Read Online The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
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The pencil began to move over the page, and within five strokes Schuyler saw that she had sketched a man—a craggy-looking fellow of exceptional height, callous hands, and massive oarsman’s shoulders. She sketched the docks under and around the man, lending an air of isolation to the tall figure.
Schuyler said nothing, but he felt his breath catch in his throat as she slowly brought the image to life. The skin of his palms grew damp as he realized he was watching a talent unlike any he had ever seen before. He had trained with the learned painter Joachim de Heem, had traveled to Amsterdam, London, Paris, Nuremberg, and Italy to perfect his art and technique. He was skilled and relatively well known in the art world, but in the space of five minutes this girl had demonstrated more natural ability than Schuyler would ever possess.
She turned the pencil now to shade in the telling details and shadows, and Schuyler thought he could almost see the man’s chest rise and fall, that at any moment those full lips would curl into a laughing smile. He had noticed a similar quality to her picture of the butterfly; he had wondered if the creature might mount the warm breeze and simply fly away.
A crowd had gathered, a quiet knot of men and women who stood behind the young woman and murmured in appreciation as her pencil flew over the paper. But the artist seemed not to hear them. Her entire being was concentrated upon her work; her spine curled toward the page, her fingers willing the pencil to create the image her mind held.
Schuyler gripped the arms of his chair as a sense of inadequacy swept over him. The Almighty had been gracious to give him a measure of talent, but God had obviously given a far greater measure to this girl. Why?
After a few more strokes, the young woman dropped the pencil and slid the sketch away, knowing without being told that her rendering was perfect and complete. How long had it taken him torecognize completion? For years he had struggled with the temptation to add, to tweak, to erase, to disguise. Even now he often had to put his pens and paints aside and conduct a mental debate over whether or not a work was complete. Yet this young woman—barely more than a girl—seemed to know instinctively.
She sat silently, her head bowed, waiting for his inspection, his help, his approval. What could he say? She had more talent than he; she lacked only what he could not give. With training and time, she might be the greatest artist Batavia had ever known, quite possibly a sensation even in Europe. But he was scheduled to depart within the month. Besides, he was too old to take on an apprentice—
She needs you .
The Voice came from within, and Schuyler instantly acknowledged it.
Ja, Lord, she does
, Schuyler responded.
But what should I do with her? She is a waif, a young woman of questionable repute. And I am leaving in a few weeks. I will not be here to tutor her
.
You need her .
Schuyler swallowed hard, then gripped the arms of his chair again. He was not one who heard the voice of God in every slight whisper of the wind, but he had heard it often enough to recognize it. And when God spoke, Schuyler knew he had to obey.
He summoned all the courage he could muster to acknowledge the call.
“Dank you, goed Vader,”
he whispered under his breath. “Give me wisdom now.”
He cleared his throat, searching for words. “Young woman—what, if I may be so bold, is your name?”
The eyes that lifted to his were filled with a curious deep longing. “The people here call me Irish Annie,” she answered, “but my true name is Aidan O’Connor.”
J offer O’Connor, you have a great gift. There is something about your work … something that shows great promise.” If Heer Van Dyck’s assessment of her ability startled Aidan, she was equally shocked by the fact that he’d addressed her using the respectful Dutch title “Joffer,” meaning “Miss.” His announcement brought cheers and applause from
Schuyler said nothing, but he felt his breath catch in his throat as she slowly brought the image to life. The skin of his palms grew damp as he realized he was watching a talent unlike any he had ever seen before. He had trained with the learned painter Joachim de Heem, had traveled to Amsterdam, London, Paris, Nuremberg, and Italy to perfect his art and technique. He was skilled and relatively well known in the art world, but in the space of five minutes this girl had demonstrated more natural ability than Schuyler would ever possess.
She turned the pencil now to shade in the telling details and shadows, and Schuyler thought he could almost see the man’s chest rise and fall, that at any moment those full lips would curl into a laughing smile. He had noticed a similar quality to her picture of the butterfly; he had wondered if the creature might mount the warm breeze and simply fly away.
A crowd had gathered, a quiet knot of men and women who stood behind the young woman and murmured in appreciation as her pencil flew over the paper. But the artist seemed not to hear them. Her entire being was concentrated upon her work; her spine curled toward the page, her fingers willing the pencil to create the image her mind held.
Schuyler gripped the arms of his chair as a sense of inadequacy swept over him. The Almighty had been gracious to give him a measure of talent, but God had obviously given a far greater measure to this girl. Why?
After a few more strokes, the young woman dropped the pencil and slid the sketch away, knowing without being told that her rendering was perfect and complete. How long had it taken him torecognize completion? For years he had struggled with the temptation to add, to tweak, to erase, to disguise. Even now he often had to put his pens and paints aside and conduct a mental debate over whether or not a work was complete. Yet this young woman—barely more than a girl—seemed to know instinctively.
She sat silently, her head bowed, waiting for his inspection, his help, his approval. What could he say? She had more talent than he; she lacked only what he could not give. With training and time, she might be the greatest artist Batavia had ever known, quite possibly a sensation even in Europe. But he was scheduled to depart within the month. Besides, he was too old to take on an apprentice—
She needs you .
The Voice came from within, and Schuyler instantly acknowledged it.
Ja, Lord, she does
, Schuyler responded.
But what should I do with her? She is a waif, a young woman of questionable repute. And I am leaving in a few weeks. I will not be here to tutor her
.
You need her .
Schuyler swallowed hard, then gripped the arms of his chair again. He was not one who heard the voice of God in every slight whisper of the wind, but he had heard it often enough to recognize it. And when God spoke, Schuyler knew he had to obey.
He summoned all the courage he could muster to acknowledge the call.
“Dank you, goed Vader,”
he whispered under his breath. “Give me wisdom now.”
He cleared his throat, searching for words. “Young woman—what, if I may be so bold, is your name?”
The eyes that lifted to his were filled with a curious deep longing. “The people here call me Irish Annie,” she answered, “but my true name is Aidan O’Connor.”
J offer O’Connor, you have a great gift. There is something about your work … something that shows great promise.” If Heer Van Dyck’s assessment of her ability startled Aidan, she was equally shocked by the fact that he’d addressed her using the respectful Dutch title “Joffer,” meaning “Miss.” His announcement brought cheers and applause from
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