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Clara sat lost in thought as Helma helped her out of her wet clothes. How delicious it was; clandestine meetings by the shady

canal, out of sight from everyone but the birds and silver undersides of the leaves. And in less than two months she would

be married, and there would be no risk of anyone being the wiser for her small foray into the world of love before marriage.

So what if Maurits was not who he said he was? So what if she did not know if she would ever see him again? It was the excitement,

the freedom, that mattered.

“I wouldn’t think getting soaked through to the bone would be cause for grinning,” Helma said as she rubbed a cloth over Clara’s

wet hair.

“You have no imagination then,” Clara said lightly, coming out of her thoughts.

There was a knock at the door, and a moment later Lysbeth’s little freckled face appeared.

“Pardon, mistress, but something has come for you.”

Clara frowned, then darted a worried glance at Helma. Had Maurits sent her another orange? Then another, worse thought flickered

through her mind: What if her parents had seen her with him? Before Clara could ask Lysbeth what it was, the maid disappeared,

and then Piet the gardener and one of his men were coming in, bearing a wooden ship nearly as large as a casket between them.

Helma murmured in surprise, and Clara leapt up from her seat, the wet clothes all but forgotten. The ship was cannily carved, with everything from full sails to a row of cannons peeking out of the port side, and in the deck was tucked a note. “Well, what does it say?” Helma asked.

Clara unrolled it and read aloud. “?‘Your claim that the canal running through Wierenslot originated near my home was too

tempting a proposition not to investigate. However, I feared a paper ship would not weather the journey, so I hope you will

forgive a wooden substitute.’?” Blood rose to Clara’s face, and she had to force herself to voice the rest of the intimate words. “?‘I count the days until

we are joined as man and wife, and I do not have to rely on such fancies to convey to you my deepest regards. With love and

affection, Hendrik.’?”

When she looked up, Helma had wet eyes and Piet was shifting his weight, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. “Well, if that

isn’t just the most romantic gesture I’ve ever seen,” Helma said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her shawl.

Goodness; Hendrik might have been a dreadful conversationalist, but he certainly had a way with the written word. Clara bent

to inspect the ship replica again. Did he carve it himself? He must have been a very clever man. Perhaps her marriage might

not be solely a means of escape, but an enjoyable enterprise in and of itself.

But when she lay in bed that night, waiting to drift off to sleep, it wasn’t Hendrik and his elaborate wooden ship of which

she thought, but of the kiss she shared with Maurits, his lithe body flush against her own.

As it turned out, Hendrik did not have to rely on carved wooden ships to communicate with Clara.

The next day after breakfast, Theodor summoned Clara to his study.

It was hard to walk through the echoing stone house and not glance out the windows to see if a magpie was waiting for her with a fish in its beak, or if she could catch a glimpse of dark red hair.

As Clara pushed open the heavy door, her heart beat in her throat.

Why was he calling for her? Her father never sought her out.

He must have discovered her assignation with Maurits and was informing her that the engagement was off.

Her mother might beat her, but facing her father instilled more fear in Clara; he wielded the power to send her far away, or to give her over to the church.

“Yes, Papa?” she asked as she stood before his desk.

Her father gave her the briefest of glances before returning to his work. “Oh, Clara,” he said absently. “The merchant’s guild

is hosting a banquet dinner, and Mr. Edema is going to be there. I would like for you to attend with me. It will be a good

opportunity for you to be introduced as Mr. Edema’s betrothed, and I know how eager you are to please your new husband.”

A hiss of relief escaped Clara’s lips. Was that all? “Gladly, Papa,” she said. A dinner at the merchant’s guild was not exactly

the most exciting prospect, but it was far better than being found out, and would provide a welcome distraction from her churning

thoughts.

Everything about the guild hall was heavy and dark, from the doors that shut against the daylight to the enormous paintings

of the guild members in their ruffs and black silks. Men congregated about in groups, the strain of a harp floating from the

musicians in the corner. Dutifully staying by her father’s side, Clara scanned the stuffy room before her gaze landed on her

intended. Hendrik’s wig sat stiffly on his head, a hundred prudish curls refusing to lie naturally against his cheeks as fashion

dictated. Catching her gaze, he made his way over to her, colored, and gave an apologetic laugh. “You must forgive my dress.

These functions require a level of formality to which I am seldom accustomed.”

She smiled and put her arm through his. “Not at all. You look most charming.”

This elicited a deeper shade of red and much nervous throat clearing that did not ultimately lead to any further conversation.

Clara took up a goblet of wine from a passing server and took a long draught.

So, it was still to be thus, awkward silences and much prodding along. “The little ship was so very droll,” Clara offered.

“Is it modeled after one of your own?”

He nodded. “ Wapen van Friesland ,” he told her. The Weapon of Friesland . Pausing, he slanted her a shy look. “Perhaps someday I shall name a ship The Clara .”

The idea tickled her and she smiled. “And what would my ship carry? Sweet spices from the Indies? Tulip bulbs from Constantinople?”

“Oh, no. Like all my ships, she would be a whaler.”

“A whaler?” The smile faded from Clara’s face and she slowed her steps. “You’re a whaler?”

Hendrik looked both surprised by her interest and wary, as if he was treading on thin ice and trying to find his footing.

“Well, yes,” he said uneasily. “Surely your father told you that? He will gain a twenty percent share in the business, and

your dowry will go toward my newest ship.”

“I see,” she said tightly. The taste had suddenly gone out of the wine. She thought of the whale on the beach, battered and

robbed of its dignity. Not only was she to marry a man who hunted those noble sea creatures, her dowry would finance such

bloody endeavors.

Hendrik hovered at her elbow. “Clara? Have I said something to upset you?” He glanced nervously about, as if his colleagues

might see his bride in distress and assume the worst about him.

Forcing a smile, she took a deep breath and turned to face him again.

“No, I’m only surprised my father never told me your trade.

It was silly of me to assume you were a merchant, and my mistake.

” The apology curdled on her tongue, but what could she do?

She was betrothed to the man, and no matter his profession, she would have to stand by his side, as any good wife was required.

Helma pursed her lips, listening to Clara recount the events of the dinner that evening as she helped her get undressed. “You

should be glad he is a whaler and not a slaver. After the war, there aren’t many respectable professions for a man with a

fleet of ships. Not since the herring fisheries collapsed.”

“Respectable! Oh, Helma, how can you say that? You saw that whale on the beach. The poor creature. It was murder and nothing

less.”

“Well, I can’t say that I like it any more than you do,” Helma said as she slipped the nightgown over Clara’s head. “But I

don’t see what’s to be done about it. Your parents have already arranged it and you’ve already agreed. It’s not the man’s

fault that you only just found out his profession isn’t to your taste.”

“I suppose,” Clara said. But it was more than that. How could she explain that it didn’t matter who Hendrik was or what he

did? He would never be exciting or passionate. The fact that he was engaged in an ignoble pursuit only served to heighten

her disappointment. She had thought that she could put Maurits from her mind, yet she was more consumed than ever with the

mysterious man who made her feel as if she was teetering on a dangerous precipice. It was impossible not to draw comparisons

between her awkward bridegroom and the strapping young man in the boat. Perhaps Helma had been right that day at the beach.

Perhaps the whale had been an omen, and a bad one at that.