Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive (26 page)

“Nothing I can name. But Mrs. Powers remained in England to continue the major’s work. There’ve been spies and worse lurking about our printshop. Twice they tried to burn us out. Mrs. Powers moved in with the Aldridges for her own safety.”

“Which means they may indeed have followed us here.” Falconer thought of the pamphlets Samuel Aldridge had stuffed into his pocket. They were upstairs in his room, unread. Falconer had never been a great one for reading. “They’re pamphleteers, I’m told.”

“That and more. You have heard of the calls for social reform?”

“I have not set foot in England in years,” Falconer replied. “And never ventured inland before.”

“William Wilberforce is their leader. As fine a man as it has ever been my honor to meet. They seek any number of
changes. Most of them are above my simple head. The central cause is the obliteration of slavery.”

“Mr. Powers mentioned as much to me. But his illness kept us from discussing it very deeply.”

“Nothing is closer to their hearts, besides God and family.” Daniel stopped and turned, staring into Falconer’s face. “Their cause strikes home, does it?”

Falconer had a sudden sailor’s image of a ship making slow progress as it entered a river mouth. There was a certain moment, twice each day, when the river’s flow joined with the tide’s change to create an ebb so strong it could halt the swiftest vessel. The water would rush by, the sails could all hold fistfuls of wind, and still no forward progress was made. Even the wisest of sailors could miss the moment, for the river’s tidal change was far removed from the sea’s. In some river mouths, the difference was thirty minutes, in others a full two hours. Knowledge was everything.

It was precisely how Falconer felt just then. He had fought to make way. His quest was simple. Deliver his evidence to a trustworthy ally, then return to the West Indies and rescue his friend. Yet every step forward had left him no closer to either goal. “Samuel Aldridge told me I needed to find allies I could trust.”

“If you’re an anti-slaver as I suspect, you couldn’t find better mates for guarding your back than these. The Powers and the Aldridges have been at the struggle for years. They’re not in Parliament, and their names don’t appear on any masthead save the pamphlets that bear their name. But they are major forces working behind the scene in the cause.”

“You don’t know,” Falconer said softly, “what your words mean to me.”

“The time of combat in Parliament is coming.” Daniel spoke with the steady assurance of one who had read the battle lines with experienced care. “That’s why Mrs. Powers remained behind. We’re winning. At long last, and with God’s help. And further change is on the wind.”

“The reformists swept into Parliament six months back.” Daniel paused and took a noisy drink from his mug. “Whigs, they’re called. Never could get my mind around the labels these politicians choose for themselves. Sounds to me like a nasty breed of dog.” He sipped again. “Where was I?”

“Reform.” In truth, Falconer paid the former soldier only half a mind. He had returned to his room to retrieve the two pamphlets and now studied them with care. Reading had never come easy to him, and many of the words were long. But the message here was unmistakable.

“There’s a powerful new middle class rising in the cities and countryside both. They’ve no patience with the old ways. A vast number of these folks are strong believers. They want change on every level. They want better care of the poor. They want schools. Hospitals. A government that provides for its people. A country where taxes are fair, and the roads are safe, and folk are free to move about. A decent wage for a decent day’s work. The list is endless.”

The kitchen was gradually filling with sleepy servants. But today was different. They did not seat themselves at the table with the two strangers. Instead, as they slipped in for their mug and husk, most lingered nearby and listened avidly to Daniel’s words.

“Top of the list is slavery. Trade in new slaves was outlawed a while back. But there’s rumors that the trafficking has continued. Hard to know, of course, because it’s all gone secret. And it’s so far away, down in the Spice Islands and the West Indies.” Daniel eyed him. “Where did you say you were from?”

“For the past few years,” Falconer replied, “I’ve run a chandlery on Grenada.”

“Well, now.” Daniel leaned back in his chair, signaling it was time for Falconer to do the talking.

But Falconer had no interest in divulging secrets in the
company of so many strangers. He was about to say as much when a sound drew him from the chair.

Daniel spotted the sudden shift and moved impossibly swiftly for such a big man. “Trouble?”

Falconer headed for the door. “Stay where you are.”

He recognized the sound for what it was as soon as he passed through the kitchen door. He walked around the kitchen and followed the noise back to the side of the stables. A cheerful young man was stripped to the waist and humming a tune under his breath as he wielded an ax. Falconer immediately knew that the lad was no trouble. He whistled sharply.

The lad looked over and lost his rhythm. “Who are you?”

“A friend. The lass, is she about?”

Though he was wary of Falconer’s demeanor, the young man took a firmer grip on the ax handle. “She’s not to be played with by the likes of you.”

Falconer held up an open palm. “I mean no harm. She was attacked yesterday.”

The ax lowered. “By the young lord?”

“Foppish, slender, thinks all the world is his plaything.”

“Aye, that’s the one. Stewart Drescott.” The young man’s face flushed with anger. “Did he hurt her?”

“I found them in time. Where were you?”

“Hunting. My half day off. The lass didn’t say a thing to me about it this morning. But then again, she wouldn’t. Hardly speaks a word, our Serafina. Quiet as a little blond ghost.”

“Where is she now?”

“Seeing to the fireplaces in the great rooms. But—”

Falconer headed back, treading on silent feet. He did not run, for he could feel eyes upon him over by the kitchen. But he walked at a pace that few could match for long. He bounded up the rear stairs, slipped through the portal, and halted. A scraping sound led him down a servants’ corridor
and through a pair of painted double doors. He stepped into a room of vast proportions. Six tall windows marched down one side, matched by gilded mirrors upon the opposite wall. Two marble fireplaces adorned either end. A figure knelt before the one closest to where Falconer stood. He stepped back and stood in silence.

Serafina gripped the basket with one hand and plied a small shovel with the other. A brush and pan were tucked into pockets of her apron. Rags tied around her hands were turned gray by the soot. She worked steadily but slowly. Falconer could hear the sighs of her breath, small gasps that could almost have been sobs.

She brushed the remnants of ash into her pan and flicked that into the basket. She rose slowly. Only then did he realize she was trembling. Whether from fear or fatigue, he could not tell. She gripped the basket with both hands, and the strain of lifting it shown upon her features. He had not noticed her bandaged hands the previous day, or perhaps he had but discounted them. Many scullery servants wore protective cover on their hands. But the way she winced as she hefted the basket suggested more at work than just tender flesh.

Her face was more heart shaped than oval, he noticed. Two strands of hair had emerged from her scarf and fell like wisps of cloud over one eye. Ash was streaked across her forehead where she brushed at the lock of hair with a hand stained black. Her eyes were clear of tears, but Falconer suspected it was merely because she had shed them all. Never had he seen such a tragic face upon one so young.

And young she was. A woman, yet hardly so. He had no ability at judging a woman’s age, but he doubted Serafina was more than twenty. He watched her take shaky steps toward the opposite fireplace, and suddenly he felt ancient beyond his years.

The servants’ entrance to the room was nicely adorned. The formal entrance, however, was palatial. The broad double doors were formed from rare woods inlaid with a golden
crest. One caught the sunlight as it swung open and banged against the wall. A man’s voice called out, “There she is!”

The words drew a terrified gasp from Serafina. She dropped the basket, which tumbled upon its side and spilled a cloud of ash over the parquet floor. She groaned at the sight. Then again at the advancing man.

“Shame, girl. I shall have to punish you for that carelessness.” The young lord stepped lightly upon polished calfskin boots, the silver buttons glinting on his velvet day coat. “And for the manner of my dismissal yesterday.”

“No,” she whimpered.

“Come, come. What harm is there in a bit of fun? You can’t be content with this dreary existence. Not a lovely lass such as yourself.”

“I’ll—I’ll scream.”

“You won’t, you know. The house will awaken, a storm will ensue, and it would be my word against yours.” He opened his arms. “And now there is no hulking great brute to interrupt us.”

Falconer stepped through the doorway. “Wrong again.”

The man leaped into the air and spun about. “You!”

“None other.” Falconer started a measured tread across the floor. “I warned you what would happen if—”

“Keep away from me!” The young lord fled the room.

Serafina watched Falconer’s approach above hands clenched to her face. Her chest heaved and her entire body trembled.

“It’s all right, lass.” He bent over and righted the basket. “Hand me your brush.”

She did not respond. He reached over and slipped the brush and pan from her apron.

She kept her hands before her face. “A-are you a guardian angel?”

Falconer laughed out loud. “I have been called many things. But that is a first.”

“Then who . . . ?”

“The name is Falconer. John Falconer. As I told you last
night.” Up close she was even more lovely, a perfect figurine dressed in ashes and servant’s weave. “Is Serafina your first name or last?”

“First. My name is Serafina Gavi.” A lilting accent added tragic melody to her words.

“There, you see. We are suitably introduced.” He reached over once more. “Now let me see your hands.”

Reluctantly she offered one hand. He took hold of fingers tapered and fine. And soft. These were no worker’s hands. Gently he peeled back the rag, but not far, because he could see the blisters were suppurated and clinging wetly to the cloth.

He looked up at her. “Why did you not tell someone?”

“About what?”

“About . . .” He let her pull her hand free. “Lass, those wounds must be seen to, else you could be scarred for life.”

Her gaze opened further. Falconer crouched beside the pile of ashes and watched as her eyes revealed a depth of pain that drew him up sharp. She started to speak but was halted by the sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway.

“What’s this?” a woman gasped. “What on earth is going on here? Serafina, how could you?”

Falconer rose to his feet, saddened that their moment’s solitude was over. “It was not her, ma’am.”

A severe woman in a dark high-necked dress marched forward. “And just who, pray tell, are you?”

“Manservant to Mr. Powers, ma’am.” He gestured to the young woman cowering behind him. “She was attacked. Again.”

To his surprise, the woman did not disbelieve him. Instead, she turned to Serafina and asked, “The young lord?”

“You knew?” Falconer heard the grating anger in his voice. “You knew and did nothing to protect her?”

Whatever the woman saw in his face, it was enough to back her off a pace. “Stewart Drescott is the only son and heir.”

“Which matters not a whit to me.” He turned to Serafina. “Have you eaten this morning?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Go and have your breakfast. No, leave the basket. I’ll see to this mess.”

The woman tilted her chin. “I give the orders in this house.” “Then tell her to go!”

The woman distanced herself another step. “Leave us, Serafina.”

When they were alone, Falconer demanded, “Is this the way you protect those in your charge?”

“I had no idea this had happened.” She studied the man before her. “You’re sure about this? She was actually attacked?”