The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt Read Free Book Online Page B

floated out to him from inside the darkened building, mingled with the sounds of women’s laughter and men’s raucous voices. The screech had come from a plump brunette who struggled in a sailor’s grasp.
    “Excuse me.” Schuyler advanced and used his walking stick to tap the seaman on the shoulder. “But I don’t think the lady wants to go with you.”
    “What?” The seaman turned around, his face blank with stupidity.
    The woman showed her teeth in an expression that was not a smile, and her eyes glowered at him above a bodice designed to attract unsuitable attention. “Is it any of your business what we’re doing here? He means me no harm.” She glanced back at the staggering sailor. “Do you, love?”
    “Not a bit,” the seaman answered, hiccuping. “I just wanted a wee bit o’ fun.”
    “Indeed.” Schuyler stiffened. “Judging by the sound of your protest, I surmised that you were in distress.”
    “Here’s the kind of distress I’m in, love.” Winking broadly at Schuyler, the woman reached out, clasped her hand behind the swaggering sailor’s neck, then drew his head forward until he sagged against her generous frame. “A girl’s got to earn a living, don’t she, sir? Now if you’ll leave us, I was just going to take this fellow inside.”
    The seaman’s eyes closed in a drunken stupor, and the woman took advantage of his lapse to smile at Schuyler. “I could find entertainment for you later, if you like, sir. Just ask for Lady Lili.”
    The corner of Schuyler’s mouth twisted with exasperation, and he leaned heavily upon his cane. “That won’t be necessary. I give you good day, madam.”
    He exhaled a frustrated sigh and turned toward an alley that would take him around the most awful flophouses and taverns. Batavia was no worse than many other port cities, he supposed. Still, his steadfastly Christian soul recoiled from the open excesses of sin even as his heart broke for the wayward people who seemed to wash up on the island like starfish after a storm.
    Down here, at the wharf, clapboard warehouses of two, three, and four stories crowded together, shuttered against the steaming heat of midday. The salty sea air mingled with the rank stench of open sewers, and Schuyler fumbled at his belt for a handkerchief to cover his nose. A sea journey might be a welcome relief to seamenwho spent all their time in this part of Batavia. And any other civilizations they might discover upon the lands of Mar Pacifico could not possibly be as distasteful as the life that existed here along the wharf.
    He turned another corner and sighed in relief when he recognized his location. The building that housed the offices of the V.O.C. was just ahead, only a few yards from the docks.
    Schuyler halted abruptly at the sight of movement in the shadows of an alley next to the building he sought. His son had warned him that the area was not safe. Even in daylight, Henrick insisted, cutpurses and robbers lingered in every alley and doorway.
    He clutched his cane, reassured by the solid feel of the brass handle against his palm, then relaxed when he saw that two young women stood in the shade of the alley. They were simple-looking, both dressed in patched dresses and dingy bodices, but certainly not thieves.
    The first girl, a blond, fragile-looking child, leaned against a barrel and held up her hand, her curled index finger serving as a perch for a bright butterfly. The second, a slender young woman, faced the building, her eyes frequently glancing toward the butterfly, her hands almost independently chalking its image upon the wall. Her flaming red hair curled nearly down to the small of her back, its molten coppery shades marked by a brazen white strand that seemed to flow like quicksilver from the girl’s left temple. The mere sight of that tide of hair was unnerving, for all modest women braided their hair and hid it beneath neat little caps.
    Stunned, Schuyler stepped back into the shadows, bracing his back