The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  He might have said yes, or it might merely have been a sigh. She set the hamper of papers on the floor beside his chair. “The Langstons have included the new pamphlet from the Powers Press,” she told him. “You remember my telling you of Gareth and Erica Powers, don’t you, Papa?”

  He made no move for either the papers or his coffee. “Never would I have imagined being sealed inside such comfortable surroundings could be so distressing.”

  She settled into the chair beside him. “You are a man of action.”

  “A man of the world,” he responded. “A diplomat. A man who yearns for people and trade and deeds and deals!”

  “You feel helpless,” Serafina said.

  Her tone as much as her words caused her father to focus beyond himself. “You worry for Falconer as well.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “And yet you seem so cheerful. So—” he searched for the proper word—“so peaceful.”

  Serafina was slow in shaping her response. “I have never before found prayer such a comfort. Nor has it come as easily as now.”

  “Prayer,” he repeated.

  “I pray for Falconer with almost every breath, it seems. I thank God for having brought us together. I pray for his safety and his success. And I find myself almost walking the path alongside him. Wherever he is . . .”

  “I think of him also.” Alessandro sipped from his cup. “I thought I knew all manner of men. But never have I had an exchange as the night of his departure.”

  “Will you take something to eat, Papa? There is some lovely marmalade and fresh-churned butter in today’s hamper.”

  “Not now.” His pat on his daughter’s hand urged her to remain where she was. “Explain to me his response to my offer of the mine’s ownership. We did not shake hands on it, nor did he ask for anything in writing. Does he trust me so, a man he has known only for a few months?”

  “It is partly trust. In truth, though, Falconer cares little for money. He has been rich before. He mentions it with a deep shame. I have never asked for details because of the pain it causes him. He lives for God now.”

  “God. The word comes so easily to your lips.”

  “Yes, Papa. It does.”

  He sipped from his cup, then set it back in the saucer and toyed with the little spoon. “This other thing he mentioned. About the young diplomat.”

  Serafina leaned back in her chair. “Nathan Baring.”

  “Did Falconer speak of this with you before?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “I thought . . .” He retreated into his cup, then said, “I thought Falconer was going to ask for your hand.”

  “So did I.”

  “He loves you.”

  Serafina fought down the burning in her eyes. “Yes, I believe that is so.”

  “And yet he seemed to suggest that we allow another man to pay court.”

  She swallowed hard. “Falconer is the strongest man I have ever met.”

  He studied his daughter. “You are not speaking of his physical size. Are you?”

  “No, Papa. I mean his faith in God.”

  To their surprise, Bettina Gavi asked from the doorway, “Do you wish to take holy orders and enter a convent, daughter?”

  Serafina rose to her feet. “Good morning, Mama. I did not see you. Would you like coffee?”

  Bettina walked over and kissed her husband. Her hand upon Alessandro’s shoulder, she said, “I would ask that you answer my question, Serafina.”

  “No, Mama. I have no interest in joining a convent.”

  “Why not? You speak of God with such ease. Does this not seem the proper step?”

  “Not that we wish to lose you,” Alessandro hurried to add. “But lately we have wondered about this, your mother and I.”

  “I have too much of my father’s nature.” Serafina studied her parents. The strain of this discussion was evident on both their features. “I carry my Lord’s peace with me. I wish to take this out into the world, not retreat away from it.”

  No matter how welcome and pleasant such conversations might be, they were unable to halt her father’s restlessness for very long. That afternoon, Serafina and her mother made dinner while Mary set the table and Gerald repaired a section of the roof where the rain had found an opening. All the while, she heard her father pacing back and forth through the front rooms. The parlor and study were by far the home’s nicest chambers. Yet being on the ground floor and fronting the square, they were also permanently shuttered. It was the common practice whenever a house was placed under quarantine, so that communication with someone on the street could only take place from an upstairs window, thus halting the spread of disease.

  Back and forth her father paced, his leather heels clipping across the polished wood floor, then becoming muffled as they touched the parlor’s carpet, then back to crisp sounds when they struck wood on the carpet’s other side. Twice Bettina started to say something, but she refrained only by compressing her lips into a thin line. The pacing worried Serafina. She feared her father would find the waiting interminable and break off the quarantine too early. Serafina wanted them to give Falconer as long as they possibly could.

  Finally she could bear no more. She set down her ladle, washed her hands in the basin of water, and dried them on her apron. Watched by her mother, Serafina stepped from the kitchen and followed the footsteps into the parlor, arriving in time to watch Alessandro approach the fireplace, plant a fist upon the mantel, and rest his forehead there. He looked ill with the strain.

  “Papa, won’t you come back and keep us company?”

  He lifted his head, stared at the fire, and said nothing.

  “Papa?”

  “Perhaps I could do Falconer more good if I were out tracking down his attacker.” He turned to his daughter, seeking her permission. “Perhaps this Vladimir might even be stopped before he leaves town. Is that not worth considering?”

  Serafina knew to argue would only add fuel to his distress. “Reginald Langston is already hunting this man, Papa. His contacts are even better than yours. And Nathan Baring offered his assistance. Remember?”

  “Surely they could use my help as well.”

  She cast about for something to say or do, something that would keep him engaged and content. If not content, then at least willingly occupied.

  An idea struck her. “Papa, let me paint a portrait of you and Mama.”

  He did not even bother to glance her way. “You would add to my confinement by pinning me to a chair?”

  “You could stand.” The idea grew wings, lifting her own heart with new enthusiasm. “I could place you behind Mama. She could be seated and you on your feet.”

  Footsteps hurried down the hall from the kitchen. “Alessandro, what a lovely idea!”

  “You know how much I detest the idea of being made to stay in place for days and weeks on end.”

  It was true, her father had never been willing to sit for a portrait. “I shall do it in watercolors.”

  He grunted, unconvinced. “This would make a difference?”

  “Of course it would. You know this as well as I. Watercolors take no time at all.” She began thinking out loud. “I would place you opposite the dining room window, with Mama seated in your chair and you behind her. I would draw you both in pencil, then use a pastel wash.”

  “How long would this chore require?”

  “Chore,” his wife scolded. “What a way to describe your own daughter’s wonderful offer. Shame on you.”

  “How long, daughter?”

  “Three days,” she promised. “And not a moment more.”

  The next day Serafina took her time over a few initial sketches. She had only a small portable sketch pad, and the last pages were quickly used. She then took sheets of her father’s best parchment and two of his finest quills. He grumbled a bit until she took down the paintings hanging in the dining room and replaced them with her initial drawings. She knew her parents were astounded by the likenesses, but she w
as utterly dissatisfied. Although she had done some sketches in the legate’s house, she hadn’t done any serious artwork since leaving Venice. Her work looked clumsy to her eyes.

  Gradually she slipped back into the artist’s frame of mind. The world retreated. Her entire universe became defined by light and line and shade. Her parents became images upon the page.

  “Have you not heard a word I have said, Serafina?”

  “Please don’t move, Mama.”

  “Daughter,” she repeated, louder this time. “The guard says there is someone outside our front door.”

  “Mary can see to it. Lift your chin a bit please, Papa.”

  Bettina rose from her chair. “Mary is the one calling to you.”

  Her father asked, “Is this better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “What difference does the angle of my chin make?”

  “Don’t speak, please, Papa. I want to straighten the line of your neck. And this new angle accents the power of your jaw. No, Papa, don’t thrust your mouth forward, it looks unnatural. Yes, hold it there, please. I’m almost done.”

  Bettina appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “A young gentleman wishes to have a word.”

  Alessandro asked, “Which young gentleman would that be?”

  “Papa, please.”

  “Nathan Baring,” her mother replied. “And he wishes to speak with our daughter, not you.”

  Serafina wiped the quill’s nub on a bit of rag and set it down on the scrap of wood she was using as an ink palette. She wiped her hands. Carefully she studied the two sheets of parchment. One sketch was of her mother, the other her father. She had angled the faces so they looked across the divide of space to inspect each other. She was making progress. She could see that. But something was still missing.

  “Daughter!”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “You are making the young gentleman stand in the rain!”

  “Very well.”

  Serafina rose and left the dining room. She climbed the stairs and entered her parents’ bedroom. She crossed to the front window. Only when she reached to pull up the shade did she realize she still carried her ink-stained rag.

  The rain had changed to a heavy gray mist which shifted in roving bands about the square. The air was so still she could hear a hawker’s cry from the market three blocks away.

  Nathan Baring stood in a dark overcoat glistening with rain. He held his hat before his chest with both hands. Serafina opened the window and called down, “Put your hat back where it belongs, sir, before you catch your death of cold.”

  He grinned as he settled the hat back into place. “You sound like my mother, Miss Gavi.”

  “Then she must be a very sensible woman indeed.”

  This only made him smile more broadly. “I came to ask how you and the family were faring.”

  “That is most kind of you, sir. I am doing well. You heard about the quarantine?”

  “The Langstons kindly explained the reason for it.”

  “The hours bear heavy upon my father,” Serafina said.

  “I can understand that. A man of affairs, a merchant who has traveled the globe.” He nodded. “The confinement would be a double burden. He feels imprisoned, and he is kept from putting his hand to the wheel.”

  Her parents’ bedroom and her mother’s dressing room ran the entire length of the house. A plush chair had been drawn up by the front window, for it was from here that all communications with the outside world transpired. Only the doctor was permitted to enter and leave their home, and only once every three days. All the rules had been set into place during the previous summer’s cholera outbreak. Serafina settled into the chair and replied, “He completes all his correspondence by noon. Afterwards he paces. Or he did.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I am painting a portrait of him and Mama. That is, I am trying.”

  He caught her tone. “You are not satisfied?”

  “It is functional.” She rested her chin upon an ink-stained hand, seeing anew the two latest drawings in her mind’s eye. “The lines are there. But not . . .”

  “The emotion,” he finished for her.

  Her head turned quickly toward him. “What did you say? Pardon me, but what do you mean?”

  “It seems natural enough,” Nathan reasoned. “You are confined. Your emotions are penned up inside you, a reflection of your external state. There must be an enormous wealth of sentiments you harbor toward your parents and all you have experienced together.”

  Serafina nodded and said slowly, “Mr. Baring, you have no idea.”

  The silence took hold then. The gray mist was a perfect companion, a soft wash that stripped away all color from the world beyond her window. The square was an ethereal backdrop. Other pedestrians stepped to the far side of the street, avoiding proximity to the quarantined house. Even with the cholera outbreak six months gone, a conversation between someone standing in the lane and another nestled in an upstairs window, with a yellow-rimmed paper barring the distance between them, drew little notice. An occasional carriage clip-clopped into view and then swiftly disappeared into the mist. The only thing Serafina could see with any clarity was Nathan Baring.

  “I would ask a favor of you,” she said.

  “Anything, Miss Gavi.”

  “Do you know the printers’ shops on Connecticut Avenue?”

  “Certainly.”

  “They stock art supplies. Would you purchase for me a full set of watercolors, six brushes, two of each size. . . .” She thought aloud. “A broad quill for drawing. A box of charcoals. A dozen of their best sketching pencils. A pack of Arches finest drawing paper. This is most important. Can you remember all this?”

  “I am a diplomat, Miss Gavi. I am trained to keep long conversation clearly to mind, as very often I am unable to write for hours at a time.”

  At some other point she would have found that fascinating. Now, however, her mind was already continuing to form further needs. “The paper should be their largest size. Ask them for cold press linen and silk weave. A half dozen backing boards for watercolor paintings. They will know what I require. And three of the largest easels they have. Are you sure this is not too much trouble?”

  “It would be an honor to help you in this way.” He opened his coat and pulled the watch from his vest pocket. “I must hurry, Miss Gavi. The store closes in less than an hour.”

  “Oh my, where has the day gone?”

  “The clock struck five as I was arriving here.”

  “Let me ask Papa for payment—”

  “No need for that. Actually, I prefer to ask a favor of my own instead of payment.”

  She was instantly on guard. “Yes?”

  “Two things. First, that you paint a portrait of my mother. I have long wanted to have this done.”

  “I must warn you, sir. It has been far too long since I have last held a brush. I shall be painting my parents using watercolors.”

  He waved that aside. “Whatever medium you choose, Miss Gavi, I am certain it will be beautiful.”

  She felt warmed by his kind words. “You said there were two things?”

  “Indeed. A group of friends meet one evening each week. We study Scripture. We talk. I would ask you to join us.”

  “I should be honored,” she replied, and to her surprise she found she meant it. “Soon as this official confinement is behind us.”

  “Then I shall keep you no longer.” He bowed toward her. “Good evening, Miss Gavi.”

  Serafina watched him walk quickly down the lane. Long after the swirling gray mist had hidden away his figure, she stared out at the deepening twilight.

  She returned thoughtfully to the dining room to find her parents standing over her most recent sketches. Her father inspected her a long moment, then said, “Daughter, these are magnificent.”

  “I had no idea,” Bettina quietly agreed.

  “I have always known you held talent. These, however . . .” Ales
sandro returned his attention to the drawings. “You have matured in more than one way, I must say.”

  She walked around the table to stand beside her parents. She viewed the sketches with a clearer sense of distance now. They were indeed fine in terms of quality and refinement and accuracy. She whispered, “Emotion.”

  “What was that, daughter?”

  Strange that a man with whom she had exchanged words only twice before could see the need so accurately. She knew exactly what was required now. Nathan’s observation sparked an image she knew she could follow and achieve her aim.

  She looked at her parents and declared, “I shall paint you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 14

  Morning on the sixth day of their confinement brought a clear blue sky. Sunlight bathed the bedroom as Serafina got dressed.

  “Now, you both must get ready for your final sitting,” Serafina told her parents a half hour later as they finished their breakfast. Her father groaned good-naturedly and wondered if he couldn’t just wear his dressing gown. The three shared a laugh, and Serafina said, “No, Papa, you must dress to look as good as Mama.”

  “That is an impossibility, my dear,” he said, rising from his chair and leaning over to give his wife a kiss.

  Serafina hurried to the dining room to set up for the painting session. When her father entered the room, tugging on his vest, he asked, “You are certain this is the proper garb?”

  “You look fine, Papa.” The dining room was transformed. Sheets covered the floor beneath her easel. Clay jars of water stood upon a covered side table. The wall to her right was adorned with the seven sketches. The dining table was covered with several layers of cloth and held a sharp knife for quill trimming, a block of India ink, inkwell, more water pots, two palettes, charcoal, and her new watercolors. “Where is Mama?”

  “Changing gowns for the third time.” He stepped behind a chair and assumed a dignified pose. “I had thought I would rest one hand upon the chair, like so.”

  Serafina walked around the table and pulled two chairs close together. “Papa, I want you to sit down.”