The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Sterling exhaled heavily, then pushed himself up off the floor. He stepped out of his boots to muffle his steps, then lifted Aidan’s heavy crate from the end of his bunk. It would fit nicely beneath his own bed, once he cleared out a space for it. Tugging gently, so he wouldn’t disturb her, he removed his damp clothes from the bed, then found a dry blanket in his own trunk.

  He moved to the head of the bunk, about to drape the blanket over Aidan’s shoulders, but saw her sketch board by her side. He picked it up, then lifted it to the fading beam of sunlight that shot through the porthole.

  What he saw astonished him.

  She had drawn him and the old sailor. The likeness was apparent enough, but Sterling knew in a heartbeat that he could never be the man she had depicted. He recognized his own body, his frame, his hands. But a radiance glowed about this doctor’s face. The eyes brimmed with compassion, as if the Blessed Lord himself were offering a cup of water to a sick and enfeebled prisoner. The seaman was clearly recognizable—she had caught his teeth, the crepey age lines around his eyes, and the wispy long braid his vanity would not allow him to cut.

  “By heaven above,” he whispered, sinking to the foot of the bed, the picture in his hands. He felt shocked by a sudden elusive thought he could not quite fathom, then awareness hit him like a punch in the stomach. Van Dyck was right. She was extraordinary, more exceptional than Sterling had dreamed.

  What had the old gentleman said? Her life will color the world. Sterling held the picture in his hand, staring at it until the last trace of light vanished. Then he quietly stood and covered his bride with the blanket, bracing his shoulders to accept the responsibility of the rare treasure God had placed into his care.

  Standing at the bow of the Zeehaen, Witt Dekker stared at the Heemskerk and watched darkness overtake the larger ship. No light shone in either of the forecastle cabins, so the doctor was either asleep, out of his chamber attending to some emergency, or enjoying his first night as a husband.

  Witt closed his fist deliberately around the golden cross at his neck. He had tried to get the girl. The captain would have given her to Dekker in a heartbeat, but by some stroke of luck or cunning, Sterling Thorne had won the prize. And in those first few minutes aboard the flagship, Dekker discovered that the dangerous night had worked some magic in the valiant doctor’s soul, for he was obviously smitten with the wench. A man did not give up a captain’s daughter for a tavern maid unless he knew the hussy was rich … or was so infatuated he couldn’t think clearly.

  For now, Aidan O’Connor was married to the doctor and safely tucked away aboard the Heemskerk. Still, they would cover many miles before returning to Batavia. Van Dyck was dead, which meant the girl was an heiress already—but only if she lived to claim her inheritance.

  As officers, Dekker and Janszoon often visited the Heemskerk. It would be an easy matter to call upon the doctor one dark night and find that he had been summoned away by one of the other officers. With one careless slip, the lady could find herself overboard while the ships plowed through the sea. It was virtually impossible to find a lost soul in the heavy darkness of black waters.

  Dekker smiled. Tasman might even be relieved to find the hussy gone. He’d been mad as a viper ever since he discovered he’d been tricked by that fool Schuyler Van Dyck.

  Humming contentedly, Dekker thrust his hands behind his back and watched the full moon rise across an inky sky.

  On the fourth of January, 1643, Tasman’s expedition reached the extreme tip of the island north of Assassin’s Bay. Tasman called the point Cape Maria Van Diemen, then convened a meeting of his officers. Their exploration of the rocky coastline had been conducted in a hasty and superficial manner, due in part to the hostile reception at Assassin’s Bay and the captain’s urgent need to re-provision his ships with fresh water and fruit. Janszoon and Dekker hoped to send another landing party ashore in search of gold and other riches, but after the unpleasantness of Assassin’s Bay, Tasman was eager to leave that particular land formation behind.

  As ship’s doctor, Sterling had been invited to attend the officers’ meeting, and he shared Tasman’s plans with Aidan before venturing down to the hold to tend a man with bloody flux. Thankful that at least that sailor had not attempted to move into their cabin, Aidan leaned against the open door and watched her husband move confidently down the companionway.

  Sighing, Aidan closed the door behind her, then sat on the bunk. Tasman’s plan to move ahead suited her, for nothing in her training or her dreams had prepared her for the strange life she now led. Wearing women’s garb—either the green silk, the brown silk, or a combination of both—she tried to be a dutiful doctor’s wife, though she had no idea how to play that particular role. She was kind to the patients who regularly appeared in their cabin, and she stayed out of Sterling’s way as he applied various treatments. But mainly she painted. Watching the sea through the porthole, she painted waves and stars and celestial beings riding the winds and swells so high they looked like rolling hills.

  Occasionally she painted the sunburned faces of the seamen who came to the cabin requesting Sterling’s attention. Most of these “illnesses” were innocent enough—a stomachache that disappeared after a few soft words from Aidan, or a splinter which she promptly pulled out with a sewing needle. She suspected that the long weeks at sea had made even the most independent sailors hungry for the sight of a woman.

  She handled the seamen easily, for they were not unlike the thirsty, attention-starved men who loitered at Bram’s tavern on hot, humid afternoons. She had been terrified that one of them might note her resemblance to Irish Annie from the Broad Street Tavern, but if any did, no man dared mention it. None dared behave improperly in her presence, for Sterling had earned a reputation for strength and courage at Assassin’s Bay.

  Yes, she could handle the seamen. But she had no idea how to handle the man with whom she now shared her life. They had been married for over two weeks, and Sterling had not once reached out to touch her. He spoke cordially to her, treated her with respect and deference, and slept either in the second bunk or, if a patient slept in the cabin with them, on the floor. But he did not look at her with the same intensity that had marked his face back at Assassin’s Bay.

  Aidan smiled ruefully. Perhaps it was her fault, after all. If she had not been insistent upon a marriage in name only, and if Tasman did not send a steady stream of sick sailors for the doctor’s personal attention, then perhaps he would seek her softness just as the other seamen did.

  No.

  She deliberately closed the door on those fantasies, forcing herself to remember her plans. Her future, if she wanted to paint, depended upon a clean escape from this sham of a marriage. She was almost surprised to realize that painting was a part of her now; she could no more leave it behind than she could decide not to breathe. In the days after Van Dyck’s death she had little to do but paint and think, and she had discovered that her paintbrush expressed her thoughts far more eloquently than her tongue. She painted the vast loneliness of the sea, the misty-eyed yearning of a seaman for his sweet wife at home, the ponderous wonder of a whale brushing the boards of a ship as he idly scratched his back on his jaunt through the deep.

  She pushed aside the usual artistic conventions Van Dyck had explained—how great Dutch artists represented time with a clock, diligence with a distaff, the brevity of life with a candlesnuffer or skull—and she painted what her heart dictated, not caring what anyone else might think. No one would see these practice paintings, in any case.

  Yes, she told herself, she would paint. She would become the artist Van Dyck had wanted her to be. She had lost her mentor, but surely she would discover another, and then she would find respectability among the clean and tidy houses west of Batavia’s Market Street. Later, after she had established herself and published her first book of engravings, she would marry a respectable gentleman and rear a half-dozen respectable children. She only wished it could be as Mejoffer Thorne.

&nbs
p; But Sterling Thorne did not want an artist-wife; he wanted the sea captain’s daughter. This marriage would have to be annulled—a process easily enough accomplished as long as the relationship had not been consummated. A host of seamen aboard the Heemskerk could testify that the doctor had never treated her as a true wife.

  Why should he? He loved Lina Tasman, and as soon as they returned to Batavia, he would fly away to resume his courtship of the captain’s virtuous daughter. Without disgrace or shame, he would swear to a magistrate that he had married Aidan O’Connor only to preserve her honor, and the good people of Batavia would applaud his nobility and courage.

  “He may be courageous and noble,” Aidan murmured to herself, “but the man is also a slob, even worse than Lili.” She picked up a discarded stocking he had casually tossed on the floor and, without thinking, fingered the soft wool. Then she came to her senses, tossed it into his trunk, and slammed the lid.

  She had no intention of permitting herself to fall under the spell of a handsome man, and she could not afford to be distracted from her dreams by silly romantic notions. She was meant to be an artist, not a doctor’s wife. As long as he did not reach for her—or she for him—her future was safe and secure.

  Two weeks after the expedition left Cape Van Diemen without further exploration, the lookout sighted land like “a woman’s two breasts” in the distance. The Heemskerk and the Zeehaen cautiously approached the shoreline, the memory of Assassin’s Bay haunting every sailor. The natives who spilled from the forests behind these shores, however, wore broad smiles of goodwill and joviality. Before agreeing to send a landing party ashore, Tasman ordered his ships to wait at anchor for two days to make certain the natives held no hostile intentions. By the second day he could scarcely restrain his men from jumping overboard and attempting to swim ashore. Tempted by the aromas of roasting meat and the sight of smiling women, his men lined the railing and stared at the shore with eyes wide with longing.

  Obviously fascinated by the huge winged ships that anchored in their waters, the natives of these islands prepared a feast on the shore. From the deck Aidan could see smiling faces, meat roasting on an open fire, and bright blossoms adorning the necks of women, men, and children alike. The sight of the scantily clad, raven-haired women was enough to drive the sailors into a near frenzy, and at last Tasman relented and gave the order for a shore party to disembark.

  The natives met this shore party with celebration and open friendliness. They freely offered water, food, and hospitality, the openness of which scandalized the prudish Dutch. As she waited on deck for the barge that would take her and Sterling ashore, Aidan overheard one of the rowers talking about the native women. “They demonstrate not the slightest hesitation in removing all their clothing,” he said in amazement. “And the most audacious among them actually touched our sailors, inviting them to—”

  Aidan moved out of earshot to spare both herself and the talkative sailor from complete embarrassment. Sterling had gone back to the cabin to compose a list of useful herbs and supplies he might find on the island, and when he finally arrived, they boarded the last barge and pushed off for shore.

  Her heart thrilled when the barge touched the sandy bottom of the bay and Sterling lifted her out of the boat. Aidan was wearing her breeches instead of a cumbersome silk skirt, and a group of native women immediately splashed toward her through the shallow tidewater, giggling as they reached out to touch her red hair, her face, her fluttering shirt.

  “I’m very glad you wore trousers, my dear,” Sterling said as he lowered her to the sand. He took her hand, protectively leading her away from the horde of curious women. “I’m afraid they would have dived under your skirt in search of your legs if they were not readily apparent.”

  The welcoming committee followed them up the beach. Apparently satisfied that Aidan was female, the sociable women next turned their attention to Sterling. Aidan stood, mystified, as one particularly lovely girl came forward and shyly pressed her hands to Sterling’s lips, then her own.

  Aidan frowned. It was a primitive gesture, but effective, and its meaning—as well as the girl’s dark beauty—were not lost upon Sterling. Aidan could see a flush of dusky red advancing up his throat as he fumbled for words. “I, er, uh, you see—”

  The girl laughed and stepped closer, too close, and an unexpected flash of jealousy sprang up in Aidan’s heart, stinging like nettles. “No,” she said, firmly wedging herself between the forward beauty and her husband. Recalling the gestures of the natives at Assassin’s Bay, she placed her hand on her heart, then pressed her hand to Sterling’s chest. “Mine,” she said simply, shrugging at the other women in the circle. She looked the brazen beauty in the eye and repeated herself so there would be no mistake. “Mine.”

  The girl rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together, then retreated to a chorus of giggles from the others. Another girl, still young and flat-chested, stepped out from the others and shyly took Aidan’s hand.

  “I suggest we go with her,” Aidan said, pulling Sterling along. “I’m not leaving you alone with these—” She bit her lip, choking on the word she’d been about to say. She’d dealt with wanton temptresses at the wharf, but she couldn’t imagine trying to compete with an Eve in this Garden of Eden.

  The child led them past the fire pits laden with roasting pig, fresh fruit, and cauldrons of bubbling stew, pausing only long enough to allow Sterling and Aidan to fill wooden bowls with a sample of each fragrant dish. The atmosphere here was heavy and sweet with the breath of flowers, the sharp tang of herbs, and the fresh scent of rain.

  After they had filled their bowls, the little girl motioned to them again, and Sterling followed her dutifully. Aidan’s heart raced when she saw where the child had led them. A row of thatched huts sat apart from the feast—simple, primitive buildings much like those of the natives on Batavia. These people appreciated aesthetics, however, for wreaths of flowers adorned each doorway.

  The girl led them to one of the huts, then stood beside the entrance. She pointed at Aidan, then at the door. “Wa-go,” she said simply, smiling. When Aidan shook her head, not understanding, the girl pointed to Sterling and Aidan, then to the hut again. “Wa-go,” she repeated, her brows lifting. She looked away toward the feast, where couples who had finished eating now stood with their arms around each other and their minds clearly on something other than food.

  Suddenly Aidan understood. “Wa-go,” she repeated with a smile.

  The girl lowered her head in a stately salute, then pulled the circlet of flowers from above the door and held the wreath aloft. When Aidan lowered her head, the child slipped the garland around her neck and smiled sweetly. “Ta-gush-ra-nay,” she finished. She paused and grinned at Sterling.

  “I think she likes you,” Aidan chuckled, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers.

  “I think she is a forward little imp.” His hand pressed against the small of Aidan’s back. “But she obviously wants us to go inside. Shall we obey before she calls attention to us?”

  “Good idea.” Aidan smiled at the girl one last time, then pushed aside the woven mat that covered the low opening and crouched to enter.

  This hut bore little resemblance to the starkness of her abductor’s hovel on Assassin’s Bay. Tightly woven grass mats covered the floor, and overflowing baskets of flowers sweetened the air. A lustrous stream of moonlight poured from a vent in the center of the roof, lighting every recess in a soft silvery glow.

  “Well.” Aidan stood in the center of the hut, then slowly sank to the mat and rested her dinner bowl upon her crossed legs. “I suppose we might as well sleep here tonight. There seems to be no trouble afoot, and I don’t believe the captain will send a barge back to the ship.”

  “Are you certain?” Sterling stood above her, hesitation evident in his features. “If you’d feel safer in our cabin, I could ask one of the men to row us back. I wouldn’t blame you for feeling nervous after what happened in Assassin’s Bay.”

&nbs
p; Aidan smiled at the intense expression on his face. Always the doctor, he was thinking of her mental and physical welfare. “I’m not nervous,” she answered. “These people are friendly, we could not ask for better hosts.” She lifted her brow. “Though they could be a little more reserved.”

  “I rather liked their … friendliness.” Balancing his bowl upon his palm, Sterling casually sank to the mat beside her, and Aidan’s heart jolted as his arm brushed hers. This was not what she had planned. He could have sat across the room or across from her, where they might regard each other as two equals, as two friends, but he had chosen to sit next to her, so close that she could feel his breathing.

  She stared down at the floor and nibbled at a piece of meat from her bowl, confused by the curious quivering in her stomach, a sensation that left her feeling like a breathless, giddy girl of sixteen. Despite the native girl’s shy smile and none-too-subtle innuendoes, this should be a night like all the others. They ought to just whisper their goodnights and turn their backs on one another, struggling to sleep as well as they might. This night was different only because they were away from their cramped quarters and free from the stench of illness. For once they were alone, away from sick sailors. But that was no reason to forget all the things that kept them apart.

  As if he’d read her mind, Sterling suddenly asked, “Where is Captain Tasman?”

  “Far away, I expect. He would certainly be upset—” She lowered her eyes, terribly conscious of his scrutiny. “—to find us here, like this.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He spoke in a voice husky with contentment … probably due, Aidan supposed, to the delicious meat in his bowl.

  “These people are too forward,” Aidan said. “Those women are worse than—well, I’ve heard stories about women who live down at the waterfront. There are procuresses less forward than that girl who came up to you—”