The Solitary Envoy (34 page)

Then she realized the mistake she had been making. She had sought to embellish what was already too strong. She had sought to add her own feelings. But why should she? What was the importance of one person’s emotions here? Gareth had not sent her north so she would
feel
. He had asked that she go so that she would witness and report.

Erica picked up the quill. She inspected the tip, then dipped it into the inkwell. She knew what must be done. She would not write for herself. She would not write so that the page revealed her at all. She would simply write as a clerk reporting accounts. She would set the barest of facts down on the page. That was the task at hand. Let the words speak for themselves, just as numbers should. Her mission was to give the information a proper structure. She would arrange the events in a careful way so that all could read and understand. Then they would feel for themselves.

Erica paused for a moment, long enough to realize the thought that had just taken form. She nodded to the window and the scene that remained planted before her mind. This was indeed her mission, she realized. This was her responsibility. She had been sent because she could do this. And do it well.

Several times people came by and asked if she was all right. Around sunset a little man approached so closely that he cast a shadow upon the table. She frowned mightily, and he stepped back. He said something to her. She must have answered satisfactorily because he left and did not return. Only when she paused long enough to down a cup of tea and a slice of toast did she realize it must have been Mr. Wilberforce himself. For an instant she wanted to rush and find him and thank him for taking in Gareth, and for his kind offer of assistance with her family’s own crisis, and for the use of this room, and for the words he spoke to her the other evening, and so much else. But she stood over the half-finished page with her cup still in her hand, and she saw the next word that was required. And the word that should follow. And then she was seated once more, and the quill was bearing down upon the page, and the words continued to form, almost as though they were taking shape by themselves.

The pen scratched and then dipped and scratched some more. Her hand became a single dull ink-colored ache. She had ink on her blouse from where a stray lock had fallen upon the wet words and she could not be bothered just then to do more than sweep the hair back over her shoulder. Her neck was sore, and her shoulders.

The light was too meager, really. The thought fashioned itself several times, but Erica could not halt long enough to rise and search out someone and make a request. Then other hands came and set more candles around the table’s edge. By the time the next paragraph had been formed and she could halt for an instant, the hands were gone. Erica stared in confusion at the new candles. Beside them were a new quill and a sharpening knife. Had she actually asked for more light? She could not recall. She so wanted to rise and stretch and ease the ache in her fingers. She dared not look at the narrow bed against the opposite wall. Then her eye chanced upon the unfinished line. She sighed. The next word was already fashioning itself upon the page, as though merely waiting for her to set the ink in place. Which was a very good thing, as her mind was becoming somewhat fuzzy around the edges. Erica began a new line. Each thought seemed to rise from the fog of weariness unbidden. And suddenly the page was done, and she was dusting it to help the words dry evenly and starting a new page.

Twilight came, lingered a time, and departed.

She would write just this one more line. That thought carried her through an intensifying series of aches and pains. The soreness of her hand now extended all the way up past her elbow. Her fingers were cramping so the words looked scrawled by an elderly hand. Just this one more line, perhaps finish this paragraph. Then she would rest. Her free hand rested constantly upon her neck and shoulders now, massaging wherever the ache was worse. Now and then she wished the words would stop flowing across the scroll of her mind. She so wanted to lie down and close her eyes. But the next word appeared, and she knew she must write it while it was there. Why, precisely, she could no longer recall. But she knew it was necessary.

She finished the page. She dusted it. She set it atop the last one. She dipped the quill into the ink. And she waited.

Nothing came.

Erica stared blankly at the empty page. She was so tired the realization could not take shape within her addled mind.

Then she was weeping. It was not the bone-deep aching of her body. Nor was it because she had to pluck the quill from her fingers with her other hand and massage the writing hand out into proper shape. Nor did she cry because the work was done. No.

She cried from a loss that was now hers.

Anne Crowley appeared in the doorway. One glance was enough to spur the older woman forward. She spoke, but Erica was unable to fashion the sounds into coherent meaning. Anne pulled her up from the chair, guided her over, and settled her down into the bed. Erica looked up at her and wanted to explain. How by writing these words upon the page, she had made herself a part of the tragedy. How it felt now as though it had been her own children trampled beneath the horses. How she ached from wounds that were hers now. How the meaning had been given to the day, and the meaning was a wound that left her clutching her chest and weeping with the sorrow of bereavement.

Anne settled a quilt about her shoulders and spoke with such caring and love that the sobs simply lifted. The shivering breaths continued until Erica found herself drifting away. Not into sleep. It seemed as though she was so tired she might never sleep again. She simply went away.

Chapter 27

When she awoke, Erica lay and listened to a world so quiet she could hear people talking in the garden two floors below. She had no idea what time it was or even what day. She knew that she must rise. But it felt so good just to lie and relax. It seemed years since she had lain abed with no pressing urgency, or another journey, or more words to write. She sighed aloud.

Anne Crowley must have been listening for just such a sound, for there came a gentle knock upon the door.

“Come in.”

“How are you, my dear?”

Even finding a response to this simple question seemed to take ages. “Hungry.”

The older woman chuckled, the first time Erica had heard her make that sound. “I am hardly surprised.”

“What time is it?”

“First you must tell me how you feel.”

Again Erica applied herself to what should have been a simple query. She decided, “I feel very good, thank you.”

Anne’s smile broadened. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Erica probed her heart as she would a tooth that had formerly been aching badly. She said, “The pain is still there. And the memories.”

Anne nodded. “They will remain a part of us both, I should think.”

“And yet …”

“You are ready now to go on with life.”

“Yes, that is it exactly.” Erica stared up at the woman, content to lie abed with a relative stranger looking down upon her.

Such an attitude of seeming weakness would never have been comfortable before. “What do you think has happened?”

“I believe we both have found a divine purpose to our sorrow.” Anne motioned to the table. “You with your writing.”

“And you?”

She replied calmly, “As I’ve said before, I have discovered that there are others who need me to care for them.”

The emotions were still very close to the surface, Erica discovered, for the quietly spoken words were enough to bring tears back to her eyes. She rose to a seated position and said to the floor by her feet, “Yes, there most certainly are.”

“It does not make the situation perfect. Nor does it cause me to miss my husband any less. But there is an order to the universe. Forgive me, I find the entire concept of looking into the future so novel I am unable to express myself well.”

“No,” Erica said quietly. “You have said it very well indeed.”

The first thing she saw when she lifted her eyes caused a little tremor of alarm, for the table was bare. But before her protest could be fully formed, it was stifled by an overwhelming sense of trust. If her words had been shared with anyone else, it would have been done for proper reasons. Of that Erica was certain.

Anne must have followed her gaze, because she spoke up at once. “You wrote with such urgency, I was certain this was something that they needed as quickly as possible.”

Who were
they,
Erica wondered and felt another tremor. But all she said was, “Yes.”

“When Gareth woke earlier this afternoon, it was the first thing he asked about. Not for food, not who I was, nor anything else. First he wanted to know where you were, then had you completed the writing. When he woke in the night I told him what you were about, you see. I thought it would calm him, knowing that you were seeing to his needs in this way. And I was right.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing, really. But he smiled. It was a good thing to see, from a man so ill, that smile. He ate a little and then went back to sleep.” She examined Erica. “I would say he cares for you very much.”

Erica looked out the window once more. It registered then what Anne had said, how Gareth had woken earlier in the afternoon. Erica rose to her feet in alarm. “What time is it?”

“Just gone five.”

“It can’t be!”

“But it is.”

“I have to go—”

“You must do nothing.”

“But the Aldridges will—”

“They have been informed. Everything is taken care of, my dear, save your need for some sustenance.” She motioned to a frock hanging from a hook on the wall. “I have even taken the liberty of drawing a fresh dress from your valise and hanging it so the wrinkles would fall out.”

“You are too good to me.”

Anne rose to her feet. “I will just check on Gareth while you ready yourself.”

When Erica emerged, Anne led her to the hall’s opposite end. Gareth was sitting up in bed with a half-dozen cushions behind his back.

“How are you feeling?” Erica asked.

“Better by the minute. Far too good to be lying here while the world spins so frantically.”

“You are only better because you have rested.”

But he did look much better. The dreadful pallor had eased somewhat, and the light in his eyes was not so feverish. He had managed to shave and change into fresh bedclothes and robe.

He looked altogether improved from the previous day. Erica could still hear the rustle in his chest when he breathed, however. “You must do as the doctor says and remain where you are until your health is fully restored.”

He did not object. Instead he gazed at her and said calmly, “What you have done is truly a thing of magnificence.”

The color rose in her cheeks, and she started to protest.

Gareth paid her no mind. “I wept as I read your words. As have many others.”

“Someone else has read it?”

Again he did not respond to her. “Erica, I wish I knew precisely what to say. I felt so dreadful when I heard what had happened, knowing you had witnessed such horror. But when I read your words, the sparse manner of your descriptions, the careful way you avoided …”He stopped and looked at the wall by the end of his bed. His jaw muscles worked hard for a moment. “Forgive me.”

Erica stood in the doorway, unable to respond.

Finally he turned back to her. “I am quite certain that there was a higher purpose to your visit that day.”

“There was. At least you are resting and on the mend.”

“Please, I beg you, do not deflect what I am about here. You know I am speaking about your words upon those pages. I and my fellows in this struggle are indeed grateful.”

“It is so little, Gareth. When I think of what happened there …” Her throat closed up once more.

“We cannot change that. The world goes in a direction not of our choosing and most certainly not as our Lord would have it. Our task is to do what He in His divine wisdom sets before us. And to rely upon Him and our friends in Christ when our own strength is not sufficient.”

She thought that was all and started to depart, but he stopped her with an upraised hand. “Miss Langston … Erica …”

She felt her heart rate soar. She thought her own voice sounded somewhat strangled as she said, “Yes?”

Anne Crowley looked from one young face to the other. She gave a little smile and said, “I shall await you just down by the stairwell.”

When the older woman had retreated, Gareth continued, “I have lain here and thought of little besides you.” He coughed, but it was not the wrenching sound of yesterday. Instead, it held almost a nervous quality, as though he had caught a bit of her own tension. “I do not wish to sound forward. And goodness knows you have every reason to turn away just now.”

“Gareth—”

“Hear me out, I beseech you. My words are clumsy, and I am far too weak to offer them properly. I am dressed shoddily and my demeanor is sickly. But it is in this weak state that I have come to realize something, and I must say it, and now.”

The air felt tightly compressed around her. “What is it, Gareth?”

“I admire you more than I can say and find myself harboring the deepest affections for you.” He coughed throatily. “There, I have said it, and in the most wretched form imaginable. But it is the truth, Erica. I find myself comforted by your strength and wisdom.” He looked at her, his dark eyes sparkling with far more than mere fever. “Do you think these might be sentiments you could share?”

She wanted to sink down to the floor. She wanted to laugh out loud. She wanted to list all the reasons this was impossible. Impractical. Out of the question.

She wanted to lean forward and wrap her arms around this good and honorable man.

“Erica?”

“I think they are indeed sentiments I could share,” she whispered.

Nothing could have prepared Erica for what she found upon arriving downstairs. All she wanted was a quiet bite to eat and perhaps a nice word with their host, then off they would go before it became too late and she would awaken the entire Aldridge household. But it was not to be. Anne led her into the kitchen, where it seemed that a smiling young cook tended several pots that were kept constantly filled. She set half a small loaf before Erica, asked if she knew a dish called Welsh stockpot, and ladled out a steaming bowl of delicious-smelling chicken stew.