The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  He chased her into the streaming sea foam before she turned to face him. “Sterling,” she called, shivering as cold water seeped into the seam of her slippers, “I love you!”

  “And I love you, Mejoffer Thorne.” He smiled and pulled her close.

  Aidan twined her arms about her husband’s neck, then turned to see a crowd of curious guests watching from a discreet distance. She closed her eyes, wishing them away, as Sterling’s hands slipped under her arms and wrapped around her waist. A delightful shiver spread over her as she remembered another time she had danced on the beach. In starlit dreams she had danced in a burgundy satin dress like this one, her partner conjured by girlish fantasies and longings.

  How much more wonderful to dance with the man God had brought into her life! Sterling was more than she could ever have imagined, more than she had dared to hope she might deserve.

  Ja, Heer Van Dyck would say. God is good.

  “Wife,” he said, laughing as the surf splashed over their feet, “I will enjoy watching you explain this to the governor!”

  “I can’t explain in words,” she said, “but tomorrow I shall paint you by the seashore. I will gild God’s glorious sunrise behind you with the rosy hope of tomorrow, and paint the bright light of love in your eyes.” Standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his, tasting sea salt in his kiss. “That is explanation enough.”

  “So it is.” As the waves broke behind him and a gull pin-wheeled overhead, he kissed her again, then lifted her into the cradle of his arms and carried her up the beach.

  Do all your stories end with a kiss?” The question caught me off guard, and I felt myself blushing as I looked down at the red plastic tablecloth in an effort to avoid Taylor Morgan’s brilliant blue eyes. “Well, of course, they should,” I answered, shrugging. “I mean, isn’t life all about finding the right person and living happily ever after?”

  “Maybe.” Taylor picked up his glass and swirled the ice cubes thoughtfully. “But I thought one point of this research was to find out what the future might hold for your life. After all, if you are one of Cahira’s descendants, are we to assume that you’re going to fight for right, then marry some handsome bloke and end your story with a kiss?”

  “The world pretty much belongs to men and women now.” I avoided the bright power of his gaze as I folded my hands on the tablecloth. “And I already told you—I’m the storyteller, nothing more.”

  Having finally run out of words, I looked around the restaurant. It was nearly ten o’clock, and we’d been sitting at the table for nine hours—long enough to order a half dozen soft drinks, two separate meals, and two banana splits. Professor Howard had slipped away hours ago for his dentist appointment, but I barely noticed when he left. I was too caught up in the story of Aidan O’Connor … and, I confess, a little caught up in Taylor Morgan too. He listened intently to the entire story, laughing in all the right places and frowning in the rough spots.

  “There’s just one thing that bothers me,” he said now, setting his glass down on the table. “Cahira’s descendants were supposed to fight for right, correct? Well, Aidan didn’t fight. So how does she fit into Cahira’s prophecy?”

  I lifted my finger and wagged it at him, schoolteacher style. “She did fight—against the system—but there’s more.” I flipped to the last page of my notebook. “Remember Lili? And the twenty thousand pounds? Well, since homeless women in those days were often forced into prostitution, Aidan and her mother set about setting things right. With the money Aidan inherited, Lili founded a school for girls and destitute women. The curriculum was designed to teach the values, morals, and principles all young women needed in order to become godly wives and mothers. The school quickly filled its vacant beds with girls on scholarship, but due to the institution’s association with the esteemed Aidan O’Connor Thorne, the most elegant matrons of Batavian society also vied with one another to see who could most generously support the Schuyler Van Dyck School for Young Ladies.”

  “Oh, that’s rich!” Taylor laughed. “I’ll bet the Van Dyck children were thrilled to have their names on a school run by a former procuress.”

  “Well, probably not,” I admitted. “But Dempsey and Rozamond Jasper scandalized Batavian society by divorcing in 1645—an extremely unpopular recourse in those days. Dempsey immediately married an English heiress and returned to Europe; Rozamond was forced to live in her brother’s household for the rest of her days. And though Henrick Van Dyck remained in Batavia, little else is recorded about him. Apparently he lived and died quietly, without doing anything noteworthy or making trouble for the governor’s favorite new artist.”

  “What about Aidan?” Taylor asked. “Did she stay in Batavia?”

  “For a while,” I answered. “For three years after the Tasman expedition Sterling and Aidan lived in Batavia, where they had two children, a boy and a girl. They returned to England in 1646,and Aidan’s paintings were acclaimed throughout Europe for their emotion and distinctive style. While all the Dutch masters were painting realistic morality plays, Aidan delved into fantasy and the art of imagination. Most people didn’t understand her, but they couldn’t deny her talent.”

  Taylor smiled thoughtfully. “And Abel Tasman—let me guess. Tasmania?”

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “The place he called ‘Van Diemen’s Land’ is present-day Tasmania. Assassin’s Bay is part of modern New Zealand, and his ‘Friendly Islands’ are the islands of the Tongan archipelago. Abel Tasman continued in the service of the V.O.C., but in 1649 he was convicted of mistreating two sailors, suspended, and stripped of his rank. Though he was reinstated at the end of 1650, his reputation suffered severely. In 1653 he was suspended again after a duel with a Frenchman—”

  “Lively fellow,” Taylor interrupted.

  “Very,” I answered. “There’s some evidence that he ‘went native’ after the duel. But he came to his senses, established himself as a wealthy landowner in the richest, snobbiest part of the colony, and died in 1659 at the age of fifty-six.”

  “So.” Taylor folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me. “What’s next? After you write this story, that is?”

  “Well, there’s always Flanna O’Connor.” I closed my notebook and tapped it against the table. “She was the Civil War heroine. She entered a man’s world, too, but for completely different reasons than Aidan.”

  Taylor held up his hand in self-defense. “I’d like to hear the story,” he said,” but I think my legs have fallen asleep.”

  “Mine too,” I admitted with a laugh. I was still a little stunned that he’d sat through the entire tale.

  The waitress—a different woman now—came over and stood with her hands on her hips. “’Bout time you two are done,” she said, teasing as she took our empty glasses away. “I was thinking we were going to have to stay open all night just for you.”

  She slipped the check on the table, and Taylor and I went through the usual motions of grabbing for it. I caught it, but he took it from me with a no-nonsense look on his face. “I insist,” he said. “It’s a small price to pay for the best entertainment I’ve had in many an evening.”

  We stood and stretched the stiffness from our legs, then Taylor moved toward the cash register while I walked slowly to the door and absently studied a rack of tourist brochures. A flier from the New York Gallery of Fine Art caught my eye, and I pulled it from the rack, then gestured to Taylor when he came my way.

  “Look at this,” I said, pointing to an insert in the brochure. A colorful sheet of paper announced the display of a collection by the English artist Aidan O’Connor Thorne, including the famous painting “Metamorphosis.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said, taking the brochure. His eyes skimmed the flyer, then he looked at me. “Do you want to go? I’m free tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Taylor Morgan was certainly full of surprises. I thought he’d be sick of me by now.

  Taylor read a paragraph aloud: “‘No other artist—including Rembrand
t and the other Dutch masters—influenced subsequent generations of painters as profoundly as Aidan O’Connor Thorne. Her varied styles and bold experimental techniques were out of keeping for a seventeenth-century woman; modern critics are astounded and baffled at her breadth of work. Some say she painted as if she had lived a dozen lives.’”

  Taylor lowered the brochure and looked down at me.

  “A dozen lives,” I echoed. “A pauper, a pickpocket, a barmaid, a ship’s boy, an artist, a lady, a beauty. She was a free spirit, a doctor’s wife, a mother, a daughter of the Dutch and Irish and English—”

  “A woman of many facets,” Taylor murmured.

  I walked past him toward the door. I wanted to leave first—no sense in having him think I considered this a date. We had come separately and we’d leave separately, even though he had paid the check and listened to me ramble for a very long time.

  I turned at the door and flashed him a smile of thanks. “Aidan O’Connor wasn’t much different from every other woman I know. We all wear a dozen hats.”

  “What about you, Kathleen?” he called as I pushed the door open and stepped out into the night. “As an heir of Cahira O’Connor, what hats will you be wearing?”

  I stared out into the street, unable to think of an answer, and then felt Taylor’s hand at my elbow.

  “Do you have a dining hat?”

  “A what?”

  He smiled warmly, spontaneously. “A dining hat. I know you eat—we’ve just had lunch and dinner together.”

  “Oh.” I felt heat creeping up my neck. “Of course.”

  “Then say you’ll be my guest for dinner tomorrow, after the art museum. We’ll make an afternoon of it and go to dinner in the evening.”

  I looked away, mentally rehearsing a hundred reasons why I couldn’t go. I had to wash my hair. I had to scrub the dog. I needed to finish a book. I didn’t want to get involved with anyone right now ….

  And then I heard myself saying, “That would be nice, Taylor.”

  He smiled and walked backward for a few steps as he waved good-bye. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. Shall I meet you at the museum?”

  I grimaced when he nearly collided with an elderly woman on the sidewalk. She frowned and sidestepped to avoid him, then continued on her way, muttering about the foolishness of youth.

  “Four o’clock?” I suggested.

  “Let’s make it two.” He stopped beside a streetlight and shot me a grin. “Unless you think you’ll be tired of my company by dinnertime.”

  Not hardly, I thought, but I didn’t say that to him. “Okay. Two it is. I’ll meet you there.”

  I turned and walked down the sidewalk, knowing without looking that he was still standing beneath that streetlight, waiting to see me safely into a cab.

  Fortunately I have a fair amount of pride. I didn’t look back for at least half a block, when a taxi finally stopped.

  I was right. He stood there watching.

  References

  Historical information for this book came from the following sources:

  Anderson, R. C. The Rigging of Ships in the Days of the Spritsail Topmast, 1600—1720. New York: Dover Publications, Inc.,1994.

  “Background to Tasman’s Two Voyages: 1642 and 1644.” Found at Internet website: http://pacific.vita.org/pacific/dutch/tasman.htm.

  Fellows, Miranda. 100 Keys to Great Watercolor Painting. Cincinnati: North Light Books, 1994.

  Johnson, Donald S. Phantom Islands of the Atlantic: The Legends of Seven Lands That Never Were. New York: Walker and Company, 1994.

  Loscutoff, Lynn Leon. A Traveler’s Guide to Painting in Watercolors. Rockport, Mass.: Quarry Books, 1996.

  Novaresio, Paolo. The Explorers, from the Ancient World to the Present. New York: Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1996.

  Poortvliet, Rien. Daily Life in Holland in the Year 1566 And the Story of My Ancestor’s Treasure Chest. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1992.

  Schama, Simon. The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987.

  Turner, Don. Maverick Guide to Bali and Java. Gretna, La.: Pelican Publishing, 1995.

  Whitfield, Peter. The Charting of the Oceans: Ten Centuries of Maritime Maps. Rohnert Park, Calif.: Pomegranate Artbooks, 1996.

  THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM:

  The Heirs of Cahira O’Connor Book 3

  The Velvet Shadow

  Six months passed before I saw Taylor Morgan again. What had seemed at the outset to be a promising relationship faded like the colors of autumn when the fall semester began. As the oak leaves in Central Park toasted golden brown, Taylor’s schedule picked up its pace, and I too stayed busy with schoolwork and my part-time job at the bookstore.

  I’ve never been one to mourn the passing of what could have been a promising relationship. When Jeff Knave broke my heart in the ninth grade, I decided then and there that if a guy couldn’t see that I was something special, I’d say good-bye with no regrets. Not that I think I’m more special than anyone else, mind you. But if a thing is not meant to be, I figure it’s just not part of God’s infinite plan.

  So I moved on, and I buried my fascination with Cahira O’Connor and her descendants with as much determination as I put away my interest in Taylor Morgan. When I had researched Anika of Prague, I’d been giddy with enthusiasm, and I had been thoroughly infatuated with Taylor while I investigated the story of Aidan O’Connor. But since Taylor had drifted away, so had my eagerness for the work of reading, researching, and writing. I hadn’t even thought about Cahira O’Connor in several weeks because thinking about her reminded me of him …

  I was surprised, then, to find Taylor sitting on the steps of my apartment building one afternoon just before Christmas break. He wore a heavy overcoat with the collar turned up against the wind, and for a split second my adrenaline surged at the sight of a stranger at my apartment door. But then those blue eyes flashed in my direction, and my knees turned to water.

  “Hello,” Taylor said, his voice faintly muffled by the collar and the scarf at his throat. “It’s good to see you, Kathleen.”

  I pressed my lips together and hoped he wouldn’t notice that my cheeks were burning. “Taylor? What on earth brings you here?”

  He flashed me a brief smile and clapped his gloved hands together. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  That was a lie, and we both knew it. Taylor divided his time between his apartment and the college, and both were located on the upper West Side. Taylor wouldn’t come to the Village unless he really wanted to see me.

  I shifted my grocery bag from one hand to the other, not exactly sure what I should say next. After a brief season of dating last summer, we’d gone our separate ways. So, did friendship require that I invite him in for a cup of coffee, or should I be truthful and tell him that my Chaucer class met in half an hour?

  I looked away from those compelling blue eyes and remembered my resolution to forget him. “Taylor, it’s good to see you, but—”

  He cut me off with an uplifted hand. “Kathleen, I didn’t come here to intrude.” His voice deepened in apology. “But I thought you should know about the professor.”

  “Professor Howard?” I smiled, remembering the soft little man who had first introduced me to the legend of Cahira O’Connor. He’d set me on one of the great quests of my life. “What’s the professor up to these days? Did he earn another doctorate?” I pasted on a look of exaggerated astonishment. “No—don’t tell me, they’ve just awarded him the Nobel Prize!”

  My voice dripped with sarcasm, and inwardly I cringed. I was behaving like a jilted lover, but Taylor Morgan had never made any promises, never said anything to imply that we were more than just friends. So why was my heart pounding like a kettledrum?

  Taylor stood and jammed his hands into his coat pockets, then lowered his gaze to the sidewalk. “Professor Howard is dead, Kathleen.”

  A curious, tingling shock numbed my brain. The
professor couldn’t be dead. I’d had lunch with him just six months ago, and he’d looked fine. And he wasn’t old, certainly not more than fifty-five or so. “Dead?” I forced the words through my tight throat.

  “He’d been having heart problems.” Taylor’s square jaw tensed. “I found him in his office this morning. He was sitting there with his head on his desk, and his hand was resting on this.” Taylor pulled a manila envelope from the pocket of his overcoat and handed it to me.

  I frowned at the sight of my name printed in the professor’s neat handwriting. In the center of the envelope, beneath my name, was another: Flanna O’Connor. Cahira’s last heir. The one I’d relegated to a mental back burner and hoped to forget.

  Caught up in a vague sense of unreality, I looked at Taylor. “What does this mean?”

  “I’d like to come in and tell you about it.” Taylor glanced down at his shoes again. “It was important to the professor, so I thought you ought to know. If you have a few minutes to spare.”

  My heart twisted in compassion as I studied his face. Taylor Morgan usually looked like a confident, dashing young intellectual, but the sorrow in his countenance today revealed how much he’d thought of his teacher. And no matter how disappointed I was that Taylor and I had never developed a romantic relationship, he was still a friend.

  I made a mental note to borrow notes from the girl who sat next to me in Chaucer class. Being here with Taylor was far more important than studying The Canterbury Tales.

  “Come on in.” I tucked the envelope beneath my arm and climbed the steps. After unlocking the door, I led the way inside and pointed toward the sofa in the living room. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” I called, carrying my groceries to the kitchen. “Let me get us something warm to drink, and then you can tell me all about it.”