The Golden Cross (5 page)

“Och, love, don’t be so hard on your wee mother.” Lili’s expression grew serious. “I only tell that story when I’m worried for you. And anyone who is fool enough to believe it doesn’t deserve you, don’t you see? There’s no harm in it, and I know my little tale has saved you from many an unwanted attention.”

“But not nearly enough.” Feeling restless and irritable, Aidan knotted her hair at the back of her neck. She rose from her pallet, smoothed her skirt, and ran her hands over her stained bodice. This poor sailor would have to take her as he found her, though he probably wouldn’t mind her bedraggled appearance if he’d been at sea for a month or two.

“Who knows?” she murmured, ignoring Lili’s approving look as she stepped out into the sunlight and made her way to the tavern. “If he’s rich, he might have money enough for me to buy a sheet of parchment. And I’ll paint a picture for that artist. And then he’ll write the crowned heads of Europe about me, and Orabel and I will be living in a palace before the next rainy season.”

Aidan slipped into the bustling tavern, then saw the sailor sitting at the first table. The boy looked up as she approached, and she caught her breath, noting the beardless face, the youthful features,
the slender frame. This boy was no more than sixteen—Bram and Lili must be more desperate to marry her off than Aidan had realized.

Forcing a smile, Aidan leaned her elbow onto the table and looked him in the eye so steadily that he squirmed under her gaze. “Hello. They call me Irish Annie,” she said. “What can I bring you, sailor?”

Two hours later, buoyed by an inexplicable resolve, Aidan walked toward the stationer’s shop, fully aware of the hard glances that turned her way as she made her way through the streets of the “good” part of town. A huge, foul-smelling blotch adorned the front of her skirt—a remnant of the young sailor’s inability to retain Bram’s foul-tasting spirits in his gut. He’d been richly embarrassed that he couldn’t hold his ale, and when Aidan had helped him out of the tavern and led him to the rain barrel to wash, he had offered her ten stuivers for her help. At first she’d been too embarrassed to accept—after all, she’d been hoping to get him drunk so she could rifle his pockets herself. But then, in a spirit of humility, she had accepted his gift.

Found money. Her own money. Ten stuivers that Lili wouldn’t know about, that wouldn’t be accounted for under Bram’s watchful eye. Coins that wouldn’t have to provide the roof over their heads or flour for the bin. Ten stuivers, righteously earned, that just might buy her way out of the wharf and pave the road to respectability.

A bell jangled as she opened the small door to the shop that advertised “writing sundries” in the window. The proprietor, a short, stout man with a balding head and immense dignity, frowned as she entered.

“Good morning,” she said, lifting her chin. She moved toward him with all the determination she could muster. “I’d like to buy some parchment please.”

One bushy brow shot up in a question. “What kind?”

She hesitated, not certain how to answer. Paper was uncommon in the tavern—Bram usually did his calculations on the tabletop, scratching his figures and lists with a sharpened stick or a piece of coal.

“What do you want to use it for?” the man asked.

“Oh.” She smiled. “It’s for a picture.” As a sudden inspiration seized her, she asked, “Do you know Schuyler Van Dyck?”

“Of course.” The man’s expression softened a bit. “A fine artist and map-maker.”

“Well, I want to do the kind of work he does.”

“Very well, then. What is your medium?” His brows lifted the question when she didn’t answer. “Do you draw with pen, pencil, or chalk?”

Pens, pencils, or chalk? She’d had no idea she’d be faced with such choices. If she used a pen, she’d have to use ink, and in the tavern a bottle of ink was likely to be spilt while the quills would be damaged or lost. But a pencil—what was a pencil? Aidan wasn’t sure she’d ever seen one. She was familiar, however, with the small stones of white chalk, but white chalk would not show up on white paper.

She squinted and peered around the room for some clue. “Um—does Heer Van Dyck use a pencil?”

“Of course,” the man answered, the corner of his mouth dipping low. “Every artist begins his work with a pencil sketch.”

“Then I want a pencil,” she said slowly, not quite certain what she was asking for. “To go with the parchment.”

To her amazement, the storekeeper moved to a desk where he brought out a small cylinder of wood, then he proceeded to pull out a knife and shave the end in a diagonal slant. “When the point wears down, you cut away more of the wood,” he said matter-of-factly, letting her watch as he sharpened the instrument. “But be careful not to break the stem. ’Tis formed in two pieces, and it will snap if you are careless.”

Aidan nodded wordlessly, watching as he laid the sharpened
pencil down on his desk. “Now, vellum might do nicely for the pencil.” He moved toward a curtained alcove at the back of the room. “It would pick up any shading you might wish to do and it is far stronger than parchment. How many sheets would you like?”

Suddenly it occurred to Aidan that she might not be able to afford this unbelievable luxury. “I only have ten stuivers,” she called after him. She glanced around the shop. She was alone; the owner was in the back. It would be so easy to grab the pencil and a few sheets of paper and run out the door with her ten stuivers still in her pocket. Maybe she was a fool for not doing so. The other barmaids wouldn’t hesitate to take whatever they needed, and maybe even Lili would understand—

No. She thrust her hand into her pocket and felt the coolness of the coins upon her skin. If she was going to be respectable, she was going to behave as a respectable lady from this point forward. Heer Van Dyck certainly didn’t steal his supplies, and neither would she.

The man returned with two sheets of large vellum in his hands and a broader smile on his face. “Ten stuivers,” he said, smoothing the heavy material.

In a surge of relief Aidan spilled the coins from her palm, took the vellum and pencil, and hurried away, consumed by the irrational fear that at any moment the constable would appear and arrest her for pretending to be a lady.

Aidan knew Lili would be looking for her if she didn’t return within an hour or so, but Lili would never understand this. She followed Broad Street until the buildings thinned and the road narrowed to a footpath, then crept under the spreading fronds of a banana tree. None of the respectable residents of Batavia would venture out in the midday heat, and Lili would never look for Aidan this far away from the wharf.

With one piece of vellum rolled up and reserved for safekeeping, Aidan spread the other on a spot of hard ground and knelt
before it. Almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the large expanse, feeling every bump and lump and grain of sand that pressed through the paper to meet her questing fingertips. A very expressive surface, this vellum. Perhaps it would be able to capture the feelings and emotions that stirred in her heart.

The pencil was another oddity, quite unlike the pens she’d learned to use in England. Carefully she pulled it from her pocket, then touched the point to her fingertip. It was softer than she expected. She brought it to her tongue and tasted it—no taste, no smell. Only a faint whiff of wood from the casing.

A bird flew overhead and fluttered to rest on a nearby shrub, and Aidan studied it, committing its form to memory. Carefully she lowered the pencil to the parchment and made a bold stroke, marveling as the dark point left its mark across the ivory expanse.

Within seconds she was transported, her eyes filled with the image of the bird, the tilt of his head, the darkness of his eyes, the curve of his wing. Knowledge of the creature flowed like a tangible sensation through her brain and down to her fingertips, and her hand moved over the paper, recording her impressions. Time stood still as she worked, and not until the silhouettes of the palm trees stood black and slender against the glory of a golden sunset did she realize that she had finished.

She glanced down, truly seeing her work for the first time. The pencil, now dull and blunt, had brought the bird to life on the page. His bold black eyes watched her, his soft body fairly trembled with life.

Shaken to the core, Aidan lifted the vellum closer to her face till the image blurred, then pressed it to her bosom as tears flowed down her cheeks. Her first picture. Perhaps Orabel was right. Perhaps she was an artist after all.

Three days later, Aidan woke with the sun, smoothed her hair, and tiptoed toward the large trunk where the women kept an assortment of skirts, bodices, sleeves, and shirts. From the tangled pile
of clothing she selected a plain skirt of blue watchet, a white underbodice, and a pair of light blue sleeves. She drew the skirt down over her nightshirt, then carefully pinned the underbodice to the skirt and the sleeves to the bodice. The combination wasn’t elegant, but the resulting garment was clean, at least.

She looked toward her pallet, where she’d hidden the remaining sheet of vellum and her pencil, and saw Lili watching from her bed. Aidan lifted her chin as she stepped out onto the street, resisting her mother’s unspoken approval. Lili thought she had risen early to accost some young sailor down on the docks and invite him back to the tavern for a sociable morning. She would throw a royal tantrum if she knew what really pulled Aidan from her bed at such an early hour.

Over the last few days Aidan had made quiet inquiries among the seamen and other visitors to the tavern. Schuyler Van Dyck, she learned, was a wealthy and well-known artist, though valued by the Dutch East India Company for his skills as a cartographer. Rumor held that he was scheduled to depart soon on a voyage with the V.O.C.’s adventurous Captain Tasman. If so, Aidan realized, the renowned artist might soon make his way to the Company’s office.

On Friday and again on Saturday Aidan had placed herself directly in front of the V.O.C.’s dockside offices in the hope that the rumors were correct. If she could have just five minutes of Heer Van Dyck’s time, she felt certain she could convince him that she had some sort of talent—something worth cultivating, in any case. Perhaps he could advise her or recommend an art teacher. Even a single word of encouragement would give her hope. She planned to show him her sketch of the bird. If he didn’t believe her hand had drawn the portrait, she had kept the other piece of vellum and was prepared to sketch anything he might ask to see.

There had been no sign of Heer Van Dyck yet, but Aidan resolutely told herself that each passing day only brought her a day closer to his coming. If he did plan to sail on a V.O.C. ship,
he would have to venture down to the docks eventually. And if Aidan had to wait on the street until his day of departure, she would. If the situation required it, she’d throw herself at his feet as he boarded. She had lived too long in the dismal swamp of hopelessness, too long in a mold that would never suit her.

Aidan paused at the water barrel to splash her face, then jerked in surprise when Orabel’s voice surprised her:
“Goede morgen.”
As Aidan wiped her wet face on her apron, Orabel lowered her voice to a secretive whisper. “Are you going to the docks again today?”