Schuyler struggled to contain a gasp of pleased surprise when Gusta announced Aidan’s presence the next morning. After walking past the housekeeper, his young guest turned in the doorway and managed to complete a most graceful curtsy. “Good morning, sir,” she whispered, her voice softer than he had imagined it could be.

He gazed at her wordlessly. Pretty enough even in the tattered gown she had worn yesterday, the girl positively glowed with radiance in her new attire.

The housekeeper’s broad face wore an expression of mingled pride and disapproval. “My compliments, Gusta,” he murmured. “You have done well.”

Gusta had outfitted the young woman in one of Rozamond’s old gowns. A full skirt fell in gracious wide pleats from a high, narrow waistline, and the young woman’s slender, freshly scrubbed arms hung gracefully at her side beneath short, puffy sleeves. A double linen collar framed Aidan’s pink face, and her rebellious mane of red hair had been neatly corralled into a sizeable topknot at the crown of her head.

All in all, the young woman appeared tidy, neat, and nearly civilized, but the green eyes were still flashing—a sure sign that the housekeeper had managed to tame and polish only the exterior.

“Good morning.” Schuyler found his voice and pushed back his chair. “I trust you slept well.”

“Tolerably enough.” Aidan’s mouth pulled into a slightly sour smile as she clasped her hands at her waist. “It was too quiet in that room. I kept dreaming—an old dream, a pleasant one where I’m dancing on the beach—and then I’d suddenly wake up, realizing that there was no music, no sound at all. I feared that something terrible had happened.”

“Ahem, well.” Schuyler looked down at his desk, not wanting to ask what sort of sounds usually kept the girl awake. Given where he had found her, a typical evening could have contained all sorts of nefarious activities.

“I’ve been busy,” he looked up, “preparing a schedule for our next several days together. I plan to teach you a lesson each morning and set you to a task, then I must be about the business of preparing for my upcoming expedition. I do hope you understand.” He gave her a proud smile. “You may have heard the rumor that I am to sail on Abel Tasman’s next voyage. If the weather holds and the arrangements are finalized, we shall sail sometime in mid-August.”

She did not answer, but twisted her hands slightly. Was she nervous?

Better to keep her busy; tomorrow would take care of itself. “I’ve been gathering the equipment you will need to get started,” he said, moving toward the easel he had set up near the window. “You have the gift and the artist’s eye, I could see that straightaway, but I suspect that you have not been exposed to the different mediums.”

“The what?” Uncertainty crept into her expression.

“Watercolors, oils, pen and ink, pencils.” Schuyler gestured toward his worktable. “I think I would like to tutor you most particularly in watercolors. Of course, you can learn other techniques later, but I’ve a particular project in mind where watercolor will be most appropriate.”

She walked slowly toward the worktable, her expression softening as her eyes took in the collection of paints, brushes, and papers. “Do you work in watercolor, sir?”

“Sometimes.” He pulled a portfolio of his own work from a shelf. “I’m a cartographer, and I usually paint maps.” Interest gleamed in her eyes as he lifted the cover and pointed to some of his previous work. “Cartography is a science and an art, you see, a necessary meeting of the two. I take the charts compiled by ships’ captains and then translate their readings and notations onto the page.”

He turned the page and picked out one of his favorite pieces, a map of the Indonesian archipelago. “See this?” He ran his finger over the fine lines. “This is Indonesia, and this island is Java, where we live. This small dot,” he pointed to a spot on the northwestern shoreline, “is Batavia, our own city.”

He heard her breathing, quick and light, as her own hand gently traced the island. Those observant eyes absorbed every detail. “This space,” she whispered, “is the sea?”

He nodded. “The Pacific Ocean. And these shapes are other islands which surround us—New Guinea and New Holland.” He paused, then lowered his head in order to look up into her eyes. “Have you never seen a map, Miss O’Connor?”

One of her shoulders rose in a shrug, then he saw a blush run over her cheeks. They would make slow progress if she insisted on becoming embarrassed or defensive every time he asked a simple question.

“My dear Joffer O’Connor,” he said, “you need not fear ridicule from me. A student learns best when she realizes that she has much to learn, and you need not be embarrassed by your lack of knowledge. Question freely; speak your thoughts, for I will not castigate you, nor will I be astounded at anything you say.” He offered her a small smile. “Indeed, I shall only be amazed at your talent, which gives you every right to be here.”

She looked fully into his eyes, and in that silent moment he felt something—a transfer, however brief, of her trust. “I am not afraid of you, sir. It is only that—” She hesitated and bit her lip. “You cannot know how much I have longed for an opportunity like this. But I was certain it was never meant to be.”

“God works in mysterious ways, my dear.” He turned and walked toward the glass-paned door that opened into the garden. With one gesture he turned the doorknob and flung the door open, then smiled as Aidan gasped in delight at the sight of the summer garden beyond.

“You drew a butterfly, so I guessed that you have an affinity for nature.” He silently congratulated himself upon his first success with her. “I believe we will start with a lesson on how to paint flora in watercolor. So please, come with me into the garden, and let us find some flower you’d like to paint today. I’ll have one of the servants set up your easel in a suitable spot.”

They walked together, silently, through flaming beds of winding bougainvillea, bright hibiscus, and flowering frangipani, the sweet flowers the natives used to create wreaths and circlets of fragrant blossoms. After a few moments, she paused beside a pool in which lotus lilies grew in abundance.

“Here,” she said. Her eyes fastened upon a single elegant blossom that lifted its head far above the others. “I would like to paint this.”

Schuyler nodded to his steward, who had quietly followed with the easel. A sheet of prepared parchment and a small tray of watercolors arrived a moment later, and he saw Aidan’s eyes fill with appreciation and delight to find such treasures at her fingertips.

“You might wish to sketch it first,” he suggested, indicating the pencil in the tray. “I shall leave you to your work.” He took the small stool from the steward and positioned it for her. “When you have finished, I shall answer any questions and provide a helpful critique.” He bowed slightly. “But only if needed.”

She sank onto the stool, her eyes moving again to the jewel-bright flowers, and Schuyler backed away. She was very much like him, this young woman. Already he could see the creative spirit of the artist within her, a spirit he had not found in either of his children. But such things came from God, and the Almighty had gifted Rozamond with charm and wit, while Henrick had obtained a steadfast heart and the will to work.

He left her alone and walked slowly back to his library. Strange, how God worked. The Lord had given him two wonderful children, but the offspring of his body did not share in the artistic depths of his soul. And now, after all these years, the Almighty had sent him this girl—not his own blood, but someone to whom he could pass on his knowledge and his love for art, beauty, and creativity.

“Ja,” he murmured to himself, moving slowly back to his worktable. “God is good.”