by Nancy Butler
MacHeath, she knew, believed he possessed none of those attributes. He viewed himself as a failure, a man without honor, without respect, who could barely look after himself, let alone those he cared for. And if he’d once had a youthful conviction that he was meant for great things, it had been flogged out of him by circumstance.
How could she convince him that he was wrong, that his every action proved his honorable nature? Was he blind to the fact that his friends respected and esteemed him? Didn’t he know that he’d looked after her better than her own father could have? What would it take to assure him that his talents were still there, that his skill with a pen and his passion for designing ships were only lying dormant?
No answers came to her. She had a sinking notion that merely loving him could not undo ten years of deprivation and self-hatred.
A hand touched her briefly on the shoulder. “I think the service has started,” he said quietly from behind her. “Perhaps we should go up now.”
She rose at once.
“We can wait in the shadows in the back of the church. If your father is there, you can approach him as he is leaving. Even if your cousin is with him, I doubt Quincy will make a scene.”
“What will you do? I mean, will you come with us to the house?”
He shook his head, and she saw that his expression was remote, as though he were going through an exercise that held little meaning for him.
“I’ll duck out of the church once I’ve seen you with your father. I want to scout around his house before I come inside, and that will give you a chance to talk to him.”
She couldn’t prevent herself from touching his sleeve. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? You’ve been keeping me safe for these past days, but once I’m with my father, I could guarantee your safety for a change.”
His expression darkened, and his face grew even more remote. She nearly cried out in vexation at her poor choice of words. If she’d intentionally wanted to tread on his pride, she couldn’t have done a better job of it.
She quickly patted his arm reassuringly. “No, I know you’ll be fine. This waiting has just made me a bit edgy.”
She followed him up the steps and out into the cold night air. There was no real wind, but the slight breeze coming up from the river was laden with a chilling dampness. For the hundredth time she wished she hadn’t given her sable muffler to Reggie. Poor Reggie, she thought with a guilty twinge. She wondered if she was still in Reading or if she’d finally come here. Perhaps she’d gone back to London.
The sound of the choir was louder now, the blended voices pouring out through the glass windows and rising up over the church’s slate roof.
Alexa felt a sudden, unexpected thrill bubble up in the pit of her stomach. What a glorious welcome this was ... those heavenly voices singing out the joy of Christmas. Regardless of what her future held, she knew she would cherish every minute she’d spent with MacHeath; he’d awakened her to so much. Furthermore, she would never forget his single-minded determination to get her back to Cudbright.
Almost without thinking, she stopped him and set her palms on his cold cheeks.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d need a hero, but I’m so glad it turned out to be you.”
He nodded once, his mouth taut with some emotion she could not read.
Chapter 12
They went up the shallow stone steps and into the vestibule. MacHeath eased open the door to the sanctuary, and they both slipped inside. He surveyed the interior of the small church, which was festooned with what seemed to be miles of holiday greenery, and then nodded toward a pillar on their left. From there they would be able to view most of the congregation.
Her father, he knew, would be sitting in the Prescott family stall, somewhere at the front of the church. Alexa headed toward the spot he’d indicated, but he lingered a moment, letting his gaze roam over the sea of heads until he came to one that was blond and sleek.
Darwin Quincy was seated beside Alexander Prescott in an ornate wooden pew, leaning forward intently, his attention fixed on the man standing behind the raised lectern. MacHeath recalled teasing Alexa about the roof tumbling in if she ever set foot in a church. He wondered now how such a base villain as her cousin could sit there in patently devoted worship and not fear that a bolt of lightning would come crashing through the ceiling and pierce him in divine, sizzling retribution. He nearly grinned when it occurred to him that he might have earned a minor lightning strike or two himself.
“They’re both here,” he whispered to Alexa once he was at her side.
“I know. Look at Quincy,” she hissed. “He looks like a blasted choirboy.”
“Your father appears to be bearing up rather well.”
“He never shows it when he’s troubled. Soldiering on, he calls it. That way no one can ever guess that he is vulnerable. You should have seen him when Mama died—he never broke down in front of anyone, not even me.”
MacHeath’s heart tugged at the truth of her words. They soldiered on, those Prescotts, father and daughter, both. But how sad for a child of ten to lose her mother and not be able to share her grief with her remaining parent.
When his own father died, he’d cried half the night with his father’s mates. Hell, they had all cried. Maybe that was what came of being a volatile Scot. Still, Alexa was volatile enough in her own way ... easy to show anger, but perhaps not so easy to show her grief.
The sexton had finished reading the biblical text recounting the birth of the Christ child, and now Mr. Featherbridge stepped up to the pulpit. The vicar was a rotund gentleman with a halo of graying brown hair surrounding a pale pink tonsure. A veritable Friar Tuck, MacHeath noted irreverently.
“Christmas,” the vicar intoned in a deep, resonant baritone, “is not so much about birth, as it is about rebirth. It marks the beginning of Christ’s time on earth, but it also foretells His rebirth after the baptism by John, which leads us inevitably to His death and resurrection.”
He gripped the raised sides of the pulpit, and his bright eyes bore down on his congregation. “Without the baptism there could be no ministry. Without rebirth, there could be no resurrection. The Bible tells us little of the boy Jesus’s early life. We see Him meeting with the elders in the temple, preaching to them. But, again, this is only a precursor to His adult ministry, when, as a man of thirty-three, He left behind the carpentry, the ordinary life, to follow a new vocation in the hills of Galilee ...”
MacHeath heard only portions of the sermon after that. His mind was too busy assessing the implications of Mr. Featherbridge’s words. Though his Bible learning was woefully thin, he did know that Jesus was well into adulthood before He began preaching. He’d never thought to question why, and he certainly hadn’t known His exact age.
Thirty-three, the vicar had said.
He’d turned that same age in November—an occasion marked only by his winning five pounds from Alf Connor in a grogshop. It had held no significance to him at the time. But now he began to wonder if there was a portent in that turning. The money he’d won that night had been the debt that brought him into the Doxy’s Choice.
If Alf had paid up promptly, MacHeath would not have overheard Quincy, he wouldn’t have found Alexa again or become fixated on the notion that he could clear his name. No, he’d still be moldering in the East End, doing menial labor for pennies, and losing himself in a gin bottle.
His world had shifted on its axis, merely at the turn of a card. And now that the changes had begun, he had no wish to stop them. For so long he’d thought all his options were past him. That, as he’d said to Alexa last night, he had no horizons left. What a stunning thing it was to consider that he was not too old to start over and make a better life. It was a sanctified course, if the Bible was anything to go on. Was it truly possible to shed one’s old skin and shrug on a fresh mantle?
If he chose that path, Alexa would do everything she could to aid him. He was too proud to take
her money, but he might not reject her support in other areas. Through her father, she had connections to important men in the shipping trade. It was not inconceivable that one of them might hire him, give him a chance to resume his old life. He barely dared to voice this possibility in his head, and yet, his heart swelled immediately at the notion.
Rebirth ... it was such a tempting possibility the vicar had held out to him.
It was pointless to dwell on a bright future, however, until he spoke with Prescott. If the man refused to believe his story, then he would continue on as he was—a nonentity, a ne’er-do-well, a man truly without horizons. If fate was kind to him and he lost his fugitive status, then he could rejoin the ranks of humanity and, if that happened, he would be able to hold his head up for the first time in ten years.
He felt Alexa’s hand slip into his. “The service is nearly over,” she whispered.
“Go, then,” he said, giving her a little shove. “To the back of the church. When your father walks out into the aisle, go to him. Kick Quincy in the shins to get past him if you need to, but get yourself safe under your father’s wing.”
She nodded and smiled swiftly. “I’ll see you at the house, then.”
“I’ll be there, Alexa.”
He watched her sidle along the dimly lit wall of the church. Her hair was hanging down in loose snarls, her cloak was thrown back over her shoulders to reveal the ill-fitting man’s coat she had borrowed from Eb Gable. There was nothing of the proper young lady about her appearance except for the proud tilt of her chin and the assured determination in her eyes.
There ye go, me darlin’.
The apt words of an old Scots love song rose up in his head. Better than that blasted Christmas carol about the goose, he mused with a grin.
The vicar gave the benediction, and the congregation began to file out of their seats. The crowd parted in deference to Alexander Prescott, as the man and his nephew stepped into the aisle.
Alexa flew toward them, brushing past the parishioners, softly crying, “Papa! Papa!”
Quincy’s face tightened, and he instantly stepped forward to intercept her, but his uncle thrust past him, holding out both hands.
“Lexie! Sweet mercies, it’s my girl!” He caught her hands as she ran to him and tugged them to his chest. “Thank heaven, Alexa. Thank heaven you are safely come home.”
Hug her! MacHeath urged silently from his hiding place. For God’s sake put your arms around her.
But Prescott merely stood there beaming at her, the joy and relief that were evident in his face not translating themselves into a need to take her in his arms. MacHeath muttered a curse, and then winced when he recalled where he was.
He started moving toward the door, knowing that all eyes were focused on the happy reunion that was transpiring near the front of the church.
His hand was on the ornate brass latch, when a strident voice called out, “There he is! Stop him! Someone stop that man!”
As he flung the door open, two burly townsmen grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around.
“Not so fast there, my lad,” one of them growled.
MacHeath easily twisted away from them, but another man had barricaded the door with his body. He turned then, with a stoic, shuttered expression, to confront his nemesis.
Quincy was striding down the aisle with uncharacteristic speed; the watch fob and seals that ornamented his silk waistcoat danced a jig against his lean belly. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth twisted in anger, and MacHeath could see a tiny froth of spittle on his lips as he closed the distance between them.
“You’ll answer to me for this, you filthy knave! Did you think to just walk out of here?”
“I thought to bring Miss Prescott home,” MacHeath said softly. “Nothing more.”
Quincy poked him sharply in the ribs with his walking stick. “That’s a fine sentiment coming from the man who carried her off.”
MacHeath slapped the stick away impatiently, his dark eyes boring into the blond man’s pale blue ones. “Sorry I stole your intended bride, Quincy,” he drawled softly. “It turns out she has an aversion to poxy, debt-ridden scoundrels.”
The color came up in Quincy’s face, turning his fashionable pallor a bright cherry-red. He opened his mouth to utter a scathing reply, but never got the words out.
Now that he was standing directly in front of his secret adversary—and this was certainly the tall, weathered rogue that Finch and Connor had described to him—he’d begun noticing other things about him. The set of his shoulders, the color of his hair, the damned probing eyes that never looked down in proper deference.
When the sudden, certain awareness of the man’s identity filtered into his brain, his face blanched.
“No, it can’t be,” he murmured in a quaking voice. “He wouldn’t dare come here ... not after all this time.”
“He did.” MacHeath put his chin up. “I told you, I needed to get Alexa home.”
Quincy staggered back slightly in shock, and then shook himself. “Here, you two,” he ordered in a steadier voice, motioning the men behind MacHeath to come forward. “Hold him fast. I know this man ... ten years ago he escaped from the jail in Exeter. We need to call in the constable.”
“Indeed you do not!” It was Alexa, coming down the aisle, tugging her father along behind her. “Let him go, Quincy. He’s done nothing wrong.”
Quincy turned to her with a sneer. “Do you have any idea who this is?”
“Simeon Hastings.” It was Prescott himself who uttered the name in a deep, disbelieving voice. He strode past his daughter and came right up to MacHeath. “By God, fellow, you’ve a nerve showing your nose in this town. And what had you to do with my daughter’s disappearance?”
“This is the man who carried her off, Uncle. I had his description from Mrs. Reginald, right up to the fine gloves he wears.” Quincy jabbed the head of his walking stick against MacHeath’s right hand and seemed pleased when his victim did not even flinch.
Alexa grabbed the stick and wrestled it out of his hands. “Stop tormenting him, Darwin. Or I’ll clout you on the hand and see how you like it.”
“Perhaps,” said MacHeath with amazing sangfroid, considering that half the population of Cudbright was now gawking at him, “we should take this discussion to a less public place.”
“I have nothing to discuss with you,” Prescott growled softly. “Except to say that I am amazed at your temerity.” He turned back to the congregation and raised his voice. “I need someone to fetch a constable.”
The entire crowd seemed mesmerized by what was happening by the door, and no one came forward to offer their services.
“No, Papa!” Alexa gripped his arm tightly. “I need to speak with you alone. There are things you must know before you judge him.”
Quincy pulled his uncle aside. “She is turned about in her head,” he whispered. “Look at how she defends Hastings—the man who dragged her from her coach. If I were you, I wouldn’t pay any heed to what she says.”
“Well, you are not him!” Alexa stormed. “He will listen to me. Please, Papa, promise me you will listen before you do anything rash.”
Prescott’s gaze swung from his daughter’s face, brimming with entreaty, to Quincy’s, which bore a taut combination of anger and malice. Simeon Hastings seemed the only one unaffected by this high melodrama; he stood calmly by, his face betraying nothing of what was in his thoughts.
“I can’t promise anything,” Prescott said. “There is still a warrant out on him. I’m sorry, Alexa, but you see it’s out of my hands.”
“That isn’t true,” she countered quickly. “You laid the charges against him ... it would be a trifle to have them dismissed. But I am not asking for that. Just give him a fair hearing.”
Quincy made a rude noise.
MacHeath’s mouth tightened as he turned to him. “How the devil can I expect a fair hearing, when once again you have been beside Prescott, whispering your poisonous insinuations in his
ear?”
“You damned, lying—”
“Enough!” Mr. Featherbridge, who had used all his considerable powers of persuasion to coax his reluctant congregation to begin exiting through the church’s side door, now came hurrying toward them. “I won’t have profanity in my church, gentlemen.”
He stopped before Prescott. “Let’s take this into the vestry, Alexander. I’ll come with you, if you need an arbiter.” He took Alexa’s hand. “Would that help, my dear?”
“I never meant for this to be a public spectacle,” she murmured. “My cousin has made it so.” She swung to MacHeath. “Please, say something. Tell them what you told me. Oh, how can you stand there so calmly?”
He hitched one shoulder. “Because I was a fool to expect anything different. They didn’t listen ten years ago, and nothing has changed.”
“I’ll make them listen,” she declared. She spun to her father. “He didn’t drag me from my coach.” She bit her lip. “Well, he did in fact do that. But his intention was not to harm me or hold me against my will. He was rescuing me ... from two ruffians that Quincy had hired to carry me off.”
Her cousin applauded softly. “Oh, that is rare, Alexa. I give your rogue high marks for invention.”
“Don’t you mock me,” she snarled. “MacHeath overheard you in a London tavern, giving orders to those two men.”
Quincy looked at MacHeath through his pale brows. “And you saw me there, Hastings? You saw me face-to-face?”
MacHeath shook his head. “Only from the back, more’s the pity. But I heard you clearly enough. I think I have cause to remember your voice. Very good cause.” He paused. “You’d be surprised at all the things I remember about you, Quincy.”
Quincy blanched slightly, but then recovered himself and waved a hand in the air. “Pah! Half the men in the ton speak as I do. It was no doubt some well-bred fortune hunter you overheard. My cousin has been prey to them since her come-out.”
