on the tree-lined canal. Pieter pointed to it. "You like?" he asked.
" Ja ," she told him.
"When I come next, a boat."
"You can speak Dutch," she told him. "If I don't understand, I'll say so."
He immediately overwhelmed her with a rush of Dutch words, and she held up her hand. "Slowly," she begged.
"You are so very lovely. I cannot yet believe you consent to walk with me. I've watched you with your cousins—the old ladies—but you've never looked my way. They won't like your being with me today."
"Why is it you're in trouble with everyone?"
His expression took on a look she was coming to associate with the Dutch, a look of stubborn mulishness. "I became friends with men not approved of by the church."
"Why were these men not approved of?"
"They teach the philosophy of Torrentius."
"I've never heard of him."
"Torrentius van der Breeks was driven from the country because of his beliefs," Pieter said. "He taught that nothing is bad because everything comes from God and He is Goodness. I, too, believe this."
Romell was silent a moment. Nothing is bad? But evil did exist in the world—look what had happened to her uncle! Still, whether she agreed with his philosophy or not had nothing to do with liking Pieter. She found him interesting, so would see him again.
Cousin Greta was furious when Romell got home. "You must not be seen with Pieter Brouwer," she said. "You cannot possibly marry him, and it will ruin your reputation if you associate with him."
"I don't want to marry anyone at the moment. I don't see why I can't be friendly with Pieter." Cousin Greta pursed her lips. How old she looks, Romell thought. Old and wrinkled like a prune that's turned grey. In the background, Cousin Halva stood wringing her hands. She was not yet as grey as her sister, but she was fast drying up too. Romell shifted impatiently.
"Young Brouwer is a dangerous man. I suspect him of working with the devil," Cousin Greta said.
Romell stared at her in surprise.
"He mouths the words of that devil's advocate, Torrentius of Haarlem. He practices—God alone knows what—unspeakable rites."
"You have proof of this?" Romell asked.
"Anyone who'd associate with the followers of that evil man could only have a warped soul. Thank God his father is sending him out of Amsterdam. Honest and respectable folk will not tolerate such happenings."
"What happenings?"
"You are too young to be told."
They've taken me in, Romell reminded herself. Though they're not well-to-do, they've bought clothes for me and fed me. I must seem ungrateful, although I'm not. But I can't stand being forced into a mold I don't fit.
"I shall see Pieter Brouwer if I choose to," Romell said quietly but firmly. After all, she was half Dutch and could be stubborn too. Pieter was neither a murderer nor a thief. He only believed differently. Why should she turn away from him because others condemned his view of God?
Besides, he was the first man she'd met in Amsterdam who was at all interesting.
Romell defied Greta and went boating with Pieter. He piloted the small sailing craft along the canals, passing from the farmland near her cousins' house to the rush of the city where he lowered the mast so they might pass under one humpbacked bridge after another. Street vendors called their wares and men and horses pulled carts along the brick pavement.
On impulse, Romell said to him, "Could we go to Bree Straat? I'd like to visit someone there." She'd often thought of Francesca, but Greta always had a reason not to make a visit to the Bonus house.
Pieter readily agreed, saying to her, "Soon we will have to change the name to Jodenbree Straat, for, in truth, it's become the Jewish part of the city."
Pieter soon moored the boat, and they walked a short ways to Bree Straat. Francesca embraced Romell and called her sisters who hurried into the sitting room to hug Romell and chatter. Romell smiled and nodded, not understanding the words but warmed by the welcome. When she had a
" Ja ," she told him.
"When I come next, a boat."
"You can speak Dutch," she told him. "If I don't understand, I'll say so."
He immediately overwhelmed her with a rush of Dutch words, and she held up her hand. "Slowly," she begged.
"You are so very lovely. I cannot yet believe you consent to walk with me. I've watched you with your cousins—the old ladies—but you've never looked my way. They won't like your being with me today."
"Why is it you're in trouble with everyone?"
His expression took on a look she was coming to associate with the Dutch, a look of stubborn mulishness. "I became friends with men not approved of by the church."
"Why were these men not approved of?"
"They teach the philosophy of Torrentius."
"I've never heard of him."
"Torrentius van der Breeks was driven from the country because of his beliefs," Pieter said. "He taught that nothing is bad because everything comes from God and He is Goodness. I, too, believe this."
Romell was silent a moment. Nothing is bad? But evil did exist in the world—look what had happened to her uncle! Still, whether she agreed with his philosophy or not had nothing to do with liking Pieter. She found him interesting, so would see him again.
Cousin Greta was furious when Romell got home. "You must not be seen with Pieter Brouwer," she said. "You cannot possibly marry him, and it will ruin your reputation if you associate with him."
"I don't want to marry anyone at the moment. I don't see why I can't be friendly with Pieter." Cousin Greta pursed her lips. How old she looks, Romell thought. Old and wrinkled like a prune that's turned grey. In the background, Cousin Halva stood wringing her hands. She was not yet as grey as her sister, but she was fast drying up too. Romell shifted impatiently.
"Young Brouwer is a dangerous man. I suspect him of working with the devil," Cousin Greta said.
Romell stared at her in surprise.
"He mouths the words of that devil's advocate, Torrentius of Haarlem. He practices—God alone knows what—unspeakable rites."
"You have proof of this?" Romell asked.
"Anyone who'd associate with the followers of that evil man could only have a warped soul. Thank God his father is sending him out of Amsterdam. Honest and respectable folk will not tolerate such happenings."
"What happenings?"
"You are too young to be told."
They've taken me in, Romell reminded herself. Though they're not well-to-do, they've bought clothes for me and fed me. I must seem ungrateful, although I'm not. But I can't stand being forced into a mold I don't fit.
"I shall see Pieter Brouwer if I choose to," Romell said quietly but firmly. After all, she was half Dutch and could be stubborn too. Pieter was neither a murderer nor a thief. He only believed differently. Why should she turn away from him because others condemned his view of God?
Besides, he was the first man she'd met in Amsterdam who was at all interesting.
Romell defied Greta and went boating with Pieter. He piloted the small sailing craft along the canals, passing from the farmland near her cousins' house to the rush of the city where he lowered the mast so they might pass under one humpbacked bridge after another. Street vendors called their wares and men and horses pulled carts along the brick pavement.
On impulse, Romell said to him, "Could we go to Bree Straat? I'd like to visit someone there." She'd often thought of Francesca, but Greta always had a reason not to make a visit to the Bonus house.
Pieter readily agreed, saying to her, "Soon we will have to change the name to Jodenbree Straat, for, in truth, it's become the Jewish part of the city."
Pieter soon moored the boat, and they walked a short ways to Bree Straat. Francesca embraced Romell and called her sisters who hurried into the sitting room to hug Romell and chatter. Romell smiled and nodded, not understanding the words but warmed by the welcome. When she had a
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