Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive (31 page)

“Is that so? Why was I not informed?”

“It has only just been decided, ma’am.”

“By whom?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Powers, ma’am. Mrs. Powers asked me to dress thusly.”

“So you think you can depart the manor without a by your-leave?”

Serafina realized this conversation was going to take time
she did not have. She took a quick breath and asked as humbly as she could, “Might I please have a moment alone with my aunt, Mrs. Marcham?”

The housekeeper showed genuine surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Be a dear, Beryl,” Aunt Agatha said mildly. “Clearly the young lady is under some considerable pressure.”

“Yes, very well. If you’re quite sure.”

“It appears Serafina’s time with us is coming to a close,” Aunt Agatha said and patted her old friend’s hand. “Thank you for the lovely tea. I shall look forward to speaking with you later in the week.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Marcham rose, inspected Serafina one more time, then left without a word.

“Come sit down beside me, dear.” Agatha watched her approach. “What has happened to your hands?”

“I damaged them with the work, the firewood. But they are getting better.” She picked at the edge of one bandage. “I wished to apologize for all the trouble I have caused.”

Her aunt slowly nodded. “I see that progress is indeed being made. Very well, child. Your apology is accepted. Now tell me. You intend to travel with the Powers family?”

“They have asked me to do so. And I cannot stay here.”

“No,” Agatha agreed. She stared out the window at the cloud-swept horizon. “I dread the thought of this great home coming under the sway of young Drescott.”

But Serafina had not come to discuss the manor’s future. “Aunt, could you please tell me, what does it mean to repent?”

Agatha moved her head to inspect her niece more closely. “Repentance means to turn away. This much you know, yes? Our Savior, when he spoke to the woman who had sinned, said to her, ‘Go and sin no more.’ That is repentance in its purest and simplest form.”

“It does not seem enough,” Serafina murmured.

Agatha seemed to understand her perfectly. “Jesus did not come to punish, child. He came to save. You should ask each
of those you have harmed for their forgiveness, the same as you do with the Father. When it is granted, you accept it. You move into the future. You seek to never repeat the sin.” She paused a moment, then added, “Daily you seek the strength you need through Scriptures and prayer.”

Serafina kept her attention focused upon her hands. The good captain had again treated them with brine and goose fat. “I have been such a fool.”

“Indeed. And now you must turn away from the mistakes, seek forgiveness from God and man, and face your future.”

“Would you pray with me?”

Her aunt smiled so warmly the lines of pain and loss rearranged themselves. “I should think of nothing finer.”

Chapter 23

Falconer strode the path from the old manor to the stables. He studied the afternoon sky and wished for open seas. But it was an idle thought, for his heart was not in it. He should have felt great relief. His secret, guarded for months and many miles, was now entrusted with stalwart friends. He had no doubt but that he had done the right thing. Felix would approve. He would accomplish whatever it was Gareth and Erica had in mind, then return to Trinidad and see to his friend’s safety.

Yet Falconer’s emotions boiled like the clouds and the wind, like the furious squall that beat the trees and fields with fists of rainfall to the north. He wanted to go,
needed
to leave, just as soon as his mission here was complete. Yet any departure would sever the fragile tie he had to Serafina.

Serafina
. The sound of her name on his lips was a hopeless groan to an uncaring wind.

It was the wrong time to have fallen in love, and with a lass far beyond his reach. He had been entrusted with her safety, and perhaps with a divine motive as well. But all he could think of was how the days ahead would be diminished by her absence.

“There you are!”

Falconer started at the sound of that young voice. “What are you doing out in this storm, my little one?”

“I like it!” Hannah danced a little circle. “And I’m better, see?”

“I think you’re excited over the coming journey to London.” He swept her up, reveling in the feel of those two slender arms wrapping about his neck. “You mustn’t get overtired, lass.”

Falconer entered the old manor’s rear entrance and climbed the stairs. He set her down on the landing. “Now I want you to rest easy. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes.” She smiled mischievously. “I have a secret.”

“Your father often says he’s never met someone who likes secrets more.”

“This one is about you.” She whirled about and raced into the apartment. “Wait right there!”

He heard soft footfalls and turned to face Serafina. Only she looked quite different. The surprise pushed him back a step. “You look proper lovely, ma’am.”

She smiled nervously. “Please, I would prefer that you call me by my name.”

He fumbled with his hat. The design of her dress was unlike anything he had ever seen. Not that he had much experience with women’s finery. But Serafina’s manner had changed as well. She held herself erect. Her hair was pulled back and hung like a golden veil down her back. “Your gown is most fetching.”

“It’s not mine. But thank you.”

Her voice was the same and yet different. She spoke softly, yet the quality of defeat was missing. “You are better?”

“Thanks to you and . . .” Her eyes rounded at something behind Falconer’s back. “Oh no, you mustn’t!”

Before he could ask what she meant, Hannah said, “Why not? It’s him, isn’t it?”

Falconer wheeled about. “How do you manage to sneak up on a body like that?”

Hannah smiled proudly. “Mama says I can surprise the sparrows when I have a mind.” She held out a rolled sheet of paper. “Look!”

“What do you have there?”

“Nothing,” Serafina hurried to reply, reaching to intercept Hannah’s surprise. “It’s nothing. Hannah, you mustn’t—”

“Serafina is an artist! Mama says she’s not seen anything finer in any gallery!”

Serafina looked horrified. “You showed this to Mrs. Powers?”

“You didn’t tell me not to.”

“But . . . you . . . you . . .” Serafina’s face was scarlet.

Falconer took the rolled-up sheet and offered it to Serafina. “I won’t look if it distresses you.”

She hesitated a moment, then whispered, “You may look.”

Slowly he unrolled the sheet. What he saw left him turned to stone.

Hannah danced in place. “There! Did I not say it? She’s an artist!”

Falconer was looking at a man who was both himself and someone far finer. The drawing showed him bowed over his hands, clenching the back of the pew. He was praying with a calm fervor and singular intensity. The drawing was shaded in a manner that gave the impression of one removed from the earth.

“There is no scar,” he said numbly.

“I did not see it,” Serafina replied simply. “Not then.”

Gareth Powers appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Falconer, excellent. I hoped that was your voice I heard.”

Swiftly he rolled up the parchment. “Sir.”

“Lord Drescott’s guests are upstairs. Could you join us, please?”

“Certainly.”

Erica Powers stepped into the doorway beside her husband. “Would you two please join me in the back room?” she said to her daughter and Serafina.

When the trio had departed, Gareth said, “This way, Falconer.”

Gareth was as somber as Falconer had ever seen him as they made their way into the apartment’s parlor. “Might I have the honor of introducing Lord Sedgwick and Henry Carlyle,” Gareth started. “This is the gentleman we have been telling you about. John Falconer, late of Trinidad and Grenada.”

Sedgwick was a bulky man, big-boned and carrying more weight than he probably should. But his features held a cheery glow, and his eyes were burnished with a resolute intelligence.
“I must rise and shake your hand, sir. Well done, I say. Saving the young girl Hannah has made you my friend for life.”

“Saved her twice,” Gareth added.

“Yet once it was from a danger I brought upon her myself,” Falconer noted.

Sedgwick moved with motions as great as his form. The gold watch chain that crossed his ample middle shimmered in the light as he disagreed. “Stuff and nonsense. You saved her. That’s the issue here, not who’s at fault. For we are all partly to blame, if you want to come right down to it. Anyone who dares stand in defiance of these scallywags. Is that not the truth?”

“That’s all very well and good, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to a workable solution,” said the second man, Carlyle, who was the exact opposite of Sedgwick. Carlyle was a dry man, little more than skin over bones. He was dressed in a brown serge suit that hung upon his frame. Even his voice was a dry rasping murmur. “We are in danger of losing everything.”

“A mere setback,” Sedgwick objected, steering Falconer across the room. “Seat yourself here by my side, my good sir.”

“It is
not
a setback, and you know it. Gareth, tell your man what we face.”

“John Falconer is his own man, as I have repeatedly said.”

Carlyle drifted a hand through the air before him. “Tell him, if you please.”

“Very well.” Gareth turned to Falconer. “A vote has been set on Parliament’s calendar.”

“About the slave issue?”

“Just so. We expected to have a major battle on our hands, with the Crown and allies throwing up procedural barriers and delaying this vote for months.”

“Years,” Carlyle said. “A generation and more.”

“But they have permitted this vote to come forward with a minimum of fuss. We were surprised.”

“Astonished,” Carlyle said. “Alarmed. Extremely concerned.”

“Do hold your comments to yourself,” Sedgwick complained. “You asked Gareth to tell him, did you not?”

Gareth continued. “Our two allies are here because they have polled the members. We stand to lose the vote.”

“But they can vote again, can they not?” Falconer asked.

Sedgwick blew out his cheeks, all bonhomie gone now. “Once a vote has gone against us, it would be dreadfully difficult to bring it forward again. Certainly not until after the next election.”

“Longer,” Carlyle corrected. “Allies within our own party will see this as a difficult and dangerous course. Because those who vote with us this time will be attacked by the Crown’s supporters.”

Falconer looked from one face to the next. “What of the information I have brought? Is this not enough?”

Erica Powers had quietly entered the room and now spoke for the first time, in a tone as bitter as Falconer had heard. “Those who waver look for a reason not to help us.”

“What we must have is hard evidence,” Gareth said. “Something that demonstrates a clear and indisputable link between the Crown and this trade.”

“A finger upon the trigger,” Sedgwick agreed, studying Falconer intently.

“I have given you all I have,” Falconer said.

Gareth leaned forward, his elbows on his legs. “Will you testify before our allies?”

“In Parliament?” Under other circumstances, Falconer would have fled the room. “I must warn you, I am not good with words.”

“But hearing the news from a man who carries the mark upon his face.” Sedgwick looked hopefully at his mate by the window. “Will that not carry the day?”

Carlyle examined Falconer thoughtfully. “It may. Now that I have seen him, perhaps. But I fear those who are undecided
will seek the safe course. They will say we exaggerate. They will say there is nothing hard and fast that shows slavery is indeed a recognized component of Crown commerce.”

“If this ongoing traffic is merely a local affair,” Gareth explained to Falconer, “some will claim it is a matter for the navy. They will order sweeps. The fleet will be sent.”

“And then the fleet will come back,” Erica said to her hands. “And the matter will be forgotten. And another generation of innocent people will suffer.”

“That cannot happen,” Falconer declared. Fear’s clammy fist squeezed his insides, but he said, “I will do as you ask.”

The rear bedroom was the apartment’s smallest chamber. There was scarcely room for the two of them, much less Erica when she returned. Erica stood before Serafina with the rolled paper in her hands. “I want you to give careful thought to what I have to say.”

Serafina had never seen the woman look so grave. “Yes, ma’am.”

Carefully she unrolled the sketch Serafina had done of Falconer. When Serafina started to protest, Erica held up one hand. “Wait, please. Hear me out. That is all I ask.”

“I had not meant for anyone to see this.”

“My daughter did not know. And I must tell you, I feel God’s hand was upon her action.”

Hannah piped up, “Me?”

“Shah, my dearest, listen well and remain silent. I will answer all your questions later.” To Serafina she went on, “I know artists. I know how difficult it is to release one’s hold on a work. I know this same reluctance when I must give my writings over to the printers, and I write mere pamphlets.”