Authors: Jane Toombs
"I wouldn't say Margitte and I are fond of one another," Romell told her. "We survived together and perhaps that creates a bond."
"Very well. I'll arrange the visit."
Romell curbed her impatience. While still on the rescue ship, she'd made up her mind to do her best to act the proper lady in Batavia. She'd abide by all the Dutch customs and not behave rashly. Although she would have much preferred to visit Margitte this minute—and alone—she'd let Elysabet have her way.
"Oh, but I'm charmed," Margitte greeted them the next day as a servant bowed them into a living room done in cool greens. The house was similar to the Reijts'. In fact, most houses in Batavia resembled one another, just as the houses in Amsterdam had.
Margitte lifted a small silver bell and rang three times for refreshments to be served. Romell expected the usual lemonade and fruit, but the Number One Boy entered with a cut glass wine decanter and three glasses. Elysabet's eyebrows went up when she saw the wine, but she didn't refuse the glass.
"I've been invited to Hendrik's party," Margitte said at once. "I understand the wedding is next month."
"I'd expected you to marry before I did," Romell said carefully, not wishing to give Elysabet more than was necessary to mull over.
Margitte gave her husky laugh. "Why would you think such a thing? I'm not yet out of mourning." She touched her black silk.
Romell stared at her. You know why, she wanted to cry. "Adrien Montgomery," she said hesitantly. "I thought. . . ."
"Oh, good heavens, no! A pleasant enough young man, of course, but as for marriage--!" Margitte waved her hand languidly.
What had happened? Romell wondered, wishing she could grasp Margitte's white throat and shake the truth from her. Did Adrien change his mind or had Margitte been lying from the beginning? Had Adrien ever asked her to marry him?
"The party sounds enchanting," Margitte said. "Luckily, I'll come out of mourning the week before. Hendrik was such a pet to wait."
Now Margitte was making it sound as if Hendrik had discussed the party with her and picked the date to suit her. Romell knew that wasn't true.
"Dirk was a good man," Elysabet said abruptly. "We all liked him."
"Poor Dirk, suffering all alone here in the tropics." Margitte shook her head. "If I'd been with him, it never would have happened."
"Dysentery doesn't care who it kills," Elysabet said dryly. "There isn't much will stop it once it gets a start." She finished her wine. "I thank you for your hospitality. Romell, we must be going."
"So Adrien is in Sumatra," Romell said to Margitte, throwing caution to the winds.
"My dear, he left to make his fortune, or so I understand. Such energy." Margitte smiled.
"But then he always was an energetic young man." Her tone of voice suggested to Romell that Margitte meant something quite intimate.
"Yes," Romell said stiffly. "It's been . . . pleasant to see you again." Romell almost choked on the "pleasant." She rose but couldn't summon even a false smile.
The Reijts' Number Two Boy was waiting on Margitte's verandah for them and sprang forward, his silk parasol ready, as they came out. He held the parasol over their heads on the walk from the house to the road. Just before they turned into the street, Elysabet cried out and clutched Romell's arm, stopping so abruptly the Number Two Boy almost ran into them.
"What's wrong?" Romell asked.
"Oh, oh! A frightful man!" Elysabet pointed to where green foliage grew lushly next to the fence. "He stared out of those bushes—he had the most awful face I've ever seen!"
"No one's there now."
"I don't care—I saw him! Oh, Romell, I'm quite beside myself. One of his eyes was gone-- and such terrible scars!"
Chapter 17
Despite increasing apprehension about marrying Hendrik, Romell looked forward eagerly to the party. She still liked Hendrik and enjoyed his company, but he more and more frequently sought excuses to touch her or kiss her cheek. So far, she'd avoided having his lips touch hers. This he put down to maidenly modesty and Romell didn't correct him.
As she dressed for the party, she thought how she really didn't mind his arm around her shoulders, or even a friendly hug now and then, but when his fingers caressed her bare arm or he tried to touch her breast, she felt a revulsion that was hard to hide. How was she going to control her feelings when he was her husband and had the right to her body whenever he wanted? To do whatever he wanted? Why could she take no pleasure in his touch?
Romell sighed and thrust all such unpleasant thoughts away, concentrating on her gown as the Javanese maid finished fastening the last of the buttons at the back.
"I like this dress," Romell said to her in Javanese. "Do you like it, Manisan?" she called the girl by her name, although this was not the Dutch custom.
Manisan giggled and ducked her head. "Nonee very pretty," she said finally.
Romell gazed into the mirror. She could see both her reflection and Manisan's. I've never looked better, she told herself. The dress, Hendrik's choice, was white and silver, silk and brocade. The neck scooped low to reveal the tops of her breast, the tan of her skin contrasting with the white of the gown, for she'd gotten very sunburnt in Southland and her skin was still darker than usual.
The contrast called attention to the rounded curves of her breasts and the gown also made her cinnamon hair look even redder. She'd had Manisan pull a few curls to the top of her head and pin a white orchid among them.
Manisan stood beside her, partly hidden by the full skirt of Romell's gown. The top of the little Javanese woman's head was just above Romell's shoulder. Manisan stared into the mirror, her eyes on Romell's reflection. There was no trace of envy in her gaze.
Romell, in turn, examined Manisan in her batik sarong of muted blues. The Javanese girl's bare shoulders were brown and smooth, and although her figure was slight, the cleverly-draped sarong emphasized the curves of her body, ending at her ankles.
Romell knew Manisan wore no undergarments, unlike the multiple petticoats she had on under the silver and white gown. Suddenly, Romell envied her.
The August evening seemed every bit as sultry as the day had been, as every day was. Manisan must be far more comfortable than any of the Dutch in their Holland clothes, or Romell in this elaborate dress.
Manisan had taught her how to fit a sarong to her body. One took the several yards of batik, raising the material well above the waist, using the width of the material as the length of the skirt. While wrapping it around, one had to remember to pleat the batik to allow room for walking, then the end was tucked in at the waist if a man, above the breasts if a woman. A silk scarf tied about the breasts and draped over one shoulder was an elegant touch discouraged in the maids.
When Romell had tried it, the sarong had felt cool and comfortable. A smile curved her lips as she pictured Hendrik's astonishment if she should arrive at his party barefooted and wrapped in a sarong.
"Are you dressed?" Elysabet asked from outside Romell's bedroom door.
Romell turned away from the mirror. "I'm ready," she said, going to the door.
Elysabet's glance traveled over her. "Lovely. You look as cool as winter snow in Holland."
"Thank you." Romell thought of adding that she'd toyed with the notion of wearing a sarong instead, but she knew Elysabet would not be amused.
When she'd asked Elysabet how the Javanese dyed the batik to form their unusual patterns, the Dutch woman had said vaguely, "Something to do with wax, I believe."
Manisan had since instructed Romell on the method, a series of dye dippings with wax rubbed into portions of the material so the dye wouldn't color these sections. Romell thought the cloth strangely beautiful.
"You look most attractive tonight, Elysabet," Romell said. "I think green is very becoming to you."
The Dutch woman smiled and patted her hair. An emerald necklace with three small stones set on either side of a large one adorned her pale neck. Christoffel enjoyed decorating his wife.
Elysabet frowned. "If only you'd let me lend you my pearls."
"No, you've already done too much for me. I can never repay you for your kindness."
As she could never repay Hendrik. Ah, but soon she would be his wife. Would that be repayment enough? Romell shook her head. Why were her musings so drear? Everything would work out for the best. Hendrik would never be Adrien, but--
Romell raised her chin and started toward the stairs. Adrien was gone, lost to her. Hendrik wanted her. Look to the future and not the past.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm good enough for Hendrik," Romell said to Elysabet as they waited by the front door for Christoffel.
Elysabet turned a long, considering gaze on her. "That's a foolish notion."
"I think he feels more for me than I do for him. Do you think it's fair . . . ?"
"You are a goose. Hendrik needs a Christian woman for his wife." She smiled and patted Romell’s shoulder. "You may be better than he deserves, in view of—"
Elysabet stopped abruptly, turned away to peer down the corridor for her husband. ''Where is that man?"
Romell had no chance to question Elysabet about what she had meant because Christoffel appeared. As they strolled down the path toward the trap, Romell caught a flicker of movement in the shrubbery by the street. She cried out as a dark figure eased away and melted into the dusk
"What is it?" Christoffel demanded.
"I—I thought I saw a man by the sempur tree. "He was large--too large for a native," Romell said slowly. "I don't think he was one of the Chinese workers. All I'm sure of was that he limped."
"Scum off the waterfront," Christoffel said. "I won't stand for that. Wait'll I see the commandant—lazy bugger'll be at the party, no doubt. Can't have louts from the boats bothering us. I'll give him what for!"
Elysabet clutched Romell's arm. "Was it the same man I saw outside the Widow Van Slyke's house?" she asked.
"I didn't see anyone at Margitte's," Romell re-minded her. As she spoke, the fireball sun plunged suddenly out of sight, as it did every night in the tropics, and they stood in darkness.
"Come," Christoffel said, "nothing can be accomplished here."
As they neared Hendrik's house, Romell saw he had torches set near the entrance and lining the walk. She stared up at the purple-blue sky, saw the four stars of the Crux—the Southern Cross—and was suddenly stabbed through and through by desperate homesickness for the familiar night sky of her childhood.
"Romell. .." Elysabet touched her arm.
Yes, of course, she must go in. She had been looking forward to the party, why was she dawdling here? But she had to force herself to walk between the two rows of torches to where Hendrik stood waiting.
Hendrik hugged her exuberantly when she greeted him, momentarily making her speechless. She smelled genever and knew that he'd already had more than one pijt, gin and bitters.
"A vision!" he cried. "Just see how beautiful she is, my bride to be."
The men laughed and the women smiled.
"You do look like a bride tonight, Romell," Margitte's husky voice said from behind her.
Margitte did not. She wore a pale lavender satin with a darker lavender overskirt. Amethysts hung at her ears and throat and her creamy breast threatened to spill out of the bodice of her gown.
"Ah, Margitte, you’re a true Dutch plum tonight. You look good enough to eat!" Hendrik, roared, embracing her, too.
Romell smiled at the remark, not minding Hendrik’s admiration of another woman.
His large living room was so crowded with people the polished gleam of the wooden floor was hidden. The bronze and crystal chandelier glittered with dozens of lighted candles, setting a sparkling of the gems the women wore—the glitter of diamonds, the deep red glow of rubies, the green mystery of emeralds.
Elysabet guided Romell into the crowd, introducing her, making certain everyone met her. Men and women smiled at her, greeted her with friendliness. Romell told herself these would be her neighbors, her friends, but her lips felt stiff from smiling. She found it an effort to repeat the same polite remarks over and over until she felt she was suffocating.
Making excuses, she threaded her way out of the group and slipped into a corridor, only to find Margitte at her side.
"Maidenly vapors?" Margitte asked.
"There’s no need to mock me," Romell muttered.
"You’d best try to convince the happy bridegroom he’s getting a maiden." Margitte said. "I did all I could for you when I arrived here, praising you until angels couldn’t show more modesty."
Romell grasped her arm. "Why?"
"To convince Henrik to finance half the expense of the rescue ship. I didn’t wish to cover all the expenses."
"Why did you pay any at all? Don’t put me off, Margitte."
"I wanted Adrien and it seemed the only way to get him. As I told you, I never dreamed you’d be found." Margitte shrugged.
"Did Adrien really ask you to marry him?"
"I certainly implied it would be part of the bargain." Margitte laughed. "More fool I. Adrien would have been a terrible choice for a husband. As it is, neither of us gets him."
"I plan to be honest with Hendrik,” Romell said slowly. He deserves to know about Pieter and, well, Adrien."
"I suspected there was something between you and Adrien. But you’ve no need to play the fool. Hendrik’s hardly an innocent. I’ll wager he’s not confessed to you."
Romell frowned at her, not comprehending.
Margitte raised an eyebrow. "Surely you’ve heard something—didn’t Elysabet tell you?"
"I’ve no idea what you mean."
Margitte slid her eyes sideways. Romell followed her glance to see a pretty Javanese maid in a rose-brow sarong and a red silk scarf watching them. When she saw she’d attracted their attention, she turned and glided away.
"Poor taste," Margitte murmured.
She could be so exasperating when she choose to be enigmatic. Romell turned away, determined not to listen to her, and reentered the crowded living room.
"You seem so young," a plump matron said to her. "I do hope you can--that is, I suppose you’ve learned to run a household, to manage servants?"
"I believe I’ll be able to manage," Romell said stiffly.
"Of course you will", another woman said. "Don’t worry about what’s done and over with, take charge."
Romell blinked. Did the woman refer to the shipwreck? Or to the captivity in Southland? Was that what was over and done with? But how did that fit with the advice to take charge?
"Firmness is all that’s really needed," the first woman said.
Romell’s confusion increased. They couldn’t be talking about Hendrik’s first wife, either, "I’m afraid I don’t really know what you mean," she admitted.
"Oh, dear." The plump matron flushed as she spoke. "I assumed that Elysabet—" She broke off, smiled vaguely and murmured, "Excuse me," then and pushed into the crowd.
The other woman stayed where she was, but didn’t meet Romell’s gaze. Romell was about to insist on an explanation when the Javanese servant in the rose-brown sarong glided up to her carrying a tray. The red scarf twisted in the coils of the maid’s hair emphasized it’s gleaming blackness. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes were subtly different from the looks of the other native women, her features sharper, her air less deferential. A beauty by any standards.
"Nonee wish to eat?" She asked in heavily-accented Dutch. Without waiting for an answer, she proferred the tray of food. "Here is fish, coconut, mango…"
"Thank you, I’m not hungry," Romell said.
"Nonee wish to drink? I bring." The Javanese said. Their eyes met.
"Be off with you, Aritita," Hendrik’s booming voice said.
Romell turned to look at him. When she glanced back, the Javanese woman was gone.
"I’ve fetched you lemonade," Henrik said to Romell, handing her a glass.
She accepted the goblet. "Thank you." She sipped at the lemonade drink, finding it refreshing, but also realizing that gin had been added. She gazed over the rim of the glass at Hendrik and saw him grin at her.
He took her arm, guiding her through the chattering guests. "We must make our announcement," he told her.
Romell tried to smile with enthusiasm as her heart sank, what was wrong with her? Hendrik was a fine figure of a man in his dark blue jacket with the slit sleeves that revealed the white silk of his shirt. His breeches had blue satin rosettes at the side of the knees that matched the larger rosettes on his shoes. A series of blue rosettes circled the waist of his jacket. Certainly he was far from a drab Dutchman.
As he led her to the center of the room, the floor trembled under her feet. No one paid any attention to the tremor, since these small earthquakes occurred almost daily, but Romell still noticed them, still felt uneasy when the ground quivered beneath her.