Love's Odyssey Read online

  "What Hendrik van der Pol needs is a good Dutch wife."

  Romell said nothing, although now her curiosity was piqued.

  "Alas," Greta went on, "there are no good Dutch women in Java. At least, not unmarried ones. So the Mijnheer asked the predikant—the minister—to find him a young Amsterdam woman of good health and good character to sail to Batavia to be his bride. Naturally, he offered to provide passage. Of course I thought of you."

  Romell stared at her cousin. "Are you suggesting that I should go? Why, I've never met the man! How can I decide to marry a man I've never seen? And I'm not even Dutch, besides."

  "You're half Dutch, which is better than none at all. And Mijnheer van der Pol understands that maids need wooing. He offered to have his prospective bride stay with friends of his in Batavia until he and she could become better acquainted. What more can you ask?"

  "I don't want to marry a man I've never met."

  "I've met him. He's a fine, God-fearing person. You can't help but like him. He's not dull as you say the men here in Amsterdam are. He's not fat—at least, he wasn't when I knew him four years ago. He took a wife to Batavia with him, but she died soon after he built the house. The poor man's been all alone since." As Romell opened her mouth, Greta held up a hand. "No, he doesn't want you to look after his children. He has none."

  Romell shook her head.

  "Don't decide now, think about it."

  To her surprise, Romell found herself turning the idea over in her mind during the next week. Without Pieter, she had no one to talk to, no one her age, and Greta made no effort to introduce her to anyone else.

  I wonder what Java is like? Romell mused one morning as she helped Halva knead bread dough. The Roosevelt sisters were able to afford only Alsie, a servant almost as old as they were, so Romell and her cousins did the cooking.

  "Tonight, we will have hutspot, mixed pot," Halva said. "You must learn how it's done if you are to be a proper Dutch wife."

  "Hutspot is a kind of stew," Romell said. "I can cook stew."

  "But ours has a history. Have you been told of the seige of Leiden?"

  Romell shook her head. All she knew of Leiden was that the city was in Holland.

  "Of course we serve hutspot many other days," Halva went on, "But every true Dutchman eats the stew on October third," She sighed, "If you do marry Mijnheer van der Pol, you may be gone from us by then, and it’s only weeks away. We shall never see you again, just like Annaleis, your dear mother."

  "I have no plans to leave Amsterdam, Cousin Halva. I wish you would tell me about my mother—did she live here? "

  "She stayed with us one summer when she was twelve. Such a pretty girl, with her flaxen hair and her big brown eyes. I taught her to make hutspot too. I remember her saying she wished she lived in those days, back in 1574 when the Spanish besieged Leiden. “I would have helped William the Silent cut the dikes and flood out the Spanish,” Annaleis told me. Halva shook her head. She wouldn’t have, of course. Although she might have been the youngster who explored the deserted enemy camp and found the starving Leidener’s salvation—a big copper pot of beef, potatoes, carrots and onions still simmering over a fire. Hutspot. So we serve it every year on that day, on October third."

  "Yes, I understand," Romell said, "But my mother—was she really as brave as she sounds?"

  "Brave enough to cross the Atlantic Ocean with your father to a strange and unsettled country. Halva smiled wistfully and her hands stopped moving in the bread dough. "It was plain to see they were very much in love with each other."

  Romell’s throat tightened. I don’t want to miss loving a man, she thought. I don’t want to get old and regret never marrying.

  When Pieter came to pay his last visit, Romell was almost eager to see him.

  "I'll never forget you," Pieter said, pressing a small rectangle wrapped in green silk into her hands.

  "Of course you will. Think of all the excitement of a new land. The East Indies sound so different from Amsterdam, like Virginia is different from England. I envy you the chance to go to Batavia."

  "If I had the means to ask you to come along—"

  "I wouldn't go with you," Romell said quickly. "I meant, I'd like to be sailing for Java on my own—no promises binding me." She sighed. She'd never fit in well in Amsterdam, but where was she to go? And how?

  "There's all sorts of people sailing on the Zuiderwind next week," Pieter said. "Even an Englishman. That's a rare sight on a Dutch East Indiaman."

  Romell looked up quickly. "Oh? Who is he?"

  Pieter shrugged. "A man named Montgomery, that's all I know." He reached to take her hand. "I wish you and I—"

  Romell pulled her hand away. Adrien. She hadn't even known he was still in Amsterdam, An image of him in her uncle's great hall, sword in hand, superimposed itself over Pieter.

  "Damn!" Pieter exclaimed. "It's hell to be penniless. I won't stay that way, you may be certain of that. Whether you admit it or not, Romell, you are meant to be mine."

  She wrenched her thoughts away from Adrien. "Goodbye, Pieter," she said firmly. "I wish you good luck."

  When she had finally ushered him out, Romell stood with her back against the closed front door. Adrien, she thought. Adrien is sailing for Batavia!

  Slowly, she pushed herself away from the door and, carrying Pieter’s still-unwrapped gift, walked into the kitchen to find her cousins.

  "So, child, Pieter’s gone off, has he? A good riddance," Greta said,

  "Cousin Greta," Romell said, "I’ve decided to take your advice. I’d like to sail for Batavia to meet Mijnheer van der Pol. That is, if I can go on the Zuiderwind. "

  Chapter 6

  Romell drew her dove-gray cloak closer as the chill of the early fall morning mist penetrated the fine wool of her traveling costume. The charcoal-gray gown had a scoop neck, inset with a fillet of lace; the dressmaker had assured her that the vee, where the bodice joined the skirt, was the very latest fashion. Romell had been most happy with the fit of the dress and the way it became her.

  Until Margitte Van Slyke had appeared. Mevrouw Van Slyke, sailing on the Zuiderwind to join her merchant husband in Batavia. A young married woman and thus a proper chaperone in the cousins' eyes. Greta had talked to Mevrouw Van Slyke some days before, about acting as chaperone for Romell on the voyage, and the woman had graciously agreed. Now Margitte stood to Romell’s left on the quay, scolding her personal maid.

  "Loulie," Margitte said in her husky voice, "when I tell you to stay next to me, I mean just that. I will not have you gawking off after every lout who happens by. Mind me!"

  Romell glanced sideways at the plump blonde called Loulie. The maid and her mistress were like enough in coloring, both being very blond, with blue eyes, but where Margitte's figure was perfect, Loulie's was overblown. Margitte had even features, sleekly groomed hair--Loulie's blonde curls were tangled under her cap, her nose wide, her eyes too close together. At the moment she was glaring at her mistress's back with hot resentment in those eyes.

  I shouldn't like to have a maid who hated me, Romell thought. In every other way, she couldn't help feeling a touch of envy. Margitte's gown was a blue exactly the color of her eyes and her slippers had been dyed to match. Over her gown she wore a darker blue cloak trimmed with white fur, the entire ensemble not only elegant but enhancing Margitte's blond beauty. Her attractive appearance and condescending manner made Romell feel like a drab gray mouse.

  She looked away from Margitte and Loulie and saw a large group of roughly dressed men being herded aboard the first of the flat-bottomed ferryboats by soldiers. A stench of sickness and unwashed bodies drifted from the men, and Romell glanced toward her cousins, eyebrows lifted.

  "The sailors to man the Zuiderwind," Greta murmured.

  "Why must they be under guard?"

  "To prevent any man from changing his mind."

  Romell stared again at the ragged crew aboard the ferry, now setting sail toward the river mouth.

&nbs
p; "The zielverkoopers—the soul-sellers—buy men and keep them locked up until the ship sails," Margitte Van Slyke put in, amused by Romell’s ignorance, "Otherwise, who would sign on?"

  The thought of this dampened Romell's enthusiasm. Soul-sellers! What a terrible word!

  Cousin Halva twitched at her sleeve. Romell turned to her as the timid Halva leaned forward to murmur, "We will pray every day for your safe passage."

  "Dank U," Romell said, patting Halva's arm. "I'll miss you both." As she spoke, she was surprised at the truth of her words.

  "You've decided properly," Greta assured her. "I knew from the first that you were really a good girl."

  "I know I've been a trial," Romell said.

  On a waiting ferryboat, a sailor shouted. Excitement bubbled anew inside Romell. She was sailing to a strange, exotic land, a land of silks and spices, a land of adventure. The right decision? It was. It must be. If she didn't like Hendrik van der Pol, she wouldn't have to marry him--hadn't he intimated as much?

  She watched as people began to board the next boat, turned to pick up the cloth bundle filled with cheese and bread that her cousins had insisted she take with her.

  Greta laid a hand on her arm. "Give your allegiance to the Lord, but listen to your heart," she said in a low tone. "When I was young I feared to follow my dreams. Do as your heart directs." She kissed Romell quickly on the cheek and stepped back. "God go with you."

  "Tot ziens," Romell said. "Goodbye, goodbye." Tears blurred her eyes as she took her place in the ferry. When she could see clearly again, water was between her and the wharf where her cousins stood waving. The boat unfurled sail and pulled away from the bale-laden wharfs into the River Y, heading for the East Indiamen at their deep-water moorings off the Isle of Texel, at the North Sea mouth of the Zuider Zee—the South Sea.

  Once into the Zuider Zee, the ferry swung to the north. Romell watched the city buildings grow smaller and smaller until Amsterdam seemed to have been sucked into the sea for all she could see of it. To the north were the bright tile roofs of a village; the sails of windmills rose from the dikes.

  By the time Romell spotted the four Indiamen swinging at their anchors, the sun was low in the west. As the ferry drew nearer, the ships bulked dark against the red-streaked sky, big three-masters with furled sails looking twice as large as the ship Romell had crossed the Atlantic on.

  Goudland, Smaragadgroen, Zuiderwind, three retour ships of the VOC—the Dutch East Indies Company— Goldland, Emerald, and Southwind. Beautiful names for beautiful ships. The fourth vessel, a man-of-war, was slimmer and less richly decorated. Prinsen—Prince—it was called.

  Romell stared up at the scrolled and carved hull of the Zuiderwind, which was lavishly painted green and gold, the bright scarlet lion-of-Holland figurehead snarling defiance at the waves. Above the lion the long straight bowsprit pointed west. Four flags whipped in the late afternoon breeze: one of the VOC with the A for Amsterdam over the intertwined letters, two of broad red, white and blue stripes, one of the Holland lion.

  Once aboard, Romell was guided past penned chickens and tethered cows and goats. Seamen scurried about, lighting the ship's lanterns against the gathering dusk. Romell was led to a tiny cabin beneath the quarterdeck and noticed, in passing, that Margitte Van Slyke and her maid had been assigned a somewhat larger cabin two doors away.

  Although Romell tried not to admit to herself what she was doing, ever since she'd climbed the ship's ladder she'd been straining for a sight of Adrien. With her cabin door still open, Romell could hear Margitte's voice, raised sharply to the maid, a moment later, Margitte popped her head around the door frame.

  "Shall we use first names?" Margitte suggested. She tilted her head to examine Romell. "Ja, jij mooi."

  Romell stared at Margitte, surprised to hear her say that she was beautiful. "Thank you," she said uncertainly.

  "I shan't fret over you," Margitte went on briskly. "A pretty girl can have almost any man for the asking—no need for the old ladies to worry. No doubt you'll find yourself too occupied to be indiscreet with one particular man."

  "What? I don't understand."

  "Oh, come, don't you think your cousins knew why you insisted on sailing aboard the Zuiderwind?"

  "I am to meet a man named Hendrik van der Pol in Batavia," Romell said, wondering wildly if Greta had somehow heard that Adrien was aboard.

  Margitte brushed Romell's words aside with an impatient flick of her wrist. "That has nothing to do with it. Cadet Brouwer is aboard this ship, is he not? And you knew he would be—correct?"

  "Why, yes, I knew Pieter was sailing for Batavia. But I don't—"

  "Shall we be truthful with one another?" Margitte broke in. "I was asked to chaperone you so you wouldn't forget yourself with this cadet. Do you intend to be discreet? Tell me now and we shall both save much trouble."

  "Pieter is only a friend," Romell said coldly.

  "Then you must see that he doesn't become too intimate a friend on the voyage. We shall be together on this ship for six to nine months. Much can happen in that time. As I said, you're pretty. Why involve yourself with a junior officer, and one in poor repute at that? You can do much better, even aboard the Zuiderwind."

  "I don't intend to encourage Pieter," Romell said indignantly. Please don’t trouble yourself on my account."

  "Ah, she's dressed like a mouse but spits like a tiger." Margitte smiled and turned away. "I don't plan to let anyone trouble me," she said over her shoulder.

  If Mevrouw Van Slyke only knew how I feel about Pieter, Romell thought, closing her cabin door. She didn't like to recall opening his farewell present—luckily in the privacy of her room—or her frenzied attempts to rid herself of the tiny exquisitely-painted miniature before her cousins saw it. She'd had no idea that men and women did such things—much less that an artist would paint them.

  Remembering it now made her grimace, and she pushed the memory from her mind and began arranging her belongings about her small cabin.

  The Zuiderwind lay at anchor that night, and Romell fell asleep to the gentle sway of a ship afloat at a sheltered moorage. The next morning she came up onto the quarterdeck to find cargo still being loaded. As she watched, bearded seamen, under the direction of a ship's officer, lugged brass-bound wooden chests into a large cabin under the poopdeck. Romell presumed the cabin was the captain's.

  A tall slender man of about thirty-five with a small pointed beard came out of the cabin and glanced over at her. She smiled and inclined her head slightly. He wore the conservative black of the Amsterdam burgher with a white lace collar and broad-brimmed black hat.

  Although not particularly distinguished, he was pleasant looking.

  "Are you the captain?" she asked, wondering at his lack of uniform.

  He smiled and swept off his hat as he walked over to where she stood. "No," he said, bowing. "I’m Commandeur Zwaan, Senior Merchant for the VOC, in charge of the Zuiderwind. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance—Mejuffrouw--?"

  "Wellsley" she said.

  "Excuse me, but you are not Dutch?”"

  Romell laughed. "I know I speak your language poorly, I’m English. But, Commandeur, if you’re in charge, aren’t you considered to be the captain?"

  "Skipper Hardens handles the actual navigation and sailing. He’s the sailor, I’m the landsman."

  "So you’ve appropriated another pretty young lady, have you?" a man’s voice said from Romell’s left. She glanced sideways at a man of about the Commandeur’s age, dressed in a dark-blue uniform. He had a heavier beard and was both shorter and broader, as well as coarser looking.

  "May I present Skipper Hardens?" the commandeur said stiffly.

  As Romell acknowledged the introduction she found the captain standing too close to her for her liking and moved slightly away.

  "I’ve never seen an Indiaman before," she said. "Such a large ship. I understand there are over three hundred people aboard."

  Skipper Hardens grinned. "And a six-hu
ndred-ton cargo. She’s one hundred and forty feet from stem to stern, forty feet in the beam and forty feet from deck to keel." As he spoke his gaze left hers to look over her shoulder, the last words said absently.

  "How fascinating!" Margitte's husky voice came from behind Romell, who turned to greet her.

  The words of greeting stuck in Romell's throat. Walking beside Margitte was Adrien Montgomery.

  Adrien was a contrast to the soberly dressed Dutchmen, in a blue velvet jerkin and breeches, topped by a dark red cape, and a beaver hat with ostrich-feather trim. He swept off his hat and bowed to Romell. "Miss Wellsley," he said.

  "How nice to see you again, Mister Montgomery," she managed to say, amazed at how calm she sounded.

  Margitte's glance flicked appraisingly from Adrien to Romell before she smiled up at Commandeur Zwaan.

  "I am honored, sir, to be sailing with you," she said. "I've heard many compliments paid you in the city."

  Skipper Hardens moved restlessly. "Mevrouw Van Slyke," he said. "What a pleasure to see your lovely face this morning."

  Margitte tossed him a sliver of a smile before concentrating on the commandeur. Romell stepped away from the group and stood by the rail. A moment later, Adrien joined her there.

  "So you've decided to marry," he said. "The last time we spoke I had the impression you were rather against the idea."

  "You're well informed," she said stiffly.

  He shrugged. "There are few secrets aboard ship."

  "What takes you to Batavia?" she asked.

  "Seeking a fortune in the Indies, what else?" He leaned on the rail and looked out at the sandy dunes of Texel. "I'll not be staying in Batavia long. There's no welcome for Englishmen in that Dutch stronghold."

  She looked at him, wondering if he could tell how fast her heart was beating. When he turned to her his eyes were mocking. "Perhaps I'll stay long enough to be invited to your wedding," he said.

  She held out her hand. "Adrien," she began, but stopped when she saw Margitte approaching. Romell's hand dropped to her side.