Captive Embraces (4 page)

The house seemed suddenly empty. More desolate than it had when Caleb had gone off to school in Holland. Then, she still had Mikel to fill the day. And Regan to fill the nights. Now it was the loneliest she had ever known it to be. Even Mikel's death had not made her feel this way. Regan's leaving had made it become no more than a frame, a dwelling. Regan had made it a home.

Down the stairs she ran, out to the garden. The dew glistening on the lawn soaked through her slippers and the chill morning air made her shiver.

Heedless of the wetness, Sirena knelt beside the grave. Images of Mikel's laughing face scampered through her memory. “Mikel ... Mikel ... ,” she cried, throwing herself face down over the shallow mound as she had done on so many days in the past. Only this time she could not feel her son's presence. This time he seemed so distant Pathetically her fingers dug into the soft earth, clutching, gasping, refusing to be separated from her child. Heaving sobs shook her body, tears mingled with the dew. Her grief was a lonely monster strangling her, cutting off her life, making her one of the living dead.

To her own amazement the name she cried out was not Mikel's, it was Regan's. Over and over she repeated his name, suffering his loss. Then an image of herself crept into her consciousness. It was of an old woman, alone and unloved, weeping over the grave of a child hundreds of years dead. She was empty ... There was no comfort to be derived from this little plot. Mikel wasn't really beneath this ground, he was in her heart. He was in Regan's heart. No matter where Regan would go, no matter what he would do, he would carry Mikel with him. And so could she. She could leave Java and take Mikel with her. He would always be with her in a place that was warm and bright.

“Regan! Regan!” she called, stumbling across the wide lawn, running, running toward her love. “Regan!”

Up the stairs and into her room, searching and seeking for her gown, her shoes. She would go to Batavia and tell him to wait for her. She would go anywhere with him, now, tomorrow, forever! And Regan would wait, she knew he would. They would come home together and see to closing the house. There was packing to be done and Frau Holtz would need time to gather together her own possessions. They would be together. Always together.

“Frau Holtz!” she yelled from the top of the stairs, “Frau Holtz, where are you?”

“Ja,
I am here,” came the reply from the old housekeeper as she began to climb to the second floor.

“No, don't come up. There's no time. Have a horse brought around to the front of the house for me.”

The urgency in Sirena's voice alarmed the aged woman. “Is there anything wrong? Where are you going, Mevrouw?”

“No time to answer questions,” Sirena said with exasperation. “Just do as I say!”

“Ja,
I do it!” Frau Holtz agreed as she turned on her heel toward the back of the house. Her step was lighter than it had been in months and for some strange reason her bones didn't ache as badly as they had just a moment before. A smile on her wizened old face, the housekeeper went to find the stable boy. This wonderful change in Sirena was a miracle. Only yesterday she had thought that she would never see that spark of life lighting Sirena's eyes again.
“Ja,
I do it,” Frau Holtz repeated to herself. “I do anything to see her alive again!”

 

Galloping down the dusty road to Batavia, Sirena laughed and urged the horse onward. Her long, dark hair billowed out behind her, her eyes flashed vibrantly, her smooth cheeks were flushed with excitement and she carried in her the picture of Regan's face when she told him she would never let him depart without her. They belonged together. They had the strength, the wonder, of their love to draw upon. Wildly thrashing the horse's flanks, she urged it faster, faster, to Regan.

Down the elite Avenue of Lions she galloped, then through the narrow little streets to the offices of the Dutch East India Company. The wharf was a cacophony of longshoremen and traders. They turned to glance at her in amazement. The horse's hooves beat like drums upon the planks leading out over the water. Regan's office was at the far end of the wharf and she could see his mount tethered outside the door.

Sirena rushed into the offices, breathless and disheveled and looking more beautiful than she had in months. The Company clerks dropped their quills, their mouths gaped open in astonishment. Not stopping to make explanations, Sirena burst into Regan's office, her face wreathed in smiles, her eyes glowing with anticipation.

“Regan, darling, I'm coming—” the words were choked off in her throat. Instead of Regan there was their friend, Captain Dykstra.

“Peter,” Sirena asked breathlessly, “where's Regan? I have wonderful news for him—” Captain Dykstra's handsome features were drawn into a scowl and something in his bright blue eyes frightened her.

“Peter, where is he?” Sirena asked again, this time quietly, almost subdued.

“Peter?”

“Sirena, he's gone.”

“Gone? Gone?” she stammered, not comprehending what he meant. “But that's impossible? I've come down here to tell him I've made up my mind. I've decided to go with him, go anywhere with him? Where has he gone?”

Peter Dykstra's throat swelled with emotion. He knew Regan and Sirena when they were first married. He had seen their love grow and now the pain in Sirena's eyes was almost more than he could stand. Wordlessly he took Sirena's arm and led her over to the window facing the sea. There, just at the horizon she perceived the top of a sail.

Her flashing, green eyes searched Peter's wildly. “He's left? Without me?” She needed no answer; it was there in Captain Dykstra's face.

“The tides were right, Sirena. He said there was no sense putting off sailing. I tried to stop him, his ship hasn't been properly careened for such a long voyage. I told him it was foolhardy but he wouldn't listen. He never listens!” Peter grumbled.

Staggering to a chair, Sirena dropped heavily into it, covering her face with her hands. Beneath her nails was the thin, black line of dirt that had come from digging her fingers into the earth on Mikel's grave. Gone! Regan was gone! “Peter, you've got to help me. I must go to him! Help me,” she implored, reaching out and clutching his sleeve.

Peter Dykstra was helpless. Her agony was clearly apparent and mirrored that of Regan's which he'd witnessed earlier. “I can't help you, Sirena. There isn't a ship in the harbor ready to make sail. Even if there were, they're filled to the brim with cargo. You'd never catch him. The best you can do is wait a month when the next ship sets sail for Europe.”

“The
Rana,”
Sirena said hopefully, “I could—”

Peter Dykstra shook his head. “No, you couldn't. She's not seaworthy. She's been in drydock. Be reasonable.”

Sirena looked to the window. Even from where she sat, she could see the tip of Regan's sail drop over the horizon. Peter was right. She could never catch him.

“Sirena, let me take you home,” Peter said softly, touching her hand in consolation.

“Home? Where is that?”

Month after dreary month passed with Sirena doing no more than making a daily pilgrimage to the burial site. Afterward she would sit in the garden until the rains came, then return to the house and apathetically work on embroidery. She grew thin and gaunt, the hollows in her cheeks more pronounced with each passing day. The once vibrant green eyes were now as dull and lifeless as her spirit.

Nearly five months had passed since Regan had left, and Frau Holtz was observing Sirena from the doorway. She would never forget that morning when Captain Dykstra had brought Sirena home from the wharf. Regan was gone. Over and over Sirena whispered the words, tears glittering in her eyes.

Regan's leaving alone had taken the life from the Mevrouw. By nightfall Sirena had been put to bed with a raging fever, and it had been several weeks before she regained even a semblance of her former strength. The absence of those she cared for most was almost more than she could bear. Sirena had never again spoken of joining Regan. It was almost as though he, too, were dead and buried. Every so often Frau Holtz would encourage Sirena to talk about him, hoping that in doing so Sirena would be persuaded to leave Java and follow her husband. Always she would receive the same response.

“If Regan had loved me, he would have waited for me. It's obvious he wanted no part of me. He knew I didn't want to leave Mikel and he was counting on it to keep me here. No, I won't chase him. I want nothing to do with a man who doesn't want me.”

From her position near the door, Frau Holtz noticed a figure on horseback approaching the long drive leading to the house. She squinted into the bright sunlight and realized it was Peter Dykstra.

Wiping her hands on her apron, the housekeeper hurried out to meet him. It would be good for Sirena to have company.

“The Mevrouw is in the garden, Captain Dykstra. Come, I'll take you to her. She will be happy to see you. Visitors don't come very often.”

Captain Dykstra drew his breath in sharply at the appearance Sirena made. What in the name of God has happened to her? Alarmed because of the news he brought, he debated a second and then sat down beside her.

“Peter, how nice to see you,” she said, her voice a thin wail. He looked at her dull expression and flinched. Yet he knew he must tell her why he had made the call.

“How have you been, Peter? You look well.”

“Sirena, I've come to tell you something. I have some disturbing news.” She appeared so ill—no, that wasn't it exactly; she appeared tired, exhausted, as though life had become too much for her.

Sirena tilted her head out of the sun's direct glare. “Yes, Peter, I'm listening. Is something amiss at the office?”

“No, the Company is still doing well. I have information concerning the
Spanish Lady,
Regan's ship.” Sirena waited patiently for him to continue. Her face was unreadable.

“The reports I received were ... incomplete, to say the least. What I'm trying to say, Sirena, is that the Lady was sunk off the coast of Spain. No one is certain if the hands were captured by a marauding ship or lost at sea. There was a violent storm and that's all I know. I myself just arrived back from ports near Cathay and the Far East. One of the men returned to port only this noon hour and gave me the message. I'm sorry, Sirena. If there's anything I can do, feel free to ask.”

Peter Dykstra's brow was beaded with perspiration. It was unbelievable, she registered no emotion at all. He glanced at Frau Holtz and then back at Sirena.

“You must feel terrible about this, Peter. I know Regan was your friend.” She reached out and patted his hand in consolation. Her touch was ice cold, sending chills racing up his spine.

“Certainly I feel terrible, Sirena, but I must say you're taking it rather well. He was my friend, but he was your husband!”

“You have just learned that Regan is lost to you today. He's been lost to me for months. Ever since he sailed away from Java, leaving me behind. My grief is an old one, yours is fresh. Forgive me if I didn't react the way you anticipated, Peter. But I can't. I feel as though I died a year ago and no one has had the decency to bury me. Thank you for coming here to tell me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to be alone.”

Dykstra rose from the bench. She was right. Her sorrow was an old one. She was dead inside. He heard it in her voice and saw it in her eyes. Regan may be dead but he hadn't left behind a widow. His wife was dead long before he was. He placed a tender hand on Sirena's shoulder. “Remember, if there's anything I can do—” He realized she wasn't listening.

Frau Holtz watched Captain Dykstra as he rode toward the road leading back to Batavia. She stood closer to Sirena. The elderly woman was also puzzled by the Mevrouw's lack of emotion.

Suddenly Sirena laughed. “It's a trick! Can't you see through it? This is Regan's way of getting me to come to Spain. He must need my signature on some documents or something of the sort. He has no interest in me, only in my money. I never thought he would do anything so drastic! Imagine. Regan, one of the best seamen in the feet, allowing his ship to be sunk. Never. The
Spanish Lady
could ride out any storm no matter how violent.”

“Mevrouw, I know Captain Dykstra told you on the day Regan left that the ship was not fit to sail. And I, myself, heard them arguing two days before the Mynheer left. Captain Dykstra was telling the Mynheer that the six months that he had been filling himself with rum the vessel was unattended. Captain Dykstra warned the Mynheer and told him to have the
Lady
seen to. There was no time to do it; the Mynheer left before he could—”

“Poor Frau Holtz. I should have realized how Peter's news would upset you. You've taken care of Regan since he was a small boy and you love him like your own.” Tenderly, she took the housekeeper into her arms and comforted her while the old woman shed tears for Regan.

Something crept into Sirena's heart. “Frau Holtz, do you really think that something has happened to Regan?”

“I only tell you what I heard with my own ears. I woud not lie to you,” the old woman sobbed. “I raised that man from the time he was a boy. He would never trick you into believing he was dead. For what reason? For your name on a slip of paper? No, he would find his way around that. And it is not to pull you away from Java. If he wanted a woman, there is always someone beautiful ready to fall into his bed. No, Mevrouw, you may be his wife, but I know the Mynheer. Something terrible has happened. I can sense it!”

Sirena comforted the other woman and felt a sinking sensation in her own heart. Perhaps Frau Holtz was right. But then that would mean that Regan was dead! No, she couldn't believe that. She would never believe that. Not Regan!

 

A week passed and then two without Sirena going to the small grave. From her position on the balcony, she watched the jungle creep closer to the shallow mound. At the end of the third week, the vines had already trailed over the little marker, and she was aware that within the next few days there would be no sign that a much-loved little body rested beneath the lush foliage.

Dry-eyed, she called for Frau Holtz and pointed to where Mikel rested. “It's gone. I can leave now. I'm going to take the
Rana
and set out for Spain. Do you want to remain here or will you come with me?”

“Ja,”
Frau Holtz said sternly, “I've been packed since the day Captain Dykstra came here. Your trunks are mostly ready also. Jacobus and your crew have already taken the ship out of dry dock and she is well stocked with provisions and ready to sail. We only wait for you.”

Sirena swallowed hard and looked at the housekeeper. “I still say it's a trick! Yet my heart tells me otherwise. Dismiss the servants and give them ample wages. Close the house and we'll leave.”

“Ja,”
Frau Holtz said happily.
“Ja.
If anyone can discover what has become of the Mynheer, it is you, Mevrouw.”

“
Ja
,” Sirena teased, “it is me.”

 

The
Rana
's crew greeted Sirena joyously, their faces filled with delight. It was old Jacobus who bowed low with a grand flourish and then impulsively gathered her close and swept her across the polished deck. Sirena giggled for the first time in months, her eyes sparkling. “Take me to my homeland, Jacobus. Take me to Spain.”

“Aye, Capitana, your homeland it will be. But it will be you who takes us there. There's not one among us fit to captain this ship. If the boy Caleb were here, it would be a different matter. Have you heard any more news of the captain?”

“Why are we standing here?” Frau Holtz demanded. “The longer we stand here mooning around the less time we'll have to search for the Mynheer.”

“This is my first mate,” Sirena said to the grinning seamen. “You heard the lady, hoist the anchor and raise the sail. Jacobus, take the wheel, and I'll relieve you shortly.”

“Aye, Capitana,” Jacobus answered, using the name her crew had given her when they had ridden the seas on their vengeful mission to locate and destroy the man known as “the Hook.” He had been directly responsible for the death of Sirena's sister, Isabella, and their search for him had led them through an adventure it would fill a book to tell. She had been Sirena Córdez then. Proud and beautiful, as she still was. She had been humiliated and badly used by a band of ruthless pirates. When she and the young boy, Caleb, plotted their escape, they had taken command of an elusive vessel and she had earned for herself the name “Sea Siren,” in her thirst for revenge.

It was to Regan van der Rhys that her sister Isabella had been betrothed. Sirena had taken her dead sister's place and married the impassioned, sun-gilded master of the Dutch East Indies whose lusty tastes were stifled by his marriage to the seemingly demure Sirena. The Sea Siren and Regan clashed on land as man and wife and on the seas as enemies, before finding that they loved and desired each other more than either had ever thought possible.

Jacobus smiled. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to sail the seas with her again and discover what new exploits the future held.

Frau Holtz bustled around the cabin, unpacking the trunks and tidying, muttering something about sloppy seamen and the mildew that was fast taking hold between the floor planks.

Sirena chuckled as she tied her blouse in a knot beneath her full breasts. “I'll leave you to your housekeeping duties and take the wheel from Jacobus.”

On deck, the wheel in her grip, Sirena felt as though she had taken a grip on life. She was at peace. A feeling which had eluded her for too many months. A feeling she relished and accepted.

 

Lashing rain beat against the tall, narrow windows of the expansive, gray stone building across the canal from The Hague. For once Caleb van der Rhys took no notice of the harsh weather which cursed Holland. Usually, his mood would blacken with the low, scudding clouds and his thoughts would invariably return to the sun-filled days of the East Indies. He detested this country, the school he attended, and the boredom of his existence. The regimentation of his days was a far cry from the excitement and danger he had experienced at sea when he served as cabin boy to Sirena van der Rhys, his stepmother. In those days she had been known as the Sea Siren and he had fought beside her as she wreaked her revenge on those who had made her life a living hell. He had been a badly misused cabin boy, indentured from ship to ship, when she had found him and had made him her friend.

Because of Sirena he had been reunited with his father, who had thought him dead for many years. Regan was everything a young man could hope for in a father and Sirena, who had met her lusty match in Regan and married him, was more than a young man could wish for in a stepmother.

Caleb stood before the tall looking glass, smoothed his dark hair and straightened his silky, white cravat. He nervously brushed minuscule specks of dust from the sleeve of his jacket and stood on one foot, rubbing the toe of a polished boot against the back of his other leg. Satisfied that the tips of his boots were dazzling and his cravat was properly tied, he brought himself to full height and purposely restrained himself from running headlong down the corridors to the austere front parlor to greet Regan.

Caleb had been wrestling with Latin when the dormitory messenger had interrupted his studies and relayed the information that Mynheer van der Rhys was awaiting him downstairs. In the midst of his excitement, Caleb held a single wish in his heart; that Regan had come to take him out of school and return with him to Java. Mingled with that hope was the certainty that Regan would view him as a full-grown man and accept him as such. Caleb glanced once again in the mirror and straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. There was no denying that he was no longer the boy Regan had left behind in Holland. Caleb's features had matured. The soft, boyish roundness had disappeared from his jaw and he had been shaving regularly for more than six months now. His coat fit snugly around his broad shoulders and emphasized his muscular build. In a few months he would be eighteen, surely old enough to make his own way in the world and take his place as a man among men.

He bounded down the steps three at a time and only had a second to tighten his lips over an ebullient whoop of joy.

Caleb walked into the sparsely furnished parlor where visitors were admitted. His dark eyes lighted at the sight of his father, then immediately darkened to a scowl. “Sirena isn't with you?” he asked accusingly.

“No,” Regan answered, his voice little more than a deep growl. “I told you in my letter not to expect her. Why do you torture yourself with the thought that she would come here? Look at you!” Regan said jovially, trying to distract Caleb from his thoughts, “I left a boy and now I return to find a man!”