and nights, our country would be flooded."
"Yes, Cousin Greta explained how the mills pump water out of the polders , the lands reclaimed from the sea. But I like to just look at them. See? They look like women. There's the skirt--even the ruff ladies used to wear around their necks."
Pieter smiled at her. "The millers call their windmills ‘he'—so much for your ladies. We have had them here for over four hundred and fifty years. They say the crusaders brought them home from Arab lands."
"Oh, look!" Romell cried. "There's a stork."
Pieter shrugged. "Storks are all over."
"We don't have them in Virginia. They're new to me. I couldn't believe it when I saw my first stork's nest atop a chimney pot. They're such ungainly birds except when they fly, then a stork is beautiful."
He put an arm around her shoulders. "You are beautiful at all times, Romell."
She slipped gently from his grasp, not wishing to hurt him, but not wanting to encourage him either. Why she didn't like him as much as she had at first, she wasn't certain. He was very handsome and obviously interested in her. Still, she sensed something strange about Pieter, something she wasn't able to put words to.
When they came to a small stand of elms, he halted and took a white cloth from the leather bundle he carried on his back. Spreading the cloth carefully on the ground, he looked so much like a housewife putting on a tablecloth before the meal that Romell smiled.
He glanced up and saw her, dropped the tablecloth and strode to her, taking her in his arms before she knew what he intended.
"Nee," she said, "No, Pieter, let me go."
"But you smiled, you invited my kiss." he said, reluctantly taking his arms away.
"A smile is only friendly. Good heavens, would you have me frown at you all the time? Unless you can promise me this won't happen again, I don't know if I care to stay."
His face took on that mulish look. "I’ll behave," he muttered.
When the pickled herring and the eggs and ham were spread out on the cloth, along with the buns and cakes, Romell seated herself across from Pieter.
"So much food! I shall get quite fat."
He filled two cups with some beverage and handed her one. When she took a drink she coughed and sputtered. Hastily, she set the cup down.
"What is that?" she demanded when she could speak.
"Have you never had geneva —gin?"
Romell shook her head. "No, and I don't care for it now. Is there aught else to drink?"
There was not and so she drank nothing. But Pieter swallowed enough gin for them both. She eyed him uneasily, and when he fixed her with an intent look, she hastily took up a cake she really didn't want.
He laughed. "I can wait."
She put down the cake. "It's time to go," she said, starting to rise.
Pieter lunged across the cloth at her, scattering food every which way. He pulled her to him, her head in his lap, and put his mouth to hers. His hands found her breasts, kneading them through the silk of her dress.
His mouth tasted of gin, she felt suffocated and his hands on her body angered her. She twisted and struggled to get away, but his grip was strong. Finally she lashed her head back and then brought it forward, crashing her temple against Pieter’s nose.
He howled and drew back. Romell rolled away, got to her feet and ran out to the road along the canal. Without looking around, she headed for the city. How dare Pieter put his hands on her!
A few minutes later he caught up with her, "I lost my head," he admitted.
Romell didn’t reply.
"You drive me mad," he told her. "Why must you withhold yourself? Making love is not wrong, not bad. God intended men and women to enjoy one another."
"I wasn’t enjoying it."
"But if you let me, I could make you like it. Oh. Romell…"
"Under the circumstances, I don’t care to see you again."
"You’re turning against me like all the rest."
"If you tried to force others, it’s no wonder they turned against you."
"I didn’t mean women—women usually like me. I meant
"Yes, Cousin Greta explained how the mills pump water out of the polders , the lands reclaimed from the sea. But I like to just look at them. See? They look like women. There's the skirt--even the ruff ladies used to wear around their necks."
Pieter smiled at her. "The millers call their windmills ‘he'—so much for your ladies. We have had them here for over four hundred and fifty years. They say the crusaders brought them home from Arab lands."
"Oh, look!" Romell cried. "There's a stork."
Pieter shrugged. "Storks are all over."
"We don't have them in Virginia. They're new to me. I couldn't believe it when I saw my first stork's nest atop a chimney pot. They're such ungainly birds except when they fly, then a stork is beautiful."
He put an arm around her shoulders. "You are beautiful at all times, Romell."
She slipped gently from his grasp, not wishing to hurt him, but not wanting to encourage him either. Why she didn't like him as much as she had at first, she wasn't certain. He was very handsome and obviously interested in her. Still, she sensed something strange about Pieter, something she wasn't able to put words to.
When they came to a small stand of elms, he halted and took a white cloth from the leather bundle he carried on his back. Spreading the cloth carefully on the ground, he looked so much like a housewife putting on a tablecloth before the meal that Romell smiled.
He glanced up and saw her, dropped the tablecloth and strode to her, taking her in his arms before she knew what he intended.
"Nee," she said, "No, Pieter, let me go."
"But you smiled, you invited my kiss." he said, reluctantly taking his arms away.
"A smile is only friendly. Good heavens, would you have me frown at you all the time? Unless you can promise me this won't happen again, I don't know if I care to stay."
His face took on that mulish look. "I’ll behave," he muttered.
When the pickled herring and the eggs and ham were spread out on the cloth, along with the buns and cakes, Romell seated herself across from Pieter.
"So much food! I shall get quite fat."
He filled two cups with some beverage and handed her one. When she took a drink she coughed and sputtered. Hastily, she set the cup down.
"What is that?" she demanded when she could speak.
"Have you never had geneva —gin?"
Romell shook her head. "No, and I don't care for it now. Is there aught else to drink?"
There was not and so she drank nothing. But Pieter swallowed enough gin for them both. She eyed him uneasily, and when he fixed her with an intent look, she hastily took up a cake she really didn't want.
He laughed. "I can wait."
She put down the cake. "It's time to go," she said, starting to rise.
Pieter lunged across the cloth at her, scattering food every which way. He pulled her to him, her head in his lap, and put his mouth to hers. His hands found her breasts, kneading them through the silk of her dress.
His mouth tasted of gin, she felt suffocated and his hands on her body angered her. She twisted and struggled to get away, but his grip was strong. Finally she lashed her head back and then brought it forward, crashing her temple against Pieter’s nose.
He howled and drew back. Romell rolled away, got to her feet and ran out to the road along the canal. Without looking around, she headed for the city. How dare Pieter put his hands on her!
A few minutes later he caught up with her, "I lost my head," he admitted.
Romell didn’t reply.
"You drive me mad," he told her. "Why must you withhold yourself? Making love is not wrong, not bad. God intended men and women to enjoy one another."
"I wasn’t enjoying it."
"But if you let me, I could make you like it. Oh. Romell…"
"Under the circumstances, I don’t care to see you again."
"You’re turning against me like all the rest."
"If you tried to force others, it’s no wonder they turned against you."
"I didn’t mean women—women usually like me. I meant
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