can be. And though I am Mejoffer Dempsey Jasper, I will still be associated with this harlot, this hussy—”
“That is quite enough, Rozamond.” Schuyler lowered his glass to the table, suddenly irritated with the conversation. True to form, his children were thinking more of themselves than of him, and they had not caught even a glimpse of the purpose underlying his intentions.
“Stay, enjoy your dinner,” he said, abruptly pushing back his chair. “I am tired. I bid you all good night.”
Henrick could think of nothing to say as his father stood and left the table. He waited until the sliding door to the dining room had safely closed, then he lowered his gaze and caught Rozamond’s eye.
“Could he really want me to marry that woman?” he asked, his mind still reeling at the thought. He could not have been more surprised if his father had suggested that he marry Gusta. A wife would be nice, and marriage ought to be in Henrick’s near future, but he had always planned to
seek his wife among the leading merchant families of Batavia. Never would he have considered marrying someone from the wharf.
“He is fatigued,” Dempsey answered calmly. “Preparations for this voyage have exhausted his faculties. Do not forget—and I say this with due respect—your father has always been charmingly eccentric. The artist in him, I suppose? But this time his eccentricity has gone too far.” He took a sip, then lowered his glass and casually stroked his upper lip. “Should we find a doctor? Perhaps he is not mentally competent to participate in this voyage … or to change his will.”
Rozamond uttered a soft murmur of disagreement. “Father is too beloved and well-known to be portrayed as a lunatic. He and his lawyer are old friends. Father could show up in the town square eating daisies, and his lawyer would never admit that Schuyler Van Dyck was mentally incompetent.”
“There is so little time,” Henrick pointed out, drumming his fingertips on the linen tablecloth. “The ship sails very soon, and the captain will command all hands to board at least a week before they weigh anchor. We would have to find a doctor, and arrange for Father to see him—which he would not be willing to do. Besides, the V.O.C. is counting on Father. It is to our advantage that Father sails with Tasman, for this voyage will make him famous. He has not exaggerated the importance of this upcoming expedition.”
Dempsey’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Well, if you won’t marry that woman, Henrick, she won’t be going. Tasman will not allow women on ship, true? So when your father sails, you will be master of this house.” He raised one eyebrow. “If she persists in her association with this family, if she troubles you at all, you would be perfectly within your rights to ask the constable to arrest her. That is why we have a workhouse.” He shrugged. “But she may simply disappear among the riffraff at the docks. Perhaps she will marry a sailor.” He reached out and tenderly wrapped a finger in one of Rozamond’s curls. “She might even vanish, never to be seen again.”
Rozamond fairly purred under her husband’s attentions. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if she sailed back to Europe? When the time comes for Papa’s will to be settled, if she cannot be found—”
“The money will remain with the estate, where it belongs,” Dempsey finished. He smiled at his wife and returned his gaze to Henrick. “I think we have nothing to fear. After your father departs, you can take matters into your own hands. The voyage will last many months, and any number of things could happen to a young woman down at the docks.”
Henrick stared at his plate, conscious of a small stirring of guilt, but he valiantly fought it down. Dempsey was right, as always. This young woman was no kin to him; she had no part in this family’s fortune or in any of their lives. This time his father’s eccentricity had gone beyond the boundaries of duty and common sense. His responsibility, as the eldest son, was to make certain that the Van Dyck name and fortune were safeguarded for legitimate generations.
But still … the young woman had worn a hurt, haunted look as she rose from the table and fled the room. And Henrick, who had never willingly hurt a living thing, could not bear the thought that he had unwittingly caused her to suffer.
“Here,” Dempsey said, lifting his glass. “Let us drink to the future, to the voyage to come. We will pray a safe and prosperous journey for our father, and he will find the southern continent filled with gold and treasure.”
“To the voyage!” Rozamond twined her fingers around her glass.
“The voyage,” Henrick repeated. But as he lifted his glass to drink, he could not stop himself from pondering what would become of the girl who had clearly touched his father’s life.
Early the next morning, Aidan pulled the simplest gown she could find from the trunk in her chamber. Gusta had burned the skirt, bodice, and sleeves she had worn when she arrived at this house, and she had no choice but to leave in a gown provided by Heer Van Dyck’s generosity. Still, she could not be beholden to Schuyler Van Dyck any longer. Though he was a benevolent and honorable man, ’twas clear enough that his children hated her. Sooner or later his affection for her would turn to contempt, for every father wished to please his children … even as hers once had.
She slipped into the skirt, fastened it at the back, then began the painstaking process of pinning the sleeves to the bodice. When she was dressed, she smoothed her unruly hair with her hands, tied it quickly in a knot atop her head, absently pulling a few wisps down to frame her face. She didn’t look at all proper and neat today, but it didn’t matter. Gusta would no longer have to bother with her; Van Dyck’s children would no longer stare as if she were nothing more than an annoying bug on the carpet. She would say farewell, give her thanks to the master of the house, and she would return home—a failure.
Aidan paused at the door, impatiently pulling her drifting thoughts together. The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. Lili was right. Aidan would have been better off remaining at the tavern, flirting outrageously with sunburned seamen until one of them was fool enough to ask her to marry him. Well then. Perhaps today would be her lucky day. If any sailor on Broad Street was sober enough to smile at her this afternoon, she just might ask him to marry her, thus putting an end to all Lili’s harping and cajoling. She’d forget about art, forget about respectability. She’d settle for being poor and rough and two meals shy of starvation.
She smoothed her bodice, adjusted her skirt, and paused for a moment to study her reflection in the small looking glass on the dressing table. Her eyes were still a bit red-rimmed from the tears she’d shed during the night, and her lips seemed as pale as her countenance. She pressed her lips together and pinched her cheeks, trying to instill a little color into her wan complexion. She wanted to leave this house with her head high. Van Dyck must think she had changed her mind about going to sea, and his children must never know they had defeated her.
Going home, she thought, returning the mirror to the table, would be hard enough. Lili would lead the other women in a chorus of “I told you so’s,” and Orabel would weep silently, sorrowing for Aidan’s missed opportunity. But even they would never know that something far deeper in Aidan had died.
She could not be an artist. If God had gifted her, he had made a mistake. If he had meant for her to make something of her gift, he should have provided her with the proper tools and opportunities. She couldn’t even manage a spoon and knife to Gusta’s satisfaction—so how was she ever supposed to become a great artist and respectable lady? She had almost begun to believe in Heer Van Dyck’s loving God, but the gentleman’s children had refocused her eyes upon reality.
Leaving her regrets in the small chamber, she stepped through the doorway, then descended the stairs. Gusta’s sharp voice echoed from the dining room where she was probably serving breakfast, so Aidan slipped through the dark-paneled hallway until she came to the master’s library.
Something in her had hoped he would be out—she could have left a note and slipped away without having to confront him one final time. But Schuyler Van Dyck sat at his worktable, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes fastened to the window and the garden beyond. He was thinking—and she knew instinctively that he was thinking about her.
“Goede morgen, sir,” she whispered. As he turned, she folded her hands and gave him a calm smile. “I trust you slept well. I would not disturb you this morning, but must speak to you before I—”
“I did not sleep at all,” he interrupted. A trace of unguarded tenderness shone in his eyes as he looked at her. “I stayed awake all night, first burdened by the intolerable rudeness of my children and their actions toward you, then tormented by my own guilt. I should never have sprung my ideas upon you and Henrick without consulting you first. I embarrassed you, and I must apologize.”
With renewed humiliation, Aidan looked away. “Think nothing of it, sir.”
“But I must think of it, because our problem is not yet solved. Before the night was half-spent, I began to wrestle with the problem of getting you aboard my ship.”
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br /> “That is what I have come to tell you.” Aidan lowered her eyes, finding it difficult to meet his eager gaze. “Sir, I have decided to remain here. I cannot go with you.”
“You’re right, you can’t.”
Stunned by his rapid agreement, she looked up in surprise.
“Tasman won’t allow unattached women, and there’s naught we can do about that, right?” A broad smile lifted his cheeks as he looked at her. “You can’t marry me, and you shouldn’t marry Henrick—the boy is a fool for not seeing your true worth. I can’t even adopt you and take you as my daughter, for my children are bent on their own selfish ways. All right, then. You can’t go with me as wife, daughter, or daughter-in-law. But there is yet another way.”
She stared wordlessly at him, her heart pounding. Dreams she had resolutely buried in the night rose up again, bringing unexpected hope.
“What way, sir?” she whispered.
Heer Van Dyck rose from his place and crossed to the door, then closed it.
“You shall come with me,” he said, a blush of pleasure brightening his face as he turned to face her and leaned against the door, “as my ward.”
Aidan frowned. “Your ward? But Captain Tasman will not allow—”
“He will not allow a woman,” Van Dyck answered. “You shall join me on this voyage as a young man.”
Aidan stared at her master in a paralysis of astonishment. How in the world could she pretend to be a boy? She was tall, true, and unfashionably slender, but she’d heard enough jokes at the tavern to know that she did possess a womanly face and figure.
Still, the suggestion intrigued her. A boy? Her eyes drifted toward the flower beds outside, where the gardener’s son worked in an oversized shirt and cap. Perhaps, garbed like that, she could pull off such a ruse. If she wore an oversized shirt and kept her hair twisted up in a cap or braided like the seamen; if she smeared her face with grime and kept her eyes lowered; if she grunted in monosyllables like the midshipmen who regularly mooned at her from behind the tavern bar—perhaps such a charade would work.
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