The Night Angel (25 page)
“And he likes your boy. I heard folks talking of how the two of them were together this afternoon.”
“Like they’ve known one another for years,” Ada quietly agreed.
“And he’s opposed to slavery.”
“Yes. I heard him describe his calling from God, and it was clear this lies at the very core of his being.”
Goody wiped the perspiration from her brow, the spit moving slow and steady beneath her other hand. “I wonder if he would like to stay around these parts and help . . .”
Ada didn’t ask Goody to explain further.
Goody knew her well enough to read meaning from Ada’s silence. “There are folks here who’d treat him the same as they treated me. If he’s happy in his calling, though, it wouldn’t hardly matter to such a man as that one.”
Ada turned and looked at the open door. “But he’s leaving, Goody,” she replied, saying the words mainly to remind her own heart. “And soon.”
Falconer’s talk with Paul Grobbe was of crucial importance, both to his mission for the Gavi family and his own personal quest. He worked at paying attention as voices drifted from the kitchen along with the savory aroma of roasting lamb. He heard the young lad singing as he set the dining room table and felt surrounded by appealing impressions.
Paul Grobbe finished his perusal of Alessandro Gavi’s documents and set them on the table between them. He said gravely, “I am grateful for this gift of trust, John Falconer.”
“You are providing me both money and contacts on nothing save my word,” Falconer replied. “I am the one who must thank you for trusting me, sir.”
“How many people know of your reasons for traveling south?”
“None save the folks in this community. I did tell a pair of slavers I was headed to the mines, but they do not know which one, nor my purpose.”
Grobbe frowned. “These were the men from whom you bought the people you just freed?”
“Yes.” Falconer saw the concern. “I had to give them some reason for taking on so many new hands.”
“Indeed, indeed.”
“You seem concerned.”
“The one thing slavers hate most in this world are those who wish to set their charges free. The region from Richmond north is full of the worst kinds. They hunt white and black alike, sir, and they’re paid well for those they capture.” Grobbe leaned forward so as to hide his words from the kitchen. “Dead or alive.”
Falconer lowered his voice as well. “I appreciate both your warning and your unease, but I repeat what I said before. I feel that God has set me a task. I intend to give freedom to four hundred and nineteen indentured slaves, and when that is completed He may call me to do the same again.”
Grobbe studied him intently. Falconer met his gaze and waited. The grandfather clock in the Fremdehaus’s front hall counted out the long seconds. Finally Grobbe nodded and said, “John Falconer, a banker is charged with the duty to keep safe the finances of other people. He is paid to be cautious. However, I must tell you, sir, I feel God’s hand upon this moment and upon your quest. I would count it an honor to serve as your supporter as well as your financier.”
“I cannot explain how much it means to hear a man such as yourself grant me such sanction, sir.”
Grobbe rose from his chair. “Would you take a turn with me?”
“As long as I can be back in time for dinner. Those heady scents have stirred my appetite.”
“Aye, the Hart house has been long known for the quality of its table.” Grobbe walked to the kitchen doorway and said, “Mrs. Hart, may I borrow one of your guests for a half hour?”
Ada appeared, rubbing her hands on her apron. “No longer than that, Mr. Grobbe. I will not have you threatening my roast with overcooking.”
“I will make certain we are back on time, ma’am. Your roast smells fine as heaven’s manna,” Grobbe said as he settled his hat into place and touched the rim. “Mrs. Hart. Miss Goody. Come, John Falconer.”
They turned off the main street into a side lane shaded by elms. The early spring leaves formed a green veil through which shone the sunset. Grobbe said, “When Ada Hart was younger, folks said her eyes could laugh as engagingly as her voice. But she has not had much to laugh about in recent years,” he finished somberly.
“I wish Mrs. Hart and her son only the very best, sir.”
“Precisely the answer I’d have expected you to give.”
The banker headed first to the village stables, where he instructed the livery owner to supply Falconer from his best and send the bills to the bank. After Falconer had chosen horses and pack animals, Grobbe continued down the lane to a long single-story building with a tall cross bricked in above the double front doors. “This is the single man’s choir. You may already know that choirs are our way of segmenting our community. This is also the residence for any visitor to Salem from our outlying villages, and for unmarried men who work here in the town.”
“You wish for me to move out of the inn?”
Grobbe chose his words carefully. “We are a close-knit community, sir. So long as you were just another
Fremde,
the house run by Ada Hart was the place for you to stay. However, the whole community is aware of your walk with her to the edge of town.” The banker’s small smile took any accusation from his statement.
Falconer studied his internal response, an unusual course for him. How could he stand in the gathering dusk and speak about a woman he had known for such a short time? Serafina’s long distance away, as much in emotion as miles, continued to leave a hollowness within. And yet . . .
“I mean no offense, John Falconer,” Grobbe interjected into Falconer’s thoughts, obviously taking his silence for irritation.
“A friend’s task is to offer wisdom,” Falconer replied. “Would you advise that I take my evening meal elsewhere?”
“I would not think of depriving you of that excellent lamb I smelled.” Grobbe clapped Falconer on the shoulder, clearly pleased with his response. “But before we go, I want you to meet someone who is living here with the other unmarried men.”
Grobbe pushed open the door and called, “Theo!”
“Ich komme.”
A rawboned young man appeared in darned socks, a frontiersman’s canvas pants, and a well-washed collarless shirt. The simple movement of adjusting his suspenders revealed whipcord muscles.
Grobbe said, “Theo Henning, John Falconer. Theo is my guard for any shipment of valuables, be it money or documents. He is not much for talking, is Theo. But I’ve trusted him with my life on a number of occasions.”
Everything about Theo Henning proclaimed his German stock. Ice-blue eyes regarded Falconer blankly. His close-trimmed hair and beard were both ruddy blond in color. Neither handsome nor welcoming, Henning inspected Falconer’s outstretched hand cautiously before taking hold. His grip was as solid as old oak.
Falconer asked, “May I ask what is your standard salary?”
“Three dollars a day,” Grobbe replied for the man. “He likes his pay in gold, does Theo.”
“Gold it is,” Falconer agreed. “And I will make it four.” He looked straight at Theo.
“Three dollars is already double the normal fee,” Grobbe protested, only half joking. “He may press me for more pay also.”
“Four dollars,” Falconer repeated. “I’m a stranger, and the work may prove dangerous. Before we start, though, I need to ask you one thing. What are your beliefs about slavery?”
“I have not killed man.” Henning paused between each word, measuring each carefully. “But them slavers, they tempt me. They tempt me bad.”
Falconer nodded his approval. “There’s a freed slave by the name of Joseph who’s settling his family into Bethabara. I’d be grateful if you’d find him and tell him we leave at dawn.”
Ada Hart indeed had created a haven for her son while continuing the thriving enterprise her husband had founded. Falconer sat surrounded by other weary travelers at the inn’s main table stretching nearly the length of the dining room. Five smaller tables were set in the room’s corners and within the bay window alcove. The nine guests were joined for the meal by Ada Hart, her son, and another woman who was introduced simply as Miss Goody.
After dinner Falconer attempted to excuse himself, though he was loath to leave the warmth of the room and the conversation. Ada Hart reappeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Falconer watched her walk over and pull out the chair next to his.
“You might as well say it,” Ada said after a moment of silence, speaking softly enough that her words would not be heard above the others’ conversation. “I can see something upon your features, John Falconer, but I cannot read its message. Until I do, I cannot help you further.”
Then Matt popped through the kitchen door bearing a serving plate. “Would you like a sugar cookie, Mr. Falconer?”
Falconer reached over and touched the boy’s beaming face. “You are such a helpful lad.”
Matt rewarded him with a smile that captured Falconer’s heart. “Miss Goody makes the best cookies in the whole wide world.”
Ada said gently, “Please serve the guests, son. Mr. Falconer and I need a word.”
Falconer watched the boy make his way around the table, then turned back to Ada Hart. She bore the same goodness as her son, aged and enriched by her experiences.
Falconer knew then what he needed to say. Reasoning told him there was no need to speak of such intimate matters with a woman he scarcely knew. Nevertheless, he told her about Serafina.
The telling lasted a good deal longer than Falconer had intended. Gradually the other guests departed, and later Ada Hart guided him into the almost-empty parlor. Her son sat near the fire, far enough away for their words to be private, close enough for Falconer to be aware of the boy as he stroked the fur on his dog and talked of the next day’s adventures.
Later Ada Hart excused herself to escort her son upstairs to bed. Before Matt departed, the boy walked over and wrapped his arms around Falconer’s neck.
Falconer spent the time the woman was away staring into the fire, his emotions as much in turmoil as the flames flickering before his eyes.
When Ada returned to the parlor, Miss Goody already had emerged from the kitchen and taken a seat in a rocker on the room’s far side. She knitted and said not a word, the faint click of her needles melding with the crackling fire and the candlelight’s soft intimacy.
Falconer ended his telling with, “I stood like a madman, staring into a future that was not mine to claim.”
Ada gave him enough time to be certain he was not saying more. “And then you departed on your mission.”
“Not quite.” He wiped his palms down the length of his thighs. “I felt God put something on my heart. In my thickheaded distress, though—”
“It was not thickheaded, John Falconer,” she quietly interrupted. “You do yourself a disservice by discounting the matters of your own heart. God has made us creatures of emotions, and along with other characteristics, He uses them to impart His direction to His own.”
He digested that for a long moment. “I still do not know if it was my distress or God who set these things upon my heart and mind,” he said carefully.
“How did you interpret it at the time?”
“That it was God. The certainty is a memory now, however. Nothing more.”
Ada rose to sweep an ash from the hearth back into the fireplace. “There is little in life that can pain a body more, or cause one more ill, than to be burdened by an unrequited love.”
Miss Goody lifted her focus from her yarn and gave Ada Hart a long look. Ada returned to her chair and added, “Be it from the loss of a loved one or the lack of response, I would imagine it is very much the same.”
“With respect, ma’am, to spend years in the presence of love and then lose it would to me be a far worse ordeal,” he argued.
“My Matt was a very good man, and I loved him with all my heart. The three years since his passage have been as a single winter for my spirit. But we were not discussing my situation, Mr. Falconer.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You feel God spoke to you.”
“Three times, or so it seemed then.” He found it easiest to speak if he kept his eyes on the fire. “The first time the message was simply to wait upon Him.”
Her own gaze turned toward the flames. “What a difficult challenge that can be at times.”
“The second time was the day I bid the Gavis farewell. I felt the need to imply that Serafina and the other young man I mentioned . . .”
The knitting needles stopped. He could feel both women staring at him.
“Nathan Baring is his name. As fine a gentleman as ever I have met. Godly and sincere, strong in his convictions. He holds to his duties, serving family and nation and cause. He comes from a good background. A merchant family. As are the Gavis.” Falconer took a long breath, then finished, “I as much as suggested to the Gavis that they should allow Nathan to pay court to Serafina.”
Miss Goody spoke for the first time since entering the room. “Well, I never.”
Ada glanced at her, then addressed Falconer. “You said there was a third message?”
“That night I had a mental image. For the first years after meeting my Savior, I was beset almost nightly by a most horrific dream. Just before I departed on this quest, the image returned to me. Only I was not asleep. And the image itself was different. The sense of dread was gone. I was seated at my table with the Good Book open before me.” Falconer felt his memory empowered by the women’s intense attention. “I saw how I had grown, and . . .”
“Yes?”
“I felt that God was pleased with me. It sounds a boastful thing to say, I know.”
“No, John Falconer. Think of a father’s pride in his son.”
Falconer nodded his gratitude. “There was a sense of being given an invitation. To begin on something that both served Him and would draw me closer to Him.”
“As do all worthy causes,” Ada commented. “This was the beginning of your quest to free the slaves?”
“Four hundred and nineteen,” he affirmed. “The same number as were chained in the holds of my slaver.”
The clock softly clanged yet another passing hour. “It is late,” Ada declared, rising to her feet.
Falconer rose with her. “I apologize for keeping you ladies so long.”
