“Nathan, be a dear and show the young lady my wardrobe.”
“Of course, Mother.”
Only when they arrived at the top of the stairs and entered the woman’s bedroom did Serafina understand just how serious matters were. The room had the untouched look of not having been in use for quite a long time. “Oh my.”
Nathan spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that showed a hint of sorrow beneath his briskness. “My mother became ill last summer. She has not recovered.” He expelled a heavy breath. “The doctors do not give her long.”
“I am so very sorry, Mr. Baring.”
“Thank you. Her dresses are in this armoire.”
She made a pretense of studying the clothes, but her attention was primarily upon the son. “What was she like, your mother? I mean, before—”
“A source of light and joy to everyone she met,” Nathan said, and his sorrow slipped closer to the surface. “My father was a difficult man. Not a bad man, mind you. Not by any means. Just stern and commanding. My mother was the reason our home remained happy.”
“ ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ ” Serafina said almost without thinking. She stroked the sleeve of a day dress the color of pale amber. This would do nicely. Then she saw the well of grief upon Nathan’s features. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean—”
“You are quite correct.” But he seemed to draw no joy from the words. “She was indeed a peacemaker. She loved us and she soothed us. I do not know how I shall go on without either of my parents.”
“You are very strong.”
“I’m not, you know. I am weak and I am confused. I pray and I taste dust in my mouth from the emptiness of my spirit. I look for answers and find no hope, no reason to proceed.”
“In dark times, it is easy to question everything,” she replied in heartfelt sympathy. “Even the things that are with us always.”
He did not seem to hear her. “The doctors say she could go any day. My brother is in Boston, and I am alone.”
“You have friends. You are trusted. You are a good man who is valued by many.”
He stared at the sleeve held in Serafina’s grasp. “How will I manage to live without her?”
“By finding the strength you need in God. By being patient through the dark hours. By growing stronger still.”
He looked at her then. And she inwardly remarked upon the same point she had found in their earlier contacts. He did not discount her attractiveness so much as look beyond it. He was not looking at her because she was lovely. He did not seek to draw closer to her physical form. Instead, he seemed to be searching in her gaze for an inner spirit.
“How is it,” he asked, “that a woman as young as you speaks with such wisdom and experience?”
“Because I am not as good a person as you,” she said, astonished at her own honesty. “Because I fashioned my own sorrow and am only just recovering. Thanks to God.”
Serafina did not know how she was going to proceed until she returned to the front parlor and draped the day dress over the back of the lounge on which Mrs. Baring rested.
Eleanor Baring smiled. “That was one of my favorites.”
“It is a lovely dress, ma’am.”
“Please, won’t you take it when it has served its purpose here? I think you and I were once of a size. I should very much like to think someone else finds delight in it.”
Serafina was about to object when she saw the way Mrs. Baring stared at the dress. She was not looking at the cut of the cloth nor the lovely design. She said to her son, “Your father brought that back from his trip to Europe. Do you remember, Nathan?”
Nathan nodded as he too examined the dress. “Father watched you open the box. He took such delight in your reaction.”
Serafina settled herself behind her easel. “Mr. Baring, would you be so kind as to move closer and take your mother’s hand?”
“If you wish.” He put his book on the windowsill and drew his chair closer. “Am I in your light?”
He was, and now a shadow was cast upon his mother’s features. But no matter. “You are fine just as you are.”
The two of them gazed at one another. And in the look they shared was a hint of what was now gone from this earth. The joy and pride of a young mother. The affection of a caring son. The timeless quality of a love-filled life. Serafina rubbed out the eyes and sketched again. As she did, she decided aloud, “Now.”
“What, my dear?”
“Nothing, madam.” She was ready. The time for sketching was over. She would use a wash for thick borders, perhaps umber and tan. She would focus solely upon the face. She would apply the shadows as a means of capturing the woman’s youth once more.
The moment ended for the two of them. His mother faltered, her strength ebbed, and the light dimmed in her eyes. Nathan straightened and became the polite son once more. He said something Serafina did not hear and moved his chair back to the window. The diplomat was again in place. The mother was once more a sick old woman. It did not matter. Serafina held to the image. And the moment’s power still enclosed the room.
Chapter 17
Falconer awoke and rolled over, groaning loudly. He heard singing. His wet and exhausted body had stiffened while he slept. The straw was no longer a comfortable cushion, and the lumps and the boards beneath felt like spikes against his bruised frame. Falconer struggled to sit up and groaned again.
The singing continued. Through the open doorway, Falconer spotted a young boy with hair like autumn flax approaching the barn. His voice was bell-like and pure as he swung a milking pail as far as his arm would extend, forward and back, in time to the hymn. When he stepped into the structure and his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the singing chopped off and the pail clattered to the floor at his bare feet.
“We mean no harm, lad,” Falconer said.
The boy turned and catapulted out the door, falling and tumbling. When he regained his feet he came up running. “Uncle Joshua! Uncle Joshua! There’s Injuns in the barn!”
Falconer rose slowly to his feet. Twenty-two pairs of dark eyes watched him as he stretched and rubbed the sorest points on his frame. He searched out Joseph and said, “Let’s put the pail to good use. Who knows how to milk a cow?”
“Every last one of us here.”
“Except for me.” Falconer motioned to the goats. “Milk them as well. Feed the sick and young people first. And hand out some jerky.”
Falconer stepped into the light. The previous day’s weather conditions were erased completely. The vista looked sweet as heaven’s foreground. Rolling hills were squared into emerald fields. The pastures were framed by hedgerows and wooden fences. A trio of homes nestled together on the far ridge. Six barns marched down the gently sloping face. Clouds wandered overhead, like fat lazy beasts feeding upon endless blue acres.
With Joseph’s help, Falconer drew the others outside. He understood their fear but refused to allow them to hide indoors. The barn’s floor was damp from the water that had pooled off their rain-soaked bodies. The new day was almost summertime warm, and the increasing sunlight was strong enough to ease his very bones. He waited until they were all squatted about the barn’s entrance, then drew the Bible from his satchel and began to read aloud. He saw no reason to suspend a personal tradition that had helped to define his days.
He kept reading, halting only to drink from the frothy pail when his turn came. Finally Joseph rose to his feet and pointed behind Falconer. “They’s comin’, suh.”
Falconer turned to see eight men round the side of the central house. Sunlight flickered upon metal, and Falconer knew all were armed with long-bore muskets. “Aaron.”
“Suh.”
“Go fetch the musket and sword.”
The lad scampered into the barn. Swiftly he returned and handed Falconer the two weapons. “Go back and sit down. All of you, stay down. You too, Joseph.”
Falconer started walking across the field. The running men slowed and spread out at his approach. Falconer heard the click
of cocked muskets. He saw two of them slip a hand into a pocket and fit something onto the gun. A percussion cap, Falconer guessed. Which meant the men were armed with the most advanced weapons available.
Falconer stretched his arms out as far as they could go. One held the musket and sword. The other his Book. He kept walking forward.
All of the men were dressed the same, almost like a farmer’s uniform. Black trousers and dark suspenders, white collarless shirts, round dark hats. All the men wore beards. The central figure had a gray beard as square as a shovel blade. He called out, “Here, now, what’s this?”
In reply, Falconer bent over and placed his musket and sword on the grass. He took two steps away from his weapons. He kept his hands in plain view. “I won’t be needing those, will I.”
“That depends, stranger.” At a hand signal from the central man, the others halted and lowered their muskets a notch. The man kept coming toward Falconer alone. “Slavers aren’t welcome in these parts. We stand against them and their godless trade.”
“I am not a slaver.”
“That so.” The man appeared to be in his sixties. But he was erect and barrel-chested, and the eyes shadowed by his broad-brimmed hat were crystal clear. “Then who be those folks stretched out beside my barn?”
Falconer slowly let his arms drop to his sides. “My friends.”
The farmers said nothing more until they had marched Falconer back to where his charges were slowly coming to their feet.
“Who be you folk?” their spokesman called over.
None spoke, nor looked their way. One of the other farmers, a young man taller than their spokesman, said, “Look at their wrists, Joshua.”
“I see them.” The old man was fierce once more. He re-aimed his musket at Falconer. “You think taking off their chains will make you safe?”
“Joseph,” Falconer said.
“Suh.”
“Tell them, please.”
Joseph hesitated so long Falconer feared he would not speak at all. Finally he said, “The man here’s done bought us to set us free.”
“He pay you to say that?”
“No, suh.”
“What makes you think he’s a man of his word?”
To Falconer’s surprise, it was Geraldine who replied. “He sold his horse to keep us fed.”
Then Mammy spoke to the ground at her feet. “He done made me ride that mule there, and he walked the whole way from Richmond. When it rained he give me his own coat and walked hisself through the bone cold with nothin’ ’cept the shirt on his back.”
Another soft voice, one of the men. “Sold his knife too.”
Joseph’s son. “I cut my foot, suh. He carried me.”
Aaron added his own voice. “He taught me to shoot.”
There was another long silence, interrupted by one of the farmers behind Falconer. “Well, I’ll be.”
Finally Joseph looked at Falconer. Straight at him. And he said, “He reads the Book to us every morning. I thought God was lost to me ’til I heard that man speak.”
Falconer lifted his gaze to the lazy clouds overhead. There had perhaps been a time that his heart had felt fuller. But just then he could not recall it.
The old farmer asked, quietly this time, “What is your name, stranger?”
“John. John Falconer.”
“Gather your charges and come with us, John Falconer.”
“There are ill and injured among us.”
“We won’t be going far. Come along now.”
They were clearly not the first of their kind to arrive at this particular farmstead. By the time they reached the swept clearing that fronted the three homes, the womenfolk had built a fire and set a massive caldron on to boil. One of the barns had a long roof that stretched over the clearing like a tongue. Falconer’s charges were settled down upon benches and the surrounding earth. Food was brought, good fare of biscuits and stewed beef and pickled radishes and beans. Falconer ate with the others, so hungry he felt his stomach distend painfully. Afterward he sat with his back against the barn wall and tried to keep his eyes open. Most of the others dozed in the warm morning, fed and safe. Falconer wanted to join them. But he forced himself to sit and watch where the farmers clustered, talking among themselves. He feared nothing. The muskets were stacked like cordwood against the central home’s rear porch. The men ate the same food as their guests. Falconer had the feeling they were waiting for something to happen. So he stayed awake and waited with them.
Their dress was somewhat odd to Falconer’s eye. Very clean, for one thing. The few farmers Falconer had known were content to go about their daily toil in mud-caked garb. These folk were dressed in clothes boiled so clean they sparkled in the sunlight. The men were all bearded, but their hair was well trimmed. The women were somewhat formal in their actions. Two of them worked their way through Falconer’s charges now, applying salve to suppurating wounds caused by the chains. Another used a boiled rag to clean Isaac’s foot. They wore hats too narrow to be proper sunbonnets, small affairs that covered their hair and were tied with white ribbons. They spoke with comforting voices. They watched Falconer with gazes that were both clear and cautious. He nodded whenever their eyes met but said nothing.
This was altogether a different land from what they had encountered upon the trail. The hills were gentle and set far apart, the land well tilled. Forest bordered the distant perimeter, but the vista from where Falconer sat was one of civilized prosperity. A neat little village was nestled in the broad valley, perhaps two miles distant. The winding road connecting the farms to the hamlet was lined with paddocks and pastures. Barns and houses looked all built to the same stalwart design. The fields were bordered by split-pine fencing. A flock of children stood on the adults’ other side, some eating from tin plates and the others watching the newcomers with solemn eyes. But there was no fear among them. Even the cows looked fat and contented.
A pair of farm dogs approached. Falconer took them for a mother and an almost-weaned pup. The mother held back, but the pup was a curious sort. Falconer offered the last bit of meat from his plate and watched as the pup licked his fingers. He stroked the soft puppy fur and smiled as the pup nuzzled his palm. The mother came over and gave Falconer’s other hand a good sniff. He dipped his fingers in the remaining sauce on his plate and let her lick that away. As he did, the towheaded lad who had dropped his pail peeked around the side of the barn, watching.
Falconer kept his voice low so as not to frighten the lad. “Are these your dogs?”
“Just the little one, sir. The mother belongs to Uncle Joshua. This here is my uncle’s farm.”
“And a lovely place it is too. Where do you live, then?”
“In town, sir.”
“The one I see in the distance there?”
“Aye, sir.” Gradually the lad emerged into view.
“As pretty a town as ever I’ve seen.” The adults clustered on the yard’s opposite end watched cautiously but did not order the boy away. “What is it called?”
“Salem, sir.”
“You’re a polite and well-brought-up lad. And when I saw you this morning, you were helping your uncle with chores. Your parents must be very proud.”
“My pa’s in heaven, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Falconer lifted the pup and settled it into his lap. The mother whined softly but made no move against him. “I lost my own father when I was very young. I can’t really remember him.”
“I remember Pa.” The boy walked over and settled into the dirt beside Falconer. He stroked the mother dog with one hand and the pup with the other. “I fear I might forget him. But my ma says he will stay with me all my life long.”
“Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.”
Up close the lad smelled of soap and the animals. He was dressed in a child’s version of the adults’ clothing—collarless shirt, dark trousers, suspenders. Only his head and feet were bare. Falconer saw that all the buttons on his pants and shirt
were cloth.
“I like working the farm,” the boy said. “My uncle says I was born to the land.”
The gray-bearded man called softly, “Matt. Come over here, lad.”
The boy rose, such that he stood at almost eye level to Falconer. His eyes held a green translucence, like sunlight seen through an emerald. “The men fear you are a highwayman, sir. Is that so?”
“Matt!”
“Best do as your uncle says, lad.”
Matt grinned, as fearless as he was handsome. “My aunt says you are a danger to none, no matter what scar you carry. I think she is right.”
Falconer watched the lad run off. Though he had little experience with young boys, he reckoned that one to be very fine.
He was alerted to coming change by how the lad cried out and pointed at the road. Falconer searched and saw a small dot where the road emerged from the village. Matt declared it was his mother, and Falconer nodded his approval of eyes as sharp as a bird of prey. The uncle and his mates turned to watch the arrival. Falconer rose to his feet, aware that his boots were scarred and muddy. His pants were ripped and filthy. His shirt was little more than a rag. Mammy slept upon his coat.
The speck became a horse and two-wheeled rig. The rider became a woman in a dove-gray dress and small white bonnet. She handled horse and cart very well. The horse cantered into the yard and halted at a single sharp tug on the reins. Two of the younger farmers walked over to help her down. Falconer could well understand their eagerness, for she was lovely indeed.
The lad took hold of the horse’s bridle, and the horse swung him off his feet with a simple shake of its head. The child laughed delightedly, in the manner of one long accustomed to this play. The woman smiled and spoke softly. Falconer heard the music in her tone, and the love.
Then she turned Falconer’s way and all levity vanished.
The gray-bearded man gave her a solemn welcome and spoke too softly for Falconer to follow. Joseph rose to his feet and came over to stand beside Falconer. “I done heard of these people,” he said, his voice low.
Falconer turned to the squinting man. “What did you hear?”
The Night Angel Page 15
