The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt Read Free Book Online

nothing, not anymore. You can pray if you want to, but God stopped answering my prayers years ago. I have no reason to think he would start answering them now.”
    Orabel lowered her head, her lips moving soundlessly as she pressed her hands together, and Aidan glanced down the street to be certain no one paid them any particular attention. She wasn’t about to end up in the workhouse for this—she’d run into the sea before she’d willingly go with the constable again.
    An oxcart passed on the street, loaded with heavy stalks of green bananas, and at the sight of the fruit Aidan felt an odd hunger gnawing at her heart. Her father had often spoken of the glories of tropical Batavia, of the fruit and flowers that grew like weeds in the densest part of the jungles. “God never created a prettier paradise,” he had told her, his wide blue eyes sparkling with love and enthusiasm. “He will take us safely there, little one, and you will love the place.”
    Aidan turned away from the sight of the oxcart, her heart twisting in pain. Her love for God and her love for her father had been intertwined, and when one left, the other vanished too. All that remained of either love was heaviness and an occasional yearning to return to the simpler, more trusting days of her childhood.
    Orabel finally looked up and gave Aidan a wide smile. “I prayed you would meet him today,” she said simply. “Your artist friend. And he will like you and will want to help you.”
    The sound of her dream being verbalized in words so simple and forthright made Aidan’s heart fall. This was a waste of time; she had thrown away ten stuivers on a useless pencil and vellum and had probably been cheated in the process. Orabel might as well have prayed that they would all be invited to Amsterdam to study with the great artist Rembrandt, for Aidan was about as likely to impress him as she was to meet this gentleman Van Dyck.
    “I feel a little sick,” she muttered. “I think we should go back.”
    “No, we won’t.” Orabel linked her arm through Aidan’s, pulling her toward the offices of the Dutch East India Company. “You’ve come this far; I won’t let you turn away.”
    “But this is crazy, Orabel. I don’t care how many prayers you chant, this isn’t going to work. No gentleman would even stop to talk to me, much less watch me scratch with a pencil.” She took a shallow breath and heard her pulse roaring in her ears. “Stop, Orabel, I think I’m going to be sick.”
    “I won’t let you stop now,” Orabel repeated. “Now come along, you can sit once we reach the place. Once we’re there you can rest and wait. I’ll pray again if I have to, but I won’t let you turn around!”
    Too weak to resist, Aidan followed her friend.

W ill you be coming back, sir?” A tremor of apprehension echoed in the housekeeper’s voice. “I mean … will you be back in time for supper?”
    “As always, Gusta,” Schuyler Van Dyck answered, stepping out onto the front porch of his house. “I expect my children, too, so there will be four of us for dinner.” He tempered his voice as he looked down at the woman’s quivering chin. “I’ve not gone yet, so don’t worry yourself. And it’s not as if I’m planning to sail off the end of the world.”
    Gusta nodded, her broad face stiffening beneath the tidy cap she wore. She took a deep breath, about to say something else, then apparently thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut.
    Smothering a smile, Schuyler turned away. He stood on the veranda for a moment, admiring the spangled green foliage that surrounded the house, and waited until he heard the housekeeper close and bolt the door behind him. Gusta was a good servant. She’d keep a wary eye on things until he returned … no matter how long he stayed away.
    As Schuyler descended the stairs, the subject of his recent conversation with the housekeeper flooded his mind. Last night he’d received word that Abel Tasman had been given