The Night Angel (33 page)
When the pastor had moved away, Ada said quietly, “I-I am glad to see you back, John Falconer. I and my son, as you have noticed.” They exchanged smiles, then she continued, “How long will you be able to stay?”
“I must take charge of this farm before the week’s end or lose my deposit.”
“So when must you leave?” she asked again.
Before he could answer, Joseph came limping over. “Look yonder to the ridgeline.”
Falconer squinted to where the westering sun made slanted blades of the forest tree line. There upon the high ridge stood a cluster of riders. Three of them held long-bore muskets in the hands not holding the reins.
“I count nine of them,” Emmett Reeves said, coming up to his other side.
“They don’t seem to be making any move toward us,” Falconer said.
“No, they wouldn’t. Not if they’re who I think they are.”
Ada asked the lawyer, “Who do you suspect them to be, sir?”
Reeves did not answer her directly. Instead he said to Falconer, “It appears you were right in driving us to exhaustion.”
Falconer studied the ridge until the silhouettes wheeled about and disappeared. He looked over to see Ada watching him with deep concern.
Falconer said to Ada, “I must leave the day after tomorrow.”
“But you need rest—”
“The road calls me,” he said, pointing to the men no longer visible and the setting sun, then waving his arm toward his charges, now safe in Glory.
On the morn, Serafina returned to her work at first light. She paused for a Bible study with Mary and Gerald, the three of them lingering long over prayers for Falconer’s safekeeping. Then her father appeared in his formal court attire, for he had received an official summons from the Austrian legate. As the invitation had been both public and formal, no one sensed any danger. Even so, her father was rather nervous. He had spent hours during a sleepless night trying to fathom the purpose behind such a summons.
Nathan returned later that morning. Serafina had offered to let him take the portrait of his mother the day before, but Nathan had seen her unease and said he would wait. He did not say that the portrait looked finished to his eye. Nor did he press her in any way. His last words upon departure were the same as those he spoke upon arrival. “I couldn’t possibly take the painting until you were satisfied it was ready for outside viewing, Miss Gavi.”
Serafina found herself wanting to confess her quandary. About a mystery she could not truly describe. About the challenge she felt to look
beyond
each work and see something else.
Instead, she asked, “Would you like to see my other works?”
Nathan glanced at Bettina Gavi, and they both registered surprise. “I would be most honored.”
“One moment, please.” Serafina returned to the dining room and began setting up her easels in a curving line that stretched across the entire room. She lifted the paintings one by one from their positions facing the wall before she took a step back and surveyed her work. Finally she called, “You may enter now.”
Not even her mother had seen them all at once. Serafina fitted herself into the far corner and saw her two guests move down the line of easels. Yes, the paintings were both good and complete. If only . . .
Mary brought them tea, and they sipped standing before the easels. So it was that Alessandro Gavi found them when he returned, his two ladies and Nathan Baring, cups in hand, viewing the room filled with Serafina’s paintings.
“There you are.” Alessandro Gavi spoke from the doorway. “My dears, I have someone who wishes a word with our daughter.”
“I am still in my day dress, Papa,” Serafina said.
“I am sure the gentleman will understand.” He nodded a greeting to Nathan. “Mr. Baring, how good to see you, sir.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Gavi.” Nathan’s attention now focused upon the man entering behind Alessandro. “And to you as well, Herr Lockheim.”
“Ah. Mr. Baring.” Following her father was the legate’s principal aide, whom Serafina recognized from her time at the palace. Dressed in full court regalia, his wig was freshly powdered. The polished gold buckles on his heeled shoes matched the brocade woven down both sides of his coat. He attempted to look down at Baring, though the American diplomat stood a full six inches taller. “The legate shall find your choice of company most interesting, Signor Gavi.”
“Yes, well.” Alessandro gestured to Serafina. “And this is my daughter.”
“Ah. The artist in her garret.” His patronizing tone was not lost on Serafina. “I shall have a look, if you please.”
“But, Papa—”
“Of course you are welcome, Herr Lockheim.” Alessandro gave his daughter a warning look.
“Thank you.” As he swept by the trio, he fitted a monocle into his right eye. He took his time over the sketches and charcoal drawings arranged on the side wall. “Most interesting. I detect a certain level of experimentation, shall we say, that I would not have expected in one so young.”
“Herr Lockheim studied art in Vienna,” Alessandro explained. “He is here on behalf—”
“Allow me to complete my inspection before we discuss it further, I beg you.”
“Of course, sir.” Alessandro gave a slight bow which the prince’s aide ignored.
Serafina felt resentment twisting her insides. But her father’s unspoken command kept her silent.
Her drawings were displayed by subject. First came the sketches of her parents, both together and then separate. Then was a long row of Nathan’s mother. After Serafina had begun work on the painting itself, she had returned to her sketchbook, working from memory, seeking the proper balance between the seen and unseen. The sketches showed a woman regressing in age from someone in the twilight of her life to fresh young maiden.
Drawings of the infant were even more varied, for they began in death and ended in laughter. Serafina had come downstairs several nights after the house was asleep, lured to her sketchpad by half-remembered dream images. Of a child who laughed and lived and gave joy to a family made whole once more. Of a place where no infant died early. Of a realm where she had a family of her own. And children. Where no Venetian liar had stolen her heart. Where all was well. Some of those drawings she had done with a feverish intensity, knowing she could never remake the world no matter how hard she struggled. Yet attempting it in her drawing just the same.
The fourth set of drawings belonged to her latest painting, the one she was just now in the process of completing. Gerald Rivens had asked Mary to wed, and Mary had agreed. Serafina was painting their portrait as a wedding gift. The mystery there had been the simplest thus far to determine. Her sketches showed a couple deeply in love. Their joy was so powerful it shone from the earliest drawings. Serafina watched as the legate’s representative spent the most amount of time poring over these. In her second rendition of Gerald and Mary, she had drawn a hand. One appearing from a cloud-flecked sky, reaching down to bless the couple. In later drawings the hand became more ethereal, until it was a mere suggestion, seen and yet nearly invisible.
Herr Lockheim looked thoughtfully at Serafina, then stepped around to the easels and examined the paintings. The only sound in the chamber was birdsong and the ticking mantel clock.
Finally the man demanded, “Why watercolors, Miss Gavi?”
“It is my chosen medium.”
“No other reason?”
“I wished to focus upon the faces. Upon the expression.”
“And you have left the background utterly empty. Most interesting.”
She fumbled with an explanation, for it was the first time she had sought to express her thinking on this. “I sought to give life to the person, both exterior and interior. The surroundings were unimportant.”
“Centuries of painters might disagree, Miss Gavi.” For once Herr Lockheim’s voice did not carry scorn. “But for an artist of such young years, I confess to seeing some promise in your work.”
He glanced at Alessandro, then returned his attention to the easels. “Very well, Signor Gavi. You may proceed.”
“My dear, the legate’s wife, Princess Margarethe, wishes for you to paint her portrait.”
“She has sat for some of Europe’s finest artists.” The condescension returned to Lockheim’s voice. “A commission such as this could mean a great deal to a young student.”
Serafina could feel the tension from both her parents. “I should be honored to try and do Her Majesty proper justice.”
“Most wise. I shall contact you when the princess is available.”
“One moment,” Serafina said. “We have not yet discussed the matter of compensation.”
Her father stiffened. “My dear, this may not be the appropriate moment.”
“Listen to your father, young lady.” The nose lifted. “I should think attending Her Highness would be recompense enough for someone in your station.”
Serafina remained calm, quiet, respectful. And very determined. “In return for painting her portrait, I wish for Her Highness to help with a matter of crucial importance.”
“And that is?”
“The legate, sir, has dispatched someone to pursue John Falconer. His name—”
“Utter nonsense!” The aide struck such a lofty pose his heels left the floor. “Scandalous!”
“His name is . . .” She turned to Nathan. “Mr. Baring, if you please . . . ?”
“Vladimir,” Nathan offered immediately.
The aide sniffed. “You have been listening to stable rumors. I assure you, Miss Gavi. No such man exists. The legate does not lower himself to such underhanded—”
“In that case, a letter signed by Her Highness ordering a man who does not exist to return from a task the legate did not order him upon would be no cause for any alarm,” Serafina countered.
The legate required a moment to struggle through that reasoning. “This is an outrage.”
“These are my terms,” Serafina replied. “Good day, Herr Lockheim.”
A subdued quality marked the household once the aide had departed. Bettina invited Nathan to stay for the midday meal, and he accepted with a similar distracted air. The few attempts to speak of anything mundane passed with little remark. Knives and forks clinked upon the plates. Compliments were paid. Thanks given. Otherwise it was largely a time of silence and introspection.
When coffee was served in the front parlor, Serafina confessed, “I keep having the most horrible dreams about poor Falconer. I carry a growing sense of anxiety through almost every day.”
To her surprise and gratitude, Alessandro did not mention the demand she had made of the legate’s aide. Instead, he asked Nathan, “Still no word?”
“Nothing whatever. I met with Reginald Langston again yesterday afternoon. His own connections south of Richmond are limited, so he requested the help of other merchants. So far they have heard nothing.”
Alessandro Gavi bit fiercely upon his lip. “If anything has happened to the gentleman on my account, I shall never—”
“Please, Papa,” Serafina implored. “I can’t bear to think it, much less hear the words.”
“No, no, you are quite right.” Alessandro struggled to form a smile. “I am certain the gentleman will see his way through.”
“Perhaps . . .” Nathan began, then hesitated. He looked at Serafina.
She understood. “Yes, oh yes. Let us pray for him.” She rose from her chair. “I will ask Gerald and Mary to join us.”
Mary and Gerald Rivens rose from their quiet coffee in the kitchen and returned to the parlor with Serafina. She knew her parents were made uncomfortable by this public prayer outside of a church, but her father’s half-spoken concern had fanned her heart’s flames.
As Nathan began the prayer, Mary and Serafina clasped hands.
When Nathan finished, Gerald began his own pleading to the Almighty for their friend John Falconer.
When Gerald finished, Serafina could not join the
amen
s, much less speak words of her own. Bettina slipped off the sofa to embrace her daughter. The two of them clung together. As Serafina’s eyes cleared, she saw the confusion in her father’s eyes. Along with the deep concern. She pried herself free and took the seat vacated by her mother. She embraced her father and said, “It is not your fault, Papa.”
“I should never have sent him on such a dangerous mission.”
“You did what you thought was best. Falconer wanted this. Remember? He told us all that this was the work he was called to do.”
Her father touched her face. “My dear, strong young lady.”
“I don’t feel strong at all. I feel the weakest person on earth today.”
“What a wonderful young woman you are becoming. I wish I could tell you how proud, how delighted I am with you.”
“Oh, Papa.”
She felt her mother settle into place on her other side. “Falconer is a most amazing man. We can only hope he will soon return to us.”
“We must continue to pray,” she whispered.
Her father once more touched her face. “It is a remarkable sensation, I confess, to see this faith of yours.” He looked beyond her to where Nathan stood by the far wall. “I have knelt in the finest cathedrals on earth. Never have I felt so close to the Divine as here in our little parlor.”
Falconer stayed in Salem for two full days. The second night the village held a celebration. The square before the church was turned into an outdoor banquet hall. Ada explained that the gathering marked the beginning of the new planting season. Every family brought a dish, and there was enough food for twice their number. Great pits were dug by the smokehouse, and a side of beef and two whole sheep cooked there on their spits. After dinner a harpsichord was brought from one of the homes, a dulcimer from another. Harmonicas and fiddles and even a reed flute soon joined the instrumentalists. The choirs sang apart from one another, not so much in competition as in distinct and separate harmony. First there was the farmers’ choir, then one from the village of Barnstable, then Winston, then the bachelors, and then all the groups together. But the most joyful songs were sung by the visitors, led by Miss Hattie.
