Fairer than Morning (40 page)

It took only a few minutes to reach the end of the Burbridges' drive and emerge onto the Pittsburgh street, which grew more congested as they drove toward the Allegheny bridge. Will recognized the ramshackle outline of Emmie's boarding house as they whisked by. He was ashamed that his palms were clammy.

“I feel myself to be a coward,” he muttered, clenching his fists.

“Why?” Mr. Miller raised his head from the papers he was examining and directed a keen look at him from under his hat brim. “Because you fear your former master?”

Will remained silent, battling the waves of fear and anger. He would be a man, not a cringing boy.

“You would not be in your right mind if you did not fear him.” Mr. Miller's voice remained calm. “But I trust that his greed will win him over to our proposal. It would not be in his self-interest to refuse it.” He glanced down at the papers again.

Will took the small Bible from where Mr. Miller had laid it on the seat. Only the word of God himself could uphold him and steel his nerve through the next hour. He turned to the Psalms.

When the coach pulled up, Mr. Miller slid the papers back into his satchel and buckled it. “Be of stout heart now,” he said to Will, and stooped to exit the coach.

When Will stepped down, he was unprepared to see Dr. Loftin's white, neat house. Mr. Miller headed for the blue front door, but Will had to take a deep breath before he followed. The memory of following a different man to this same door years ago, unwittingly signing himself over to the devil—or at least his loyal henchman—was too much. He rubbed a hand over his face and walked after Mr. Miller.

The maid let them in—all was exactly as it had been that fateful day, except that Mr. Miller stood beside him instead of Master Good. Even the painting on the wall was still the same: the dark valley lit here and there by rays breaking through banks of cloud overhead.

The double doors of the adjoining room opened, and Dr. Loftin walked into the foyer. A wide smile spread across his face. “Samuel! This is a pleasant surprise. But what on earth brings you back—” He halted, mouth open, as he spotted Will standing back by the front door. He regained his pose. “I assume you do not come as a bounty hunter, Samuel. I know you too well for that.”

“No. I've come to buy out Will's indenture. And I need you to witness the agreement.”

Dr. Loftin crossed to Will with a slow step and stood close. He spoke in a hushed voice. “You did not kill Lucy. Tell me you did not.”

“No, Doctor.”

The worry lines on the doctor's forehead eased. “I knew it. But why did you not say so before the judge?”

“I would not have Tom thrown in prison for perjury.”

“A shame Tom did not show equal loyalty to you. No wonder he has seemed so down at the mouth this past month.” The doctor raised his hands and clapped them on the sides of Will's shoulders. “But I'm very glad to see you, Will. And overjoyed that you have found a good master.”

“I've brought the money with me,” Mr. Miller said. “A goodly sum, far more than the indenture is worth.”

“A wise strategy,” the doctor said.

“Then let us summon Master Good.” Mr. Miller hefted the satchel in one hand with a grim look and set it on the small table against the wall.

“I will go for him.” Dr. Loftin headed for the back hallway. “We'll give him an unexpected delight today.” The sardonic tone of his voice was unmistakable as it floated back over his shoulder.

After the back door closed with a thud, the house was so quiet Will could hear the clock ticking in the parlor.
Fear not evil men 
.
 
.
 
.
they will wither as the grass 
.
 
.
 
.

The back door thumped again, and he heard the false jovial voice that made the hair of his neck prickle. “Yes, my good doctor, but what's all the mystery about? You have me quite at a loss.”

Master Good walked out of the back hall and into the foyer and stopped dead in his tracks. His light blue eyes remained on Will for a long moment, then returned to Mr. Miller.

“What is the meaning of this?” He took a lightning step toward Will, then coiled back on himself like a snake and turned to the saddler. “Master Miller? You have brought me my runaway?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Mr. Miller's voice was as stiff as Master Good's was sinuous. “I have come to buy out Will Hanby's indenture.” He turned and drew the papers from the satchel, thrusting them toward Master Good at arm's length. “Two years, plus the two added by the court. I offer you ample compensation for his remaining obligation.”

Master Good accepted the papers and scanned them. His face twitched and he read on avidly. They had not been mistaken. The man was eaten alive by his greed. Mingled repulsion and relief flooded through Will, but he could not take his eyes off the black-haired man.

Master Good scanned each page. He continued looking at the first page for some time, even though Will was sure he had taken twice the time he needed to read it.

The light blue eyes flicked up again, directly at Will.

“And you think,” the master said slowly, “that I would accept any sum of money, after the pains this reprobate has put me to?”

He crumpled the pages in his hand. “No. I will accept no offer of yours, Miller. You lured my apprentice away and harbored him somewhere, making you his accomplice!” His voice had risen to a choking shout, his face was twisted. “I'll haul you before the judge along with him and make you pay the fine.”

Will's empty shock began to give way like a dam crumbling at the edges.

Master Good jerked his gaze back to Will. “And as for you, you son of a worthless whore—”

Will hurled himself across the room into Good, throwing him against the wall. Something fell with the sound of breaking glass, but Will fastened his hands on Good's throat and squeezed. The man's eyes began to pop. Blows from the side landed on Will's brow bone and jaw. He felt no pain. Only overwhelming passion to hang on until he squeezed the life from his tormentor.

He was wrenched backward, a cry of frustration torn out of him at the same time as his fingers slipped off Good's throat.

Mr. Miller's voice seeped through the fog of anger and pain. “Will! Will! I won't see you go to prison for murder!”

Dr. Loftin seized Will's other arm, yelling, “Stop!”

Will came back to his senses, his breathing ragged, his eyes unblinking on Good, who had staggered forward, his fingers curled and his knees flexed as if he would spring back at Will.

“Stand off, Jacob!” Dr. Loftin stood between Will and his former master, breaking their view of each other.

After a moment of tense silence, Master Good edged around to where Will could see his furious glare. “When I have you before the judge again,” he rasped, “I'll own you for the rest of your days.” He spun on his heel and stormed out the back hall, one hand to his bruised throat. The door slammed.

Dr. Loftin stood immobile, facing the back hall. Mr. Miller released Will's arm and sat heavily in the chair under the painting.

“I misjudged.” He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, his face weary, as if he had aged ten years in the past three minutes. “Forgive me.”

Dr. Loftin turned to him. “We all misjudged, Samuel. Jacob is beyond all reason.”

Will crossed to Mr. Miller and slumped on the floor beside his chair, his back to the wall. The saddler did not turn to him, but Will felt a hand on his shoulder.

They remained that way, in heavy silence, until Dr. Loftin escorted them out to the coach.

“I had almost given up hope.” Allan grinned and moved a chair immediately adjacent to hers, where she sat with a book in her lap. “You didn't write.”

“I'm sorry.” She smiled at him, though her thoughts were far away. Despite the enticing selection of books at the Burbridges' home, she had read the first line of this one at least ten times without absorbing it.

“Were you too busy to even think of me?” he asked.

“In a sense.”

“Is some Rushville beau chasing you?” His question was light as he fell back into their old banter.

“And if one were?”

“I would have to hunt him down.” He grinned, but a wolfish quality gave her pause.
This man killed for me
. She wished herself with her father and Will rather than alone here with Allan and the memory of the duel.

“I have difficulty . . .” She stopped. “I have been troubled by what happened here.”

“Of course you have.” He picked up her hand in his and pressed it lightly. “Any woman would. It's no disgrace. Your honor is unquestioned.”

Honor. What honor is there in murder?
He did not understand. She could not explain without insulting his courage in the duel, which had been the only way he knew to respond to what he had seen.

“Have you thought of me, in our separation?” He was teasing again but retained his hold on her hand.

Without answering, she withdrew from his grasp and stood. She paced before the cold hearth. “You did not shake hands with my father's apprentice.”

He paused. “No, I did not. Should I have?”

She touched the frame of a tiny landscape painting as if it fascinated her. “I thought you were a democrat.”

“I am. Except when I am jealous.”

She turned in surprise. He was grinning at her.

“Surely you jest.” His ridiculous suggestion provoked her to smile back at him.

“He is a man, apprentice or not. And he has seen you every day for weeks. That alone would have me raving with envy.” He was too witty to be sincere. “And then, of course, he venerates the very ground you walk on.”

Her laugh was short. “He is my father's apprentice, Allan.” She must change this uncomfortable subject. “There is someone else in Rushville. He has proposed.”

“And will you accept?”

“I don't know.”

“What are his merits? Tell me.” He challenged her with a tilt of his head. “Then I will tell you if you should marry him.”

She could not help but chuckle. “In your unbiased view.”

“Of course.” He ducked his head in mock humility.

“He is intelligent.”

“How intelligent?”

“I don't know!” She put her hands on her waist in mock exasperation.

“As intelligent as I?”

She smiled with him. “Perhaps.”

“As intelligent as your father's apprentice?”

“Don't bring him into this. We are having a serious conversation.” Unsettled, she began her pacing again.

“Then tell me about your suitor, without making me drag every detail from you.”

“He is handsome. He is a gentleman. He loves poetry.”

“Ah.” There was a world of condescension in Allan's sigh.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“What?” She whirled on him now, both curious and irritated.

“He is one of
those
.”

“Just because he loves poetry?”

“Because you mention it.”

“Lord Byron loved poetry,” she said.

“And would he have made a good husband?”

“You don't know Eli.”

“But I know you.”

She fell silent. Did he? Did he know her well enough to judge whether she should marry Eli?

He rose from his chair and walked to her, standing behind her and bending down to whisper in her ear. “I will tell you this . . .”

She shivered at his breath on her neck.

“From your description, I fear this handsome poet less than your apprentice.”

She eased away, annoyed. “You presume too much.”

“I intend to.” He looked at her sidelong with his gray eyes, still smiling. He did amuse her so, even when he transgressed.