Authors: Jane Toombs
"You have proof of this?" Romell asked.
"Anyone who'd associate with the followers of that evil man could only have a warped soul. Thank God his father is sending him out of Amsterdam. Honest and respectable folk will not tolerate such happenings."
"What happenings?"
"You are too young to be told."
They've taken me in, Romell reminded herself. Though they're not well-to-do, they've bought clothes for me and fed me. I must seem ungrateful, although I'm not. But I can't stand being forced into a mold I don't fit.
"I shall see Pieter Brouwer if I choose to," Romell said quietly but firmly. After all, she was half Dutch and could be stubborn too. Pieter was neither a murderer nor a thief. He only believed differently. Why should she turn away from him because others condemned his view of God?
Besides, he was the first man she'd met in Amsterdam who was at all interesting.
Romell defied Greta and went boating with Pieter. He piloted the small sailing craft along the canals, passing from the farmland near her cousins' house to the rush of the city where he lowered the mast so they might pass under one humpbacked bridge after another. Street vendors called their wares and men and horses pulled carts along the brick pavement.
On impulse, Romell said to him, "Could we go to Bree Straat? I'd like to visit someone there." She'd often thought of Francesca, but Greta always had a reason not to make a visit to the Bonus house.
Pieter readily agreed, saying to her, "Soon we will have to change the name to Jodenbree Straat, for, in truth, it's become the Jewish part of the city."
Pieter soon moored the boat, and they walked a short ways to Bree Straat. Francesca embraced Romell and called her sisters who hurried into the sitting room to hug Romell and chatter. Romell smiled and nodded, not understanding the words but warmed by the welcome. When she had a chance, she introduced Pieter.
Francesca stood back to observe him, nodding her head in greeting as Pieter bowed.
"Adrien?" Francesca said to Romell.
With a tiny shrug, Romell shook her head. She neither knew nor cared what had become of Adrien.
When they were in the boat again, Pieter said to Romell, "They didn't like me you know."
She turned to him in surprise. "Whatever do you mean?"
"I don't speak their language," he told her, "but I knew. The moment you told
Mevrouw
Bonus my name I saw she recognized it and all but turned her back on me."
"Oh, Pieter, I'm certain you exaggerate."
His face took on its sullen, stubborn expression, and Romell looked away from him toward the city. In the distance she saw the tall tower of
Westerkerk
—West Church. Three towers, really, she thought, one atop the other, diminishing in size as they strained toward heaven.
Across the street from the canal they sailed along stood a row of grachtenhuizen—canalside houses—wider and more elegant than any Romell had seen so far. She commented on this, hoping to divert Pieter's mind from himself.
He looked up when she spoke, then stared between the linden trees lining the canal at the elegant facades of the tall houses, their ornamental gables shaped like bells or in steps to follow the roof outline. All the gables had the inevitable hoist on a beam over the attic window for lifting goods into the third-floor storage area.
"Two of the Seventeen Gentlemen of the VOC live on this street," Pieter said, pointing. "There and there. They have more money than most burghers and can pay to be allowed the extra width for another window or two."
"I understand your words, but I don't know the men you speak of or what VOC means," she told him.
"VOC stands for
de Vereenighde Oost Indische Compagnie
, the Dutch East Indies Company. I know you've heard of that! The Seventeen Gentlemen are the directors of the company. Eight live in Amsterdam. These two live very well, as you can see. The VOC won't be as profitable for me, you can be sure of that." Pieter's tone was bitter.
"I thought, well, aren't you to be a soldier? An officer?"
"A cadet officer. But generals, too, march to the Company's tune in Batavia. After all, the VOC has the power to build fortresses and to wage wars without even consulting the stadholder."
"You talk as if you don't want to go to Java."
Pieter shrugged, "I haven’t a choice, it seems." He stared at her a long moment, then smiled ruefully. "Forgive me for boring you. What a fool I am to parade my problems when I’m with the loveliest woman in all Amsterdam. I wish--" He broke off.
Romell smiled encouragingly. "What do you wish?"
"I wish we might sail on up the canal. Sail until we were magically transported to a land where men and women live as God intended them to. There you and I might be happy with one another."
Chapter 5
After she’d left Pieter that day, Romell thought she wouldn't accept another invitation from him, for she found her original liking for him lessening. She said nothing of this to her cousins, and Greta kept scolding her.
"You must listen, Romell, for the most precious belonging of a young woman is her reputation."
Gradually, Greta's admonitions about the proper behavior for an Amsterdam mejuffrouw shifted Romell's stance.
Pieter was certainly not evil, not dangerous, not at all the kind of person Greta saw him as, and Romell felt obligated to defend him. When, a week later, he called on her again, she decided to accept his offer of a picnic in a nearby meadow—if only to prove to Cousin Greta that Pieter was harmless.
As they walked into the countryside along a canal, Romell tried to be agreeable. "I've never seen so many windmills as I have since I've been in Holland," she said. "There are a few mills along the Thames, in London, but not so graceful-looking as these."
"They are for a purpose. They're workers. If the windmills didn't pump all the days and nights, our country would be flooded."
"Yes, Cousin Greta explained how the mills pump water out of the
polders
, the lands reclaimed from the sea. But I like to just look at them. See? They look like women. There's the skirt--even the ruff ladies used to wear around their necks."
Pieter smiled at her. "The millers call their windmills ‘he'—so much for your ladies. We have had them here for over four hundred and fifty years. They say the crusaders brought them home from Arab lands."
"Oh, look!" Romell cried. "There's a stork."
Pieter shrugged. "Storks are all over."
"We don't have them in Virginia. They're new to me. I couldn't believe it when I saw my first stork's nest atop a chimney pot. They're such ungainly birds except when they fly, then a stork is beautiful."
He put an arm around her shoulders. "You are beautiful at all times, Romell."
She slipped gently from his grasp, not wishing to hurt him, but not wanting to encourage him either. Why she didn't like him as much as she had at first, she wasn't certain. He was very handsome and obviously interested in her. Still, she sensed something strange about Pieter, something she wasn't able to put words to.
When they came to a small stand of elms, he halted and took a white cloth from the leather bundle he carried on his back. Spreading the cloth carefully on the ground, he looked so much like a housewife putting on a tablecloth before the meal that Romell smiled.
He glanced up and saw her, dropped the tablecloth and strode to her, taking her in his arms before she knew what he intended.
"Nee," she said, "No, Pieter, let me go."
"But you smiled, you invited my kiss." he said, reluctantly taking his arms away.
"A smile is only friendly. Good heavens, would you have me frown at you all the time? Unless you can promise me this won't happen again, I don't know if I care to stay."
His face took on that mulish look. "I’ll behave," he muttered.
When the pickled herring and the eggs and ham were spread out on the cloth, along with the buns and cakes, Romell seated herself across from Pieter.
"So much food! I shall get quite fat."
He filled two cups with some beverage and handed her one. When she took a drink she coughed and sputtered. Hastily, she set the cup down.
"What is that?" she demanded when she could speak.
"Have you never had
geneva
—gin?"
Romell shook her head. "No, and I don't care for it now. Is there aught else to drink?"
There was not and so she drank nothing. But Pieter swallowed enough gin for them both. She eyed him uneasily, and when he fixed her with an intent look, she hastily took up a cake she really didn't want.
He laughed. "I can wait."
She put down the cake. "It's time to go," she said, starting to rise.
Pieter lunged across the cloth at her, scattering food every which way. He pulled her to him, her head in his lap, and put his mouth to hers. His hands found her breasts, kneading them through the silk of her dress.
His mouth tasted of gin, she felt suffocated and his hands on her body angered her. She twisted and struggled to get away, but his grip was strong. Finally she lashed her head back and then brought it forward, crashing her temple against Pieter’s nose.
He howled and drew back. Romell rolled away, got to her feet and ran out to the road along the canal. Without looking around, she headed for the city. How dare Pieter put his hands on her!
A few minutes later he caught up with her, "I lost my head," he admitted.
Romell didn’t reply.
"You drive me mad," he told her. "Why must you withhold yourself? Making love is not wrong, not bad. God intended men and women to enjoy one another."
"I wasn’t enjoying it."
"But if you let me, I could make you like it. Oh. Romell…"
"Under the circumstances, I don’t care to see you again."
"You’re turning against me like all the rest."
"If you tried to force others, it’s no wonder they turned against you."
"I didn’t mean women—women usually like me. I meant the others, the ones who won’t speak to me because of my beliefs. I thought you were different, more understanding."
Romell glanced at him and saw he was dabbing at his bleeding nose with a handkerchief. Serves him right, she thought.
"What was I to think when you came into the country with me?" He asked. "Women don’t behave like that unless they intend to be more friendly."
"You might have asked what I intended instead of leaping at me. It would have saved both of us trouble.
I certainly didn't mean yes. This has all been a mistake, Pieter. I thought we could be friends. I was wrong, just as you were wrong. We'll leave it at that and not meet again."
"Just as well I'm sailing in a month," he muttered.
"I wish you good luck in Batavia."
They walked in silence until she reached the Roosevelt house. "Goodbye, Pieter," she said.
"Wait."
She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.
"May I call once more before I leave, to say a last farewell? I'll be happy to meet with you here at the house—if your cousins will allow me to."
Romell wavered. Perhaps she had been partly to blame today, been too forward so that Pieter had honestly misunderstood. She didn't seem to be able to behave in accordance with Holland's customs any better than England's. In any case, it could do no harm to let him say his final goodbye in the safety of the Roosevelt house.
"Very well. I'll see you here one more time."
He tried to smile, looking most uncomfortable with his nose red and swollen. Romell nodded at him and turned away. Why do I get into such situations? she asked herself. Is it something I do? Are all men the same?
But she knew, already, that they were not, for she'd felt quite differently in Adrien Montgomery's arms. I shan't think about him, she told herself firmly.
"I hope you learned a lesson," Greta said to her the next day, after hearing an edited account of the picnic. "Maybe now you will listen to what I have to say."
"I always listen to what you tell me."
"Listen, yes. Act on it, no, you do not. However, perhaps you've been taught by this. Think back. Do you recall meeting Pieter's father at a dinner?"
"Yes, I remember meeting
Mijnheer
Brouwer," Romell said.
"And so you might also recall that I asked him his opinion of Batavia?"
Romell nodded.
"I do nothing without purpose. I had heard of a certain
Mijnheer
van der Pol through a minister recently returned from Java."
Romell waited. Greta always circled a subject cautiously before attacking it.
"Hendrik is his name. Hendrik van der Pol. He is distantly related to us, even more distantly related to you. A fine man—strong, healthy, and good-looking besides. Now he is also wealthy."
She wants me to meet someone new, Romell thought, and sighed.
"He lives in a fine new home in Batavia and has many native servants."
At least the wonderful Mijnheer wasn't going to be introduced to her tomorrow night, Romell told herself. What did Greta have in mind?
"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?