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
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
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