The Solitary Envoy (21 page)

Abbie’s chatter had a musical gaiety to match the birdsong rising from Green Park. “Winter was ever so long here. Wasn’t it, Mama? We arrived in a storm that lasted for months and months.”

“I wish my daughter were exaggerating,” Lavinia said over her shoulder. “But I must say the weather was quite vile. The worst winter in years, or so we were told.”

“It’s all the little smokestacks,” Abbie confided to Erica. “All the little chimneys, they go all the time. Just puff and puff, night and day, and they feed the clouds. You can see it if you look closely. The clouds eat up all the new smoke, and it comes back down as rain.”

The child looked from one adult to another. “Why is everybody laughing?”

They all grew quiet as they neared a manor, one far larger than the embassy. Sounds of revelry emerged from a number of open windows. Lavinia said uncertainly, “Perhaps we should cross to the other side.”

“Certainly not,” said her husband.

“But Samuel, the child.”

“It’s all right, Mama. I know not to look.” And she didn’t. Abbie kept her face pointed straight ahead as they passed before the high metal fence fronting the road.

But Erica was not so resolute. A peal of female laughter was followed by a shriek and a higher sound—perhaps words, she could not be certain. She looked over to see two women seated upon an upstairs windowsill, glasses and thin cigars in their hands. Erica had never seen women smoke before. Through a downstairs window she could see a large crowd of people encircling a table. A man slapped something down hard upon the table, and there came another great shout of laughter. Gambling, Erica realized. They were gambling on the Sabbath. She was so shocked she would have halted in her tracks had Abbie not tugged her forward.

“It’s not nice to stare,” the little girl reminded her.

“No, we must allow Erica to see this.” Samuel’s tone was as grim and cold as Erica had ever heard it. “Let her observe the state of this realm. It is only right and just that she understand. Is Erica not a valued member of our little band? Of course she must see. Are we not passing the residence of a prince of the realm?”

“Samuel, please.”

“King George the Third was most certainly America’s enemy,” Samuel continued to Erica. “He forced us to pay taxes without representation, which led to our colonies revolting and becoming a nation under God. He then tried to choke off trade with us and finally attacked us a second time. All this is most certainly true. But George the Third was also a moral man. No friend to America, certainly, yet a man who valued family and church. His son, the prince regent, is another matter entirely. Since his father became ill, the prince regent and his little clan of wastrels have made a mockery of decent men. And of God.”

“Enough,” Lavinia said firmly. “It is the Lord’s Day, and we are enjoying a stroll in this glorious sunshine.”

Erica’s last glimpse of the manor was of a woman leaning out an upstairs window to speak with someone in the front garden. Erica was not certain, but she thought the woman wore nothing save a petticoat. No. It must be her imagination.

They rounded a corner and passed from Piccadilly onto Audley Street, walking past an odd assortment of ancient farms and beautiful manors. Everywhere there were signs of new construction. Off to her right she could see the northern border of Shepherds Market, where she went each morning for fresh milk. The older buildings were Tudor inns and merchants’ houses with lime-washed walls and beamed upper floors. These were dwarfed by newer structures in the style known as Georgian, named after the king who was now gravely ill and his father and grandfather. They looked just as Samuel Aldridge had described the monarch—stolid and square and ponderous.

The church up ahead was drawn from an earlier era. On the previous two Sundays since Erica’s arrival, the family had been once to St. Paul’s Cathedral and once to Westminster Abbey, which was very close to the Houses of Parliament. This church was something else entirely. The people milling about outside were dressed in a severe manner that reminded Erica of the Mennonites she had seen about Washington. The difference was that the men here were clean shaven, and the clothing was not homespun but simply unembellished. The men wore black overcoats and breeches and polished black shoes. The women were in either black or dove-gray dresses with starched crinoline sleeves and matching white caps. The children were miniatures of their parents. They played little games on the stairs leading up to the church but kept close to their parents, and for good reason. Farther along Audley Street was another establishment, this one lined with elegant carriages and benches full of rowdy folk.

A man with gray muttonchop sideburns moved down to greet them. “Your lordship, you do us a great honor by joining us for the Sabbath.”

“I am not a lord, and it is you who do us the honor,” Mr. Aldridge replied. “Might I introduce you to my wife? My dear, this is the elder of whom I spoke, Mr. Clarkson.”

The gentleman bowed over Lavinia’s hand. “Your humble servant, my lady.”

“Please, sir. We are all servants of the one true God; I ask that you not set any titles before my name.”

Mr. Clarkson bowed a second time, then turned to Erica and Abbie. Before Samuel could make the introductions, Abbie piped up.

“I’m Abbie. I’m eight years old. And this is Erica. She’s come all the way from America, just as we did, to be our friend.”

Mr. Clarkson smiled tolerantly. “I am pleased to meet you both. Our Lord was good to send you such a special friend, was He not?”

“Oh yes,” Abbie continued. “Papa says she was an answer to prayer.” Before the elder could think of a suitable reply, Abbie spoke again. “Have you lost all the hair on your chin because you’re so old?”

The man’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, miss?”

“I was just wondering, because you have the space there between your sideburns.” She rubbed her own little pointed chin. “My papa has lost some of the hair on the top of his head. I thought perhaps that was why you couldn’t grow your beard all the way around.”

Samuel Aldridge coughed as Lavinia placed a gentle restraining hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “My apologies, sir. My daughter has a most remarkable manner of viewing the world.”

“On the contrary, I find her most charming.” Stiffly Mr. Clarkson bent in closer to Abbie. “What did you say your name is, young lady?”

“Abigail, sir.” She gave a little curtsy, glancing at her mother for assurance. “I’m named after my grandmother. But everyone calls me Abbie.”

“Well, Abbie, my manner of sideburns was that of a very famous theologian. A man I admire so much I choose to emulate both his dress and his style.”

“My daughter meant no disrespect, sir,” Lavinia offered.

“Of that I have no doubt.” He offered the child a hand coarsened by age and hard work. “Might I have the honor of escorting you inside, Miss Abbie?”

A lady from the children’s nursery relieved Samuel Aldridge of the pram. The other families on the church’s forecourt made a passage through which they might enter. As they started up the stairs, however, a raucous cheer erupted from the inn next door.

Samuel Aldridge glanced over. “I confess to thinking little of your neighbors, sir.”

“I do my best not to think of them at all,” the elder replied, keeping his gaze fastened upon the doors ahead.

So it was that Erica walked up the church’s outer stairs by herself. Mr. Aldridge and his family had already entered the central doors before she realized who it was standing just inside the entrance, acting as greeter.

She recoiled from the man’s hand.

The man was equally shocked by her appearance but managed to recover more swiftly. He dropped his hand to his side and bowed stiffly. “Miss Langston. Do I recall the name correctly?”

“You do indeed, sir.”

Gareth Powers wore his black suit as he would an officer’s uniform. The severe cut and shading suited him well. He was tall and striking, with the stern jaw of a man used to leading men in the harshest of circumstances. Yet his gaze held the same calm wounded state that Erica recalled from their last encounter, as she had stormed away from his carriage on the day of her arrival.

He bowed a second time. Only then did she notice the scar that traced its way along his hairline to his right ear. “It is an honor to welcome you into the Lord’s house.”

She knew she should thank him, but her tongue felt wooden. She made do with a stiff nod and turned away. Only then did she notice how Samuel Aldridge was watching her. For an instant she feared he was upset that she had been no warmer in her greeting. Evidently this church held some importance beyond a Sabbath visit. Yet there seemed to be no censure in the man’s expression. He did not look angry with her at all. No, on the contrary. He seemed quite pleased.

Erica found herself repeatedly struck by the thought that her mother would love this church and these people. Erica’s early Sundays had been spent in the closest thing Washington had to a cathedral. It was a place of high fashion and concentrated power. Seldom did a Sunday pass without the presence of several cabinet ministers and numerous lackeys. Yet her mother’s new church was known for its quiet severity and austere surroundings. It was, in fact, very similar in atmosphere to this Audley Chapel. Strange that Erica could sit here, an ocean away from home, and feel as though her mother were seated right next to her.

She felt her eyes sting with longing for her family. Her brother and his funny ways and lopsided smile, her mother and the quiet manner she had adopted over the last harsh years. They seemed so close to her now. And her father, of course. Erica closed her eyes and felt as though she could see Forrest Langston standing there in the aisle, smiling proudly at her.

A hand slipped into her own. Erica opened her eyes to find Abbie staring up at her. The child’s eyes were solemn and ready to weep in sympathy. Erica forced herself to smile. She whispered, “I find myself missing my mother.”

“If I were here across the ocean all by myself,” Abbie whispered back, “I would miss my mama very much.”

Erica wore summer gloves of linen knit with little buttons fastened at the wrist. She traced one gloved finger down the side of Abbie’s face. “You are the most special child I have ever known.”

The little girl turned scarlet with pleasure. She started to say more but was hushed by a single glance from her father. She faced forward again. But she never let go of Erica’s hand.

Erica returned to her reflections. The sermon was delivered by a young man whose whiskers resembled those of the elder who had met them outside. He spoke of something called home churches, which apparently meant small groups of believers who met during the week. Erica was not particularly held by the message itself. Instead, it was the atmosphere that entranced her.

Three men sat in high-backed chairs behind the pulpit. They observed the vicar intently. There was a calm intensity to the simple place and these dark-suited people. A few others besides the Aldridge family were dressed in colors of higher fashion, but most kept to black and gray and starched white. The interior of the church was plain and unadorned, with a large U-shaped balcony supported by slender white pillars. The pews were of pale oiled wood, as were the floors. The windows were smoked glass framed with simple stained-glass imprints of Scripture passages. Compared to the ornate houses of worship where the family had gone the previous two Sundays, the Audley Chapel was austere.

“We long to be granted a clear vision of eternity,” the pastor was saying, “yet we do not take the necessary steps. The path of healing is laid out before us. But we refrain from lifting the veil that shrouds our eyes.”

Erica glanced at Samuel and Lavinia. They appeared totally caught up in the man’s presentation, completely at ease with the place and the people. She turned her casual inspection to the congregants seated across the central aisle. Her gaze fell upon the former major. Gareth Powers’ chin was tilted upward, accenting the strength of his jawline as he listened intently to the vicar. Dark hair fell in abundant curls over the back of his collar.

Erica felt a slight catch to her breathing and forced herself to turn away. She sighed quietly. Of all the men in the world to find attractive, she had to be drawn to this one.

“The kingdom of God is here among us, yet we are blind to its presence. How are we to seek the illumination required to see what is beyond earthly vision? By releasing all that locks us into the mire of this world. Lust, anger, a desire for vengeance …”

For the first time, Erica found herself paying attention to the message. She halted her casual inspection of the surroundings. “

We have all the proper reasons for feeling as we do. But whoever said that life as Christians was to be ruled by logic? Was it logical for God’s own Son to give His life to erase sins He did not commit? Was it logical for the heavenly Father to offer us a salvation we do not deserve? Was it logical for Him to love us in our lowly and utterly unlovable state?”

Erica found the atmosphere growing somewhat thick. It was more than the tight gathering of people in this airless chamber at the height of summer. She glanced across the aisle again, and this time she met the gaze of the dark-haired former military officer. Gareth Powers quickly averted his eyes, and Erica forced her own gaze back to the front of the chapel.

“We know what we are called to do. We must confess our sins; we must release ourselves from the bonds of our old self. We must seek forgiveness of God and our fellow men. We must stand before others who seek the same divine illumination in their lives, with whom we share our secrets and our needs. We must reveal that which we might otherwise keep hidden, that which holds us apart from God.”

The vicar did not raise his voice, as Erica’s pastor in Washington sometimes did. His tone was conversational. Once more she felt herself deeply connected to her mother, only this time it was not in a comforting manner. The congregation rose to sing the final hymn and receive the closing benediction, and Erica fumbled her way to her feet. But she neither read the verses nor sang the music. Instead she recalled her mother’s parting message:
Do not become mired in the same desire for vengeance that wreaked such havoc in your father’s life
. Erica watched the vicar pass down the central aisle. How could this utter stranger speak words that threatened to shatter her heart?