The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Dempsey drew in his breath as the image of the blond girl flickered across his mind. Of course! He should have seen it sooner, but had been so intent on finding this red-haired temptress—

  “By all means, find the blond harlot,” he said, smiling grimly. “She knows. She is wearing the gown Aidan wore from Van Dyck’s house last night.”

  Sitting at a table in a quiet corner of the tavern, Aidan pulled her sailor’s cap down over her head and chewed the tip of her thumbnail. Orabel moved through the growing crowd like a graceful sylph, a vision of loveliness in the golden gown. Aidan resisted the urge to smile at her, then turned her thoughts toward a more pressing worry. For the past two hours she had mentally debated whether or not she should share her plans with her mother. Lili would not want Aidan to embark on this journey. She would think it a foolish, reckless, mindless act, and everything in Aidan warned her to forego the farewell to her mother and walk straight to the ship.

  But Lili was her mother. And if, God forbid, something happened on the high seas and Tasman’s ships did not return, Lili deserved to know what had happened. She shouldn’t have to spend her life waiting for a daughter who would never come home. Orabel had urged her to visit Lili, of course, but Aidan knew if she didn’t go, Orabel would still keep her secret.

  Aidan closed her eyes and dropped her head on her folded arms. She’d spent the morning in the bar, but had passed the night outside, curled into a small corner at the intersection of two buildings. Anyone who saw her would have thought her just another young sailor without money enough to buy anything but a bowl of morning gruel.

  Her eyes flitted to the place where Orabel stood at the bar, a gaggle of eager, bug-eyed seamen around her. Aidan smiled slowly, then reluctantly rose from her chair and tugged again on her cap. Street grime streaked her cheeks, mud marked her shirt and breeches. She knew she looked like a typical street urchin, but she could not help feeling nervous as she stepped out of the tavern and walked toward the chamber where Lili and the others rested during the day.

  She pressed on the door and entered without knocking. Sofie and Frederica lay sprawled upon mattresses, their mouths slack with sleep. Lili herself sat against the back wall, a drunken sailor snoring in her lap. Her eyes were closed, her hair disheveled and askew, her bodice marked with stains and the drunken drool of last night’s guest.

  Lili looked up and squinted toward the widening beam of sunlight as Aidan entered. Frowning, she sheltered her eyes with her hand. “What do you want here, boy?” she demanded. “There’s no one here for you now. Come back tonight.” She chuckled hoarsely. “Faith, why don’t you wait and come back when you grow a beard?”

  Steeling herself for this last difficult task, Aidan closed the door and leaned against it. “Mama,” she said simply. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  Lili blinked at the sound of Aidan’s voice, convinced that the sunlight, the ale, and her tired eyes had conspired to play a devilish trick on her. The slender youth moved forward in a thin stream of light from a crack in the door, his face backlit and indiscernible in the chamber’s dimness.

  “Aidan?” Lili whispered, her hand going to her throat. Her palm was slick with sweat, but her mind had gone cold and sharp, focused to a dagger’s point. Surely Aidan had met with some mischief and this was a ghost, some spirit come to accuse her of corrupting her daughter, of allowing a pure and virtuous girl to be reared in a den of thieves and harlots.

  “Mama.” The youth spoke again, and squatted a few feet beyond the spread of Lili’s skirts. “I’m sailing soon. I wanted to say good-bye before I left.” The youth reached up and rubbed her nose, a gesture so Aidan-like that Lili gasped. If this was a phantom or sprite, surely it possessed Aidan’s very soul—

  “You are not my daughter!” Lili shrank back against the wall as a bead of perspiration traced a cold path from her armpit to her rib.

  “Yes, it is me, Mama.” The apparition spoke again, calmly, and in one smooth gesture pulled the cap from her head. Lili stared, blinked, stared again. Aidan’s hair shone like dull copper in the faint light. She had darkened it somehow, but traces of brilliance remained. The feminine form was hidden beneath the oversized man’s clothes, and the voice was unfamiliar only because it came from a form Lili found incomprehensible.

  “Faith, child, what’s happened to you?” Lili pushed the sleeping drunk away and allowed him to roll, still in a stupor, onto the floor. She sat up and smoothed her hair, suddenly embarrassed. Her daughter had been away among fine people; what must she think, finding Lili like this? On the other hand, what was Aidan doing in that unbelievable outfit?

  “I told you, Mama.” Aidan’s voice was calm and still, with a note of deadly determination. “I’m going to sea, and must do it in disguise, since no women are allowed aboard Captain Tasman’s ship. But Heer Van Dyck will protect me, and we will work together. When I return—” She looked down at the cap she was spinning in her hands. “—I will publish my work. It is the only way to achieve my dreams.”

  “Going to sea?” Slowly Lili’s mind fitted the puzzle pieces into place. “Aidan, you can’t be serious! I’ve heard about sea captains, and about Tasman in particular. There have been complaints lodged against him, you know. And you’d be nothing but a ship’s boy, the brunt of every command.”

  “I’m going, Mama.” Aidan laughed softly and glanced for a moment at the women sprawled upon the mattress. “Could life aboard ship be worse than this?” Her eyes met Lili’s, and Lili felt her blood chill at the determination in them. “Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

  Love fought with reason as Lili stared at her daughter. The more she protested, the stronger Aidan would resist. Only by remaining silent could she hope to win this argument.

  The ship wouldn’t sail right away. If God was merciful, Aidan might be discovered and put ashore before Tasman gave the order to weigh anchor.

  Lili drew a deep breath to still the panic rioting within her chest. “Go then,” she said simply, placing her hand over the damp skin at her throat. “Go and ignore those of us who will do nothing but fret for you until you return. Go, and think nothing of the mother who gave you life, who worked in the meanest possible ways just to put food in your mouth. Go, and—”

  “All right, I’m going.” Aidan stood, cutting her off. Before Lili could gather her senses, her daughter was gone. The drunken seaman stirred and muttered in his sleep, and his hand fell limply upon Lili’s skirt.

  Lili balled her hands into hard fists, fighting back the sobs that boiled and burned in her chest. What had she done? She hadn’t remained silent at all. Once again she had made poor choices, but she had been driven to them!

  Just as she had driven Aidan away. Her eyes filled with tears of frustration as she recalled her harsh tone and nagging taunts.

  These feelings were only the tip of a long seam of guilt that snaked its way back through the years.

  But what could she do? The harder she tried to understand Aidan, the further the girl slipped away. Lili’s noble admonitions came out as harsh retorts that only insulted her daughter; her love and concern only evoked Aidan’s resentment.

  Would God hear the prayers of a procuress who had taught her daughter to steal and lie and cheat and fend for herself no matter what?

  Desperate enough to try anything, Lili rose and stumbled toward the wardrobe chest, hoping to find an outfit presentable enough to wear to church.

  Witt Dekker tossed back a glassful of Bram’s finest liquor, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to survey the tavern before him. Ten thousand pounds was no paltry amount, and getting rid of the old man would be easy once they were at sea. But finding and killing the girl might be tricky, for he had responsibilities aboard the Zeehaen and would be expected to report there soon. He would have to find this wench within a few hours.

  Dempsey had said that Sweet Kate knew her. Dekker tilted his head and studied the blond girl loitering near a table of card players. She had on
e hand on a gentleman’s shoulder and the other near the pocket hidden under a slit in her skirt. Undoubtedly she was slipping the man cards. A most dexterous, clever, and pleasing girl, that one.

  Witt dropped his glass back on the bar behind him, then straightened and made his way toward the gaming tables. Kate’s blue eyes flew open wide at his approach, but she lowered her gaze to her gentleman friend’s cards as if immersed in the game.

  Witt moved closer and pressed his hand against the creamy whiteness of her neck. “Kate, my love,” he whispered loud enough for her companion to hear, “I need a word with you outside.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She kept her eyes fixed on the game. “But I am with this gentleman now.”

  “Why do you interrupt?” The card player lifted his gaze to meet Witt’s. “Sir, the lady is engaged.”

  “She is no lady,” Witt answered, tightening his grip around Kate’s thin arm, “and she is going with me.”

  His words hung in the air, like flags of battle, and the sounds of gaming, chatter, and music stopped abruptly as the man at the table rose to his feet. For an instant he seemed to swell, sizing Witt up as if in some primal territorial dispute. “Sir,” he said, tension fairly crackling between them, “this wench is mine, bought and paid for. Find another to please you—”

  His last word was cut off in a gurgle as Witt’s hand closed on his throat. For an instant defiance sparked in his eyes, then his countenance withered like an empty balloon. Witt released him, then waited until the player sank back into his seat. With his other hand still tight around Kate’s arm, he lifted a brow and asked, “Have I your permission to go then?”

  “By your leave, sir,” the card player croaked, fumbling with his cards.

  Witt dragged the unwilling girl through a sea of somber spectators, then pulled her out of the tavern and toward an alley that jutted toward the sea. A jumble of barrels and discarded packing crates were piled at the side of one building. Witt led the hussy toward them, then turned and lifted her like a rag doll, setting her atop a barrel. She had made no sound as he pulled her from the tavern, but when he lowered his hands to her arms and gripped her tightly, a little squeak escaped her lips.

  “Sweet Kate, my love,” he trained his eyes upon her with deadly concentration, “you’re looking fair today. I meant to tell you last night what a lovely dress that is. Is it new?”

  “N-n-no—I mean yes,” she stammered. “It’s new to me.”

  “And how could you be affording such a fine frock? It’s pure silk, is it not?”

  “It is a castoff.” Her blue eyes were like dark holes in her pale face. “A lady gave it to me.”

  “Ah.” Witt lifted one hand and gently traced her cheek. “This fine lady friend of yours—how would I find her?”

  He felt her shudder in his grasp. “I wouldn’t know.” She lifted one shoulder in an attempt to shrug. “She—she doesn’t usually come down to the wharf.”

  “Then how did she give it to you, my sweet?” Witt tilted his head toward her and gave her his most charming smile. “Did she come and offer it in a bag? Or perhaps she took one of your old dresses in exchange?”

  “I’m not certain what she did.” Her words came out hoarse. Witt lowered his hand to the slender column of her throat, enjoying the feel of her spine, her breath, beneath his hands. A golden cross hung about her neck, rising and falling now upon her heaving chest. He tilted his head to stare at it, amazed that she should own such a precious trinket.

  “What’s this?” he asked softly, using his other hand to grasp the cross. “’It’s gold, Kate—not the sort of thing I’d expect a cheap hussy to be wearing. Can you tell me where you got it?”

  She shook her head, then swallowed hard. A vein in her neck pulsed erratically against the skin of her dainty throat.

  “Well, let’s see.” Witt flipped the cross over, then saw the inscription. He couldn’t read the fancy script, but one look into the girl’s terror-filled eyes convinced him that he’d stumbled onto something important.

  “What does it say?” he snarled, moving his hand around her jaw. “Tell me!”

  “My love,” she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps, “is yours forever, Aidan.”

  The shadow of a cloud blew away, leaving them in stark, hot afternoon sunlight. Witt had only a few hours to find the girl. “Listen, Kate.” He slipped his hand to her throat and moved closer. “I know about this Aidan O’Connor, and I know she gave you that gown and this necklace. Now you will tell me where to find her, for I am growing weary of these games.”

  “I can’t tell you anything—” she began. In a burst of anger his hands tightened around her throat. He felt a gentle snap and frowned, pulling his hand away. The harlot’s head lolled forward, broken away from the spine he had caressed only a moment earlier.

  Witt muttered a curse, released the girl, and stepped back. He hadn’t meant to kill her—at least not until he got the information he needed. And although no one would mourn the passing of another wharf harlot, several men would rejoice to see Witt Dekker safely locked away in jail. Worst of all, he was no closer to finding this Aidan O’Connor.

  He eyed the girl’s body. Sitting on the cask like that, her head slumped slightly forward, she could almost be asleep. Dekker moved toward her and arranged her arms so that she appeared to lean on a box piled atop the debris. He lowered her head until it was pillowed on her arms. Then as a final gesture, he extended two fingers and closed the girl’s sightless blue eyes.

  There. Any passerby would assume the girl had sought a quiet moment to escape from the tavern. Anyone might logically assume that she came here often to watch arriving ships and catch a breath of unsullied air. He took a final step back, about to depart, but her golden necklace winked at him in the sunlight. Why not take it? After claiming her life, he deserved a trophy.

  Besides, the cross had clearly belonged to Aidan O’Connor. Dekker’s time was running out—it was clear he probably wouldn’t be able to find the girl and do away with her before Tasman set sail. That part of the job would have to wait until his ship returned to Batavia. If she had completely disappeared by then, he would have the cross to show to Dempsey Jasper. It shouldn’t be difficult to convince the man that the girl was gone forever.

  Witt stepped forward, picked up the cross from Sweet Kate’s still-warm skin, then lifted the delicate chain from her throat. Whistling a sea chantey, he dropped the chain around his neck,tucked the cross inside his shirt, and sauntered back to the tavern for one last round before boarding the Zeehaen. Aidan O’Connor was still out there somewhere, but pigeons did always come home to roost. Maybe he’d get lucky and the girl would turn up before he had to set sail.

  A band of storm clouds swept in from the sea, and from the road where he walked, Sterling Thorne could see a dark curtain of rain hanging beneath them like a veil. He would spend his first day aboard ship in wet clothes, no doubt, and there was no help for it. Just as there was no help for the ticklish situation he now found himself in.

  The dark clouds above reminded him of Lina Tasman’s melancholy face as she told him good-bye. For one who had recently been betrothed with her parents’ blessing, the girl was the personification of somber formality. “I wish you Godspeed on your journey,” she had said, primly pressing her hand to his as he extended it in farewell. “But you should know that my heart, though pledged to you, will forever belong to another.”

  Sterling had accepted her hand and her words with a grace that would have made her father happy. He was doing a noble thing, honoring a father who wished to make a good match for his daughter, and he was determined to be a good husband for the girl. Lina Tasman was nothing like Ernestina Martin, whose simpering and foolish affection had sent him running half a world away. In Lina’s eyes he saw a modicum of intelligence and sobriety, and if he couldn’t love her, he could certainly respect her. He had no desire to bully her, or force her love against her will, but it might have been nice to see at least a soft glance
of affection in those dark eyes.

  No matter. He would be gone a long time, perhaps even a year, and the old folks did say that absence made the heart grow fonder. His mouth tipped in a wry smile as he wondered if time would work its magic on his heart as well.

  Market Street lay just ahead of him, the boundary of the town’s wharf distract, and he unconsciously moved toward the center of the road, avoiding the crowds that milled outside taverns and flophouses even at this late afternoon hour. He had only to reach the docks, then find his ship. He’d settle into his quarters, inventory his supplies, and familiarize himself with the ship’s design. He’d already stocked his medicine box with such herbs as he could find at the physic’s shop, and he sincerely hoped that the good captain had thought to arrange for a roomy cabin or some other private space where his surgeon could work and think in peace.

  A crowd of singing Dutchmen staggered out of an open doorway. Sterling dodged their boisterous approach, ducking into a narrow alley cluttered with the discarded casks and crates of various taverns and flophouses. He leaned against the wall for a moment, annoyed at the impediment to his progress, then caught a whiff of salt-scented air. He turned, feeling the breath of the wind on his cheek, and followed the alley. Perhaps he could find a shorter route to his destination.

  He started in surprise when he saw a slender female form perched upon one of the discarded barrels. Clad in a fine golden gown of exquisite quality and design, the girl seemed strangely out of place. Her blond head rested upon her folded arms, her eyes were closed. A lady’s maid, perhaps, catching up on the sleep she had missed while her mistress cavorted in the night.

  “Excuse me, mistress,” he whispered, reluctant to disturb the sleeping maiden, “but can you tell me if this alley leads to the docks?”

  She did not respond or stir. Sterling stepped closer, his curiosity growing, and his practiced eye noted that her bodice did not rise and fall with the movement of breathing. He looked at her face, then dropped his bag with a startled cry when he saw that her full lips were blue. He rushed forward and lifted her hand, fumbling to find the steady pulse of blood that usually ran through the wrist. Nothing. The girl was stone cold dead.