The Golden Cross (59 page)
Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
She was Aidan O’Connor Thorne, the artist who might make Batavia famous. She was also the wife of Sterling Thorne, the legendary doctor who had proved his mettle and skill on the Tasman expedition. In a moment, she and Sterling would be mingling among the respectable gentlefolk. Together they’d murmur polite greetings and flowery insincere phrases of introduction to people who might go home and criticize everything from her hair to her shoes. Some of them were kind, like Heer Van Dyck and Governor Van Diemen, but others were as lost and unsatisfied as she’d been while she lived at the wharf.
Why had she ever yearned to be accepted by these people? They were respectable, but they weren’t happy. Happiness was found in love, and in the peace of understanding God’s plan for one’s life.
Sterling extended his hand and she took it, then stepped carefully from the carriage block. Below the noise of the party she could hear the steady push-pull of the sea, the ceaseless rhythm of life, like the beating of the tiny heart beneath her breasts. Elemental sounds, arising from things that truly mattered: God’s creation, life, and love.
“Sterling,” she whispered as he turned her to face the crowd. She looked out upon the sea of faces—some expectant, some petulant, all curious.
“Yes, love?”
She looked into his beloved face, seeing nothing else.
“Would you care for a stroll along the beach?”
His tight expression relaxed into a smile, and his blue eyes blazed into hers, shooting sparks in all directions. “Would you?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hand, remembering that long ago afternoon when she’d walked away from him on the sand, wanting to wring the blood from his heart. They’d both come a long way since that day.
His golden brow arched in surprise. “Right now?”
“Now.”
Before the eyes of the startled company, Aidan dropped his hand, picked up her skirts, and moved toward the beach, skimming over the sand as lightly as a bird. Sterling’s laughter rang out behind her, and she dashed away, caught up in this spontaneous game of tag.
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.
D
o 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 Rembrandt 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.
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.
