Free The Golden Cross by Angela Elwell Hunt

to your personal needs, and while you reside with us I will teach you about art.”
    He paused, waiting for her reaction, and Aidan pressed her lips together, thinking. He was truly shocked—and that was a good thing. Surely this man was a true gentleman. He had a gentle manner, and his refined features fairly exuded intelligence and good breeding. If he kept his word, perhaps she could learn a thing or two. And often ships were delayed out of port, so an expedition scheduled to depart in a few weeks might be delayed for even a few months.
    Yes, this might be a very good thing.
    Van Dyck was smiling now, his expression distracted, as though he listened to something only he could hear. After a moment his eyes widened as if he’d just received a revelation.
    “You seem to have a skill for the things of nature—that butterfly was really quite remarkable,” he said, running his hand through his white hair. “I’m afraid I am more attuned to lines and geography, images and shapes which do not move or breathe.” He shot her a twisted smile. “Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two, if I am not too old to learn. I have a great need for someone who can teach me to accurately draw the flora and fauna of—”His voice faded slightly as his eyes turned toward the open doorway. “—of our world.”
    Aidan bit her lip. “I wouldn’t know how to teach you anything, sir.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t even know how I do what I do. It just comes out of me.”
    “That is very obvious, my dear, and as I said, it is a gift.” Heer Van Dyck fished in his doublet pocket for a moment, then produced a little card scrawled with an elegant handwriting. “This has my name written upon it. Can you read?”
    Aidan felt her cheeks flush as she nodded. “Of course. I was educated in England.”
    “I should have known.” Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around his eyes as he smiled at her. “But there’s a bit of the Irish in you too. I can hear it in your voice.”
    “My parents were Irish,” Aidan answered, smiling back at him. Aping her mother’s brogue, she tilted her head at a jaunty angle. “Sure, and there’s a wee bit of the blarney in me, but ’tis not such a bad thing to be Irish.”
    The artist grimaced in good humor. “Of course not. The Irish are a charming lot.” Van Dyck clapped his hands together, then looked around the room. “Have you someone—a guardian, perhaps—that I should speak to on your behalf? I’d like to assure them that I mean you no harm. I believe you can be a great artist someday, and I’d like to help you begin.”
    Aidan frowned, thinking of Lili. Faith, Lili would wet her skirts if she knew her daughter had encountered an honest-to-goodness kind and generous Rich Gentleman. She would stop at nothing in her effort to marry him to Aidan, herself, or one of the other girls ….
    “I have no one; I speak for myself,” Aidan answered, “but I might be inclined to visit your house before I agree to this arrangement. Where do you live?”
    “Follow Broad Street west of this place,” Van Dyck answered, pointing toward the doorway. “It’s a white house, surrounded by a wide porch. The door is painted blue, like the sea.”
    He lived on the Other Side of Batavia—the place where good-wives and housekeepers scrubbed their faces and their floors and condemned to the workhouse anyone who didn’t meet their high standards of physical and moral neatness.
    Aidan pressed her damp hands to her skirt, wiping away sudden drops of perspiration. “Perhaps I’ll come.” She lifted her chin and forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile. “But I don’t need a nursemaid. If you agree to teach me, I’ll work hard. I want to learn.”
    “Indeed.” His eyes flashed with something that might have been admiration or humor, then his eyes fell upon the drawing on the table. “Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked.
    “No, please do,” Aidan answered, amazed that he