Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive (27 page)

“Last night. Out by the woodpile.” He pointed at the dirtied floor. “And again just now.”

The woman suddenly looked very worried. “Serafina is niece to my predecessor but is utterly untrained for proper household duties. I don’t know what to do with her.”

Falconer made short shrift of the remaining ashes. He hefted the basket, rose to his full height, and said, “I do.”

Chapter 19

The manor’s older wing was in itself one of the largest houses Falconer had ever entered, far grander than any of the island plantations he had visited. And it was itself dwarfed by the newer Georgian structure. He walked the passage connecting the old house to the new. Lead-paned windows flanked him on both sides, overlooking carefully tended rose gardens. At the end was a winding staircase of darkened beams and pickled oak flooring, hard as stone. Falconer climbed to the middle floor, knocked on the ancient peaked door, and was invited to enter.

The apartment was designed as four interconnecting chambers. There were two such guest apartments on the second floor. The Powers family occupied one apartment, the other was currently empty. On the top floor, a narrow corridor ran directly under the roof’s eaves, opening into five servants’ rooms. The ground floor held three larger chambers that had been renovated into single-room apartments.

The Powerses’ front room was full to the brim when Falconer entered. Gareth Powers rested upon a daybed, a leather settee with a long tongue that could be used either for sitting or reclining. His wife was in a high-backed wing chair drawn up close enough for her to keep one hand upon his shoulder. Hannah was seated upon the floor by her mother’s chair, teasing the kitten with a ribbon. Daniel stood in the corner behind the door, as unobtrusive as any man his size could be. A second wing chair was occupied by a gentleman in a quilted robe, a silver cane in his hands, a benign smile upon his features. The chief butler stood by the window, one hand gripping his lapel. He frowned mightily at Falconer’s ash-stained knees but said nothing.

“Ah, Falconer. We were just speaking about you.” Gareth’s voice was weak yet clear. “Do join us.”

“It is good to see you awake, sir.”

“Nothing could do more for my health than to be reunited with my dear wife,” he replied, gripping her hand.

Erica Powers added, “Gareth was just relating how you saved his life.”

“And mine,” Hannah added from the floor.

Erica smiled at her daughter, then blinked fiercely and struggled to say, “I owe you everything.”

Falconer found it hard to shape a response. The Powers family was bound together by far more than glances or caring gestures. Despite their illnesses and all the months apart, Falconer felt the power of their connectedness. Theirs was a gift denied to him by all that he had been, all he had done. “I count it an honor to know and serve your family, ma’am.”

Gareth said, “I don’t believe you have met our host, Lord Drescott.”

“Sir.”

“An honor, my man,” the elderly gentleman responded. “A delight and an honor. I am given to understand that you were once a sea captain.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Which holds the corresponding rank of colonel in the land forces.” The old gentleman had the ability to smile without moving his features. “Which means he outranks you, Gareth. Strange for a manservant to outrank the master, wouldn’t you say?” He chuckled in merriment at his own joke. The butler harrumphed his indignation.

“With respect, sir,” Falconer said, “Mr. Powers served in the king’s forces.”

“And you did not?”

“No, sir.”

“Whom did you serve, then?”

Falconer swiveled his gaze to Mrs. Powers. “I regret to say that I once commanded a slaver.”

But the news did not draw out the shock and dismay Falconer expected. He had the distinct impression that Gareth
had already shared this information with his wife. The old man twisted his cane so that the silver head captured the sunlight. “Did you, now. Did you. How utterly fascinating. Perhaps you know the story of John Newton.”

“I fear not, your lordship.”

“Pity, that. He was a shipmate of yours, in a manner of speaking. A slaver who converted to the faith and went on to become a vicar. A wonderful gentleman. Had a remarkable way with verse, as it were. Penned quite a number of lines. ‘Amazing Grace’ was one of his hymns, a personal favorite of mine. He died some time back, I don’t recall exactly when.”

“Thirty years ago,” Gareth supplied.

“Was it that long? Was it? My, but I can see him more clearly than people I met last week. A stalwart man, he was, strong in both faith and action. I miss him.”

“As does William,” Erica Powers said. “He spoke to me of Newton just last month.”

“Did he. How fascinating. How is dear Wilberforce?”

Erica drew in upon herself. “Not well, I’m afraid.”

“What a pity. He will be sorely missed.” The gentleman tilted his head sharply to one side. Only then did Falconer realize he was blind in one eye. “You are quite a sizeable fellow, aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and that other fellow standing there in the corner, you compress the air, you do. Wouldn’t want to come up against the either of you in a fight.” He seemed cheered by the thought. “You are a believer, I take it.”

“I am, sir.”

“Good. Jolly good.” He thumped his cane upon the flooring. “We need men such as yourself in the struggle ahead. Strong and stalwart and leaders in battle. Like Newton. Pity he’s gone ahead of us to Glory. Thirty years. My, but it seems like we were talking just the other day.”

The butler addressed the old gentleman in an entirely
different tone. “Perhaps you’d care to come down for breakfast, sir.”

“Have I not eaten yet?” He fumbled for his vest watch. “My, look at the time. No wonder my belly’s given in to grousing. Gareth, will you join me?”

“If you will permit me, sir, I think I should remain at rest awhile longer.”

“Of course. Silly of me to ask.” Before the old man could lean upon his cane, the chief butler was there at his side and helped lift the man to his feet. “Kind of you, Cuthbert. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Sir.” The butler said more softly, “You wished to inform your guests of the two men arriving later today.”

“Did I, now. And who might they be?”

“The two members of Parliament, my lord.” “Indeed so. You are a prize, Cuthbert. A veritable prize among men.” He turned back. “Allies to our cause are stopping by. This day, is it, Cuthbert?”

“Either this evening or tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Quite so. They are here to ask me for help, no doubt. Which is a pity. I would so like to aid them, but you see my state. A shuffling old man, hardly able to help myself.”

“You are a prince among men,” Erica Powers said softly.

“Kind of you, my dear. Very kind. I was hoping I might ask them to meet with you instead. If any can help them, I warrant it would be you two.” At their nods, he turned to the door, Cuthbert at his side.

Falconer watched the old man’s shuffling departure and understood why no one wished to speak with him about his only son.

When the door closed behind them, Falconer dropped to the floor beside Hannah. “I need to ask a favor.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Of me?”

He nodded. “There’s something that needs doing, and only you can manage this.”

She looked from one parent to the other. Clearly no adult had ever spoken to her in such a manner before.

The kitten mewed loudly at being ignored. Falconer scooped up the animal, which promptly began purring. “There is a young servant lass here at the manor. Her name is Serafina. She is in some sort of trouble. I can’t say precisely what it is. But I do know for certain that she needs a friend.”

“You want me to be her friend?”

“It’s a lot to ask, I know. But I think you would do her a world of good.” Falconer looked to the parents. “Serafina has run afoul of the young lord.”

“A scoundrel if ever there was one,” Erica agreed darkly.

“It would be good,” Falconer added, “if Serafina could find quarters outside the main house.”

“There is an extra room here,” Hannah said. “One next to mine.”

“She is a likely enough lass,” Falconer went on to Erica. “More than that I cannot say.”

Hannah’s parents exchanged a look, then Erica replied for them both, “Perhaps then we should have a word with the young lady.”

Serafina sat alone in the kitchen, though surrounded by noise and people. She had positioned her chair away from the central table, pushed back into an alcove between the central fireplace and the spice cabinet. The stone wall felt cool to her back. Three kitchen helpers peeled vegetables and chattered away. The cook and the pastry chef were busy by the ovens, casting the occasional comment to their mates as they worked. The steam was heavy and rich. Serafina dipped her husk into her tea and huddled down into her chair. She ate because she knew she needed the nourishment, though the sensation of hunger seemed to belong to another person. She sipped her tea and tasted the sugar, yet she could not claim anything as belonging to herself—not the flavors nor
the moment’s ease. She felt as though her spirit had been wrenched free of her body, that she was seeing everything from a very great distance.

She could see how the past days had been spent running away. Not from this place, nor from the work, nor even from her attacker. No, it mattered little where her physical form was. So long as she could escape from the agony of looking inward.

But the morning’s shocks had left her unable to flee any longer.

Luca had lied to her from the beginning. He was married. He had been involved with at least one other woman, also married. He had promised her what he needed to promise in order to have what he wanted. And what he had wanted was not marriage. Nor love.

She in turn had taken his lies and twisted them into lies of her own. She had claimed her actions were motivated by love. Whether there had ever been any truth to this, she could not say. But she now realized that much of what she did had been aimed at avoiding anything, any
truth
that might deny her what she wanted.

Only now there was no escaping the fact that what she had wanted had never existed except within her own imagination. And all the people she had hurt along the way, her parents especially, had only sought to protect her.

Serafina started slightly as the cook leaned forward and refilled her cup with steaming tea. She tried to form a thanks, but her mind did not seem capable of words just then. Even so, the kitchen drew slightly back into focus. She realized that others had come in, and one of them was the headmistress. Without actually understanding the words, she sensed that people were whispering about her.

A waking nightmare gradually took form in the steam spiraling up from her cup. She saw anew the young lord, felt his hand upon her throat, and saw the fierce hunger in his eyes. She shuddered at the thought that this was perhaps
her punishment. And shuddered again at how she deserved that and more.

Then another shadow fell over her. She smelled the man before she saw him, a mixture of soap and smoke and male strength. She did not look up, nor did she move to draw away as he pulled up a chair and seated himself next to her. He settled a clay bowl into his lap. The smell from the steaming water was pungent but not unpleasant. He then reached over and took her cup and the remaining husk. She turned just enough to see the white cloth laying over his shoulders, the way his strong hands knew precisely what to do.

Falconer took hold of her left hand. He turned the palm upward and prodded gently at the places around the edge of the filthy rag. He then dipped her hand into the bowl. It stung mightily. She winced but did not try to draw away.

“Steady now,” he murmured. “That’s a good lass.”

Serafina lifted her gaze a fraction more. It was safe to examine him now, because he was intent upon her hand. He kneaded the rag, releasing the ash and clouding the water. “Hot water, the hotter the better,” he said. “Mixed with brine and vinegar. You know the word
brine?
”

“Salt.”

“Sea salt,” he corrected. “But I reckon whatever Cook uses is good enough in a pinch. Hold still now, this may sting a bit.”

She bit her lip as he began unraveling the rag. When he had to tug to release it from her flesh, he did so with remarkable gentleness. Swiftly enough the rag was lifted from the water. He withdrew her hand, wiped it with his clean cloth, and carefully inspected the palm. He grunted over what he saw. “Let’s have the other one now.”

Serafina continued her oblique inspection of him. He was a warrior. Of that she had no doubt. His face held an angular strength that was fierce even in repose. His dark hair was oiled and drawn back into a tightly knotted pigtail, like Venetian sailors she had seen along the city’s harbor. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair and held an alert intensity. His
hands and wrists were very strong. She saw with an artist’s accuracy a remarkable resemblance between this man and Luca. Yet the similarities were all superficial. How she could say this with any certainty, Serafina did not know. Yet there was a calm force about this man, one so potent it reassured even her.