Phantoms In Philadelphia (23 page)

Andrew. He was brilliant. They were
evenly matched in strength, but Andrew had a steely determination.
I lowered the pistol to watch. Andrew broke free and struck hard
against the man’s face, and followed swiftly
with a blow to the gut. His fist slammed against the side of
the man’s nose, and the man went down. I wanted to clap, to cheer.
I was impressed beyond words.

Andrew’s breaths were ragged as he stared down at
the man. When I reached his side, he looked at me, and my heart
constricted. His lip was bleeding, and one of his eyes was
swelling.

“Oh, Andrew. We must have someone see to your
wounds.” I took his hand, seeing the blood on his knuckles. I
swallowed the lump in my throat as we moved toward the
carriage.

“Should we not turn him over to the constables?”
Andrew asked, stopping to look at the man on the ground.

“Edith would have hysterics if we put him in the
carriage. I believe that the pain he will feel upon waking will be
punishment enough.”

Andrew asked his coachman about his condition, and
the man said he received only a graze. He had the carriage back on
the road, and when I opened the door, Edith was in the corner
sobbing. I sat beside her for the rest of the journey to my house.
When we arrived, I asked Andrew to come in, but he refused.

“Please,” I said in a harassed tone, “the least I
can do is to see to your wounds, though I owe you so much
more.”

Andrew finally agreed, and I directed the coachman
where to take the carriage and then to go to the back door where
someone would see to his wound.

When we entered the house, my mother was not home
from a party, but Arnaud and Mrs. Beaumont were there to greet us.
Mrs. Beaumont led Edith, who was no longer sobbing, but still
shaking, above stairs.

Arnaud hovered over us until I sent him to fetch the
necessary items to clean Andrew’s wounds. I took Andrew’s arm and
led him to a chair in the library as it was the only room with a
fire in the hearth.

“Now, I will survey the damage, if you do not
mind.”

Andrew remained quiet as I looked
him over. His right eye was the color of coal, and it was
already
swollen shut. His lip had a cut
across the top, and his hands were covered in cuts and dried blood.
His nose was perfect, as was his left eye through which he watched
me closely. Arnaud brought in water, bandages and brandy, and
scurried off again in search of Leo. As gently as I could, I
cleaned the cut on his lip and applied sticking plaster. I knelt
down before him to clean his hands then wrapped them in the white
cloth bandages, and for some inexplicable reason I felt like
crying. I told myself it was from the events of the past month, but
I knew there was more to it than that.

“I can never thank you enough, Mr. Madison. You
fought so valiantly. I feel responsible for your wounds.”

“Elizabeth,” he said softly,
and my gaze flew to his, “you are in no way to
blame for what happened. I give thanks that you are safe.” He
smiled then winced.

My emotions were spiraling out of control. He had
called me Elizabeth, and I liked hearing it, I liked him, but my
feelings caused a pang of guilt.

“You called me Andrew earlier, and I rather liked
it. I hope that you will do so again.”

Biting my lip, I nodded, but I felt like a traitor,
like I was doing wrong allowing this new familiarity with Andrew,
even though I knew there was nothing wrong with the way I felt for
him.

After Andrew had drunk a glass of brandy and Leo had
looked over his wounds, I walked with him to the door.

“I believe I will postpone our outing to the museum
a few days.”

“Rightly so. Do take care, Andrew,” I said as I took
his offered hand. He kissed the back of my hand and departed the
house, leaving me feeling bereft and guilty. It was the guilt that
caused tears to trickle down my cheeks.

Jack

W
hile
escorting Guinevere home from Ephraim’s party, she asked if I would
ride out with her at seven in the morning. My agreement came
immediately, for any time spent with her was fortunate, but when
she asked to meet at a country church instead of at her house, I
was intrigued.

Seated upon my brown mount in the church yard, I
took out my pocket watch for the fifth time. Guinevere was ten
minutes late. There could be any logical explanation, but anxiety
grew within me for I knew that she liked to ride without her
groom.

The sound of a fast horse approaching from around
the bend in the road made me sit straighter in the saddle. When she
appeared, a sigh tumbled out from deep within me.

As she halted near me, my heart stuttered. The pink
in her cheeks from the cold morning air, her blue riding dress that
made her eyes appear more blue than purple, and the smile on her
lips made me wish that I could paint. I would keep her image with
me always, to remind myself when in the darkest of places that I
knew what light and life looked like.

“Are you prepared for a gallop across the
countryside?” she asked with a smile that tilted up one side of her
lips. She knew, as everyone in society did, that John Martin was
not at his best upon a horse.

“I shall try my poor best,” I replied.

She took the lead while I kept a distance between
us. The wind blew wisps of her auburn hair from the coil secured
against her head, and her blue bonnet was a little askew.

Love had never been a word that I said unless in
poetry or to my sister. The truth was that other than my mother and
sister; there had never been anyone that I loved. I respected my
father, but it would have been a falsehood to say that I loved him
as I did my sister. He never gave us much thought other than what
we could do to further his causes. He did not inspire or encourage
deeper emotions, especially love. Not that what I was feeling for
Guinevere was love...

She was waiting for me, and my
thoughts turned back to the moment. Stopping beside her, I gave my
best look of a man exhausted from the ride. Guinevere rode a circle
around me
with a victorious smile lighting
her face.

“You ride better than I expected,” she said.

My hands gripped the reins of my horse as I acted as
if I was gasping for breath. “A surprise,” I gulped some air, “even
to myself.”

She laughed as she looked up at the trees. The
leaves were dancing with the wind. She closed her eyes as the wind
caressed her face. “I do love early morning gallops. They
strengthen the senses and are the beginning to a perfect day.”

Plain Jack Martin would agree with her, but Poet
John Martin wisely kept his mouth shut.

She looked at me with a lift to her dainty brows,
“Do you not agree?”

“It would be to speak a falsehood if I were to
agree.”

“What? No poetry to the horse galloping across the
frosty plain?”

“If poetry is what you wish.” I laid my hand over my
heart. “No earthly beasts can tame, her wild streak that came when
upon the wind she rides––”

She interrupted me with a laugh.
“Never mind that,” she said dismissing my quotations.
“Can I show you something? It is a bit of a ride
from here. Are you prepared for the challenge?”

I nodded, not at all upset that she interrupted me,
she usually did when I tried to spout poetry to her.

Again, she took the lead. She led me further into
the country, cutting across fields and wooded areas until she was
coming closer to Stark Manor. She rode a half mile past the lane to
Stark Manor before cutting into the woods. She knew her way around,
for she rode through the trees at a pace that I struggled, without
pretense, to maintain. Ahead, the woods ended and we came upon a
clearing with a lake a few yards away. It was completely secluded
with trees surrounding it in every direction. Guinevere pulled up
beside a copse of trees and waited as I dismounted.

As I reached up for her, I asked, “Do you come here
often?”

“This is part of Richard’s country estate. He
completed the purchase only a week ago.”

I wondered if my mother knew.

Guinevere dropped into my arms, and
all other thought flew away as she leaned her body against me. She
was warm and soft as I set her feet on the ground, my heart beating
faster. She smiled up at me, leaning against me for a few moments
more; then she
turned and sauntered toward
the lake. I tied the horses’ reins to a branch before following her
slowly.

The skirt of her blue riding dress swished along the
ankle high grass. She glanced over her shoulder, her pink lips
curving upwards in a smile. I stopped to watch her every movement,
feeling things that were foreign to me. I was sure that the
feelings of excitement, intrigue, desire, and trepidation were
surely the same emotions felt by the explorers who first stumbled
upon this land.

She walked around an oak tree, running her gloved
hand along the bark as she circled it.

Would that I could be that tree.

She sat, leaning against the tree. She patted the
ground beside her; her look inviting me to join her.

Inhaling a deep breath, I walked toward the tree.
Once seated, our shoulders were touching as we stared at the quiet
water of the lake. The setting was peaceful, so unlike the man who
owned the land.

When Richard was arrested, there would be a scandal,
and Guinevere would feel the brunt of it. She would again be
without someone to protect her, alone in this unkind world. With my
new, developing feelings for her, how could I even contemplate
causing her grief? She had borne so too much grief in her young
life.

Understanding some of her pain as I lost my father,
but he and I were never close, I could not imagine losing my mother
and sister.

When Guinevere told me that she had lost both
parents, her strong will was explained. She was trying to cover the
truth; that she was a young, vulnerable girl searching for someone
to love her unconditionally. I wished that I could be that person,
but I was not sure that I knew how to love, not the way she
deserved. She needed someone who would make her their world, not
destroy hers. Were I to try to be the man she needed, there would
be much put at risk. Should my enemies ever discover my feelings
for her, they would use those feelings against me, hurting her,
possibly even killing her. It should be unthinkable, and yet, part
of me was convinced that I could protect her.

“Something is bothering you. Your thoughts are not
here with me,” Guinevere said softly.

Jerking out of my thoughts, and turning to look into
her eyes, her concern for me was evident along with something much,
much more. My mind was searching for something to say as I sighed
audibly.

“It is only my mother. I worry about her. Is an
acquaintanceship of a few months long enough to consider
marriage?”

“I suppose it depends upon the couple,” she replied
before turning her eyes toward the lake. “Richard appears
determined to marry her.”

“What kind of guardian is he?” There was no hint of
anything but wonder in my voice.

She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “He is like all
men of means. Over bearing, stubborn, loyal to his work.”

“Was your father like Richard?” I asked softly.

A frown covered her lips and eyes. “No. Richard is a
veritable tyrant in comparison to my father. My father was the best
man while he lived.” She leaned her head against the tree, staring
at the water, making plain that she did not wish to speak of her
past.

Relinquishing my hopes to draw more out of her, I
took off my hat, placing it on the ground and closing my eyes. A
breeze was blowing through the trees, rustling the leaves and
giving me a feeling of serenity. My mind immediately moved to the
woman whose shoulder was brushing mine. Guinevere had a way about
her that could make me forget my troubles. Most of my time spent in
her company had been a time of happiness, and that was something
that I had not experienced much since my childhood, before the
Phantoms.

Guinevere was close enough that I
could smell her scent. She always smelled of lavender. A churning
feeling in the pit of my stomach made me want to kiss her until the
feeling subsided, but that would neither be proper or something
that she would tolerate. One thing was for certain; Guinevere made
me feel light, carefree, and yet, I had a strong desire to shelter
her and protect her from all pain—even the pain that I would
inflict.

The feelings within me were
powerful, waiting anxiously to be unleashed—like a team of horses
on the brink of losing control, all that was needed was to drop the
hands, give them their heads, and hang on for the ride.

She moved, her shoulder no longer touching mine.
Opening my eyes, she was leaning toward me and studying me with
curious eyes. My gaze searched for the depth of her feelings behind
the curiosity in her eyes, before dropping to her lips. The corners
tilted up in a delicate smile, and she leaned closer, pressing her
lips against mine.

For an instant, I could do nothing, as my body
relaxed in a feeling of ecstasy. It was like I had been deprived of
sustenance for years, and when I took my first bite, nothing had
ever tasted better. But like all first bites, the craving for more,
to devour, took hold.

My hand moved to the small of her back pulling her
closer. Her body sighed, and she leaned further into me. I could
feel her longing in the pressure of her lips against mine. It both
surprised and intrigued me. She needed me, wanted me, and I needed
her. Longing so strongly seized my chest that I could barely
breathe.