Chapter Five

  Regan van der Rhys, tall and sun-gilded and with a neat white-blond thatch of hair, strode up and down his opulently appointed library, a fragrant cigar clenched between his perfect white teeth. Suddenly, and angrily, he took the slim black smoking stub from his mouth and crushed it into a pulpy mound in the glass tray on his teak desk. Hands clenched, he paced the room like a caged lion.

  The last thing in this world Regan wanted was to marry again: a wife simply did not fit into his scheme of things. Now that she had actually arrived, he had learned that she brought with her a variety of problems. For one, her uncle had died and she would be in mourning.

  “Damn!” Regan exclaimed. “This means that one of my privateers—those I use only to protect my traders from the Spanish—has run amuck and attacked the Señorita’s ship! My warnings to those devil-may-care buccaneers should have been more explicit. Thank God they spared the lady and her brother! But for her uncle’s death, I may be held responsible—and rightly so. Still, the lady may not be so quick-witted as to make the connection …”

  Regan considered himself knowledgeable on the mourning practices of Spanish ladies: heavy black gowns with high, choking collars and long, tight sleeves held aloft by dozens of horsehair crinolines; downcast features half hidden by a lace mantilla; fingers working feverishly over a chain of rosary beads.

  A thought glimmered in his head. Perhaps propriety would be better served if he postponed his wedding until after the mourning period was over, but even as, he thought it he negated the idea. The women on the island had wagging tongues. Merchants’ wives, the agents’ wives—all of them decreed the morals of the island. What they themselves did secretly behind the closed doors of their musk-scented boudiors was another matter. But Regan knew he must marry the mournful señorita and preserve her reputation. No one would believe that Señorita Córdez could live beneath his roof and be safe from his advances.

  Regan grinned wickedly as he thought of the rumors that peppered the drawing rooms of every captain, agent, and grower from the Sundra Strait to the China Sea. The men called him a rake—though they respected his expertise with his ships as well as with a woman, provided the woman wasn’t one of their wives. Smiling at his reflection in the looking glass on the cedar-paneled wall, Regan decided he was flattered by the general consensus about the extent of his amours, though he knew the gossip to be greatly exaggerated.

  Then his thoughts raced back to his intended. What would she look like? Probably a scarecrow of a woman, all bones and angles to prick a man in his bed. She would no doubt be as ugly as sin, and have teeth like a horse. He had personally seen the result of some of these arranged marriages. He would give the girl his name and a roof over her head. More than that he would not promise. “Damnation!” Regan roared, forcefully driving the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. He would take his pleasure where he found it and not rely on a skinny, narrow-eyed Spaniard’s resentful submission to his lovemaking.

  The van der Rhys wagon had come for Sirena and Caleb. It was driven by a small, loose-jointed man with shiny yellow skin and inquisitive, slanted eyes, who explained in halting Dutch that his name was Ling Fu and that the Mynheer had, he believed, sent the wagon to save the Juffrouw from the prying eyes of the townspeople. Although the trip through the jungles and hills was hotter and longer than traveling in a native proa, by skirting the shoreline the Juffrouw would be on display for all curious eyes in the port to see. Mynheer felt that the Juffrouw would not care to expose herself to this until she was rested from her ordeal.

  His almond eyes cast downward in apology, Ling Fu shuffled his bare feet in the dust as he spoke.

  To Sirena the meaning was clear: Mynheer van der Rhys did not want his bride to be seen until he himself had an opportunity to see what he was getting. Her first impulse was to feign exhaustion and demand to be taken by proa. But, although she didn’t care to admit it, Sirena herself was not ready to meet those curious eyes. Yes, she and Caleb would ride to the Mynheer’s estate in the wagon, skirting the town, and avoiding the possibility of meeting any of the Mynheer’s friends.

  Her trunks were loaded on the back of the wagon and Caleb climbed in after them. The single jounce seat in which Ling Fu sat made it necessary for Sirena to follow Caleb into the wagon and sit wearily amongst her trunks and belongings.

  The heat of the day was stifling, though a gentle breeze blew in off the village quay. As the wagon bounced inland along the rutted, dusty road, the closer the air became and the more noticeable the humidity. Sirena found herself wishing for the fresh, brisk wind of the sea, the tang of the salt air, the domain of her Rana.

  Sitting atop one of the trunks, she was able to catch a glimpse of the village, laid out along its tiny waterfront. Many of the gabled rooftops were tiled and others were just thatched, but there was a sense of permanence about it. This village—crowded between jungle and water—seemed to have been there always, unobtrusive in its surroundings. Then, the village disappeared from view, and without its diversion Sirena became more conscious of the broiling sun and red dust spewing up from the wagon’s wheels. The hair on the nape of her neck stuck to her skin. Her armpits felt uncomfortably damp and her black and brown bombazine gown—one of the few of her sister Isabel’s habits that the pirates had not carried off—was becoming stained with perspiration beneath her breasts and between her shoulder blades. She longed for the cool, abbreviated costume she had devised aboard the Rana.

  Her eyes fell on Caleb, who had fallen asleep on the floor of the wagon. Poor Caleb! He had been running about all morning, first to fetch Jan to the Rana and, later, when he and Sirena had gone back to the village with the Dutch fisherman to help the latter brief his fellow-fishers on the care and painting and dyeing of the ship’s sails. He deserved this short catnap before the ordeal of facing Mynheer van der Rhys.

  “Mynheer van der Rhys”—even as she thought of his name, her spine stiffened with apprehension. She was on her way to meet the enemy!

  Gretchen Lindenreich adjusted the short, sleeveless jacket that barely covered her full pink-and-white breast and left her midriff bare down to the long, brightly colored sarong skirt that rode low on her slim hips. Like so many women on the island, Gretchen had adopted the native Malayan costume to keep cool through the worst heat of the day, when any Western woman with a brain in her head stayed home and bathed her wrists in cologne. Unlike the native women’s, Gretchen’s brightly colored raw silk costume was cut to reveal as much of her body as she could allow in front of her servants.

  Through the long gauze-covered glass doors leading to the garden, a movement caught her eye. Stepping closer for a better look, a blur of orange silk disappeared behind an ornamental persimmon bush.

  “That damn Sudi!” Gretchen swore, a surly pout on her petulant mouth. “What does she care if my gowns hang in tatters!”

  In the sultry damp of the tropics, the bane of every woman’s existence was the preservation of her wardrobe. Mildew ate even beneath closet doors to wreak destruction in the folds of the garments, rotting and shredding the fabrics. More than once, a lady was embarrassed by the sudden tearing away of a sleeve or bodice while she was in public. Although Gretchen could afford cheap labor and inexpensive yard goods constantly to replace her Western gowns and underpinnings, she was fiercely possessive of her belongings and would not part with them either as gifts to her babo, or handmaiden, as was the custom, or to the ravages of the damp. Therefore it was Sudi’s chore to take the long gowns and nightdresses, one by one, out of their protective paper wrappings and press them over with a warm flatiron. Hour after hour, day after day, Sudi stood at the padded board in one of the spare chambers, heating the heavy irons on the glowing brazier which, in turn, heated the closed room to a point beyond sweltering. Gretchen would not allow the doors leading to the garden to be opened, for she claimed this defeated the purpose of ironing the damp out of the garments.

  Now, seeing the orange blur of Sudi’s sari in the garden incensed Gretchen. She had been warned that these Hindu girls made unreliable servants unless kept under strict supervision. This was not the first time Gretchen had caught the toast-colored fifteen-year-old sneaking away from her duties to meet the young djongo or houseboy, who worked for the Daans.

  Crossing the room and reaching into her closet, Gretchen groped for the familiar feel of her leather riding crop. Panting with the force of her rage, she stepped out into the heat of the day. Her small slippered feet silent on the cobblestones, she crossed the verandah, determined to find the rebellious Sudi and her lover and teach them both a stinging lesson.

  Gretchen followed the path to the edge of the garden. Already a small trickle of perspiration ran between her breasts and down the small of her back. Cursing the interminable heat under her breath, she scanned the sky and noticed with some small relief the gathering of the dark clouds of the daily late-afternoon thundershower which added to the humidity yet did bring with it a dousing of the heat.

  When, in her search for Sudi and her lover, she approached the tall yew hedge that separated her garden from the seldom-used country road that approached Batavia from the west, her ears caught the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels plodding up the dusty byway. Her first thought was of Regan, who often accompanied his wagons full of nutmegs into town to supervise the loading of them aboard his ships. Her heart fluttered in her breast at the thought of seeing him again. She had not seen him for weeks, not since the night he told her of the expected arrival of his Spanish bride and had left her on a bitter note. Her eyes were hungry for the sight of him, her hands greedy to touch him, her mouth ached for his kisses.

  Peering through the thick yew branches, Gretchen could see the wagon coming down the road. Her breath caught in her throat. It was Regan’s wagon, yes, and there was that crafty-looking Ling Fu driving it. However, there was no sign of van der Rhys. Hope still flowered, and Gretchen remained where she stood, expecting to see Regan following the wagon at a distance, where the clouding dust would not bite into his face and sting his nostrils.

  A movement in the back of the wagon attracted Gretchen’s attention. There, perched atop a trunk, was a tall, black-garbed figure mopping her sweat-streaked and dust-filmed face. Dark hair tumbled from its knot down her back. The heavy black bombazine gown looked asphixiating in the heat.

  Comprehension washed over her. So this was Regan’s Spanish bride! No wonder he’d sent the wagon to fetch her instead of bringing her by proa through the cool lagoons and harbor. Look at her!

  Laughter bubbled up in Gretchen and burst forth in a raucous cackle.

  Sirena heard the sound of laughter breaking the heavy air. How long had it been since she had heard the sound of laughter—or laughed herself? But there was a derisive note in the sound. Was it scornful and contemptuous? Was that why her skin prickled?

  Boldly, Gretchen parted the thick branches of the hedge and, heedless of the scratching growth, stuck her head through the opening to laugh directly up into Sirena’s face.

  The women’s eyes locked, and the laughter died with a gurgle in Gretchen’s throat. Instead of the misery and humiliation she had expected to see in the Spaniard’s face, there was a cold, chilling regality, a positive power of confidence and poise. Sirena’s back stiffened rigidly, her chin climbed several inches, the bright bottle-green eyes flashed in challenge. For a full moment the two women stared at each other, until Ling Fu took the wagon around the next bend, leaving Gretchen standing in a cloud of red dust.

  Pulling herself back into her garden, Gretchen was silent, Sirena’s expression having paralyzed her. Then slowly she moved toward the house, and the ridiculousness of the confrontation washed over her. The sight of Regan’s Spanish bride covered with road dust and perspiration, rumpled and inappropriately dressed for this heat, once again amused her. Regan, she thought, it won’t be long before you search out my cool blondness and white skin. If your grubby Spanish bride smells as bad as she looks, all the fragrances of the Orient won’t improve her!

  Slowly and surely, her laughter resumed until she was shaking under its force. Stumbling into her bedroom, she threw herself down onto the cool silk coverlet and indulged herself in howls of glee.

  The echo of the blonde’s derisive cackling me-sounded in Sirena’s ears. Vainly she tried to brush away some of the clinging red dust from her skirt. The woman’s laughter mingled with the remembered jeers of Blackheart’s pirates and hate overwhelmed her. She had dealt with the lot aboard the Rana and she would somehow deal with that near-naked woman who had been cruel enough to mock her so openly.

  Ling Fu drove the wagon up the cobblestone drive leading to the van der Rhys courtyard. Seeing the European-style cobbles, Sirena recalled that because ships returning to the Indies had scant cargos they carried heavy cobbles for ballast. The enterprising settlers on Java and the surrounding islands therefore used the cobblestones to pave their drives and their streets. This helped to combat the inevitable mud that was left behind after the daily rains.

  The clatter of the wagon’s wheels against the cobbles woke Caleb. Drowsily, he sat up in his nest in the wagon, face flushed from the heat, eyes bright. Sirena reached out a gentle hand to smooth his dark-chocolate hair. With a pang, she realized how infrequently over the past weeks she had thought of Caleb as a child, for with her he had witnessed things no child should witness. He had been her only friend in a time of need and she relied on his good common sense and his strength of character. What’s more, Caleb had proved he possessed the heart of a lion. When she referred to him as “little brother” in rehearsing the plot they were executing against van der Rhys, Sirena realized how meaningful the words were, after all. She loved the boy and to her mind he could not have been more her brother than if they had shared the same parentage.

  Within her breast welled a fierce protectiveness toward him, the likes of which she had not felt since Caleb had suffered the lashing at the hands of Dick Blackheart aboard the Rana. Caleb’s young back had been lashed because of his determination to help her, to tend her wounds, and to revive in her a will to live. And to repay him for his devotion to her, she was involving him in a plot against Mynheer van der Rhys —a plot that could place him in a dangerous position. Perhaps it would be better to admit her true identity, go to Mynheer van der Rhys and tell him of Isabel’s fate and her uncle’s and beg his assistance in helping her to return to Spain. Caleb would then be safe. She could take him back with her and give him all the advantages a young man could desire.

  An audible gasp escaped her. What was she thinking? Go to Regan van der Rhys and beg his assistance? For a moment she had forgotten that it was Regan who was responsible for the pirate attack on the Rana and for the subsequent deaths of Isabel and Tio Juan.

  Regan van der Rhys might even have engineered the attack on her ship. He might have decided he wouldn’t care to marry a Spaniard and while Isabel lived he was honor-bound to do so. The thought of the dowry, too, those chests of gold coins had been too tempting. So he had ordered them accosted at sea, all aboard murdered, and the gold and the ship gained for himself.

  How he must have felt thwarted when he realized that Señorita Córdez and her brother had been found —alive!—aboard the fast-sinking Rana. Sirena smiled as she guessed at the Mynheer’s puzzlement. He would be wondering what had happened to Blackheart and his crew. How had the English pirate failed in his mission? Where was Blackheart now? How had the two Córdezes manages to escape death?

  She would enjoy seeing the surprise on his pasty-white ferret features—as she imagined all Dutchmen must have.

  The wagon slowed as it neared the front entrance of the two-story, white-pillared verandah and the massive, intricately carved mahogany double doors. The grounds about the house were meticulously kept. Even now several gardeners went about their chores of pruning and weeding along the brightly colored flower beds. The scent of spices and flowers permeated the air, and exotic wild birds called raucously to one another. The house, the grounds—everything—showed evidence of pride of ownership. Many years and much labor had gone into the acquisition of the van der Rhys mansion. The deep red stone from which the front steps were chiseled she recognized as the precious “pink marble” from the foothills of the China mountains. In Europe jewelry was carved from it and statues of great beauty. Here on Java, a wily agent for the Dutch East India Company used it for his front steps!

  Caleb and Ling Fu assisted her descent from the wagon. When the Chinese turned to unload the trunks and baggage, Caleb made a move to assist him; but Sirena placed a restraining hand on his arm. “No, little brother,” she whispered, “you are no longer a paid cabin boy. You are Caleb Córdez of the shipbuilding Córdezes. Remember to leave the servants to their own duties.”

  Caleb flushed slightly. Not even inside the van der Rhys house and he had almost made his first mistake! He would have to be more alert, he promised himself, but he still felt uneasy about the role he was to play. How does the son of a wealthy shipbuilder behave? he questioned himself silently.

  With a sigh and a shrug, he stepped closer to Sirena as they waited in the comparative cool shade of the verandah for someone to answer the Señorita’s calculatedly timid knock on the impressive door.

  Although Sirena did not let Caleb know it by either word or action, she felt indignant at this apparently intentional inauspicious welcome. It was as if she were a peddler begging for a sale! At any moment now, these ostentatious doors would swing open and an imperious servant would look down her long nose at her and insist that all beggars and peddlers were received at the back entrance.

  She extended her arm, about to knock a second time, when the door swung wide. A young, harried-looking girl of about seventeen stood glancing back and forth from Sirena to Caleb with a frightened, shocked look on her face. The loose printed smock which hung from her shoulders fluttered from the force of the girl’s trembling. Then, seeming to regain her senses, she turned on her heel and ran down the hall, calling, “Juffrouw, Juffrouw is here!” Caleb and Sirena heard a great commotion in the room at the end of the hall and, lastly, the sound of a sharp slap and a choked sob.